Chapter VII: Sunday Afternoon at the Rookery

Polly and Roger Trent always looked forward with the greatest pleasure to Sunday, for they generally spent the afternoon of that day in their father's company. If the weather was fine he took them for a long walk in the country, past the clay works which lay directly on the outskirts of Beaworthy, to the beautiful lanes and woods beyond; if, on the contrary, it was wet and they were obliged to remain in the house, he read to them or told them stories. In that way they had become familiar with Bible history before they could read themselves; and at a little later date they had listened to the entrancing history of "The Pilgrim's Progress." They had followed Christian's journey with all its dangers and difficulties along the King's highway right onward to the celestial city; they had gloried in the fight between Christian and Apollyon in the valley of Humiliation, and had insisted every time their father had recounted it to them of a minute description of the fiend—the monster hideous to behold, clothed with scales like a fish, and wings like a dragon, and feet like a horse, and a mouth like a lion! And they had shed bitter tears over the martyrdom of Faithful, though they had never failed to brighten at the account of the chariot and horses which had borne him with the sound of trumpet through the clouds to the celestial gate into the presence of the King in His beauty.

"I hate Sundays," Edgar Marsh had told Roger on one occasion, much to the latter's surprise; "it's such a stupid day. I go to church with mother and father in the morning, I don't mind that; but in the afternoon I never know what to do with myself: father generally shuts himself up in his study and tells me not to bother him—I suppose he goes to sleep—and mother reads in the drawing-room. Don't you hate Sundays, too?"

"No, indeed!" Roger had answered; and then he had told a great deal about the delightful Sunday afternoons he was in the habit of spending, and Edgar had listened more than a little enviously.

The afternoon following Roger's visit to the Rookery found Edgar in a very discontented state of mind. As usual, his father had betaken himself to his study, and his mother had settled herself comfortably in an easy chair near the drawing-room fire, a book of sermons in her hand. The little boy, standing disconsolately by the window, looking out on the velvety lawn, the grass of which was beginning to spring fresh and green, was debating how he should pass the two hours which must elapse before tea-time, when Mrs. Marsh inquired:

"Why do you not take a book and read, my dear? There are some very pretty stories suitable for Sunday reading in that book I gave you for a New Year's present."

"I hate reading," was the ill-tempered response, "especially babyish stories; and I hate Sundays—"

"It's very naughty of you to say so," Mrs. Marsh interposed reprovingly, shaking her head at him.

"I do hate Sundays," he persisted, "because I never know what to do, and you won't let me play. Uncle Martin takes Polly and Roger for walks on Sunday afternoons, or tells them stories—stories with some sense in them. I wish my father was like Uncle Martin; but father never goes for walks or—"

"You must remember he is an older man than your uncle," Mrs. Marsh broke in quickly, "and he is so wrapped up in business affairs that he has little time to spare for anything else."

"But he doesn't do business on Sunday, mother."

"No, on Sunday he is glad to rest—Sunday is the day of rest, you know. Your father works very hard all the week."

"So does Uncle Martin—much harder than father, I believe. Is that an interesting book you're reading, mother? Won't you read it to me?"

"I am afraid you would not like it; you would not understand it. Come and sit by the fire and tell me how you and Roger amused yourselves yesterday afternoon."

"I took him all over the place," Edgar said as he seated himself in a chair near his mother's. "He likes to see the gardens and the greenhouses—he seems awfully fond of flowers—and he's quite crazy about horses: says he'd like to be a coachman when he grows up. He enjoyed his tea tremendously, and afterwards we—we just stuck about and talked," he concluded vaguely.

"Did he say when Cousin Becky leaves?" Mrs. Marsh inquired.

"No. I don't think she's going yet, she's only been there about a fortnight, you know, and Roger said he hoped she'd stay much longer. They all like her so much, and she isn't a bit in the way; I asked Roger if she was, and he said no; he wished she was going to stay altogether. Did you ever read 'The Pilgrim's Progress,' mother?" he asked with an abrupt change of the subject.

"Yes, years ago, when I was a little girl; I believe there is an old copy in the house somewhere."

"Has it pictures in it?" Edgar questioned eagerly.

"No, I think not. Why?"

"Because there are pictures in Uncle Martin's—Roger told me about them. There's one of a great wicked monster all over scales and breathing out fire and smoke."

"I suppose you mean Apollyon?"

"Yes, that's his name, I'd forgotten it. And there's a picture of a hideous giant called Giant Despair who lives in a castle called Doubting Castle. Roger says 'The Pilgrim's Progress' is all about wonderful adventures, and I like stories of that sort best of all. Oh, mother, I do wish you'd get me a copy of the book with pictures and read it to me on Sunday afternoons!"

"Certainly, you shall have the book if you wish it, dearie."

