CHAPTER XXVII
WHEN Miss Bell rose, as she did in a day or two, bantered into a speedy convalescence by Ailie and Dan, it was to mark Bud's future holidays on the calendar, and count the months in such a cunning way that she cheated the year of a whole one by arguing to herself that the child would be gone a fortnight before they really missed her, and as good as home again whenever she started packing to return. And Edinburgh, when one was reasonable and came to think of it, was not so very awful; the Miss Birds were there, in the next street to the school where Bud was bound for, so if anything should happen—a fire, for instance—fires were desperately common just now in the newspapers, and ordinary common-sense suggested a whole clothes-rope for the tying up of the young adventurer's boxes; or if Bud should happen to be really hungry between her usual meals—a common thing with growing bairns—the Birds were the very ones to make her welcome. It was many a year since Bell had been in Edinburgh—she had not been there since mother died; she was determined that if she had the money, and was spared till Martinmas, she should make a jaunt of it and see the shops: it was very doubtful if Miss Minto wasn't often lamentably out of date with many of her fashions.
“Oh, you vain woman!” cried Ailie to her; “will nothing but the very latest satisfy you?”
Bud was to be sure and write once every week, on any day but Saturday, for if her letters came on Sunday they would be tempted to call at the post-office for them, like Captain Consequence, instead of waiting till the Monday morning. And if she had a cold, or any threatening of quinsy, she was to fly for her very life to the horehound mixture, put a stocking round her neck, and go to bed. Above all was she to mind and take her porridge every morning, and to say her prayers.
“I'll take porridge to beat the band,” Bud promised, “even—even if I have to shut my eyes all through.”
“In a cautious moderation,” recommended Uncle Dan. “I think myself oatmeal is far too rich a diet for the blood. I have it from Captain Consequence that there's nothing for breakfast like curried kidney and a chop to follow. But I hope you'll understand that, apart from the carnal appetites, the main thing is to scoop in all the prizes. I'll be dreadfully disappointed if you come back disgraced, with anything less of them than the full of a cart. That, I believe, is the only proof of a Scottish liberal education. In Ailie's story-books it's all the good, industrious, and deserving pupils who get everything. Of course, if you take all the prizes somebody's sure to want—but, tuts! I would never let that consideration vex me—it's their own lookout. If you don't take prizes, either in the school or in the open competition of the world, how are folk to know they should respect you?”
“You must have been a wonderfully successful student in your day,” said Ailie, mischievously. “Where are all your medals?”
Dan laughed. “It's ill to say,” said he, “for the clever lads who won them when I wasn't looking have been so modest ever since that they've clean dropped out of sight. I never won anything myself in all my life that called for competition—except the bottom of the class! When it came to competitions, and I could see the other fellows' faces, I was always far too tired or well disposed to them to give them a disappointment which they seemingly couldn't stand so well as myself. But then I'm not like Bud here. I hadn't a shrewd old uncle egging me on. So you must be keen on the prizes, Bud. Of course, there's wisdom, too, but that comes later—there's no hurry for it. Prizes, prizes—remember the prizes; the more you win, the more, I suppose, I'll admire you.”
“And if I don't win any, Uncle Dan?” said Bud, slyly, knowing very well the nature of his fun.
“Then, I suppose, I'll have to praise the Lord if you keep your health, and just continue loving you,” said the lawyer. “I admit that if you're anyway addicted to the prizes you'll be the first of your name that was so. In that same school in Edinburgh, your auntie Ailie's quarterly reports had always, 'Conduct—Good' and 'Mathematics—Fairly moderate.' We half expected she was coming back an awful diffy; but if she did, she made a secret of it. I forgave her the 'Fairly moderate' myself, seeing she had learned one thing—how to sing. I hope you'll learn to sing, Bud, in French or German or Italian—anything but Scotch. Our old Scotch songs, I'm told, are not what's called artistic.”