CHAPTER XIII.
A PICNIC.
"My dear Colonel, I congratulate you most heartily! Indeed, I had little doubt of your success, for this was a case in which Reynard the Fox was sure to have the worst of it. But I am very curious to know how you managed it."
"Nothing could be simpler, my dear madam. I went to the fellow's house yesterday morning. 'Mr. Loftus, your little nephew is at my house. Your aunt, Mrs. Beadle, has taken charge of him, according to his mother's wish, and I undertook to inform you of the fact.' He turned all the colours of the rainbow, began to bluster, and said he was the boy's nearest relation, which is very true. 'I want him to grow up a gentleman,' said he. 'Precisely,' said I. 'He shall have a chance to do so, Mr. Loftus.' The fellow didn't like that; he looked black and green, and spoke of the law and the police. 'That reminds me,' I said, 'of a story. About twenty-five years ago, or it may be thirty, a sum of money was stolen from my desk, in what I call my counting-room in my own house. Am I taking up too much of your valuable time, sir?' He choked and tried to speak, but could only shake his head. 'The thief was a mere lad,' I went on, 'and a clumsy one, for he dropped his pocketknife in getting out of the window,—a knife marked with his name. For reasons of my own I did not arrest the lad, who left town immediately after; but I have the knife, Ephraim, in my possession.' I waited a moment, and then said that I would send for the little boy's trunk; wished him good-day, and came off, leaving him glowering after me on the doorstep. You see, it was very simple."
"I see," said Mrs. Grahame. "But is it possible that Mr. Loftus—"
"Very possible, my dear Mrs. Grahame. As I told him, I have the knife, with his name in full. One hundred dollars he stole; for Elizabeth Beadle's sake, of course I let it go. Her peace of mind is worth more than that, for if she's thoroughly upset, the dinners she orders are a nightmare, positively a nightmare. That is actually one reason why I planned this picnic for to-day, because I knew I should have something with cornstarch in it if I dined at home. Why cornstarch should connect itself with trouble in the feminine mind, I do not know; but such seems to be the case."
Mrs. Grahame laughed heartily at this theory; then, in a few earnest words, she told Colonel Ferrers how deeply interested she and her daughter were in this singular child, and how happy they were in the sudden and great change in his prospects.
"And I know you will love him," she said. "You cannot help loving him, Colonel. He is really a wonderful child."
"Humph!" said the Colonel thoughtfully. Then after a pause, he continued: "I thought I had lost the power of loving, Mrs. Grahame; of loving anything but my flowers, that is, any living creature; lost it forty years ago. But somehow, of late, there has been a stirring of the ground, a movement among the old roots—yes! yes! there may be a little life yet. That child of yours—you never saw Hester Aytoun, Mrs. Grahame?"
"Never," said Mrs. Grahame softly. "She died the year before I came here as a child."
"Precisely," said Colonel Ferrers. "She was a—a very lovely person. Your daughter is extremely like her, my dear madam."
"I fancied as much," said Mrs. Grahame, "from the miniature I found in Uncle Aytoun's collection."
"Ah! yes! the miniature. I remember, there were two. I have the mate to it, Mrs. Grahame. Yes! your daughter is very like her. There was a strong attachment between Hester and myself. Then came a mistake, a misunderstanding, the puff of a feather, a breath of wind; I went away. She was taken suddenly ill, died of a quick consumption. That was forty years ago, but it changed my life, do you see? I have lived alone. Robert Aytoun was a disappointed man. Wealthy Bond,—you know the old story,—Agatha an invalid, Barbara a rigorous woman, strict Calvinist, and so forth. We all grew old together. The neighbours call me a recluse, a bear—I don't know what all; right enough they have been. But now—well, first the lad, there, came—my brother's son. Duty, you know, and all the rest of it; father an unsuccessful genius, angel and saint, with an asinine quality added. That waked me up a little, but only made me growl. But that child of yours, and your own society, if you will allow me to say so—I see things with different eyes, in short. Why, I am actually becoming fond of my milksop; a good lad, eh, Mrs. Grahame? an honest, gentlemanly lad, I think?"
"Indeed, yes!" cried Mrs. Grahame heartily. "A most dear and good lad, Colonel Grahame! I cannot tell you how fond Hilda and I are of him."
