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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7b82bc --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,4 @@ +*.txt text eol=lf +*.htm text eol=lf +*.html text eol=lf +*.md text eol=lf diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..e37930d --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #65162 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/65162) diff --git a/old/65162-0.txt b/old/65162-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 29acba1..0000000 --- a/old/65162-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,9114 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Vagaries of Tod and Peter, by L. Allen -Harker - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you -will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before -using this eBook. - -Title: The Vagaries of Tod and Peter - -Author: L. Allen Harker - -Release Date: April 25, 2021 [eBook #65162] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -Produced by: Tim Lindell, David E. Brown, and the Online Distributed - Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was - produced from images generously made available by The Internet - Archive/American Libraries.) - -*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE VAGARIES OF TOD AND PETER *** - - - - -BY L. ALLEN HARKER - - - THE VAGARIES OF TOD AND PETER - THE REALLY ROMANTIC AGE - THE BRIDGE ACROSS - MONTAGU WYCHERLY - ALLEGRA - CHILDREN OF THE DEAR COTSWOLDS - JAN AND HER JOB - THE FFOLLIOTS OF REDMARLEY - MISS ESPERANCE AND MR. WYCHERLY - MR. WYCHERLY’S WARDS - MASTER AND MAID - CONCERNING PAUL AND FIAMMETTA - A ROMANCE OF THE NURSERY - - -CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS - - - - - THE VAGARIES - OF TOD AND PETER - - - - - THE VAGARIES - OF TOD AND PETER - - - BY - L. ALLEN HARKER - - - NEW YORK - CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS - 1923 - - - - - COPYRIGHT, 1923, BY - CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS - - Printed in the United States of America - - Published September, 1923 - - [Illustration] - - - - - TO - MARGARET GWENELIN WATSON - - WITH LOVE AND HIGH HOPES FOR - HER FUTURE - - - - -FOREWORD - - -A small boy coming down to the drawing-room at half-past five for the -sacred hour of play, found a visitor absorbing his mother’s attention. -For five minutes or so he politely refrained from interrupting their -conversation, and he wandered about the room, a little disconsolate -perhaps, but in that state of being described by nurses as “not a bit -of trouble.” When, however, the five minutes lengthened into ten, he -felt that direct action of some sort was imperative. So he advanced -upon the lingering guest, laid small, imperative hands upon her knee; -and lifting an anxious face to hers, enquired in honeyed tones: “Is you -going to stay very much longer?” - -That was in the forgotten, by some regretted, by many derided, nineties. - -The other day I was having tea with a charming friend, wise mother of -many sons, when the youngest, aged two, came for the sacred hour. It -was pleasant in that drawing-room and I made no haste to go. Whereupon -he came to me and, with a gracious, even a gallant, gesture, held out -his hand to me with the utmost friendliness, conversing the while -perpetually and emphatically in a manner difficult for the uninitiated -to follow. Pleased and flattered, I took the kind little hand, which -pulled me to my feet. He then firmly led me to the door and out to the -top of the staircase, and was preparing to escort me downstairs and to -the front door, when his mother ran after us and fetched us back. - -Whatever else is changing in the present; bewildering world, there is -one section of the community that is essentially Conservative, not to -say “Die Hard.” - -Outside my window there is a long, straggling street of old cottages -which have altered very little since the fourteenth century, and in -those little old houses dwell many children who play in the street, -games that were doubtless popular “in Thebes’s streets three thousand -years ago.” - -The adult attitude towards children has changed even during the last -fifty years, and largely for the better. Yet the child’s attitude -towards his playmate, and even towards the omniscient grown-up, is -fundamentally what it has been throughout the ages. - -The early nineteenth century is often quoted by deprecators of the -twentieth as a time when the attitude of youth towards age was -particularly praiseworthy in its modesty and reverence. Such people, -who are perhaps a little prone to forget their own youthful viewpoint, -tell us that in those golden days children accepted without question -the opinions of those who were set in authority over them, and were -almost invariably obedient, contented and unenterprising. Yet, -researches in the literature published especially for children by -that “friend of youth,” John Newbery, at “the corner of St. Paul’s -Churchyard,” in his little “gilt books”--most of them published -between 1745 and 1802--prove that badly-behaved children were by no -means uncommon, and that over-indulgent parents were not unknown. In -the “Histories of More Children than One; or, Goodness Better than -Beauty,” Master John and Miss Mary Strictum, who, as their names imply, -are models of deportment, are unfavorably contrasted with Master Thomas -and Miss Kitty Bloomer. - -Thomas insists upon his papa’s horse being brought into the parlour for -him to ride round the room. His mamma tried “to persuade him not to -want it, but he would have his own way.” - -“Thomas was much pleased to have it, but Kitty was afraid of it and did -not like that it should stay. She therefore began to scream and beg it -might go out. ‘Pray take it out!’ said she. ‘It shall go out; it shan’t -stay.’ - -“‘It shan’t go out. It shall stay!’ said her brother. - -“They made such a noise that they frightened the horse, and he began to -kick and prance,” and all manner of disasters followed. Not even the -most weak-minded modern parent could go further than this in the way of -indulgence. - -Even in so didactic a work as “The First Principles of Religion and -the _Existence of a Deity Explained in a Series of Dialogues Adapted -to the Capacity of the Infant Mind_,” you will find a child as human -and engaging as any infant born since the Armistice. In this work -the particular infant selected for enlightenment is one Maria, made -after no formal pattern. Throughout the long and deadly dialogues her -nimble mind outpaces mamma’s ponderous aphorisms. As, when that lady -discourses on the awful consequences of taking God’s name in vain, -Maria demands demurely: “But would it not be politer and prettier to -say either Mr. or Mrs., and not plain God?” - -Again, when her mother, as an example of the evils of slyness, relates -how “the two Misses Quick had pincushions of the same make, but Miss -Betty’s was larger than Miss Sally’s,” and Miss Sally by a subterfuge -manages to exchange her own for her sister’s, Maria says thoughtfully: -“Do you think then, Mamma, that it signifies to God which of the Miss -Quicks had the larger pincushion?” - -Could the most recent Realist ask a more searching question? - -At Christmas time the papers seemed full of descriptions of _blasé_ -children who insisted on going to expensive shops to choose their own -presents, who scoffed at fairies or Santa Claus, and scouted the idea -of any sort of childlike party. I do not move in plutocratic circles, -so I cannot vouch for either the truth or falsehood of these dismal -revelations. But I do know that the vast majority of gently-bred -children born before and during the years that followed 1914 are -easily pleased, and are grateful for very small mercies in the way -of amusement, because nothing else is possible to the greater part -of the upper middle class for financial reasons. And no one who, in -recent years, has been to “Peter Pan” and looked round the crowded -theatre gloriously garlanded with chubby, rosy faces, and heard the -full-throated affirmative that greets the question “Do you believe in -fairies?” can doubt that children are still pretty sound on subjects of -that sort. - -This being so, is it incredibly bold or superlatively simple, on my -part, to have ventured to collect into a little sheaf some fugitive -sketches of the kind of children I have known during the last -twenty-five years? - -Perhaps it is, and that being so, I can only quote the lines in which -Mr. Kipling has once and for all time summed up the humble plea of the -free-lance: - - When ’Omer smote ’is bloomin’ lyre, - He’d ’eard men sing by land an’ sea; - An’ what he thought ’e might require, - ’E went an’ took--the same as me! - - CIRENCESTER - 1923 - - - - -CONTENTS - - - PAGE - - FOREWORD vii - - - PART I--BOYS - - THE VAGARIES OF TOD AND PETER 1 - - “TONY” 56 - - A SQUARE PEG 64 - - A TWENTIETH-CENTURY MISOGYNIST 79 - - - PART II--CHILDREN OF LAST CENTURY - - A SMALL EVENT 105 - - IN DURANCE VILE 126 - - THE SURRENDER OF LADY GRIZELL 134 - - A CLEAN PACK 144 - - AN IRON SEAT 152 - - LÉON 160 - - THE OLD RELIGION 168 - - COMRADES 177 - - LITTLE SHOES 184 - - “PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN” 189 - - A THROW BACK 197 - - THE INTERVENTION OF THE DUKE 207 - - - PART III--CHILDREN OF THIS - - JEAN, A PORTRAIT 253 - - THE DOLL’S-HOUSE FLAGS (1917) 264 - - CONCERNING CHRIS AND EASTER (1916) 280 - - - - -PART I - -BOYS - - - - -THE VAGARIES OF TOD AND PETER - - -I - -THE MURDER - -By the people who live in the same terrace they are known as “those -dreadful twins.” By the more plain-spoken of the masters at the -preparatory school which they attend they are distinguished by an -adjective whose meaning is the reverse of “heavenly”; and their -schoolfellows are filled with respectful admiration for the boys, the -most resourcefully and superfluously naughty of their acquaintance, -whose genius for making the most patient of masters lose his temper is -unsurpassed. - -The only person who takes them and their ways with calm philosophy is -their mother. She, with that sense of proportion and balanced wisdom so -frequently vouchsafed to mothers of large families, laughs and loves -them, and believes in their ultimate regeneration. There is some ground -for the faith that is in her; for when a woman has seen six sons fare -forth into the world to cut no such indifferent figure in it, she is -not apt to despair of the two youngest, roister they never so. - -Moreover, she declares that most of their evil doings are “really Mr. -Stevenson’s fault,” and there is truth in the charge, for from the -moment that some thoughtless person, probably a godfather (I have known -godfathers, living at a distance, who would present trumpets, nay, -even concertinas! to the sons of men whom they have called by the name -of friend), gave Peter a copy of “The Merry Men” and Tod “Treasure -Island,” they have tried to fit their surroundings to the characters -they are forever enacting; with the result that the plain workaday -world, that knows not the “Master Mage” of Samoa, is always puzzled and -generally wroth. - -That genial “spirit of boyhood” had never so much as to beckon to them; -he had but to hold out his friendly hands, and Tod and Peter, each -clasping one in both their own, were his, body and soul, forevermore. - -They are alike as the two Dromios, these twins; and the mistakes and -complications arising from this likeness are a never-failing source -of satisfaction to them. For instance, Peter will cheerfully undergo -a caning intended for Tod that he may afterwards meekly demand of -his chastener what he has done to deserve this discipline, gleefully -watching the while the weary wonder on the master’s face grow to a -disgusted certainty that he has, as usual, “punished the wrong one.” - -The fact that they are rather noticeably comely boys--they came of a -family where on both sides of the house good looks are the invariable -rule--only serves to increase the confusion. Both are tall and -straight, fair-haired, blue-eyed, ruddy, and of a uniformly cheerful -countenance. But kind Nature has bestowed on Tod an accomplishment she -has denied to Peter, to