Chapter VI: "showing Off"

Cousin Becky had been nearly a week at Beaworthy when, one afternoon, Mrs. Marsh called to see her. It was on a Saturday, and Polly and Roger had gone for a walk as the weather was beautifully fine and dry, so they were absent during their aunt's visit and were not told much concerning it, though they would have liked to have known all that had been said.

"I do wonder what Cousin Becky thinks of Aunt Janie," Polly said to her brother. "I don't like to ask her, but I should dearly like to know."

But the old lady did not say what she thought of Mrs. Marsh, so Polly's curiosity remained unsatisfied; nor, after the few hours she and Mrs. Trent spent at the Rookery one afternoon of the following week, did she have many remarks to make about the home of her well-to-do cousin, but she expressed an interest in Edgar, with whom she had apparently been somewhat favourably impressed. "He seems a manly little fellow," she said, "and I hope his mother will not spoil him by over-indulgence."

"I fear she has done that already," Mrs. Trent replied gravely, "for he is a very wayward and disobedient boy, and he is always making mischief with the servants; he treats them in a most disrespectful manner, from all accounts."

"And he tells stories," declared Polly. "Doesn't he, Roger?"

"Y-e-s," Roger answered reluctantly. "I don't think he means any harm by it, and I don't know that he would tell a big lie, but he does tell a lot of little fibs, and Aunt Janie knows it too, for the last time I was at the Rookery she kept on saying to him, 'Oh, Edgar, dearie, I do wish you would learn to speak the truth!'"

It was impossible not to smile as Roger imitated so exactly the plaintive tone in which his aunt was in the habit of reproving her son; but Cousin Becky became serious again almost immediately.

"It is a terrible thing to be untruthful," she said gravely, "and I believe that, as a rule, one who tells little fibs, as Roger calls them, will not hesitate to utter a big lie when occasion arises. Do you see much of Edgar?" she inquired of Roger.

"Not much, Cousin Becky, and before we went to school I hardly ever had anything to do with him. Sometimes he walks as far as the corner of the street with me now, but I never ask him to come here, for he doesn't like our house."

"It's not grand enough for him," said Polly, tossing her head, "and I'm sure we don't want him here. I can't bear him."

"Oh, he's all right in his way, Polly," said her brother. "I think he's rather nicer than he was at the beginning of the term; there's a lot of fun in him, really. He said something yesterday about asking me to tea at the Rookery on Saturday; he said he would speak to Aunt Janie about it. I wonder if he will."

"Oh, I daresay!" Polly returned in a would-be indifferent tone as she speculated whether an invitation would be extended to her too.

However, that was not to be the case, for when Saturday came Roger only was asked to the Rookery, and the little girl found herself left out in the cold. She was vastly indignant, though she would not for the world have acknowledged as much; she felt she had been slighted, and, to make the matter worse, her father condoled with her on having to remain at home, whereupon Roger said carelessly:

"Oh, she doesn't mind, father! She doesn't like Edgar, so it wouldn't be much fun for her, anyway."

Polly was on the brink of tears, for though she certainly did not like her cousin, it would have been a great treat for her to have spent a few hours at the Rookery; and she much desired to see the "winter garden," as her uncle called the greenhouse where he grew hyacinths, primulas, cyclamens, heaths, and various other flowers which flourish under glass in early spring. She kept silence, however, and hoped no one noticed her disappointment, for she was successful in blinking away the tears which, against her will, had risen to her eyes.

When Roger arrived at the Rookery, he found that his aunt and uncle had gone away to spend the day; but Edgar, who had been on the look-out for him and met him at the front door, appeared to think they would have a much more enjoyable time on that account, "for now we shall be able to do exactly as we like," he said gleefully, adding that his mother had given orders that they were to have whatever they pleased for tea.

It was a lovely February day with a touch of spring in the air, for the weather, after a short spell of frost, had turned milder, so the boys spent most of the afternoon in the gardens and outbuildings connected with the house. Roger was charmed with the flowers in the winter garden and would have liked to have remained longer to admire their manifold beauties, but Edgar grew impatient and hurried him away. From thence they visited the stable, where the visitor was allowed to smooth the sleek sides of the pair of horses which he longed to be able to drive and, much to the amusement of a groom who stood by chewing a straw, he confessed his ambition to be a coachman when he should be grown-up. The idea seemed to tickle the fancy of Edgar, for he laughed immoderately.

"Why, Roger, you'd have to wear livery if you were a coachman," he reminded his cousin.

"Of course," Roger answered. "I shouldn't mind that. What are you laughing at? I love horses, and—"

"And they love you, sir," interposed the groom good-naturedly; "animals know those who like them. Look at that now!"

One of the horses had turned his head and was rubbing his nose against Roger's sleeve.

The little boy was very reluctant to leave the stable; but Edgar declared that he was hungry and wanted his tea, so they went into the house, where they found a most tempting repast awaiting them in the dining-room—a repast which, to the visitor, appeared all that any reasonable person could desire, though Edgar did a great deal of grumbling. There were two sorts of jam on the table, but the young host was satisfied with neither and rang the bell, bidding the maid-servant who answered his summons to bring another kind. Then he complained that the cake was stale, and that the bread and butter was not cut thin enough—Roger thought the cake was delicious, and the bread and butter, if anything, too thin—and at length the servant grew exasperated and told him he was a foolish boy to try to show off before his cousin, a remark which made him very angry indeed.

