Part 5

Mrs. Fraser is an Aberdonian, and, though she has been half a century in Edinburgh, she has lost none of her northern accent, much to the annoyance of her daughters.

"Oh, I'm nae weel at a'," she replied. "I'm nae sae young as I've been, an' I seem tae be a' breakin' up thegither."

"Oh, I'm very sorry," I said; "but I hope you'll soon be bet----"

"I'm fair lame wi' thae rheumatics i' the knee, an' I've tried a'thing I can think o'. I'm share, the siller I've spent on liniments an' medicines wad--I dinna ken what: an' jist thrown awa'. An' as for rubbin'----"

Before she could find a simile for the useless effects of rubbing, I said, "Well, I'll bid you good----"

"Ye micht as weel--I dinna ken what," she said, finding her suitable expression. "An' then, my back's aye troublin' me: it's an awfu' thing, that lumbagie; but ye'll ken naething aboot that; an' the doctors dinna seem tae be able tae dae me ony guid."

I took advantage of her coughing, to say "My friend is waiting on me, so I'll say----"

"Not a bit o' guid: hot flannels, an' ironin' an' I dinna ken what a'; an' ye micht jist as weel--I dinna ken what."

"Well, I'll not keep you standing in the cold," I said, as if I had been detaining her, though I was beginning to shiver after the hot time we had been treated to inside; but she did not seem to hear me, and continued:

"An' then I was three weeks nursin' Mr. Fraser. Ye wad see aboot it in the papers----"

"Yes, I was very sorry to----"

"Never had my claes aff, ye may say, for it was jist het watter an' laud'num cloths day an' nicht. 'Peritonitis' the doctors ca'd it, but I ken better: it was jist inflammation in 's inside, wi' a chill."

"In--deed!" I said, with as much sympathy of expression as I could throw into the word. "Well, I am afraid I'm keeping you in the cold, and my friend is----"

"Ay, he was jist worn awa' tae skin an' bane. I'm share he was an awfu'-like ticket; but I'm wonderfu', considering an' I have a lot tae be thankfu' for, after a'. Diabetes, an' indyspepsy, an' a' their fancy names! but it's naething mair nor less than indisgestion, an' bad enough it is at that."

[Illustration: "I'M FAIR LAME WI' THAE RHEUMATICS" _By W. Grant Stevenson, R.S.A._]

I was now chilled through, and had been standing for ten minutes holding out my hand like a railway signal at the angle of "caution," ready to shake hands and get away. The crowd which had (as is usual on leaving church) blocked up the pavement for a considerable time, had all dispersed, and my friend was gesticulating wildly for me to "come on." He had whispered to me, in his Cockney style, when the sermon was finished, "A pint of beer will go down fizzing after that; that's a hot 'un, that is," and I knew he was now impatient to realise his wish. Still he was better off than I was; he was walking about to keep himself warm, while I was shivering beside one who forcibly brought to mind Outram's picture:

"But her! expose her onywhere, She'll ca' for her annuity";

and I could not help admiring her constitution and indifference to temperature, though I should have been better content without proof of it. At last, getting desperate, I caught her hand and hurriedly said, "Good-bye."

"Well, good-bye," she said; "I'm rale gled tae see ye; an' hoo's yer mither?"

"Oh, she's quite well, thank you; good-bye."

"Good-bye; remember me tae her, an' be share an' tell her I was speirin' for her, an'----"

"Yes, thanks; I'll tell her; good-bye."

"Say I was jist thinkin' aboot her the ither day, an' sayin' tae Maggie I mun ca' sune."

"She'll be very pleased to see you, I'm sure," I said, edging away; and before she had time to reply, I lifted my hat and hurried off, and began to apologise to my friend; but he said, "It's all right, old man; I was sorry for you. I know the sort; but if you've any regard for your own health, you'll not ask after hers again on a cold day. I was smiling when I saw you make a grab at her hand; and when she kept a hold, and went on saying 'Good-bye,' I was afraid you were in for more of it. It reminded me of a quiet boy who once called on us; and when I asked him, 'How's your father?' he said, 'He's quite well, thank you.'

"'And your mother?'

"'She's quite well, thank you.'

"'And your uncle?'

"'He's quite well, thank you."

"'Big handsome fellow your uncle, isn't he?"

"'I haven't got an uncle.'

"I had mistaken the boy.--I say, by Jove, you're as white's a sheet; let's hurry to my hotel."