his lasting grief. - -At certain seasons of the year Tod “moults” and can pull out quantities -of his thick fair hair without the slightest inconvenience to himself. -He generally chooses to perform this feat during the silent hours of -“prep.” They have done their evening work at school ever since the -night they were discovered grilling “Home Influence” and “A Mother’s -Recompense” over the study fire, when they ought to have been wrestling -with “Excerpta Facilia.” When the master in charge has walked down -to the end of the long schoolroom where Tod “keeps,” and has turned -to go back again, Tod is suddenly seized by a perfect paroxysm of -despair, clutches at his hair with frantic though absolute noiseless -gesticulations, and casts whole handfuls of fluffy curls on the floor -about him. - -Naturally his companions, including Peter, get lines for disturbing the -placidity of “prep” with their unseemly giggles. And George, when he -sweeps up the schoolroom next morning, may be heard to mutter: - -“Wherever all this ’air do come from passes me!” - -Tod’s real name is Percy--he is called after a wealthy and aristocratic -relative--but he refuses point-blank to answer to it, for he fancies -that it savours of those “eeny peeny” children in “Home Influence,” a -work that earned their undying hatred when it was read aloud to them -by a well-intentioned but mistaken aunt while they were recovering from -measles. - -On the occasion of its holocaust, before referred to, their mother, -passing the study, and struck by the unwonted stillness reigning -therein, opened the door softly and looked in. Both boys were stooping -over the fireplace and prodding a solid yet feathery mass that glowed -and gloomed in the heart of the embers. - -“There goes Herbert, ‘the almost-angel boy,’ and ‘haughty Caroline,’ -and ‘playful Emmiline,’” whispered Tod, poking viciously. While Peter, -quoting from “Thrawn Janet,” added in an awful voice: - -“_Witch, beldame, devil! I charge you, by the power of God, begone--if -you be dead, to the grave--if you be damned, to hell._” - -I regret to say that their mother’s sense of humor is stronger than her -dislike of strong language, and that she stole away to laugh, leaving -the conspirators unrebuked for the moment. But they did their “prep.” -at school henceforth. - -Peter’s manner is singularly misleading in its frank sincerity, and he -will on occasion answer a sudden question in a way which is, to say the -least of it, bewildering to his interlocutor. - -For instance, one day in the football-field a new master asked him the -name of a small boy some distance off who was “slacking” abominably. - -“Who’s that chap with the red hair by the goal posts?” he said to -Peter, who had been somewhat officiously putting him right on several -points. - -“Dumpkins, sir,” that youth replied, demurely, and strolled off to a -distant part of the playground. - -“Dumpkins!” bawled the master. “Dumpkins, why aren’t you playing up?” - -But Dumpkins heeded not the voice of authority and continued to loll -and gaze heavenward in easy inactivity. - -“Dumpkins! Dump-kins!” again he bellowed. - -But Dumpkins only took an apple out of his pocket and began to eat it. - -He is a hasty-tempered young man that master, and he strode toward the -hapless Dumpkins and shook him angrily, exclaiming: - -“Why don’t you answer when I call, you cheeky little beggar?” - -“Please, sir, you never called me, sir,” expostulated the boy, -wriggling in the master’s grip. - -“Why, I’ve been shouting ‘Dumpkins’ all over the field for the last -five minutes!” - -“But, please sir, my name is Jones!” - - * * * * * - -“Why did you tell me Jones’s name was Dumpkins, you, Peter?” the master -indignantly demanded of Tod some minutes later. - -“I couldn’t have done that, sir,” said Tod, gravely, “for there’s -nobody called Dumpkins in the school.” - -It was this young master who rechristened the twins when Peter next day -insisted that “a point has position but no gratitude.” - -Strangely enough “The Merry Men” finds even greater favor with them -than “Treasure Island,” and with the enigmatical decision of childhood -their favorite of all the stories is “Markheim,” not “Will o’ the -Mill,” beloved of critics. It is doubtful if they understand much of -it, but nevertheless they read it over and over again to each other -aloud, or silently with their curly heads pressed together, till they -knew it by heart. To be sure, “Thrawn Janet” has a dreadful fascination -for them, and they acted one of the principal scenes with somewhat -direful results. - -Peter made Tod “tie him by the neck” to the bed with red worsted, while -Tod, in his character of the minister, had to creep in, candle in -hand, to discover the dread spectacle; and Peter’s representation of -the fearsome Janet was so truthful and blood-curdling that Tod dropped -the candle and fled downstairs howling at the top of his voice, and -such was his haste that he fell and sprained his wrist. Meanwhile, the -candle had set fire to the valance of the bed, and altogether there was -a fine hullabaloo; there was also an end put to their dramatic efforts -for a week or two. - -Nothing daunted, however, about a month later, on a Sunday evening when -the servants were all at church, and their mother writing for dear -life the long weekly letters that have to be written when a woman has -husband and four sons scattered about the globe, Tod and Peter sought -the seclusion of the kitchen and determined to “act” “Markheim.” - -All went well and quietly for a long time; the firelit kitchen with -loud ticking clock answered admirably as the scene of the murder, the -dialogue between Markheim and the mysterious stranger went without -a hitch, and Tod sallied forth into a “wonderful clear night of -stars,” while Peter shut the back door softly after him. Peter, in his -character of Markheim, was bent upon making the speech with which the -story concludes, where the maidservant rings the door-bell and Markheim -opens to her with the words: “You had better go for the police; I have -killed your master!” - -Poor Tod had to be the