"I shall tell mother how impertinent she's been and get her dismissed!" he exclaimed as the young woman left the room. "She had no business to speak to me in such a manner as that."

"I think you were trying to show off, though," Roger told him candidly, "for really it's a beautiful cake, and the bread and butter is much thinner than we ever have it at home, even if we have strangers to tea. Yes, I'll have a little more strawberry jam, please. I'm making a very good tea."

So was Edgar, though he would not admit it. He felt exceedingly humiliated, for he had desired to make Roger believe that the servants of the household were under his control, and he had certainly not succeeded in his attempt. For a short while he looked extremely cross; but he soon brightened up after tea, when he led the way into his father's study, and exhibited to his companion a collection of coins, and another of foreign stamps, both of which he represented to be his own. As a matter-of-fact that was perfectly untrue, and he had no right to show either the coins or the stamps without his father's permission. Of course, Roger did not know that, and he began to look on his cousin as a person of property.

"I wonder you don't sell some of those stamps if they're worth such a heap of money as you say," he said, as he watched Edgar replace the stamps in the cabinet from which he had taken them, "I am sure I should."

"But, you see, I don't want the money," Edgar reminded him.

"No, I suppose not."

The coins were kept in the shallow drawers of another cabinet which Edgar had unlocked with a key—one of a bunch he had taken from a desk on the writing-table. He would not permit Roger to touch them, only to look, and afterwards he locked the drawers and returned the keys to the exact spot where he had found them. Then he took up a cigarette case which he opened and offered to Roger.

"Have one?" he asked with an assumption of carelessness.

"No, thank you," Roger responded, laughing, for he had not taken the offer seriously; "I don't smoke."

"I do," was the astounding reply, as Edgar selected a cigarette from the case and proceeded to light it with a wax match he took from a match-box which he produced from his pocket. Roger watched him take two or three whiffs in silence, dumbfounded at the sight. At last he cried wonderingly:

"Fancy Uncle John allowing you to smoke! Aren't you afraid of being sick?"

"No; you see, I'm used to it," Edgar replied, a flush rising to his cheeks. "You may as well try a cigarette, you'll enjoy it."

"No, thank you. Of course I know lots of the boys at the Grammar School do smoke—on the sly; but father said he hoped I never would, and I promised him I wouldn't."

"Oh, well, my father said something of the same kind, but I didn't promise one way or the other. He's never found me out yet—"

"Then he doesn't know. Oh, Edgar, how wrong of you! How can you bear to do it? Do put the cigarette down."

"Nonsense!" Edgar smoked on more out of a spirit of bravado than because he was enjoying the cigarette. He did not indulge in a second, however. "Look here, don't you go home and tell anyone I've been smoking," he said as he noted the expression of disapproval on his cousin's tell-tale countenance, "for you'll get me into a row if you do. Father's awfully against boys smoking."

"Then do say you won't smoke again, Edgar. It's awfully wrong of you, really."

"Oh, I shall be careful I'm not found out. I shouldn't smoke here if mother and father were at home, but I often do in my own room. Why, you look quite shocked! What a young innocent you are!"

"I'm no younger than you—that is, not much, only a few months. But, I say, Edgar, you really oughtn't to smoke if Uncle John doesn't wish you to; it's deceiving him;" and Roger spoke very seriously.

"Well, I daresay you deceive your father sometimes—"

"Indeed I don't."

"Because you're afraid of being found out!" Edgar cried scornfully. "I never guessed before that you were such a coward!"

"I'm not a coward!" Roger retorted, growing red with indignation. "But I wouldn't try to deceive father even if there was no fear of his finding it out. God would know, anyway. Mother says we should never do anything we wouldn't like Him to know. You have no right to call me a coward—"

"I didn't really mean it, so don't let us quarrel," Edgar broke in hastily. "Oh," he exclaimed as Roger suddenly declared it was time for him to leave, "don't go yet! It is quite early."

"It's half-past six," Roger replied, glancing at the brass face of an old-fashioned clock in a black oak case, which stood against the wall near the writing-table, "and mother said I was to be back by seven. It will take me quite half an hour to get home."

"You won't tell about my smoking, will you?" questioned Edgar anxiously as he followed his cousin out of the room into the hall.

"No, of course I won't," was the reassuring response, "I wouldn't be such a sneak as that. Good-bye, Edgar. Thank you for asking me to tea—it was a jolly nice tea, too, and I enjoyed it awfully. Good-bye."

Edgar stood at the front door and watched his late companion out of sight. He was growing to like Roger more than any of his other school-fellows, and he had the sense to see that he had made no favourable impression upon him by the manner in which he had set his father's command at defiance, and he heartily wished he had not smoked that cigarette. He was uneasily conscious that the other boy knew that he had only been "showing off."