"You're a nice person to leave in charge!" he roared. "What have you got to say for yourself, hey?"
Johnny grinned. "You're very well up to time, sir," he said cheerily. "We'll have to have breakfast in the housekeeper's room, for you never saw such a beastly mess in all your life!"
XIII
A GIOTTO OF THE COTSWOLDS
When Mary Cardross first saw Jethro he was six years old, and still wore petticoats. He was not particularly small for his age, and his appearance was, to say the least of it, peculiar. A cotton frock, made with skirt and body like a housemaid's morning dress, reached to his ankles; and he seemed to have very little underneath, for this outer garment hung limp and straight from waist to heel, except on Sundays, when, fresh from the hands of his aunt, it stuck out all round like a lamp-shade. His hair, cropped very short round the edges, was several inches long on the crown. Mrs. Gegg, by courtesy his "aunt," did not even put a basin on his head by way of guide in the shearing, but, brushing all the hair forward from the centre of the crown, laid the scissors against his forehead, and cut the hair close to the skin all round. It grew again quickly, and stuck out above his temples like a new straw thatch.
"Isn't he rather a big boy for petticoats?" Mary asked, as her landlady removed the supper, pausing at intervals to explain Jethro's presence under her roof.
"Yes, 'e be a biggish boy, but I hain't a-goin' to be at no expense for 'im as I can 'elp. 'E can wait cum Christmas for 'is trowsies. 'E ought to be thankful as 'e weren't tuk to the workus, an' me only 'is mother's cousin, though 'e do call me haunt. 'E be a great expense, and I've 'ad 'im this two year. The most onandiest, nothingly child you ever see,—always a-scribblin' and a-messin' and moonin'. I don't set no store by Jethro, I can tell you, Miss! 'E's got to be brought up 'ard to hearn 'is own livin'"—and Mrs. Gegg paused breathless. Mary said nothing, but she felt rather sorry for Jethro.
Had Mrs. Gegg lived anywhere but in the lovely, lonely Cotswold village perched like a smiling fastness in the midst of beech-clad hills, reached only by the loosest and worst of roads, she would hardly have dared to dress a six-year boy in such extraordinary fashion. Public opinion would have been too strong for her. But Nookham, with its dozen cottages, lived and let live in easy apathy, and Jethro in bitterness of spirit wore his cotton frock. Two years ago Mary had discovered Nookham. Friends had driven her over to have tea in the woods, and to gather the wild strawberries found there in such abundance. She fell in love with the place, and came again upon a private exploring expedition, when she discovered that lodgings were to be had at the post-office, in the house of one Mrs. Gegg. There she spent a most delightful fortnight, sketching. Never was more attentive and honest landlady, never cleaner, more orderly house! It is true that Mary's painting tackle greatly distressed her hostess, partaking as it did of the nature of things "messy and slummicky," which her soul abhorred. Otherwise, she liked Mary, as did most people; and she had in her way great toleration for the "curus ways" of the "gentry" generally, expecting less of them in the matter of common sense than she exacted from people of her own class. And now, after two years in Italy, Mary found herself once more in the dear Cotswold country, in the very middle of a perfect June. Nookham generally was unfeignedly pleased to see her again. Few strangers came to stay there, and the roads were too bad and too hilly for even the ubiquitous cyclist. The squire's house was three miles from the village, the vicarage two, and the tall lady with the abundant wavy grey hair and strong, kind face had made a very distinct and pleasant impression.
Mary did not catch a glimpse of Jethro during her first day until, happening at post-time to want a letter she had left in her bedroom, she ran upstairs to fetch it.
The room, with door flung wide, faced the narrow staircase. In the very middle of the floor stood Jethro, in rapt contemplation of a large photograph of Giovanni Bellini's Madonna,—the one in the sacristy of the Frari at Venice—which Mary had placed on the little mantelpiece.