maidservant--he always had to follow where Peter -led. He shivered as he ran up the area steps; it was a cold night, he -had not troubled to provide himself with a coat, and his heart was -heavy, for, to tell the truth, he has far more imagination than Peter, -and sometimes their plays are to him one long agony of apprehension. - -He positively dreaded ringing that area bell, and the sinister -announcement that would follow on the act. No longer was he Tod, but -a trembling servant lass who was forced by fate to ring a bell which -sounded a tocsin of dreadful import. - -He ran down to the end of the terrace and stood under a lamp that he -might brace himself for the final effort. - -Meanwhile, Peter, swollen with importance at the thought of the mighty -sensation he would make in a minute or two, stood squeezed against the -hinge of the door waiting for the fateful ring. - -Then came a patter of light feet down the area steps and someone gave -the bell a modest pull. Peter drew open the door with great suddenness -upon himself, exclaiming in a deep and tragic voice, the result of long -practice in solitary attics: - -“_You had better go for the police; I have killed your master!_” - -The visitor gave a piercing shriek and rushed up the steps again, -calling breathlessly upon Heaven and the police. Peter, behind the -door, wagged his head, exclaiming admiratively: - -“How well that kid does act; I could almost declare I heard skirts -rustling.” - -Peter waited awhile for his brother to return and be congratulated, but -Tod didn’t appear, so he concluded that he had gone round to the front -door and come in that way; besides, the servants were just due from -church, and cook would be cross if she found him in her domain. He ran -upstairs and waited for his twin in the drawing-room. His mother looked -up from her letters and smiled at the little figure tip-toeing on the -hearth-rug to admire himself in the glass. Then scratch, scratch went -her pen again. - -Now, Ada, the housemaid, has a dear friend in service at the other -end of the terrace, and she attends a church where the sermons are -shorter than those at the one frequented by Peter’s household. On this -particular Sunday she got out of church quite early and thought she -would see whether Ada happened to be in. Thus, while Tod with lagging -feet crept slowly down the terrace from one end, she was already -fleeing affrightedly to the other in search of the nearest policeman. - -She found him at the pillar-box, and fell into his stalwart arms, -crying hysterically: - -“Oh, come quick! There’s bin murder done at Number 9. Someone’s bin an’ -killed the marster!” - -P.C. Lee turned the light of his bull’s-eye upon Ada’s friend and found -her fair to look upon. All the same, although he still supported her -trembling frame, he shook his head slowly, saying: - -“’E ain’t there for to be murdered; the Colonel’s bin in Hinjia this -las’ ten weeks; the missis tol’ me so ’erself, when she ast me to keep -a special heye to them premises.” - -All the same, in spite of his incredulity, P.C. Lee was already on his -way to Number 9, half leading, half carrying Ada’s friend with him. - -“But I tell you,” persisted the girl, “when I ring that there bell, the -door opened sudden-like as if someone was be’ind it, and a hawful voice -says to me, ‘You’d better go for the perlice,’ it says, ‘I’ve killed -your master,’ and I was that taken to, I did go for you, Mr. Lee, as -fast as I could lay foot to the ground. It may be as one of the young -gentlemen’s bin murdered, ’is pa bein’, so to speak, abroad. It give me -such a turn----” - -And Ada’s friend was forced to stop in the middle of the road, overcome -by the horrid recollection. - -“But didn’t you see no one?” asked P.C. Lee, in a judicial voice. - -“No, trust me, I didn’t wait to _see_ nothing; I’d ’eard enough without -that. I’ll wait out ’ere,” she continued as they reached the scene -of the tragedy, “on the top of the steps. I couldn’t abear to see no -dead bodies;” and Ada’s friend disengaged herself from the policeman’s -protecting clasp and clung to the area railings for support, -exclaiming afresh: “I’d never get over it--never!” - -“But you must come in and give evidence wot you did ’ear,” expostulated -P.C. Lee. “I don’t believe myself as anything criminal ’as occurred; -but I’ll just ring and ast.” - -“I’d take my dyin’ oath them was the very words that murderer says -to me,” cried Ada’s friend, jibbing on the top step as the minion of -the law put forth a large hand to assist her down. “‘I’ve killed your -master,’ says ’e, despairin’ like, as if it was no use to try an’ ’ide -it.” - -P.C. Lee proceeded to perform a solo on the bell very different to -the two timid tintinnabulations that had preceded it during the last -ten minutes; for while Ada’s friend sought the protection of the -strong arm of the law, poor little Tod had screwed his courage to -the sticking-point, gone back and rung the area bell, when, to his -unspeakable relief, he was admitted by cook, just returned from church -in so benign a humor that she forebore to scold him for being out at -such untoward hours “without so much as a ’at,” and bestowed a piece of -bread and dripping upon him “to stop ’is teeth a-chatterin’.” - -Whereupon, comforted and refreshed, he departed to find Peter. - -Meanwhile P.C. Lee insisted that he must see the missis, for Ada’s -friend was unshaken in her evidence, question they never so, and the -four maids at Number 9 declared that they could not sleep comfortably -in their beds unless the search-light of his bull’s-eye was thrown on -every dusky corner of the house by P.C. Lee himself before he took his -departure. - -Ada’s friend was seated weeping in the front hall surrounded by the -others, when the mistress, fetched by Ada herself, and accompanied by -Tod and Peter, descended to hold parley with P.C. Lee. - -“I can’t understand it, ma’am,” concluded the policeman, after a -long explanation, continually interrupted by Ada’s friend with such -interpolations as: “Oh, a hawful voice, that mournful”--“Them was the -very words,” etc. - -During