A week has now crept slowly by, and I have not been able to get warm. I shiver as if I had ague; and blankets and hot drinks seem useless. My eyes water when I try to read; and I pass the time studying the wall-paper. I seem to have got mesmerised with it,--discovering faces, figures, and animals among the flowers, only to lose them and search for them again. Wallpapers are diabolical affairs. It never struck me before how barbaric they are; though I remember of being afraid, when I was a little boy, to sit at the right of my grandfather's fire for an ugly demon with long yellow and white legs on the imitation marble mantelpiece. We may call ourselves Liberals, Radicals, or Conservatives, but we are all conservative by nature. The first fiend who designed a wall-paper made the roses run in diagonal lines, and all his successors have followed him in this respect without considering the reason.

Why should we have flowers on wall-paper? And if we must submit to flowers, why should they not be natural? Why should not the tired eye be able to rest when we are in bed? Simply because the first fiend who designed wall-papers fixed it on his conservative disciples; he evidently "had them bad" at the time, or was just recovering from a second or third attack, and it is a great pity he had not died under the first.

The flowers on my bedroom wall are evidently meant for chrysanthemums; but they are on a colossal scale, and afford every opportunity for one who has the leisure I have had this week of discovering a variety of subjects. There is the head of an old woman with a long nose; but I am annoyed when I look at her, as I want to get up and correct the drawing of her left eye, and, as there are hundreds of her round the room in every repetition of the pattern, I feel I would require a lot of paint. Then I turn away from her and look for the dancing negro, whom I only discovered on Thursday. He is difficult to find, as I am not so familiar with the place. The old woman keeps looking at me from every diamond; and I see the dog's head, with the ears formed by two leaves. But where is the negro? I think, "This is the wall-paper: where is the negro?" and "He won't be happy till he gets it." And when I do find it, my eyes are so tired that I look to the ceiling for a rest; but the negro floats on the ceiling,--only he is green instead of brown, and the old woman is purple. I shut my eyes, but they still float in changing colours. I am certain the first designer had _delirium tremens_.

"If I had the designing of wall-papers, I would make them different," I think; but perhaps I am like the gentleman who said, "Give me the making of a country's songs, and I don't care who makes its laws." He never wrote any songs, though no one had the contract.

Last spring the house-painter insisted on my selecting this paper as being from the latest book of patterns; but I had no idea of the mysterious and unsatisfactory figures it contained. One has to study it for a week to discover all there is in it, and there was not time then, or I might have said, "The woman's eyes are not the same size; the negro has one leg longer than the other; and the dog's nose is not at the right angle."

When I am able to get out of bed, I shall have paper of a simple tint put on, and I shall be careful to whom I say "How d'ye do?"

M'CRANKY'S BRACE OF GROUSE

The M'Crankys have had a few friends to dinner, but though the viands and wine were faultless, three of the four couples who sat down, left with the disagreeable feeling of being 'found out' in a little bit of pardonable deception.

M'Cranky had gone, as usual on the Twelfth, to his friend's shooting on the Lugate, only thinking of the pleasure of inhaling the invigorating air and the delightful sensation of hearing the birds fall with a thud. A shooting season makes one forget the drawbacks in the shape of climbing a hill, only to find that we have to go down the other side to climb another; then there are the interminable "hags," so easy to slide into and so difficult to climb out of, as one sinks over the boots in the wet peaty earth.

None of the party having M.P. at the end of his name, it was arranged that they should go out on the 11th and have a look over the ground; the weather did not look promising, but Gilfillan the keeper tried to inspire hope by saying that "it micht clear up by the morn," adding, as if to himself, "if the wind wad only change." Carts of provisions were arriving, and the white-washed house seemed to be preparing for a lengthened siege. The night was passed pleasantly, each one recalling the good shooting he had done last season.

"Do you remember the blackcock I brought down after you had fired at it, up by the shepherd's house? it was a long way out."

"Yes, but that gun of mine carries a long way. I killed a hare on the moor, dead on the spot, and paced it, eighty-two paces. Gilfillan saw it."

No one required to be called in the morning; and as each one got up, he went to the window to find a leaden sky and a drizzling rain, which looked as if it meant to stay a few days.

During breakfast there were many glances out of the window in the hope of seeing a clear streak of sky rising behind the hill, and when the repast was over and pipes lit, there was a general saunter round to the kennels to hear Gilfillan's opinion.

"I canna just say I like the look o't; be quiet, wumman; they dowgs is just daft to get oot. I wadna wonder, though, if it clears up by the efternoon. The dowgs ken fine what's up when they see you gentlemen; bit as lang's ye keep on the move, a drap rain'll no hurt ye, though the birds'll no sit sae weel."

The dogs seemed to throw some of their eagerness into the company, and it was resolved to make a start--the first few shots almost making them forget the rain, further than in keeping their cartridges dry. Half an hour, however, brought back to M'Cranky's memory the unpleasant aspect of the sport; the exercise and excitement kept his heart thumping with extra violence, his feet were soaking, and every step made a slushy sound. There is as much inspiration, however, in following a dog as there is in "the sound of the drum," and M'Cranky persevered, wiping rain and perspiration from his face.

