The Imperialist | Page 4

felt. had scurvily manipulated
the situation--her situation, it might have been put, if any Murchison
had been in the temper for jesting. She had taken unjustifiable means to
do a more unjustifiable thing, to secure for herself an improper and
unlawful share of the day's excitements, transferring her work, by the
force of circumstances, to the shoulders of other people since, as Mrs
Murchison remarked, somebody had to do it. Nor had she her mistress
testified the excuse of fearing unreasonable confinement. "I told her she
might go when she had done her dishes after dinner," said Mrs
Murchison, "and then she had only to come back at six and get
tea--what's getting tea? I advised her to finish her ironing yesterday, so
as to be free of it today; and she said she would be very glad to. Now, I
wonder if she DID finish it!" and Mrs Murchison put down her pan of
potatoes with a thump to look in the family clothes basket. "Not she!
Five shirts and ALL the coloured things. I call it downright deceit!"
"I believe I know the reason she'll SAY," said Advena. "She objects to
rag carpet in her bedroom. She told me so."

"Rag carpet--upon my word!" Mrs Murchison dropped her knife to
exclaim. "It's what her betters have to do with! I've known the day
when that very piece of rag carpet-- sixty balls there were in it and
every one I sewed with my own fingers--was the best I had for my
spare room, with a bit of ingrain in the middle. Dear me!" she went on
with a smile that lightened the whole situation, "how proud I was of
that performance! She didn't tell ME she objected to rag carpet!"
"No, Mother," Advena agreed, "she knew better."
They were all there in the kitchen, supporting their mother, and it
seems an opportunity to name them. Advena, the eldest, stood by the
long kitchen table washing the breakfast cups in "soft" soap and hot
water. The soft soap--Mrs Murchison had a barrelful boiled every
spring in the back yard, an old colonial economy she hated to
resign--made a fascinating brown lather with iridescent bubbles.
Advena poured cupfuls of it from on high to see the foam rise, till her
mother told her for mercy's sake to get on with those dishes. She stood
before a long low window, looking out into the garden and the light,
filtering through apple branches on her face showed her strongly
featured and intelligent for fourteen. Advena was named after one
grandmother; when the next girl came Mrs Murchison, to make an end
of the matter, named it Abigail, after the other. She thought both names
outlandish and acted under protest, but hoped that now everybody
would be satisfied. Lorne came after Advena, at the period of a naive
fashion of christening the young sons of Canada in the name of her
Governor-General. It was a simple way of attesting a loyal spirit, but
with Mrs Murchison more particular motives operated. The Marquis of
Lorne was not only the deputy of the throne, he was the son-in-law of a
good woman of whom Mrs Murchison thought more, and often said it,
for being the woman she was than for being twenty times a Queen; and
he had made a metrical translation of the Psalms, several of which were
included in the revised psalter for the use of the Presbyterian Church in
Canada, from which the whole of Knox Church sang to the praise of
God every Sunday. These were circumstances that weighed with Mrs
Murchison, and she called her son after the Royal representative,
feeling that she was doing well for him in a sense beyond the mere

bestowal of a distinguished and a euphonious name, though that, as she
would have willingly acknowledged, was "well enough in its place."
We must take this matter of names seriously; the Murchisons always
did. Indeed, from the arrival of a new baby until the important Sunday
of the christening. nothing was discussed with such eager zest and such
sustained interest as the name he should get--there was a fascinating list
at the back of the dictionary--and to the last minute it was
problematical. In Stella's case, Mrs Murchison actually changed her
mind on the way to church; and Abby, who had sat through the sermon
expecting Dorothy Maud, which she thought lovely, publicly cried with
disappointment. Stella was the youngest, and Mrs Murchison was
thankful to have a girl at last whom she could name without regard to
her own relations or anybody else's. I have skipped about a good deal,
but I have only left out two, the boys who came between Abby and
Stella. In their names the contemporary observer need not be too acute
to