Red Cap Tales | Page 3

in the schoolroom, and even, it is whispered, in
church.)
As for blithe Maid Margaret, she said nothing, for she was engaged in
testing the capacities of a green slope of turf for turning somersaults
upon.
"In Sir Walter Scott's time," I resumed gravely, "novels were not
written for little girls--"
"Then why did you give us Miss Edgeworth to read?" said Sweetheart,
quickly. But I went on without noticing the interruption, "Now, if you
like, I will tell you some of Sir Walter's stories over again, and then I
will mark in your own little edition the chapters you can read for
yourselves."
The last clause quieted the joyous shout which the promise of a
story--any sort of a story--had called forth. An uncertain look crept
over their faces, as if they scented afar off that abomination of
desolation--"lessons in holiday time."
"Must we read the chapters?" said Hugh John, unhopefully.
"Tell us the stories, anyway, and leave it to our honour!" suggested Sir
Toady Lion, with a twinkle in his eye.
"Is it a story--oh, don't begin wifout me!" Maid Margaret called from
behind the trees, her sturdy five-year-old legs carrying her to the scene
of action so fast that her hat fell off on the grass and she had to turn
back for it.
"Well, I will tell you, if I can, the story of 'Waverley,'" I said.
"Was he called after the pens?" said Toady Lion the irreverent, but

under his breath. He was, however, promptly kicked into silence by his
peers--seriously this time, for he who interferes with the telling of a
story is a "Whelk,"--which, for the moment, is the family word for
whatever is base, mean, unprofitable, and unworthy of being associated
with.
But first I told them about the writing of Waverley, and the hand at the
Edinburgh back window which wrote and wrote. Only that, but the
story as told by Lockhart had affected my imagination as a boy.
"Did you ever hear of the Unwearied Hand?" I asked them.
"It sounds a nice title," said Sir Toady; "had he only one?"
"It was in the early summer weather of 1814," I began, "after a dinner
in a house in George Street, that a young man, sitting at the wine with
his companions, looked out of the window, and, turning pale, asked his
next neighbour to change seats with him.
"'There it is--at it again!' he said, with a thump of his fist on thetable
that made the decanters jump, and clattered the glasses; 'it has haunted
me every night these three weeks. Just when I am lifting my glass I
look through the window, and there it is at it--writing--writing--always
writing!'
"So the young men, pressing about, looked eagerly, and lo! seen
through the back window of a house in a street built at right angles,
they saw the shape of a man's hand writing swiftly, steadily, on large
quarto pages. As soon as one was finished, it was added to a pile which
grew and grew, rising, as it were, visibly before their eyes.
"'It goes on like that all the time, even after the candles are lit,' said the
young man, 'and it makes me ashamed. I get no peace for it when I am
not at my books. Why cannot the man do his work without making
others uncomfortable?'
"Perhaps some of the company may have thought it was not a man at
all, but some prisoned fairy tied to an endless task--Wizard Michael's

familiar spirit, or Lord Soulis's imp Red Cap doing his master's bidding
with a goose-quill.
"But it was something much more wonderful than any of these. It was
the hand of Walter Scott finishing Waverley, at the rate of a volume
every ten days!"
"Why did he work so hard?" demanded Hugh John, whom the
appearance of fifty hands diligently writing would not have
annoyed--no, not if they had all worked like sewing-machines.
"Because," I answered, "the man who wrote Waverley was beginning to
have more need of money. He had bought land. He was involved in
other people's misfortunes. Besides, for a long time, he had been a great
poet, and now of late there had arisen a greater."
"I know," cried Sweetheart, "Lord Byron--but I don't think he was."
"Anyway Fitzjames and Roderick Dhu is ripping!" announced Hugh
John, and, rising to his feet, he whistled shrill in imitation of the outlaw.
It was the time to take the affairs of children at the fulness of the tide.
"I think," I ventured, "that you would like the story of Waverley if I
were to tell it now. I know you will like Rob Roy. Which shall it be
first?"
Then there were counter-cries of "Waverley" and "Rob Roy"--all the
fury of a contested