The following days were much the same, and as the birds were wild and the bags not large, M'Cranky would not take more than a brace of birds and a hare on leaving.

"No, no," he said, in reply to his host insisting on his taking more, "I like game well enough, but the sport better."

"Is that all you've brought home," said Mrs. M'Cranky. "I thought----"

"I wouldn't take any more; we had bad sport."

"I'll tell you what we'll do then; we'll send them to Mrs. Wallace. You know she----"

"You'll do nothing of the sort, by jingo! Those birds have cost me," but M'Cranky suddenly remembered he had better not mention the sum, as his wife would immediately think of the dress which could have been got for the money--her usual idea of comparison. So he changed his sentence to--"It's not every day I can go to shoot."

"You had a good deal of shooting last season," said Mrs. M'Cranky, not in a tone of reproach, but to put her husband in the good humour she wished, and set him on pleasant reminiscences.

"Well, you know," he said, with a smile of satisfaction with himself, "I couldn't help it; they were always wanting me to give them a hand when they wanted a bag."

"And we can have some lovely hare soup," continued Mrs. M'Cranky, taking the gift of grouse for granted. Generosity, no doubt, was her principal feeling, though there was an under-current of satisfaction in the knowledge that the gift would be understood to reflect credit on her husband as a sportsman, and he was not long out of the house till the birds were despatched to "Mrs. Wallace, with Mr. M'Cranky's compliments."

"What do you think I've got?" said Mrs. Wallace, in the usual enigmatical fashion of females. "A brace of grouse from the M'Crankys. I like the parcel post, but I just hate telegrams; I'm always afraid to open them in case some one's dead."

"I know," said Mr. Wallace, "it's a failing of the sex; you would like the boy to tell you what's inside before you open the envelope."

"And we've got an invitation to go over and stay with Nell for a few days, so I was just thinking we might send the grouse to Mrs. Clark. I want to take the bounce out of her, at any rate, and let her know we have swell friends, too; you can't talk to her five minutes till she is on to her 'county friends,' her 'West End friends,' and her 'carriage people.' I know she won't like taking grouse from me, so I'll just send them."

"You're a rum lot, you women; I've to want the grouse to satisfy your stupid idea, I suppose."

"They were addressed to me, and you can get plenty later on; but I wouldn't miss this chance for anything. She'll perhaps think you've been at the shooting, and she'll be just wild."

"That'll be nice," said Mr. Wallace, with mild sarcasm; but he had more sense than to argue the subject, and the grouse were passed on to "Mrs. Clark, with Mr. Wallace's compliments."

Mrs. Clark put on a careless air when the grouse were brought in, as if she were expecting a few more similar parcels from her various "county friends"; but when she read, "With Mr. Wallace's compliments," the expression on her face changed.

"The i--dea," she said. "Well, I never! Set them up! Mrs. Wallace either wants me to think her husband has been shooting, or that they have got more from their country friends than they can use. I'll have to write and thank her--perfectly annoying."

Mrs. Clark gave vent to her feelings while writing:

"My DEAR MRS. WALLACE--[impertinence].--Thanks so much for the lovely grouse. [I would rather--I don't know what--than she had sent them.] You evidently know my weakness, dear, and yours is the first we have received this season. [That'll let her know we are in the habit of getting game.] I am already looking forward to the treat. [I won't touch them.] Thanking you again, and with love.--Yours affectionately, MARY CLARK.

"I know what--yes. Mrs. M'Cranky called the other day for nothing else, I'm sure, than to let me know her husband was away shooting. I'll let her know we have friends who have shootings as well as she has; she'll not know where we got them."

When Mr. Clark came home at night he had reluctantly to consent to take them with him the following morning and send them to M'Cranky's office.

"Generosity has been rewarded," said M'Cranky, when he took the birds home at night. "Clark sent these to the office; very good of him. Met him at the club at lunch, and asked him to bring his wife on Thursday to help us with them. Young birds won't keep."

"We may as well ask Mr. and Mrs. Wallace, too," said Mrs. M'Cranky; "they haven't been here since they were married."

"All right; but you'll have to buy another brace."

"That will be too many, unless we were to ask Mr. and Mrs. Wilson."

"All right; please yourself."

Mrs. M'Cranky is one of a numerous class who delight in worrying over preparations for a dinner, and who feel well rewarded when any of the ladies remark that "the table is beautifully laid out," and her excitement was kept up till the guests arrived, when the conversation became general, and every one seemed prepared to laugh at the mildest of jokes; but when the grouse were brought in, three of the ladies felt as if the sword of Damocles was hanging over their heads by a very slender thread. Just before going to the dining-room, Mrs. M'Cranky had a final look into the kitchen to see that all was right, when the cook upset her equilibrium by saying:

"Do you know, mum, that the two grouse the master brought in are the same you sent to Mrs. Wallace?"

