Part 2 (1/2)

”You are Brian and Jessie. I have heard about you often. Mother has your photographs. I cannot see if Jessie is as pretty as her picture; but how thin your legs are, Brian, like my _dhobees_. Uncle Hugh, do tell me why do _dhobees_ always have thin legs? Father doesn't know.”

Uncle Hugh was one of those very discreet people who never attempt a reply to children's questions.

”Go into the house, Brian, and take your cousin to have some breakfast in the nursery. Is your mother up yet? Mind you both come down tidy in time for prayers.”

”But please, Uncle Hugh, I never have breakfast in the nursery. Father and mother think I am old enough to eat with them. Maggie, _do_ tell him it is true. Must I really go with them? Can't I see grandmama or Aunt Annie, first? They are mother's own, her very own relations, you see. And she did send so many messages. I have said them over and over again to myself, not to forget. It is very important is it not, Uncle Hugh, to deliver your despatches?”

Alas for poor Jeff! His pleading was not heard. He had yet to learn the firm and obdurate nature of the starched gentleman with whiskers.

”Brian, obey me at once. Show your cousin the way upstairs.”

And then Jeff, further constrained by old Maggie's hand, was marched away up two flight of stairs, through a long corridor and double baize doors, then down another narrower pa.s.sage into a large square room. It seemed to Jeff that there was a great deal of heavy furniture everywhere, and thick carpets, and an excess of light flooding the rooms. In India the suns.h.i.+ne was always excluded.

Breakfast was laid on the table in the nursery. There were steaming bowls of porridge and a large gla.s.s dish of marmalade set out. An odour of bacon also was perceptible.

”Isn't my governor a stiff one?” said Brian in a jeering way, as his cousin drew near the great coal fire and drew off his little worsted gloves--the gloves which mother had knitted.

”Is your governor a tyrant too?”

Jeff shook his head in a fierce negative.

”My governor never bullies his men, if you mean that, Brian. Don't you care about your father? I don't call him a very nice sort of a father, but then of course I needn't like him particularly, because he is only my uncle--only a sort of an uncle too--not a real one.”

Brian was a very pretty-looking boy, with auburn hair and large innocent blue eyes. People said he had a heavenly expression, and interpreted a mind to match.

Jessie had pulled off her sun-bonnet, and the nurse, Nan, a big bony woman, was tying a pinafore about her. She could hardly hear the conversation of the two boys on the other side of the room, as Maggie and Nan were carrying on a lively exchange of question and answer.

”Cousin Jeff, I'm _quite_ sure you wouldn't like to have breakfast down-stairs. I did once when Nan was ill, and it was quite drefful,”

called out Jessie, nodding her head gravely at the recollection. ”Papa won't let you drink if you have the least bit in your mouth, and he says everything that is nice isn't good for children. Kidneys and sausages, and herrings and bacon you're only allowed to smell down-stairs. Isn't our breakfast ready now, Nan? I am so hungry.”

Then the children were bidden to sit down to the table, and Jeff tasted porridge for the first time. He did not care much about it, and watched Maggie devour it with no little astonishment.

”Did mother always eat it, Maggie?”

”Yes, my bairn; and it's fine stuff to make growing lads.”

”Well, I'll _try_ and like it,” said Jeff rather doubtfully, as he made a second valiant attempt to swallow two or three spoonfuls.

In the course of a very few days Jeff found out that his cousin Brian was not nearly so angelic as he looked. He bullied Jessie, who was a good-tempered little girl, and deceived his father and mother with a wonderful amount of success.

With grandmama, who was really a keen-sighted old lady, his plausible excuses and affectionate embraces did not meet with the same acceptance. Not that he really cared, for he was impatient of her slow ways, and did not feel sorry for her failing sight or feeble limbs; only, he liked the five s.h.i.+llings and half-sovereigns she occasionally bestowed, and thought that he might receive more if he pretended a dutiful behaviour.

Jeff really, however, fell in love with the old lady at first sight.

There are very few old people to be seen in India, and the dignity and pathos of her appearance touched a tender chord. He admired her fine white hair and handsome features, all furrowed with the countless little lines of time. And she wore such stiff brocades and silks, such beautiful old lace, and the funniest brooches, with pictures in them.

Her soft white hands touched him in a loving way, and she had a gentle voice something like the dear mother's.

Poor Jeff yearned for the tenderness and affection that seemed so far off. How long it would be before the hunger in his heart would be satisfied he dared not think. But grandmama was old and feeble, and he might not stay long in her sitting-room.