Chapter II The Coming of the Children
A sudden rush from the stairway,
A sudden raid from the hall;
By three doors left unguarded
They enter my castle wall.
LONGFELLOW.
Elsa had barely finished dusting Mr. Wycherly’s books when Lady Alicia Carruthers walked over from the “big hoose” to see if she could be of any use. People found Elsa more approachable in this respect than Miss Esperance, and often seized such times as they had seen the mistress pass in her little pony carriage to tackle the maid, as to whether anything could be done to increase the old lady’s comfort, without her knowledge.
And now that the news of her journey, and its reason, had flamed through the village with all the wonder of a torchlight procession, it was only what Miss Esperance herself would have described as “fitting” that the chief lady in it should be first in the field to offer her services.
Very managing was Lady Alicia, strong, kind-hearted, dictatorial; mother of many children and inclined to regard all the rest of the world as being equally in need of supervision.
“What on earth will she do with two wee things like that?” she cried to Elsa, as that worthy met her in the passage. “One’s but a baby, isn’t he?”
“Two years and one month,” answered Elsa cheerfully; “he’ll be walkin’ onnyway.”
“You know the little room leading from Miss Esperance’s into the passage, you must put them both there,” said Lady Alicia decidedly. “Have you got any beds? But of course you haven’t. I’ll send a bed for the older boy and a crib for the baby, and bedding, and sheets, and I’ve found the very girl to look after them—Robina Tod, a good douce lassie—you’ll remember her mother, Elsa?”
“I ken her fine,” said Elsa slowly. “But yer Leddyship, d’ye think Miss Esperance will consent? And where would the lassie sleep?”
“Miss Esperance just must consent. Robina will be thankful to come to get trained and for her food, and she must come at six in the morning, and go home at night to sleep, after they are bedded. You must manage Miss Esperance in this, Elsa—she will be so bewildered at having children here at all at first, that you’ll find it easier than you expect. What does she know of the wants of little children? Just you tell her that you made arrangements because she hadn’t time.”
Elsa stood fingering her apron, and made no answer, nor did she look at Lady Alicia, who was looking hard at her.
“Come, now, Elsa, you know there’s nothing for it but to give in gracefully. They must sleep somewhere, poor lambs, and you can’t put an infant in a four-post bed.”
“I’m thinkin’,” said Elsa slowly, “that Master Montagu will have to sleep in the big bed, for yon room will never hold three beds, and Miss Esperance would never part wi’ yon that’s in there.”
“Very well, then, I will only send the crib, and a bath, and Robina, and—anything else that comes into my head. You understand, Elsa?”
“I’ll no promise Miss Esperance’ll keep onny o’ it, but you’ll jest see. If it pleases ye to send the bits o’ things, it’s no for me to say ye nay.”
Here Elsa raised her head and looked straight at Lady Alicia, and they understood one another perfectly.
When, later in the afternoon, Robina, a rosy-cheeked lass of sixteen, appeared in a spring cart along with the crib and a variety of other useful things, Elsa received her with but grudging courtesy, and might have been heard to mutter as she went about the house, “There’s some folk that simply canna keep their fingers out o’ other folk’s business, and the worst o’t is, that one must just thole’t.”
It is one of the eternal verities that no man knows what he can do till he tries. Mr. Wycherly suddenly developed a “handiness” with regard to babies that surprised himself, and caused Miss Esperance to regard him with almost worshipful astonishment.
Montagu, the elder boy, fitted into his new surroundings at once. He was a thoughtful, dreamy child, gentle and biddable, with an inborn love of books that immediately endeared him to Mr. Wycherly. But the baby, Edmund, was a strenuous person of inquiring mind, who toddled and crawled and tumbled into every corner of the little house; who poked his fat fingers into the mustard, the ink, and the mangle, impartially; who pulled Mr. Wycherly’s heaviest books out of the shelves, and built a tower with them, which fell upon and almost buried him in the ruins, whence, howling dismally, he was rescued by Mr. Wycherly himself, only consenting to be comforted when that gentleman “gappled” with him round the garden, Edmund sitting enthroned upon his shoulders, and admonishing him to “gee up.”