this recital Tod and Peter crept further and further into the -background, nudging each other in the ecstasy occasioned by such an -unexpected tribute to their histrionic powers. - -But their mother knows her Stevenson--and the twins--so before the -narrative was nearly finished she turned swiftly upon them, demanding -sternly: - -“Which of you was it?” - - * * * * * - -“Young varmints!” said P.C. Lee to Ada’s friend, as he escorted her -home; “I might ’a’ knowed it was them. ’Tain’t the fust time I’ve come -across ’em, neither....” - - -II - -THE SENDING - -When the time came for those twins, Tod and Peter, to go to public -school, their mother seriously considered the advisability of putting -them into different “houses.” At first she thought that, perhaps, -it might make for righteousness to separate them. But on hearing the -subject mooted, they so whole-heartedly fell in with her opinion, -rapturously reviewing the possibility of “changing houses” whenever -they felt so inclined, that she instantly dismissed the idea; rightly -coming to the conclusion that if their extraordinary resemblance was a -cause of general muddle and mystification while they were together, it -would become confusion worse confounded were they separated. Moreover, -she reflected that even schoolmasters are men of like passions with -ourselves, and rightly refrained from adding to such a one’s already -heavy burden by a separate superintendence of the twins. - -Tod and Peter, whose mental attitude was always that “all is for -the best in the best possible of worlds,” decided that after all -propinquity has its advantages, and rejoiced that family tradition -sent them into a house whose head was proverbially the “slackest old -slackster in the whole school.” A dreamy, mild-mannered, gentlemanly -man that master, who left the management of the “house” entirely -to an extremely energetic wife and a “young brusher” (“brusher” is -the familiar term for master in that school), whose prowess in the -playing-fields was only equalled by his extreme fussiness where rules -of his own making were concerned. - -“Not a bad chap,” the twins decided after their first week; “but a -bit like the German Emperor, you know--wants things all his own way. -Still, if you humor the youth, he’s all right.” - -So successfully did they humor the “young brusher” in question that -for the first month all went smoothly, and the house-master himself, a -gentle optimist, ever ready to believe the best of boy-humanity, really -thought that the “character” that had preceded them from preparatory -school was perhaps over-emphasized. - -Their late headmaster, while giving them full credit for general -integrity and fair abilities, had, in mercy to his brethren of the -craft, pointed out that they were ever “ready to join in frivolity -and insubordination, when not under my own eye.” They had to work, -for they were on the Modern Side, and destined for the army, and in -that particular school, not the wiliest shirker in creation can escape -the argus eye of the “head of the Modern,” or the retribution, swift, -sharp, and sure, that follows any such line of conduct. - -But, bless you! ordinary work and games, at which both were good, never -found sufficient scope for the energies of Tod and Peter, and by the -time the first month was up they began their tricks. - -One Mr. Neatby, M.A., taught the twins chemistry. Not that they went -to him together. They were in different, though, as far as work went, -parallel forms, and finding that their systematic “changing” was -never so much as suspected, and therefore carried with it no spice of -danger or adventure, they gave it up, devoting their energies to the -tormenting of Mr. Neatby, who had by his severity incurred their august -displeasure. - -Mr. Neatby was tall, severe, and dignified. He really liked his -subject, but felt, as a rule, little affection for his pupils. -Nevertheless, he was conscientious to the last degree in the discharge -of his duties. His way of expressing himself was what Peter called -“essayish”; he gave lines lavishly, and had but little mercy on the -reckless breaker of test-tubes. He did not rant, or stamp, or call -people by opprobrious names, as did many better loved masters. He was -always cold, cutting, and superior. But the thing about him that most -excited Peter’s animosity was his necktie. - -“He wears revolting, jerry-built, Judas-like ties,” the indignant Peter -proclaimed to an admiring audience of lower boys; “ties that slip down -and show a beastly, brassy stud. His socks, too, leave much to be -desired; in fact, his extremities altogether are such as betoken a bad, -hard heart.” - -“Let me see,” said Tod softly, looking up from a book he was reading; -“do you think that a _sending_ might soften the man’s hard heart?” - -At this particular stage of the twins’ career, Mr. Kipling was the God -of their idolatry, and both of them had “gloated,” even in the manner -of the immortal “Stalky” himself, over the vengeance of Ram Das. - -“It might be managed,” Peter answered, thoughtfully scratching his -smooth chin; “but then again, it may be close-time for kittens just at -present; don’t they generally bloom in the spring?” - -“There’s always plenty of kittens, you juggins,” ejaculated a prosaic -friend. “Why, when I was down at the riding school this morning, there -was a cat with six in an empty loose-box; they’ll have to drown five of -’em, they told me. D’your people want one or what?” - -“_I_ want one,” Peter rejoined excitedly; “not one, but five, to give -to a dear friend.” - -“Shouldn’t think he’d be your dear friend long.” - -“Oh, yes, he will. He’s an S.P.C.K., or whatever it is. He’s awfully -profane--humane, I mean.” - -“Well,” said the other boy, still unconvinced; “you can ask about ’em -when you go for your lesson to-morrow morning. They weren’t half bad -little beasts, but I shouldn’t advise you to give your friend more than -one at a time, anyhow.” - -Both Tod and Peter went twice a week to the riding school in the town, -as they were both destined for cavalry. Every underling about the -place knew them