"That's right! that's right!" said the Colonel, with great heartiness. "You have done it all for him, between you. Holds up his head now, walks like a Christian; and, positively, I found him reading 'Henry Esmond,' the other day; reading it of his own accord, you observe. Said his cousin Hilda said Esmond was the finest gentleman she knew, and wanted to know what he was like. When a boy takes to 'Henry Esmond,' my dear madam, he is headed in the right direction. Asked me about Lord Herbert, too, at dinner yesterday; really took an interest. Got that from his cousin, too. How many girls know anything about Lord Herbert? Tell me that, will you?"
"Hildegarde has always been a hero-worshipper!" said Mrs. Grahame, smiling, with the warm feeling about the heart that a mother feels when her child is praised. "You make me very happy, Colonel, with all these kind words about my dear daughter. What she is to me, of course, I cannot tell. 'The very eyes of me!' you remember Herrick's dear old song. But I think my good black auntie put it best, one day last week, when Hildegarde had a bad headache, and was in her room all day. 'Miss Hildy,' said auntie, 'she's de salt in de soup, she is. 'Tain't no good without her.' But hark! here they come back, with the water; and now, Colonel, it is time for luncheon."
The speakers were sitting under a great pine tree, one of a grove which crowned the top of a green hill. Below them lay broad, sunny meadows, here whitening into silver with daisies, there waving with the young grain. In a hollow at a little distance lay a tiny lake, as if a giantess had dropped her mirror down among the golden fields; further off, dark stretches of woodland framed the bright picture. It was a scene of perfect beauty. Mrs. Grahame sat gazing over the landscape, her heart filled with a great peace. She listened to the young voices, which were coming nearer and nearer. She was so glad that she had made the effort to come. It had been an effort, even though Colonel Ferrers's thoughtfulness had provided the most comfortable of low phaetons, drawn by the slowest and steadiest of cobs, which had brought her with as little discomfort as might be to the top of the hill. But how well worth the fatigue it was to be here!
"And do you love me, Purple Maid?" It was Hugh's clear treble that thrilled with earnestness.
"I love you very much, dear lad! What would you do if I did not, Hugh?"
"Oh! I should weep, and weep, and be a very melancholy Jaques, indeed!"
"Melancholy Jaques!" muttered Colonel Ferrers. "Where on earth did he get hold of that? Extraordinary youngster!"
"He loves the Shakespeare stories," said Mrs. Grahame. "Hilda tells them to him, and reads bits here and there. Oh, I assure you, Colonel Ferrers, Hugh is a revelation. There never was a child like him, I do believe. But, hush! here he is!"
The boy's bright head appeared, as he came up the hill, hand in hand with Hildegarde. They were laden with ferns and flowers, while Jack Ferrers, a few steps behind, carried a pail of fresh water.
"Aha!" said the Colonel, rubbing his hands. "Here we are, eh? What! you have robbed the woods, Hildegarde? Scaramouche, how goes it, hey?"
"It goes very well!" replied Hugh soberly, but with sparkling eyes. "I am going to call him 'Bonny Dundee,' because his name is John Grahame, you see; and she says, perhaps he may be a hero, too, some day; that would be so nice!"
"Come, Hugh!" said Hildegarde, laughing and blushing. "You must not tell our secrets. Wait till he is a hero, and then he shall have the hero's name."
"What!" cried the Colonel. "You young Jacobite, are you instilling your pernicious doctrines into this child's breast? Bonny Dundee, indeed! Marmalade is all that I want to know about Dundee. Bring the hamper, Jack! here, under this tree! You are quite comfortable here, Mrs. Grahame?"
"Extremely comfortable," said that lady. "Now, you gentlemen may unpack the baskets, while Hilda and I lay the cloth."
All hands went to work, and soon a most tempting repast was set out under the great pine tree. Colonel Ferrers's contribution was a triumph of Mrs. Beadle's skill, and resembled Tennyson's immortal
"Pasty costly made,
Where quail and pigeon, lark and linnet lay,
With golden yolks imbedded and injellied."
Indeed, the Colonel quoted these lines with great satisfaction, as he set the great pie down in the centre of the "damask napkin, wrought with horse and hound."
"That is truly magnificent!" exclaimed Mrs. Grahame. "And I can match it with 'the dusky loaf that smells of home,'" she added, taking out of her basket a loaf of graham bread and a pot of golden butter.
"Here is the smoked tongue," cried Hildegarde; "here is raspberry jam, and almond cake. Shall we starve, do you think, Colonel Ferrers?"
"In case of extreme hunger, I have brought a few peaches," said the Colonel; and he piled the rosy, glowing, perfect globes in a pyramid at a corner of the cloth.