“Walking” indeed! I should think he was walking—swarming, climbing, crawling, tumbling in every unimaginable direction, and celebrating his innumerable accidents by vociferous outcries which invariably brought the whole household to his assistance. Robina, who in spite of Elsa’s fears had been retained as the children’s attendant, declared that Master Edmund was “ayont her,” but Elsa, manifesting a wholly unexpected toleration for mischief of all kinds, declared him to be a “wee, stumpin stoozie” after her own heart.
Lady Alicia proved to be right. Miss Esperance on her return with the children expressed no objection to any of the preparations they had made for her. Furthermore, she accepted gratefully, and with a dignified humility very affecting to those who knew her, the offers of “help with the children” that poured in upon her from all sides.
“For myself it was only fitting that I should be somewhat reserved,” she gently explained to Elsa when that honest woman exclaimed in surprise at her meek acceptance of so much neighbourly “interference,” “but dear Archie’s children are different, I have no right to refuse kindness toward them: and my good friends have been so wonderfully kind—and as for you, Elsa, you are the most wonderful of all—look how little Edmund loves you!”
Elsa exclaimed, “tuts havers!” and hastened back to the kitchen, where she relieved her feelings by making more of the gingerbread “pussies” beloved of Baby Edmund.
Mr. Wycherly found his learned leisure considerably curtailed by the new arrivals. Both Montagu and Edmund (it was curiously characteristic of the household that the children were “Montagu” and “Edmund” from the very first, never “Monty” or “Baby”) infinitely preferred his society to that of Robina, even though she was so much nearer their own age. Children are very quick to see where they may tyrannise, and gentle, scholarly Mr. Wycherly, who had loved few people, and those few so dearly, fell an easy victim to “dear Archie’s boys.”
Montagu was called after him, but if on this score the elder boy may seem to have had more claim on his attention than Baby Edmund, the little brother made up in what Montagu called “demandliness,” what he may have lacked in legitimate pretension.
Even in a very large house it is impossible to conceal the presence of children. They are of all human creatures the most ubiquitous, the least repressible. Wherever they are they betray themselves in a thousand ways no foresight can presage. Their very belongings seem possessed of their own all-pervading spirit, and toys and small shed garments have a way of turning up in the most unlikely places.
When, three days after the little boys arrived at Remote, Mr. Wycherly discovered an absurd small glove, with holes in every finger, shut inside the “Third Satire of Horace,” he remembered to have heard Elsa loudly rebuking the lass, Robina, for having suffered it to get lost. He took it out and looked at it, fingering it with wistful wonder and tenderness: then, almost guiltily he put it back again and closed the book, apologising to himself with the reflection that it really was quite worn out.
The spare bedroom with the four-post bed was next to Mr. Wycherly’s bedroom, and as it was the only room in Remote that was possible as a night nursery, he heard in the early morning all sorts of mysterious sounds connected with the toilet of the two small boys. The little high voices: Baby Edmund’s bubbling laugh that was exactly like the beginning of a thrush’s song: equally often, Baby Edmund’s noisy outcries when things displeased him: Robina’s pleadings, and the gentle counsels of Miss Esperance—all these things smote upon the ears of Mr. Wycherly as he lay in bed waiting for the big can of hot water which, every morning, Elsa dumped down outside his door that he might take the chill off his bath. This matutinal bath being something of a grievance with Elsa, who considered it as a part of Mr. Wycherly’s general “fushionlessness” that he should require so much more washing than other folk.
Thus did she always set down the can with a thump, and perform a species of tattoo on Mr. Wycherly’s door, exclaiming loudly, “Here’s yer bawth watter—sir.” The “sir” always following after a pause, for it was only added out of deference to continual admonishment on the part of Miss Esperance, who thought that Elsa’s manner to Mr. Wycherly was frequently lacking in respect, as indeed it was. She could never be got to look upon him as other than a poor, silly pensioner of her mistress.