well, and liked them. Their father had lived in the -town during his last leave, jobbed his horses at the riding-master’s -stables, and had himself assisted at the lessons of elder brothers of -Tod and Peter. - -Now there was at the school a certain Figgins, a generally handy man, -or rather boy, who worshipped the ground the twins walked upon; and -after their next lesson they and Figgins might have been seen holding -long and earnest parley in the loose-box containing the cat and kittens. - -The twins laughed uproariously all the way home, and just as they -reached the house, Peter remarked: “I hate anything dead. Figgins -has promised not one of ’em shall be drowned, and when they’re fit to -be moved, he’ll tell old White he’s found good homes for the lot. And -then--and then Tod, my boy! our dear teacher shall have ’em alive, -‘alive, all alive oh! alive, all alive oh!’” and Peter burst into song -in the exuberance of his joy. - -Mr. Neatby lived in lodgings within a convenient distance of the -school. He was therefore spared any intercourse with the boys after -school hours, and usually spent his evenings in correcting innumerable -marble-boarded exercise books, containing chemistry notes. He was so -engaged one evening about nine o’clock, when his landlady entered the -room and laid a square parcel at his elbow. - -He finished correcting the book he had in hand, and took another, when -his attention was arrested by an indescribable sound. - -Mr. Neatby lifted his head and gazed about the room. “Could it be a -mouse under the skirting-board?” he wondered. Then half unconsciously -his eyes fell on the parcel his landlady had brought into the room. It -was an oblong cardboard box, about the size of an ordinary shoe-box. -But, although tied up with string, it was not wrapped in paper, and -on looking at it more closely, Mr. Neatby discovered that the top was -riddled with small holes. - -Had it been summer, he, being something of a naturalist, would have at -once concluded that someone had sent him some rare caterpillars, but -what caterpillars are to be found in November? - -He drew the parcel toward him, and there arose that curious sound -again, louder and more insistent. He hastily cut the string and removed -the lid of the box, and inside, reposing on a nest of hay, lay a very -young and mewey kitten. A kitten who most evidently was homesick and -aggrieved at being reft from the maternal bosom. A sprawly, squirmy, -noisy kitten, that immediately proceeded to climb out of the box and -crawl uncertainly to Mr. Neatby’s blotting-pad, where it collapsed into -a dismal little heap, mewing louder than ever. - -“There must be some mistake,” muttered Mr. Neatby, flushed and -perturbed. “No one would send _me_ a kitten; that stupid woman must -have made some muddle or other,” and he arose hastily and rang the bell. - -He so rarely rang his bell after his modest supper had been cleared -away that Mrs. Vyner, his landlady, had given up expecting him to do -so, and had on this occasion “just stepped out,” as she would have put -it, to see a neighbor. - -Mr. Neatby rang, and rang in vain, finally so far departing from his -decorously distant demeanor as to go to the top of the kitchen stairs -and shout. But the faint mewing of the kitten was the only answer to -his outcries, and baffled and annoyed he returned to his sitting-room -to find that the kitten had upset the red ink over Tod’s chemistry -notes, which, in company with many others, lay open on the table, and -was feebly attempting to lap it up. - -“Poor little thing; it’s hungry,” he thought to himself. And being, -indeed, as Peter said, a very humane man, he lifted it from the table, -and went to his sideboard to see if he could find any milk. He did find -some in the cupboard underneath where it had no business to be, and -pouring some into a saucer, laid it on the floor beside the kitten, who -proceeded to refresh itself with commendable promptitude. - -Then, as his landlady still made no appearance, Mr. Neatby bethought -him of looking at the parcel to see whether the kitten had been left at -the wrong house. But no; attached to the string was a label, clearly -addressed in a flowing, clerkly hand, “S. S. Neatby, Esq., M.A.,” -followed by his address, accurate as to number, street, and even town. - -Once more he sat down in his chair, and leant his head on his hand to -think, when he perceived, tucked into the hay at one side of the box, -a card, and drew it forth hastily; a plain glazed visiting card on -which was inscribed the words, “From a grateful friend,” in the same -excellent handwriting as the label. - -Mr. Neatby blushed, and looked guiltily at the happily supping kitten. -In addition to being humane, Mr. Neatby was also charitable, and there -were many poor who had reason to be grateful to him. But as he always -gave alms through a third person, and was one of those modest people -who take care that their left hand knows not what the right hand doeth, -he felt quite upset. - -Presently he heard his landlady and her niece come in, and rang again. - -“Who brought this box, Mrs. Vyner?” he asked, holding it up toward her. - -“I can’t say, sir, I’m sure. It was dark when I answered the door, -and a young man--leastways, I think ’e was young--simply give it into -my ’ands and ran down the steps again. I ’eld it under the gas in the -’all, sir, and read the label, as it was for you right enough, so I -brings it in and lays it down without never interruptin’ you, sir, like -you said.” - -“_There was a kitten in that box_,” Mr. Neatby said solemnly, in such a -tone as might have announced some national calamity. - -“Sakes alive! you don’t say so, sir,” cried Mrs. Vyner in great -excitement; “shall you keep it, sir?” - -“I don’t know yet,” Mr. Neatby said gravely; “it must stay here for -to-night anyway.” - -“It’s a pretty little thing, sir,” said the landlady, stooping down to -look at it where it lay basking in the heat of the fire. “’Twould be -company for you, wouldn’t it, sir?” - -“Hadn’t it better go with you to the kitchen for to-night, Mrs. Vyner?” -Mr. Neatby asked