Sweethearts at Home Part 13

This year it was a specially gay time for us all. Mr. Ex-Butcher Donnan had more customers. His wife had taken a laboratory a.s.sistant in the shape of an apple-cheeked la.s.s, Meg Linwood, the daughter of the station-master at Bridge of Edam--honest as the day, but at first incapable in the kitchen as a crossing-sweeper of goldsmith work.

Mrs. Donnan told me of Meg's iniquities in her frank impulsive Irish way.

"There's not a thing breakable the craitur has not broke, or at least tried her best to break. And what she can't knock to flinders with one skelp, she will fall over like an applelaunche (avalanche?) and rowl out flat like so much sheet lead. I dare not show the master the tenth of her breakages, or there would be bloodshed and wounds. And yet she is the honest, well-meaning craitur too, and would not hurt a fly. Only it is the heaven's pity she has no power of her feet! Hear to that now!"

Poor Mrs. Donnan ought, of course, to have remained unmoved where she was and entertained me with a stomach-aching smile so long as I chose to stay. But, being an Irishwoman and natural, she sprang up and ran forthwith into the kitchen.

She came out with tears in her eyes.

"It's the epergne," she said, "I might have known it. The green figs is just come in, and as they are a new thing in Edam I thought to make a kind of trophy out of them. And now----!"

Mrs. Donnan's motherly eyes overflowed, good, kindly soul, without very much anger at the breaker, but with real grief for the loss of the "trophy" she had counted upon to display in her plate-gla.s.s shop window.

I patted her on one plump shoulder, and she murmured my undeserved praises--undeserved, I mean, at that moment. But I had remembered that there was in our china-closet at home a huge epergne of many storys, which Somebody had taken a prejudice against, because when loaded it shut off the entire view of the people at table, and they played at "Bo-peep" all the time around it and about--all right for us little ones who, unseen, could convey extra fruits and comfits to our plates, but abhorred by Somebody who was thus prevented from keeping a kindly, governing eye upon us. So the tall epergne was banished--a life sentence firmly expressed.

I went quickly home and excavated it from a general ruck of odd plates and cupless saucers. In triumph I carried it to the good mistress of New Erin Villa.

"Oh, Miss Sweetheart," she said, "I cannot--I cannot indeed----"

"Suppose that your--that 'Somebody' were to come along and see that epergne in my window--sure they might have in the police!"

Finally I satisfied Mrs. Donnan that though I had not asked special permission, it was only because there was no need, and that Somebody, if duly approached, would be the first of her customers, and the most helpful of her friends. _I_ said so because I knew.

"It _would_ look like all Dublin Castle and Sackville Street!" said Mrs.

Donnan, visibly flinching as her own inner eye built up the green figs, and decorated the epergne with the leaves that had proved so useful early in the history of the world.

"Well," I answered, taking my leave, "Hugh John and I will be round about four to see if it is as fine as you say."

"It will be finer," cried Mrs. Donnan eagerly; "I have got another idea entirely since I set eyes on it."

But after all it was the deft hands of Elizabeth Fortinbras which decorated our long-condemned and dusty epergne. She polished it, she set it on foot again as good as new, mingling the tawny-red-bitten oak-leaves and acorns with the deep green figs, and making the thing a joy, if not for ever, at least for as long as it remained in Mrs.

Donnan's window.

This, however, was not for long.

For Fuz--yes, the very old Fuz as ever was--coming home from a tramp with his eyes apparently mooning, but really registering everything as remorselessly as a calculating machine marshals figures, spied the green figs in Mrs. Donnan's window. Hardly in Edam was there any one else, at that date, who so much as knew what they were. He saw. He admired. There was a little dinner at our house that night to which just a couple of neighbors were coming. The idea of a surprise germinated in the mind of Fuz, and he came home the happy possessor of his own epergne, with the green and yellow leaves cinturing it round!

Poor Mrs. Donnan dared not say a word, and as for Elizabeth, it was not her business. Moreover, she had far too great a sense of the ridiculous.

You see, Fuz carried his own parcel off, with his invariable remark that "it is a proud horse that will not carry his own corn!"

Nothing like Fuz's pride that night! Nothing more knowing than the smiles of the initiated! Only Hugh John did not consider it "quite the square thing," and obstinately refused to attend the banquet, which, however, pa.s.sed off very well without him. Fuz became quite poetic over his new acquisition. To find such a thing in Edam! These cherubs' heads now! Just look at them. They reminded him of--I think, something in the Cathedral at Florence which you had to strike matches to see--little cublets squirming about a font or something. He had quite forgotten having ordered the identical thing into the ignominy of a dungeon for obscuring the prospect. Now it was the finest piece of "Dresden" he had ever set eyes upon.

And he promised--if I were a good girl--to give it to me as a wedding present.

That is Fuz all over. He says he is Scotch, but his part of Scotland is so near Ireland that (according to the best authorities) Saint Patrick swam across with his head between his teeth. Perhaps Fuz did too. But don't tell Hugh John that I said so.

