Oranges and lemons

by Mary C. E. Wemyss

It must have been suggested to thousands of bachelor uncles that they should take an interest in their nephews and nieces. And thousands of bachelor uncles must have responded by taking an interest—and more than a life interest—in their nephews and nieces. The methods of suggestion are usually two. Either by prayer indirectly, or by an appeal, made directly, either after church on a suitable Sunday (the hedges should be white with hawthorns, and the cows, red and white, should be knee-deep in buttercups, and if possible a trout should dart in and out the shallows of the stream); or at Christmas-time when all churches are decorated and all relations are demonstrative.

Either appeal would possibly have moved Marcus Maitland. He was susceptible to environment: had, no doubt, as a boy, tickled trout, and must have known something of the meaning of mistletoe. But of a letter however delicately expressed he was always suspicious. All letters he read, firstly, to see what was in them: secondly, to see what was behind them. In a letter Sibyl told him her husband had been appointed governor of yet another island that was as hot as it was remote: which fact she stated clearly enough. Behind it was the suggestion that no mother could subject so delicate and delicious and new a thing as Diana’s complexion to the ravages of so intemperate a climate.

Dear Marcus,—Do you feel inclined to take charge of the child while her parents are governing wisely and well that far-away island? Diana is delightful. If you had not gone round the world, just as a squirrel goes vaguely round and round its cage, you must have discovered it for yourself.

I want you to have Diana. I could leave her with Elsie, Eustace’s sister, who is a dear and so proud of Diana, but she rather resents my having the child when I am at home. So when I go away this time I want to leave her with some one else just to show Elsie I dare. It’s a tremendously brave thing to do—requiring true courage on my part—but I must do it because Elsie, having no children of her own, is centring herself on the child, and I know if Diana should want to marry, she might try to dissuade her. So, Marcus, will you have her? Elsie, dear as she is, is rather too strong-minded a woman for a girl to be with altogether. She is a little too earnest and strenuous. I want Diana to frivol. I don’t want her to see too deeply into the things of life—yet. Everything with Elsie is spelt with a capital letter, and is heavily underlined. Woman to her is so much more than mere woman. I don’t want Diana at her age to be faced with sex problems. Dear Elsie is inclined to see in man woman’s chief and natural enemy. You will understand! She wants Diana to do great things in life. I want life to do great things for her. I know you will give her the chance to see its beautiful side, and, of course, if there should be a question of her falling in love—as there is bound to be—you will guide her gently to fall in love with the right kind of man—a man like—dear old thing, you are bristling all over—did you imagine I was going to say Eustace when I want to persuade you to do something for me? I took the child to her first dance last night. She looked like a rose; her complexion is delicious.

Marcus was glad Diana had a complexion. Was she pretty? He should say not. When especial mention is made of a woman’s skin it usually means that it is the only thing that can with truth be commended. If everything else is good, the complexion is thrown in, as it were. Sibyl’s had been delicious, and he did not remember mentioning it in writing to any one—not even to his tutor at Magdalen—No!

Marcus returned to the letter. Sibyl was in London and she had not let him know—that was hard to forgive; however, she had now made a definite demand upon him and he must respond. Hitherto she had asked of him nothing more than an unbounded admiration of Carston and that he had been obliged to deny her—on principle. She spoilt Carston, indulged him, so much so that he would allow her, expect her even, to follow him to any and every part of the world regardless of whether the climate were good or bad for a woman’s delicate skin.

Marcus rang the bell. To the man who answered it, he said: “Pillar, I am expecting a young lady.”

“Ah, sir,” said Pillar, “I have been expecting this—”

“Since when?”

“Well, sir, at any time during the last eighteen years the question would not have come upon me as a shock—I saw her last night. She looked beautiful—if I may say so, sir, like a rose.”