A few days after the children arrived, Mr. Wycherly was awakened by the voice of Edmund in the next room, vociferously demanding “man.” Mr. Wycherly sat up in bed and listened.
“Want man, want to see man.”
Murmured remonstrances from Robina, laboured explanations as to the impossibility of beholding any man when he was still in his bed.
“Want man, want to see man,” in tones ever growing louder and more decided from Baby Edmund.
This went on for about half an hour, while all the time Mr. Wycherly lay awake listening and longing to get up and join the little person who showed so flattering a desire for his society; but that he dared not do till Elsa brought his hot water. At last it came: dumped down as usual with a resounding impact with the floor, while Elsa knocked loudly with her wonted vibrant announcement.
Mr. Wycherly was just preparing to get up when there were new and strange sounds outside his door: rustlings and whisperings and curious uncertain fumblings with the handle. Suddenly the door was pushed open to show the children standing on the threshold behind the hot-water can.
“Man! Man’! Me see man in bed,” cried Edmund, jumping up and down gleefully. He made a plunge forward to reach Mr. Wycherly, and of course fell up against the can, which upset, while the baby capsized on to the top of it. The water was hot and the baby was very frightened. So was Mr. Wycherly. As loud wails rent the air he leaped out of bed to rush to the rescue, only to skip back again with even greater haste as he heard Elsa and Robina on the stairs. Edmund was picked up and carried off, Robina volubly explaining how she had only left them for a minute. Mr. Wycherly’s door was banged to, indignantly, as though he was entirely to blame, and the hot water continued to stream gaily over the carpet.
Mr. Wycherly stood in great awe of Elsa. Here was a most tremendous mess, and so long as he was in bed no one could or would come to his assistance. He arose hastily, arrested the flow of the stream in one direction with his big bath sponge, sopped up the water as well as he could, and concluded the operation by the employment of all his towels.
Presently there came a new thump on his door. “Have ye moppet it up?” asked Elsa anxiously.
“As well as I could,” Mr. Wycherly replied humbly. “I don’t think it will soak through to the room below.”
“Pit oot the can an’ I’ll bring ye some mair hot watter—sir.” Standing well behind the door Mr. Wycherly opened it gingerly and handed out the can. It was brought back full in no time, and again he heard Elsa’s voice thus adjuring him, “Ye’d better mak a steer or yer breakfast will be ruined—sir.”
Poor Mr. Wycherly did his best to “mak a steer,” but his towels were a sodden mass, and it is not easy to dry one’s self, even with a selection of the very largest handkerchiefs. His toilet was assuredly less careful than usual, for he was very anxious about little Edmund, although the sounds of woe had ceased in a very short time after the catastrophe of the hot-water can. Mr. Wycherly’s sitting-room was across the landing from his bedroom, but before he went to breakfast he hastened downstairs to ask after Edmund’s welfare.
He knocked at the parlour door, and on being bidden to enter discovered that lusty infant jumping up and down on the horse-hair sofa, while Miss Esperance sat on its very edge to make sure that he should not take a sudden dive on to the floor.
“I do hope he was not hurt—” Mr. Wycherly began.
“Man, man, me go to man!” Edmund cried before his aunt could answer; and scrambling off the sofa he raced across the room to Mr. Wycherly; he held up his arms exclaiming, “Uppee, uppee!” and of course was lifted up. “Ta, ta,” he remarked, smiling benignly upon Miss Esperance from this eminence, “Me go wiv man.”
He waved a fat hand to his aunt, and kicked Mr. Wycherly in the waistcoat to hasten their departure. Mr. Wycherly wavered.
“No, Edmund,” said Miss Esperance, “you cannot go with Mr. Wycherly now, he is going to his breakfast.”
“Bretfus,” echoed Edmund in joyful tones, “me go bretfus too, wiv man.” “I would like to come, too,” Montagu interpolated, hastily clutching at Mr. Wycherly’s coat.