"Cloth of gold shall be matched with cloth of frieze," said Mrs. Grahame, and in the opposite corner rose a pyramid of baked potatoes, hot and hot, wafting such an inviting smell through the air that the Colonel seized the carving-knife at once.
"Are you ready?" he demanded. "Why—where is Jack? Jack, you rascal! where have you got to?"
"Here!" cried a voice among the bushes; and Jack appeared, flushed with triumph, carrying a smoking coffee-pot. "This is my contribution," he said. "If it is only clear! I think it is."
Hildegarde held out a cup, and he poured out a clear amber stream, whose fragrance made both potatoes and peaches retire from the competition.
"You really made this?" Colonel Ferrers asked. "You, sir?"
"I, sir," replied Jack. "Biddy taught me. I—I have been practising on you for a couple of days," he added, smiling. "You may remember that your coffee was not quite clear day before yesterday?"
"Clear!" exclaimed the Colonel, bending his brows in mock anger. "I thought Lethe and Acheron had been stirred into it. So that is the kind of trick Elizabeth Beadle plays on me, eh? Scaramouche!" addressing Hugh, "you must look after this great-aunt of yours, do you hear?"
"She made the pie," said Hugh diplomatically.
"She did! she did!" cried Hildegarde, holding out her cup. "Let no one breathe a word against her. Fill up, fill up the festal cup! drop Friendship's sugar therein! two lumps, my mother, if you love me!"
"Somebody should make a poem on this pie," said Mrs. Grahame. "There never was such a pie, I believe. Hilda, you seem in poetic mood. Can you not improvise something?"
Hildegarde considered for a few minutes, making meanwhile intimate acquaintance with the theme of song; then throwing back her head, she exclaimed with dramatic fervour:—
"I sing the pie!
The pie sing I!
And yet I do not sing it; why?
Because my mind
Is more inclined
To eat it than to glorify."
Anything will make people laugh at a picnic, especially on a day when the whole world is aglow with light and life and joy. One jest followed another, and the walls of the pie melted away to the sound of laughter, as did those of Jericho at the sound of the trumpet. Merlin, who had stayed behind to watch a woodchuck, came up just in time to consume the last fragments, which he did with right good will. Then, when they had eaten "a combination of Keats and sunset," as Mrs. Grahame called the peaches, the Colonel asked permission to light his cigar; and the soft fragrance of the Manilla mingled with odours of pine and fir, while delicate blue rings floated through the air, to the delight of Hugh and Merlin.
"This is the nose dinner," said the child. "It is almost better than the mouth dinner, isn't it?"
"Humph!" said the Colonel, puffing meditatively. "If you hadn't had the mouth dinner first, young man, I think we should hear from you shortly. Hest—a—Hildegarde, will you give us a song?"
So Hildegarde sang one song and another, the old songs that the Colonel loved: "Ben Bolt," and "The Arethusa," and "A-hunting we will go"; and then, for her own particular pleasure and her mother's, she sang an old ballad, to a strange, lovely old air that she had found in an Elizabethan song-book.
"When shaws been sheene, and shraddes full faire,
And leaves are large and long,
It is merry walking in the fair forest,
To hear the small birds' song.
"The woodwele sang, and would not cease,
Sitting upon the spray,
Soe loud, he wakened Robin Hood,
In the greenwood where he lay."
It was the ballad of Robin Hood and Guy of Gisborne; and when she sang the second verse her mother's sweet alto chimed in; and when she sang the third verse, Jack began to whistle a soft, sweet accompaniment, the effect of which was almost magical; and when she sang the fourth verse,—wonder of wonders! here was the Colonel humming a bass, rather gruff, but in perfect tune.
When the ballad was over, there was a chorus of surprise and congratulation. "Colonel Ferrers! why didn't you tell us you sang?"
"I say, Uncle Tom, you've been regularly humbugging us. The idea of your turning out a basso profundo!"
The Colonel looked pleased and conscious.
"Saul among the prophets, eh?" he said. "This little rascal calls me Saul, you know, Mrs. Grahame; caught me in a temper the other day, and set Jack on me with his fiddle. Ha! hum! Why, I used to sing a little, duets and so forth, forty years ago. Always fond of singing; fond of anything that has a tune to it, though I can't abide your Dutch noises. Where's your fiddle, Jack?"
Jack had not brought his fiddle; but he whistled a Scotch reel that Colonel Ferrers had not heard since before the flood, he said; and then Hildegarde sang "Young Lochinvar," and so the pleasant moments went.
