The Imperialist

The Imperialist

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Duncan #4 in our series by Sara Jeannette Duncan
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Title: The Imperialist
Author: Sara Jeannette Duncan a.k.a. Mrs. Everard Cotes
Release Date: March, 2004 [EBook #5301] [Yes, we are more than one
year ahead of schedule] [This file was first posted on June 25, 2002]
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE
IMPERIALIST ***

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Sara Jeannette Duncan, 1861-1922 (aka Mrs. Everard Cotes)
The Imperialist
1904

Chapter I
It would have been idle to inquire into the antecedents, or even the
circumstances, of old Mother Beggarlegs. She would never tell; the
children, at all events, were convinced of that; and it was only the
children, perhaps, who had the time and the inclination to speculate.
Her occupation was clear; she presided like a venerable stooping hawk,
over a stall in the covered part of the Elgin market-place, where she
sold gingerbread horses and large round gingerbread cookies, and
brown sticky squares of what was known in all circles in Elgin as taffy.
She came, it was understood, with the dawn; with the night she
vanished, spending the interval on a not improbable broomstick. Her
gingerbread was better than anybody's; but there was no comfort in
standing, first on one foot and then on the other, while you made up
your mind--the horses were spirited and you could eat them a leg at a
time, but there was more in the cookies--she bent such a look on you,
so fierce and intolerant of vacillation. She belonged to the group of odd
characters, rarer now than they used to be, etched upon the vague
consciousness of small towns as in a way mysterious and uncanny;
some said that Mother Beggarlegs was connected with the aristocracy
and some that she had been "let off" being hanged. The alternative was
allowed full swing, but in any case it was clear that such persons
contributed little to the common good and, being reticent, were not

entertaining. So you bought your gingerbread, concealing, as it were,
your weapons, paying your copper coins with a neutral nervous eye,
and made off to a safe distance, whence you turned to shout insultingly,
if you were an untrounced young male of Elgin, "Old Mother
Beggarlegs! Old Mother Beggarlegs!" And why "Beggarlegs" nobody
in the world could tell you. It might have been a dateless waggery, or it
might have been a corruption of some more dignified surname, but it
was all she ever got. Serious, meticulous persons called her "Mrs"
Beggarlegs, slightly lowering their voices and slurring it, however, it
must be admitted. The name invested her with a graceless, anatomical
interest, it penetrated her wizened black and derisively exposed her; her
name went far indeed to make her dramatic. Lorne Murchison, when he
was quite a little boy was affected by this and by the unfairness of the
way it singled her out. Moved partly by the oppression of the feeling
and partly by a desire for information he asked her sociably one day, in
the act of purchase, why the gilt was generally off her gingerbread. He
had been looking long, as a matter of fact, for gingerbread with the gilt
on it, being accustomed to the phrase on the lips of his father in
connection with small profits. Mother Beggarlegs, so unaccustomed to
politeness that she could not instantly recognize it, answered him with
an imprecation at which he, no doubt, retreated, suddenly thrown on the
defensive hurling the usual taunt. One prefers to hope he didn't, with
the invincible optimism one has for the behaviour of lovable people;
but whether or not his kind attempt at colloquy is the first indication I
can find of that active sympathy with the disabilities of his
fellow-beings which stamped him later so intelligent a meliorist. Even