“May I take them?” that gentleman pleaded. “It would be very agreeable to have their society at breakfast.”
“I doubt it,” said Miss Esperance, “but since you are so very kind—for this once—and if you find them too much, just ring.”
The joyful procession was already mounting the steep, curly staircase, and “Bretfus—man” resounded cheerily in the distance till Mr. Wycherly’s door was shut.
Miss Esperance sat where she was on the edge of the sofa. She was very tired, for she had been up since five o’clock; moreover, her own breakfast had been of the slightest, so busy was she superintending that of the children. Her head felt swimmy and the familiar room seemed unreal and strange. The sudden silence after the ceaseless and noisy activity of Baby Edmund was restful and consoling. Elsa and Robina were upstairs busy making beds and emptying baths.
Miss Esperance felt so exhausted that she even folded her hands in her lap and closed her eyes; a thing she never did in the day except sometimes on a Sabbath afternoon. She did not lean back, for she belonged to that vanished school of old ladies who considered that to loll was akin to something positively disreputable: bed was the only place where it was proper to repose. Sofas were for the invalid or the indolent, and easy-chairs for men folk and such-like feeble spirits as were indulgent to the frailties of the flesh.
“As thy days so shall thy strength be,” whispered Miss Esperance. The precepts and promises by which she had ruled her gentle life did not fail her now in her need: “They that wait upon the Lord shall renew their strength; they shall mount up with wings as eagles; they shall run and not be weary; and they shall walk and not faint.”
She opened her eyes. Once more the room looked homely and familiar; the pictures on the walls had ceased to chase each other in a giddy round. She unclasped her hands and rose. “I’d better go and see what those bairns are doing,” she thought to herself, “it’s not fair to leave them with him for long.”
She mounted the steep stairs and paused on the landing to listen. The only sound to be heard was a sort of munching. Then, in Edmund’s decisive voice, “Maw toas’.”
Another pause. “Bacon all dawn,” in tones of sorrowful conviction. Silence again for a minute, then, “Maw mink.”
A gurgle, and a hasty movement, evidently on the part of Mr. Wycherly. “He always pours it down his chin if he holds it himself,” said Montagu, in a slightly reproving voice.
A sound of rubbing.
“Toas’ all dawn,” mournfully, from Edmund.
Miss Esperance opened the door. The two children were sitting on either side of Mr. Wycherly at his round table. Edmund’s chubby face was liberally besmeared with bacon fat, and the board had been cleared of every sort of eatable except a small “heel” of loaf and a pot of marmalade, which neither of the children liked. It was Oxford marmalade and very bitter.
“Have they been good?” Miss Esperance inquired anxiously.
Mr. Wycherly looked somewhat flushed and perturbed, but he hastened to reply, “They have been model children—but—” here he hesitated, “do you think they had enough to eat downstairs? They seemed so exceedingly hungry, and it would be so dreadful——”
“Hungry?” Miss Esperance repeated incredulously. “Hungry? They had each a large bowl of porridge and milk, and bread and jam after that.”
“Maw dam,” Edmund immediately struck in; “’at nasty dam,” and he pointed a scornful fat finger at the pot of marmalade.
Here Robina appeared opportunely to take them for a walk. Edmund roared at the top of his voice at being reft from his beloved man. But Miss Esperance was firm.
When Elsa had cleared away Mr. Wycherly’s breakfast, he found it unusually difficult to concentrate his mind upon his great work dealing with Aristotle’s Nikomachean Ethics. Like Miss Esperance, he had had very little breakfast. Two rashers of bacon had Elsa provided, and the usual four pieces of toast. Each little boy had had a rasher. Edmund had eaten three pieces of toast and Montagu the fourth. Edmund also drank all the milk that he did not spill. Mr. Wycherly was fain to content himself with a cup of exceedingly black tea, and one small piece of bread. But he was quite unconscious that he had eaten less than usual. So shaken was he out of his customary dreamy calm that he decided to go for a walk. He did not confess to himself that he hoped he might meet the children while he was out.