By and by, when the dishes were burned (such a convenience are the paper dishes, removing the only unpleasant feature of a picnic, the washing of dishes or carrying home of dirty ones), and everything neatly packed away, Hugh challenged Hildegarde to a race down the hill and across the long meadow to the sunk wall beyond. Jack claimed a place in the running, but the Colonel insisted that he and Merlin should give the others odds, as ostriches and quadrupeds had an unfair advantage over ordinary runners. Mrs. Grahame, after hunting in her reticule, produced a prize, a rouleau of chocolate; positions were taken, and Colonel Ferrers gave the signal—one, two, three, and away! Away went Hildegarde and the boy, Jack holding Merlin, who was frantic with impatience, and did not understand the theory of handicaps. As the first pair reached the bottom of the hill, the Colonel again gave the signal, and the second two darted in pursuit. "Away, away went Auster like an arrow from the bow!"
Hildegarde was running beautifully, her head thrown back, her arms close at her sides; just behind her Hugh's bright head bobbed up and down, as his little legs flew like a windmill. But Jack Ferrers really merited his name of the ostrich gentleman, as with head poked forward, arms flapping, and legs moving without apparent concert, he hurled himself down the hill at a most astonishing rate of speed. The Colonel and Mrs. Grahame looked on with delight, when suddenly both uttered an exclamation and rose to their feet.
What was it?
From behind a clump of trees at a little distance beyond Hildegarde, a large animal suddenly appeared. It had apparently been grazing, but now it stopped short, raised its head, and gazed at the two figures which came flying, all unconscious, towards it.
"John Bryan's bull!" cried Mrs. Grahame. "Oh! Colonel Ferrers, the children! Hildegarde!"
"Don't be alarmed, dear madam!" said the Colonel hastily, seizing his stick. "Remain where you are, I beg of you. I will have John Bryan hanged to-morrow! Meanwhile"—and he hastened down the hill, as rapidly as seventy years and a rheumatic knee would permit.
But it was clear that whatever was to be done must be done quickly. Hildegarde and Hugh had seen the bull, and stopped. He was well known as a dangerous animal, and had once before escaped from his owner, a neighbouring farmer. Mrs. Grahame, faint with terror, saw little Hugh, with a sudden movement, throw himself before Hildegarde, who clasped her arms round him, and slowly and quietly began to move backwards. The bull uttered a bellow, and advanced, pawing the ground; at first slowly, then more and more rapidly as Hildegarde increased her pace, till but a short distance intervened between him and the two helpless children. Colonel Ferrers was still a long way off. Oh! for help! help! The bull bellowed again, lowered his huge head, and rushed forward. In a moment he would be upon them. Suddenly—what was this? A strange object appeared, directly between the bull and his helpless victims. What was it? The bull stopped short, and glared at his new enemy. Two long legs, like those of a man, but no body; between the legs a face, looking at him with fiery eyes. Such a thing the bull had never seen. What was it? Men he knew, and women, and children; knew and hated them, for they were like his master, who kept him shut up, and sometimes beat him. But this thing! what was it? The strange figure advanced steadily towards him; the bull retreated—stopped—bellowed—retreated again, shaking his head. He did not like this. Suddenly the figure made a spring! turned upside down. The long legs waved threateningly in the air, and with an unearthly shriek the monster came whirling forward in the shape of a wheel. John Bryan's bull turned and fled, as never bull fled before. Snorting with terror, he went crashing through the woods, that wild shriek still sounding in his ears; and he never stopped till he reached his own barnyard, where John Bryan promptly beat him and tied him up.
Hildegarde, pale and trembling, held out her hand as Jack, assuming his normal posture, came forward. She tried to speak, but found no voice, and could only press his hand and look her gratitude.
Colonel Ferrers, much out of breath, came up, and gave the lad's hand a shake that might almost have loosened his arm in the socket. "Well done, lad!" he cried. "You are of the right stuff, after all, and you'll hear no more 'milksop' from me. Where did you learn that trick? Harry Monmouth! the beast was frightened out of his boots! Where did you learn it, boy?"
"An Englishman showed it to me," said Jack modestly. "It's nothing to do, but it always scares them. How are you now, Hildegarde? Sit down, and let me bring you some water!"
But Hugh Allen clasped the long legs of his deliverer, and cried joyously, "I knew he was a David! he is a double David now, isn't he, Beloved?"
"Yes," said Hildegarde, smiling again, as she turned to hasten up the hill to her mother, "but I shall call him 'Bonny Dundee,' for he has won the hero's name."
"It was the ostrich that won the day, though," said Jack, looking at his legs.
Over the Jam Pots.