In Cuthbert's simple code, certain
things were "done," certain others not. Among the nots was to fail
in standing by a friend. And just now Cuthbert was standing by
Dugald Shaw. Therefore nods and becks and wreathed smiles were
vain. In Cuthbert's quiet, easy-mannered, thick-headed way he
could turn his back calmly on the face of love and follow the harsh
call of duty even to death. It would not occur to him not to. And
he never would suspect himself of being a hero--that would be quite
the nicest part of it.
And yet I knew poor Cuthbert was an exploded superstition, an
anachronism, part of a vanishing order of things, and that the
ideal which was replacing him was a boiler-plated monster with
clock-work heart and brain, named Efficiency. And that Cuthbert
must go, along with his Jacobean manor and his family ghost, and
the oaks in the park, and everything else that couldn't prove its
right to live except by being fine and lovely and full of garnered
sweetness of the past--
At this point in my meditations the door of the cabin opened and
Miss Browne came out, looking sternly resolute. Aunt Jane
followed, very pink about the eyes and nose. She threw an anxious
fluttering glance at Mr. Tubbs, who sat up briskly, and in a
nervous manner polished with a large bandana that barren zone, his
cranium, which looked torrid enough to scorch the very feet of the
flies that walked on it.
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