"Nonsense!" said Mrs. M'Cranky; "surely you are mistaken."

"The self an' same birds, mum. I knew the string; an' one of them had a little grass sticking under the wing, where it had been bleeding."

Mrs. M'Cranky tried to banish the unpleasant thought from her mind, but it would return, as if asking for a solution.

"The grouse is very nice," said Mrs. Wilson. "One enjoys it so much at the beginning of the season."

"You have Mr. Clark to thank," said the innocent M'Cranky, and three swords fell.

Mrs. M'Cranky tried to catch her husband's eye, but he would not look her way, and it was too late, at any rate. Mr. Clark got a warning look from his wife, and though he did not comprehend it fully, he knew he was to say nothing. Mrs. Wallace's cheeks turned red, and she tried to hide her blushes by bending over her plate, feeling she had made Mrs. Clark her enemy.

The stereotyped compliment was repeated by everyone on leaving--"Thank you so much for a very pleasant evening"; but a different sentiment was expressed in two of the cabs on the way home.

"Well, that was a good spread," said Mr. Wallace, with the satisfied tone of one who is at peace with all mankind.

"Don't light that cigar, for any sake; I feel just like to cry; I never was so miserable in my life."

"What's wrong?"

"What's wrong! Can't you see? Mrs. M'Cranky got back her grouse, and we're all found out."

"Ha, ha! well, that's a good one."

"Do you think so? I call it just beastly."

"M'Cranky does the thing well," said Mr. Clark.

"Don't speak about it. I never felt so glad to get out of a house."

"How?"

"That Mrs. Wallace knows I gave away her grouse, but thank goodness she's found out too."

"I don't understand."

"No; men are donkeys."

"Women are mysteries."

M'CRANKY'S DECEPTIONS ABOUT GOLF

It is a pity that evil should be mixed with our most healthy and, in themselves, innocent amusements. Some bad men, who are otherwise modest, boast of and exaggerate their achievements, tell of the good things done, and omit the stupid, as in the case of the sportsman of whom it was said, "What he hit was history, what he missed was mystery."

Golf is generally admitted to be one of the best recreations for combining the necessary amount of excitement, removing all thoughts of business cares, and at the same time giving exercise in the open air, making it all the more regrettable that it should be capable of leading to the debasing and humiliating position experienced by Mr. M'Cranky.

Golfers could be found who are considered--and consider themselves--strictly honest, who would omit to count a miss if they were not observed, or surreptitiously move their ball to a better position.

"There is one thing I like about golf," said an Englishman who has only been a few months at the game, "It is impossible to cheat at it."

"You don't know," said his friend, smiling. "Two caddies were playing for a sovereign, at Musselburgh, and, in going to Mrs. Forman's, one lost his ball, and as the five minutes allowed to look for a lost ball were about up, and he saw the hole would be lost to him, he quietly dropped another ball and said, 'Oh, here it is!' when his opponent, who had apparently been assisting him to find the ball, turned on him reproachfully and said, 'That's a lie! I've had your ball in my pocket all the time.'"

Though M'Cranky is almost invariably in the wrong in the many arguments he has with his better half, he has the greatest dislike to being found out, and never admits being mistaken; and--argue as he may with himself--he feels that his duplicity has been discovered by his wife.

Their friend Mrs. Watson had spent June and July at a farmhouse near Crieff, and one day at tea she told Mrs. M'Cranky how much she and the children had enjoyed the place, and benefited by it.

"You should certainly take it for August and September," she said; and Mrs. M'Cranky, knowing that the selection of summer quarters was generally left to herself, at once determined to write and secure the house, little thinking that M'Cranky had another scheme on hand. She was impatient for the dinner hour, being anxious to impart the glowing account of the place as described by Mrs. Watson.

"Mrs. Watson's home from Crieff," she began, "and she was awfully sorry to leave, and she says it's just the place for us, and I'm going to write after dinner to secure it, in case any one should be after it."

"You'll have to go yourself, then; I can't."

"But you must, dear; you know quite well that you require a rest, and it's a fine bracing place, and plenty of nice milk and eggs, and--"

"I don't care for milk, and in any case I tell you I can't go."

"And the people are so kind, Mrs. Watson says."

"Why did she come home, then?"

"Oh! she had to, you know; and there's a horse and a trap we can have the use of. The farmer used to drive Mrs. Watson and the girls every day, but he says he couldn't drive now, as he'll be so busy; but that'll be all the better, because we'll have it all to ourselves, and you can drive fine. You remember when----"

"Drive! you would drive anybody out of his mind with your talk. Didn't I tell you I can't go."