persuasively, and Mrs. Vyner, with many protestations -of wonder, gathered up the kitten into her apron and departed to the -lower regions, where she informed the niece who lived with her that -their lodger “’adn’t spoken so many words to ’er never before, no, not -in a month of Sundays.” - -Mr. Neatby threw the box into his capacious waste-paper basket, but he -put the card and label carefully away in one of the pigeon-holes of -his desk. - -Next day, on his return from morning school, he found a white cardboard -hat-box, big enough to contain the most umbrageous matinée hat ever -worn, set right in the middle of his table, and he felt distinctly -annoyed. His landlady followed him into the sitting-room to lay lunch, -and he, pointing to the offending box, said coldly: “I must ask you not -to leave your parcels in my room, Mrs. Vyner.” - -Mrs. Vyner bridled, and seizing the box, held it out toward him, -remarking aggrievedly: “If so be as you refers to this ’ere, sir, I -must ast you to look ’oo it’s addressed to. It’s put plain enough for -you, sir.” - -“But I assure you,” Mr. Neatby cried, recoiling from the proffered -hat-box, “that I haven’t ordered a hat of any kind.” - -“Any’ow,” said Mrs. Vyner scornfully, “I don’t suppose, sir, as you’d -order your ’ats from Madame Looeese, if you ’ad. I thought per’aps -you’d bought a present for your young lady.” - -“Mrs. Vyner,” replied Mr. Neatby, in a voice glacial as liquid air -itself, “you forget yourself.” - -Mrs. Vyner set down the box with an angry thump, and proceeded to lay -the cloth in injured silence. - -When she had gone, Mr. Neatby approached the mysterious package -delicately, much as though it had been an infernal machine of some -sort, and regarded it searchingly on all sides. It most certainly -emanated from the millinery establishment of “Madame Louise,” but was -none the less certainly addressed in sprawly, feminine handwriting to -“S. S. Neatby, Esq., M.A.” - -Just then Mrs. Vyner opened the door, saying waspishly, “’Ere’s your -kitting, sir; it keeps getting under my feet while I’m dishin’ up.” - -It seemed to have gained considerable vigor during the night, for it -rushed across the room and up the curtain. - -But Mr. Neatby had screwed his courage to the sticking-place, and -even the tempestuous entry of the kitten could not turn him from -his purpose. Penknife in hand, he cut the string of the bonnet-box, -and lifted the lid timidly, prepared no doubt for some tissue-paper -protected “confection” within. When, lo! even as that of the shoe-box -on the previous night was this interior; hay, dry and fragrant of -stable, met his astonished gaze, while seated in its midst was a tabby -kitten, who gathered herself together for a spring the instant the lid -was lifted, and sprang with such good-will as to turn the box over on -its side, when she immediately dashed under the table. - -Mr. Neatby gazed, as if hypnotized, at the tumbled box, till the -rattling of dishes outside warned him of the near approach of his -landlady with lunch, and roused him from his trance. - -He stooped hastily, thrust the scattered hay into the band-box, clapped -on the lid, and placed it under the knee-hole of his writing-table. - -The door was opened rather suddenly to admit Mrs. Vyner; kitten number -one descended from the curtain, and Mr. Neatby found himself almost -praying that kitten number two would stay under the table while his -landlady was in the room. Mrs. Vyner glanced disdainfully in the -direction of the band-box, noted that the string had been cut, set the -dishes on the table with somewhat unnecessary violence, and departed -without having opened her lips, just as the two kittens frisked out -from beneath the table. - -Mr. Neatby, harrassed and flushed “all over his eminent forehead,” did -not begin his lunch. He went back to the band-box again, studied the -label anew, and finally rummaged in the hay inside. - -His search was rewarded by the discovery of a rather dirty piece of -paper, on which was written “A Present from Framilode,” Framilode being -a village in the neighborhood, celebrated for the manufacture of a -certain kind of mug which always bore that legend. He put it carefully -beside the other card and label in his desk, and returned to his lunch -with but small appetite, and a frown of perplexity upon his brow. The -kittens set up a perfect chorus of mewing; Mr. Neatby braced himself to -explain the new arrival to Mrs. Vyner, and rang for the pudding. - - * * * * * - -“It’s my belief, sir,” said Mrs. Vyner that evening, “that somebody’s a -puttin’ a ’oaf upon you. I sent my niece to that there Madame Looeese’s -with the box lid, an’ she see madame ’erself, and _she_ says as it’s a -hold box, an’ that they certainly never sent you no box, nor wouldn’t -think of such a liberty, and you one of the school gentlemen and all. -But my niece, she said as madame did laugh when she ’eard about the -kitten, and ’er young ladies, too.” - -Mr. Neatby writhed. - -To a man of his reserved and sensitive temperament, the reflection -that his name could by any possibility be bandied about by a milliner -and her assistants was little short of maddening. If he could then and -there have ordered Mrs. Vyner “to take five hundred lines,” it might -have given him some relief. But in all things he was a just man, and -he knew that his landlady had at all events meant kindly in trying to -discover the perpetrator of the outrage; for the fact remained that -somebody had most assuredly “put a ’oax” on him in the shape of the -liveliest of tabby kittens. - -It never occurred to him to suspect any of the boys. For how could -one of them come by either band-box or kittens? To be sure there were -some day boys, but it happened that these were nearly all “on the -Classical,” and Mr. Neatby had but little to do with them. - -Of course he reckoned without the ubiquitous Figgins, who, unlike Mr. -Neatby, _had_ a young lady, who was employed by Madame Louise, and for -whom it was an easy matter both to procure a disused band-box and a new -label. - -“You’re certain he got them all right?” whispered Peter to