Part 11 (1/2)
For your Aunt Susan, of course. And are you a good girl, Susan D.?”
Susan D. hung her head, and looked defiant.
”Always answer when you are spoken to,” said the lady, with mild severity. ”I'm afraid your father has let you run wild; but we will alter all that. Little boy--Merton, I mean, you are taking too much sugar on your porridge. Too much sugar is very bad for children. Hand me the bowl, if you please. I am obliged to take a good deal of sugar--the doctor's orders! There are one--two--three b.u.t.tons off your jacket. This will never do!”
”I sc.r.a.ped 'em off, s.h.i.+nning up the tree,” said Merton, sadly. ”I barked all my s.h.i.+ns, too; but I found the squirrel's nest.”
”Oh, Merton, you didn't meddle with it?” cried Margaret. ”That little squirrel is so tame, I should be very sorry to have him teased. You didn't tease him, did you, dear?”
Merton looked injured. ”I just put my hand into his old hole, and he bit me, nasty thing! I'll kill him, first chance I get.”
”You will do nothing of the kind,” said Mr. Montfort, quietly. ”You will let the squirrel alone, Merton, or I shall have to stop the climbing altogether. You understand?”
”Yes, sir,” said Merton. ”Ow! you stop that, now!”
”Did you speak to me, sir?” inquired Mr. Montfort, politely.
”Well, he kicked my sore s.h.i.+n,” growled Merton, glaring savagely at Basil. Basil chuckled gleefully. Mr. Montfort looked from one to the other.
”Kick each other as much as you like out-of-doors,” he said. ”Here, you can either behave yourselves or leave the table. Take your choice.” He spoke very quietly, and went on with his letter, without another glance at the boys; indeed, no second glance was needed, for the children behaved remarkably well through the rest of breakfast.
That morning was a trying time for Margaret. She tried hard to remember her uncle's parting words, as he drove away: ”Let them run, these first few days, and don't worry; above all, don't worry!”
[Ill.u.s.tration: ”MERTON WAS TEASING CHIQUITO.”]
Yes, but how could she help worrying? If it had been only running! But these children never seemed content to stay on their feet for ten minutes together. Now they were turning somersaults round and round the gra.s.s-plot, till her head grew dizzy, and Cousin Sophronia screamed from the window that they would all be dead of apoplexy in less than ten minutes. Now they were hanging by their heels from the lower branches of the horse-chestnut tree, daring each other to turn a somersault in the air and so descend. Now Merton was teasing Chiquito, and getting his finger bitten, and howling, while Basil jeered at him, and wanted to know whether a sixty-year-old bird was likely to stand ”sauce” from a ten-year-old monkey. Now Susan D. had caught her frock on a bramble, and torn a long, jagged rent across the front breadth, that filled Margaret with despair. Poor Susan D.! By afternoon, Miss Sophronia had taken her into custody, and marched her off to her own room, to stay there till bedtime.
”The child was rebellious, my dear Margaret; positively disrespectful. A little discipline, my love, is what that child needs. It is my duty to give it to her, and I shall do my duty cheerfully. At your age, it is not to be expected that you should know anything about children. Leave all to me, and you will be surprised at the result. A firm rein for a few weeks,--I shall manage her, never fear!”
Margaret was humble-minded, and fully conscious of her total lack of experience; still, she could not feel that a system of repression was the one most likely to succeed with Susan D.
”If we could win the child's affection,” she began, timidly. Miss Sophronia pounced upon her.
”My love, you naturally think so! Believe me, I know what I am talking about. I have practically brought up William's children; the result is astonis.h.i.+ng, everybody says so.” (Everybody did, but their astonishment was hardly what the good lady fancied it.) ”Trust,--dearest Margaret, simply confide absolutely in me! So important, I always say, for the young to have entire confidence in their elders.”
Margaret was thankful when dinner was over, and her cousin gone to take her afternoon nap. Basil was in a lowering mood, the result of his sister's imprisonment. He would do nothing but rage against Cousin Sophronia, so Margaret was finally obliged to send him away, and sit down with a sigh to her work, alone.
It was very pleasant and peaceful on the verandah. The garden was hot and sunny at this hour, but here the shade lay cool and grateful, and Margaret felt the silence like balm on her fretted spirit. It was all wrong that she should be so fretted; she argued with herself, scolded, tried to bring herself to a better frame of mind; but nature was too strong for her, and the best she could do was to resolve that she would try, and keep on trying, her very best; and that Uncle John should not know how worried she was. That, surely, she could manage: to keep a smiling face when he was at home, and to made light of all these hourly pin-p.r.i.c.ks that seemed to her sensitive nature like sword-thrusts.
So quiet! Only the sound of the soft wind in the great chestnut-trees, and the clear notes of a bird in the upper branches. A rose-breasted grosbeak! Her uncle had been teaching her something about birds, and she knew this beautiful creature, and loved to watch him as he hovered about the nest where his good wife sat. His song was almost like the oriole's, Margaret thought. She laid down her embroidery, and watched the flashes of crimson appear and disappear. What a wonderful, beautiful thing! How good to live in the green country, where lovely sights and sounds were one's own, all day long. Why should one let oneself be distressed, even if things did not go just to one's mind?
A soft cloud seemed to be stealing over her spirit; it was not sleep, but just a waking dream, of peace and beauty, and the love of all lovely things in the green and blossoming world, where life floated by to the music of birds,--
”I beg your pardon, Miss Margaret; were you asleep, miss?”
Margaret sat upright, and looked a little severe. It would never do even to look as if she had been asleep, in the middle of the afternoon. ”No, Elizabeth,” she said. ”What is wanted?”
”Only miss, Frances was wishful to know whether she should keep Master Merton's dinner any longer, or whether she'd cook something fresh for him along with his supper.”
No more dreaming for Margaret! She sprang to her feet, suddenly conscious of the fact that Merton had not been seen for several hours.
It could not have been more than eleven o'clock when he was in her room; now-- ”What time is it, Elizabeth?”