Well, when Hugh John would not dress and come for dinner on account of us letting Fuz be taken in about the epergne, he went off on one of his long rides. Or so at least he thought. For really he got no farther than the Gypsies' Wood, and then that took place which was bound to take place sooner or later.

For, you see, Elizabeth Fortinbras owned a cycle also, and she used it to run home to see her people--even during her short half-hour in the afternoon she would go, no matter how hot it was. And she was teaching her sister Matilda to house-keep. She had had a row the first time or two, of course. But that was to be expected. Once she had gone back between two or three of the afternoon--which was slack time at the confectionery shop opposite the Market Hill, and when she arrived, lo!

her mother was deep in one ragged volume, Matilda sat crouched in a corner of the sofa with another, and from the garret came the sound of hammering, where Mr. Fortinbras the unfortunate was working out another epoch-making invention.

Flies buzzed about the greasy, unwashed plates and dishes where breakfast had been pushed aside to make way for early dinner.

Elizabeth thrust her head into a bedroom. The clothes trailed on the floor, and the very windows had not been opened. The air of night, warmed through blindless windows by an autumn sun, had produced an atmosphere which might have been cut with a knife. Elizabeth shuddered.

She demanded the reason why the house had not been "done up."

"Well," said Matilda, lifting her head languidly, "you had hidden the knife-board when you went away, and as to the beds, I knew you were coming home to-day, and you might just as well help me as not."

Elizabeth helped her by going out without a word, and not returning till her father, who at least could not be called idle, had intimated to her that Matilda was beginning to take her household duties seriously.

From the first Elizabeth had given half her wages to her father, on the distinct understanding that the money was to be used for housekeeping, and not for perfecting any new invention which was to alter the center of gravity of the earth, and give back equal rights in sunshine and moisture to all the world.

Well, it chanced that this evening of the September dinner Elizabeth Fortinbras was returning from her daily visit of inspection. She was in a happier mood than usual. For Matilda had really made a start, and at home she had discovered less to find fault with than usual. She was reckoning up her wages, which the Donnans, generous in all things, were freely advancing--perhaps even too frequently to suit Elizabeth's spirit of independence. Some day she might manage to let her people have a servant!

From the first the two old folk of Erin Villa--old only in the number of their years--had looked upon Elizabeth Fortinbras as doing honor to their business, almost, indeed, as a daughter born to their old age.

Hugh John had leaned his bicycle against a tree at the corner of the Gypsies' Wood. Far above, his keen gray eye caught the slight purple stain among the rocks of the hillside which marked the mouth of his Cave of Mystery. For a moment he had an idea of climbing up there and watching the twilight sinking into dark, as he had done so many times before. But the instinctive respect of a good rider for his cycle restrained him. He knew of one or two hiding-places safe enough, it was true. But on such a night, immediately before the Edam September fair, who might not be abroad? All the gypsies of three counties were converging on Edam, and so, with a sigh, Hugh John abode where he was.

Now of course anybody who did not know both Hugh John and Elizabeth Fortinbras would have come to a wrong conclusion. For Elizabeth, after a day in the shop followed by an evening visit of inspection and a.s.sistance to Matilda, took it into her head that a spin round by the Gypsies' Wood would freshen her up, and so put her in trim for a good day's work on the morrow.

That is why she encountered Hugh John, stretched long and lazy by the side of the stream. He rose as soon as he saw Elizabeth. They did not shake hands. They did not say, "How-d'ye-do--Very-well-thank-_you_!"

which is the correct Edam fashion for all concerned.

But Hugh John indicated the most comfortable portion of an old half-submerged trunk, and Elizabeth sat down without dispute. Hugh John disposed himself where he could see her profile without looking at her.

It was only when he was making up his mind about you that Hugh John regarded you fixedly. He had long made up his mind about Elizabeth.

"Well, Elizabeth?" said Hugh John (I will tell you afterwards how I know).

"Well, Hugh John?"

Then ensued a long pause. The water sang its lucid continual song. How many had sat and watched it, thus singing, glide on and on? Well, as Hugh John says, that did not matter. He was only occupied in finding "_soorocks_" for Elizabeth Fortinbras, and Elizabeth busied herself in eating them.

"About Nipper?" said Elizabeth softly. "I can't have it, you know."

"No, of course not!" said Hugh John.

Having known _him_, it was impossible that Elizabeth could decline upon Nipper Donnan. Hugh John did not, as you may well imagine, put it that way. The thing was simply unthinkable, that was all. He could no more let it happen than he would to his sister. He turned ever so little, and saw Elizabeth Fortinbras' face pale against the sunset.

Elizabeth looked at the boy, and her lips quivered a little. Hugh John became a shade more rigid.

"Let _me_ speak to Nipper Donnan!" said Hugh John in a level tone.

"No," said the girl, "I do not wish to go back home again--to _that_!"

She meant to slatternly makeshift and lightly disguised lying.

"_No need!_" said a fierce voice immediately behind them, and Nipper Donnan leaped the stone wall from behind which he had been watching Elizabeth and Hugh John.