Oranges and lemons

by Mary C. E. Wemyss

“I wish,” said Marcus one evening, “that I could see some of these men you talk about, so that I might judge of them for myself. I should like to guide you in your choice.”

“Do, darling,” said Diana.

“But I can’t without seeing them.”

“Well, ask them here.”

But that was more than he could do. There was nothing Diana couldn’t do when she tried. In the village (village?—Mrs. Oven couldn’t see where the village came in, but for all that it existed) there was an inn, a kirk, a general merchant, and that, with a few old people, and a few young men and women, and a few barelegged children, constituted Loch Bossie. The inn stood at the side of the road, and with the inn went fishing—bad fishing, perhaps, but fishing: and the people who had taken it this season could not come because their children had developed scarlet fever, which dispensation of Providence Mrs. MacFie—innkeeper—accepted as one to be borne with unwavering faith, and thankfulness that it was not worse. It meant for her the rent in her pocket and something more in the shape of compensation, and no one to feed or to fash about. So she was well content, though sorry for the poor things, of course. But it was a sorrow she could very well bear and she was bearing it very well, when into the inn walked an apparition. Mrs. MacFie didn’t call Diana by that name, although Mr. Watkins might have done so; and so might Mrs. MacFie if she had thought of it.

The apparition wore a tweed that went with her eyes, and the whole of Scotland went with her hair: and there was that in her voice that softened the heart of Mrs. MacFie, and in ten minutes Mrs. MacFie had promised the rooms, and the fishing at a moderate cost; and as many scones, dropped and griddled, as they could eat, to two young men who had been since the days they were born the solaces of their respective mothers.

According to Diana they neither drank nor did they eat to any appreciable extent. They liked whatever was set before them; and they were prepared to love Mrs. MacFie. That Diana implied rather than said: and she walked away, swinging as she walked as lightly as a silver birch dances blown by the breeze. Mrs. MacFie watched her, and that was how it struck her, and she went back into the house glad that the tenant at Glenbossie liked Scotland so well. It showed good sense and a good heart and the young leddy was no doubt in love with one of the young gentlemen, perhaps with both, and would be having them up so that she might choose between them; which was not exactly as matters stood, but near enough.

Diana wrote to Mr. Pease and to Mr. Watkins and they wrote back to say they would come. Mr. Watkins had never fished, but was willing to try, and Mr. Pease had fished all his life, but had caught little. The prospect of good fishing filled him with delight. There was no sport in the world like it. Had Miss Diana ever considered how full the New Testament was of fishing? It was very encouraging—particularly to all bishops and curates.

Diana walked softly the day she got the letters. It was not only that Uncle Marcus should know him that she had asked Mr. Pease to come; not only that he should know Mr. Watkins that she had asked Mr. Watkins to come, but that they should enjoy themselves and that Mr. Pease should catch much fish.

She was of so delightful a nature that what she enjoyed she wanted others to enjoy. The thought of Mr. Pease riding up and down Bestways hills on his bicycle, ministering to the souls and bodies of old men and women, seemed, viewed from the moors of Scotland, where souls had such a chance, rather a sad lot. Uncle Marcus could well afford to give both Mr. Pease and Mr. Watkins a holiday. They would never question the smallness of the rent asked for the fishing, so Marcus could hide his light under a bushel and could easily escape the thanks he dreaded.