"And you'll read it to me, mother?" he coaxed.

"You lazy boy!" she admonished, with her indulgent smile. "Why cannot you read it yourself?"

"It would be so much nicer if you read it to me," he declared earnestly, "then we could talk about it afterwards like Uncle Martin does with Polly and Roger. Do promise, mother."

So she promised, and Edgar looked jubilant. For the first time it struck Mrs. Marsh that her little son lacked congenial society in his own home. She had always indulged him and given him everything for which he had expressed a desire, but she had never made a companion of him; for, as a rich man's wife, she took a foremost place in the town and her life was given up to social claims. She determined now, however, that for the future she would, at any rate, devote her Sunday afternoons to her boy as her brother devoted his to his children.

"I'll order the book to-morrow," she said, "a well-illustrated copy which I hope will come up to your expectations, Edgar."

At that moment the door opened to admit the master of the house, who entered the room with a frown on his brow which denoted displeasure.

"Edgar, did you meddle with anything in my study yesterday?" he interrogated, fixing a searching glance on his son.

"No, father," Edgar promptly replied, secretly very alarmed, though he met his father's gaze with an immovable face.

"But you and your cousin were there during the evening—I have ascertained that from the servants. Come, speak the truth. Were you smoking?"

"No, father." The response was not quite so unfaltering this time.

"Then how comes it several cigarettes are gone from here?" Mr. Marsh inquired, producing the case from which Edgar had helped himself on the preceding evening.

"I—I only smoked one," Edgar confessed. After Roger had left he had returned to the study and taken several more cigarettes—under the deluded idea that his father would not miss them—which he had subsequently hidden in his own room. "Oh, father, please don't look so angry! It really and truly was only one!"

"Then who smoked the others? Your cousin, I suppose. Why did you not speak the truth and own what you two had been doing instead of uttering such a daring falsehood? How often have I told you of my great abhorrence of small boys smoking?"

"I am very sorry," faltered Edgar, alarmed at the severity of Mr. Marsh's tone.

"Oh, John, you must overlook his naughtiness this time, and forgive him!" broke in Mrs. Marsh eagerly; "he won't smoke again, will you, Edgar, darling?"

"No, mother," the boy responded, watching his father anxiously, "I won't."

"There, John, you hear that!" she exclaimed.

"I'm afraid Edgar's word is not to be trusted," Mr. Marsh observed dryly. "I'm exceedingly angry with him, and he ought to be severely punished."

"But not on a Sunday, John. Remember the day. You must forgive him this once, and I'm sure he'll keep his word and never smoke again. Besides, it was quite as naughty of Roger, and it would not be fair to punish one boy without the other. When boys get together they always lead each other into mischief."

"Please forgive me, father," murmured Edgar.

"You should have owned the truth at once," Mr. Marsh told him gravely, "nothing angers me so much as to catch you in a lie. Well—" he looked dubiously from mother to son—"I suppose I must forgive you this time and not punish you, though I'm not certain I'm doing my duty in letting the matter pass so easily. I hope, Janie," he added, pointedly addressing his wife, "that you will give Edgar a good talking to; and remember Roger Trent is never to come here again unless you are at home."

Mrs. Marsh heaved a sigh of intense relief as her husband went away, shutting the door behind him; and then she gave her son the good talking to which she had been advised to administer. She told him never to be tempted to smoke again on any account, for if he did and his father found it out, she knew he would never be dealt with so leniently a second time. "You have heard your father frequently speak of the great objection he has to boys smoking," she said, "so I cannot imagine what made you do it. You are terribly disobedient, Edgar, and so dreadfully untruthful, too. It is not as if you had never been taught the wickedness of telling stories, and I am sure I am always begging you to speak the truth. It makes me very unhappy to think we cannot take your word."

Mrs. Marsh looked so distressed that Edgar, who was really fond of her, felt a sincere pang of regret shoot through his selfish little heart. He recalled how often she had concealed his misdoings from his father—better for him if she had not—and how she had pleaded that he might not be punished to-day, and his glance rested on her with an expression of grateful affection.

"I will try to be more truthful," he said earnestly; "do believe me, mother, I really will."

"That's my own dear, good boy," she responded tenderly, "you'll make mother so happy if you'll only learn to speak the truth. Mind, I cannot interfere between you and your father if he ever discovers you've been smoking again; and, remember, although he's very indulgent and kind to you, he can be very severe at times."

"I'll remember," Edgar replied; "promise you I won't smoke again." His spirits were beginning to rise. He had listened patiently to all his mother had had to say, and he knew she would not revert to it—she was not in the habit of dwelling on unpleasant subjects. But he did not consider it worth while to explain that his cousin had not smoked as well as himself, nor did he confess to the possession of the cigarettes which he had hidden in his room, for he quite intended to throw them away.