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Another random document with
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The Project Gutenberg eBook of Oranges and
lemons
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Language: English
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Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net
(This book was produced from images made available
by the HathiTrust Digital Library.)
MARY C. E. WEMYSS
I F a bishop had asked Elsie Carston, “Do you really and truly
believe that islands, in far-off seas, were made islands and
peopled by black races, solely in order that your brother should
govern them, and you—in his absence—govern his children?” Elsie
would have looked straight into the eyes of the bishop and would
have answered, “I do not”; but she did.
If Marcus Maitland had been asked by any one, “Do you really
think and believe that God made the hills in India solely for the
preservation of the white woman’s complexion? that where He did
not make hills He did not mean white women to go?” Marcus would
have answered, “I do”; but he did not.
So far as Marcus knew, the island chosen for the future education
of his brother-in-law, Eustace Carston, in the art of governing might
have hills. On the other hand, the faith of some former governor’s
wife might have removed them and taken them away with her, there
being no limit to the luggaged importance of governors’ wives.
Marcus knew because he had travelled. He had been on boats
where every one was cramped excepting some governor’s wife and
her suite. He had suffered the indignity of a tropical discomfiture in
order that she might acquire an importance that was as new to her
as was discomfort to him.
If it had not been for Eustace Carston, he had not travelled. When
a man’s only sister marries a man he does not know, there are left to
him but two things to do—to like him or to leave him alone. Marcus
left him alone: left England. He had meant to travel until such time as
his sister should write and beg him to come back, but she did not
write and beg him to come back. She wrote at intervals saying what
a delightful time he must be having; said intelligent things about
tropical vegetation; and wrote, as they came, of charming babies, all
exactly like their father. Marcus thought they should have been like
her and therefore like him; for between him and his sister there was
a strong family likeness. In Sibyl’s eyes there was no one to be
compared with Eustace Carston. He stood alone. Marcus was tired
of hearing that, so when an American he met on board ship assured
him he was a white man, and suggested they should go into
business together, Marcus, after making exhaustive enquiries about
the man and his business, agreed. And he went to America; there
lived and made money. When he had made as much money as he
wanted, he began to long for home and he turned his face
homewards, taking with him both the affection of his American friend
and an interest in the business. London was still home to him; so he
settled there and at certain times of the year turned his thoughts to a
moor in Scotland, and at others to his collection of china, pictures,
and prints, and so he occupied himself—at leisure. Before he had
left England he had begun buying china. He had since learned how
little he had then known.
On his return to London the only person he wanted to see was his
sister and she was away; and her children were with their aunt in the
country. If he could have seen the children without seeing the aunt,
he would have done it, but he disliked the aunt. He wondered what
Sibyl would do with the children when her husband took up his new
appointment. She could not surely ask Carston’s sister to have them
indefinitely.
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.