Nancy - Broughton Rhoda

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To tell you the truth, we have been cooking. I wonder you did not smell it in the drawing-room."

      Again he looks amused.

      "May not I cook too? I can, though you look disbelieving; there are few people that can beat me at an Irish stew when I set my mind to it."

      A head (Bobby's) appears round the school-room door.

      "I say, Nancy, who are you colloquing with out there? I believe you have got hold of our future benefact—"

      An "oh!" of utter discomfiture, and the head is withdrawn.

      "I am keeping you," Sir Roger says. "Well, I will say good-night. You will shake hands, won't you, to show that you bear no malice?"

      "That I will," reply I, heartily stretching out my right hand, and giving his a cordial shake. For was not he at school with father?

       Table of Contents

      Day has followed night. The broiled smell has at length evacuated the school-room, but a good deal of taffy, spilt in the pouring out, still adheres to the carpet, making it nice and sticky. The wind is still running roughly about over the earth, and the yellow crocuses, in the dark-brown garden-borders, opened to their widest extent, are staring up at the sun. How can they stare so straight up at him without blinking? I have been trying to emulate them—trying to stare, too, up at him, through the pane, as he rides laughing, aloft in the faint far sky; and my presumptuous eyes have rained down tears in consequence. I am trying now to read; but a hundred thousand things distract me: the sun shining warm on my shoulder, as I lean against the window; the divine morning clamor of the birds; their invitations to come out that will take no nay; and last, but oh! not, not least, the importunate voices of Barbara and Tou Tou. Every morning at this hour they have a weary tussle with the verb "aimer," "to love." It is hard that they should have pitched upon so tender-hearted a verb for the battle-field of so grim a struggle:

      J'aime, I love.

      Tu aimes, Thou lovest.

      Il aime, He loves.

      Nous aimons, We love.

      Vous aimez, You love.

      Ils aiment, They love.

      This, with endless variations of ingenious and hideous inaccuracies—this, interspersed with foolish laughter and bitter tears, is what I have daily been audience to, for the last two months. The day before yesterday a great stride was taken; the present tense was pronounced vanquished, and Barbara and her pupil passed on in triumph to the imperfect, "j'aimais, I loved, or was loving." To-day, in order to be quite on the safe side, a return has been made to "j'aime," and it has been discovered that it has utterly disappeared from our young sister's memory. "J'aimais, I loved, or was loving," has entirely routed and dispersed his elder brother, "j'aime, I love." The old strain is, therefore, desperately resumed:

      J'aime, I love.

      Tu aimes, Thou lovest.

      Il aime, He loves, etc.

      It is making me drowsy. Ten minutes more, and I shall be asleep in the sun, with my head down-dropped on the window-sill. I get up, and, putting on my out-door garments, stray out into the sun, leaving Barbara—her pretty forehead puckered with ineffectual wrath, and Tou Tou blurred with grimy tears, to their death-struggle with the restive verb "to love." It is the end of March, and when one can hide round a corner from the wind, one has a foretaste of summer, in the sun's warm strength. I gaze lovingly at the rich brown earth, so lately freed from the frost's grasp, through which the blunt green buds are gently forcing themselves. I look down the flaming crocus throats—the imperial purple goblets with powdery gold stamens—and at the modest little pink faces of the hepaticas. All over our wood there is a faint yet certain purply shade, forerunner of the summer green, and the loud and sweet-voiced birds are abroad. O Spring! Spring! with all your searching east winds, with your late, shriveling frosts, with your occasional untimely sleets and snows, you are yet as much better than summer as hope is better than fruition.

      J'aime, I love.

      Tu aimes, Thou lovest.

      Il aime, He loves.

      It runs in my head like some silly refrain. I meet Bobby. I also meet Vick, my little shivering, smooth, white terrier. They both join me. The one wriggles herself into the shape of a trembling comma, and, foolishly chasing herself, rolls over on her back, to demonstrate her joy at my advent. The other says:

      "Come into the kitchen-garden, and see whether the apricot-flowers are out on the south wall."

      We pace along the broad and even gravel walk among the red cabbages and the sea-kale, basking in the sun, whose heat we feel undiminished by the influence of any bitter blast, in the prison of these four high walls, against which the long tree-branches are pinioned. In one place, the pinioning has failed. A long, flower-laden arm has burst from its bonds, and is dangling loosely down. There is a ladder against the wall, set for the gardener to replace it.

      "Is it difficult to get up a ladder, Bobby?" ask I, standing still.

      "Difficult! Bless your heart, no! Why?"

      "One can see nothing here," I answer. "I should like to climb up and sit on the top of the wall, where one can look about one."

      My wish is easy of gratification. Bobby holds the ladder, and I climb cautiously, rung by rung. Having reached the summit, I sit at ease, with my legs loosely dangling. There is no broken glass, there are no painful bottoms of bottles to disturb my ruminant quiet. The air bites a little, but I am warmly clad, and young. Bobby sits beside me, whistling and kicking the bricks with his heels. There is the indistinctness of fine weather over the chain of low round hills that bound our horizon, giving them a dignity that, on clearer days, they lack. As I sit, many small and pleasant noises visit my ears, sometimes distinct, sometimes mixed together; the brook's noise, as it runs, quick and brown, between the flat, dry March fields; the gray geese's noise, as they screech all together from the farm-yard; the church-bells' noise, as they ring out from the distant town, whose roofs and vanes are shining and glinting in the morning sun.

      "Do you hear the bells?" say I. "Some one has been married this morning."

      "Do not you wish it was you?" asks Bobby, with a brotherly grin.

      "I should not mind," reply I, picking out a morsel of mortar with my finger and thumb. "It is about time for one of us to move off, is not it? And Barbara has made such a signal failure hitherto, that I think it is but fair that I should try my little possible."

      "All I ask of you is," says Bobby, gravely, "not to take a fellow who has not got any shooting."

      "I will make it a sine qua non," I answer, seriously.

      A louder screech than ever from the geese, accompanied with wing-flappings. How unanimous they are! There is not a voice wanting.

      "I wonder how long Sir Roger will stay?" I say presently.

      "What connection of ideas made you think of him?" asks Bobby, curiously. "Do you suppose that he has any shooting?"

      I break into a laugh.

      "I do not know, I am sure. I do not think it matters much whether he has or not."

      "I dare say that there are a good many women—old ones, you know—who would take him, old as he is," says Bobby, with liberality.

      "I dare say," I answer. "I do not know. I am not old, but I am not sure that I would not rather marry him than be an old maid."

      A pause. Again I laugh—this time a laugh of recollection.

      "What a fool you did look last night!" I say with sisterly candor, "when you put your head round the school-room door, and found that you had been witty about him to his face!"

      Bobby

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