Figgins -at his next lesson, as that worthy rushed forward officiously to -settle the sack on the horse’s back. “He gave me back my notes simply -smothered in red ink, and I thought I saw a mark like a kitten’s paw, -but I couldn’t be sure.” - -“Law bless you! yes, sir, _’e_ got ’em right enough. I took ’em myself, -and wot’s more, both of ’em’s there still, for I passed by this mornin’ -and ’appened to look down the airey, and there they both was as peart -as print. I s’pose we’d better wait a day or so for the next ’un, -’adn’t us?” - -“Yes, Figgins, wait two days till you see me again,” and Peter dug his -knees into his horse and rode at the first jump. - -“It’s rather decent of him to _keep_ them,” thought Peter to himself, -who was tender-hearted where animals were concerned. “Perhaps, if he -doesn’t clap on any more lines for a bit, I’ll let him off with two.” - -But, alas for good intentions. When Peter got back to the house, he -found Tod bursting with indignation. For at “Practical Chemistry,” that -very morning, Tod, who was supposed to be engaged in the manufacture of -hydrogen, used so many conflicting ingredients as to cause an explosion -and dense smoke, and a smell so appalling that it drove the whole class -into the corridor, and caused several testy masters to send indignant -messages demanding where the infernal smell came from. - -Mr. Neatby, exasperated to the last degree, not only told Tod to take -five hundred lines, but bade him return the very next half-holiday and -spend the afternoon in doing similar experiments under his master’s -supervision. - -Tod confided his grievance to Peter at great length, and concluded his -recital with the injunction, “Let him have all three, the _beast_! I -wish they were young gorillas.” - - * * * * * - -Mr. Neatby was very busy. He was taking extra duty for a master who was -ill, and for three or four days after the arrival of the second kitten -really had not a moment to call his own, so, as Mrs. Vyner seemed to -take quite kindly to the new arrivals--only taking care to charge her -lodger an extra quart of milk daily for their maintenance--he almost -forgot their existence. - -By Saturday evening he had accumulated a mass of mid-term examination -work to correct, and directly after supper set himself down to it, with -four clear hours before him, for he often worked till after midnight. - -His lamp was trimmed, his fire burned brightly, and one kitten, the -first, sat purring on the hearth. That, and the scratching of Mr. -Neatby’s pen as he corrected the generally mistaken views of boys as -to the nature of an element, were the only sounds till there came a -thunderous rap outside, and the door-bell pealed loudly. - -Mr. Neatby frowned, but never looked up from his corrections. He had -not been long at the school, and was not upon intimate terms with any -of the masters, so that it was hardly likely to be a caller for him. -He heard somebody open the front door, then some vehicle drive away. A -moment later there was a knock at his door, and Jemima, Mrs. Vyner’s -niece, came in, bearing a hamper. - -“Please, sir, this ’ave just come by rail; there wasn’t nothing to -pay.” - -“Very well,” Mr. Neatby answered without looking up; “put it down, -please; I can’t attend to it just now.” - -Jemima did as she was told, and once more silence settled upon the room. - -But not for long. Kitten number one got restless; it walked round and -round the hamper, and sniffed and mewed, and mewed and sniffed, with -irritating persistency. Moreover, a curious muffled echo seemed to -accompany its mewing. Mr. Neatby bore it for five minutes, then pushed -back his chair, caught the disturbing kitten by the scruff of its neck, -and bore it to the top of the kitchen stairs, calling to Jemima to take -it down. That young lady obeyed his summons, taking the kitten tenderly -into her arms with many endearments; but all the same she remarked to -her aunt, “Well, I do think as ’e might manage to look after _one_ on -’em ’isself, that I do.” - -Mr. Neatby went back to his papers and corrected with more vigor than -before; but, in spite of his haste, in spite of his absorption, the -muffled mewing continued. - -At last he laid down his pen and listened. “Surely,” he thought, “it -can’t sound like that from downstairs. I must have got the sound on my -nerves; it’s really most annoying.” It _was_ annoying; it grew louder -and louder till it seemed at his very side. - -Mr. Neatby was endowed with great powers, both of self-control and -concentration. Having decided that the sound was in his imagination, -and not actual, he went on with the paper that he was correcting, but -as he placed it on the top of the growing pile he chanced to notice the -hamper which was placed on the hearth-rug close beside him. “Apples, -I suppose, from home,” he thought to himself; “but all the same, I’d -better see.” He lifted it on to his knee. “Too light for apples,” he -thought again. “What can they have sent?” - -The lid was not very tightly fastened, and a slash or two of the -penknife at the string restraining it brought it away. - -Hay, and again hay, in this case forming the cosy nest of _two_ -kittens, one tortoiseshell and one black. Both lively and vociferous -beyond either of their predecessors. Mr. Neatby ejaculated just one -word, and sat perfectly still with the open hamper on his knee. The -kittens climbed out and made hay among his papers, but he took no -notice. “An angry man was he,” and when a man of his temperament is -angry, he usually sits tight. The kittens got tired of the table, and -jumped lightly to the floor, carrying a few dozen papers with them in -their flight, but still Mr. Neatby sat on staring into space. - -When at last he roused himself, he once more sought some solution of -the mystery in the address label, but the yellow railway label on the -back had been torn away, and only “ton” remained. The address itself -was printed very neatly by hand. - -Inside the hamper he found a little pink envelope with nicked edges -such as servants love. He opened it, and printed by the same hand, on -a piece of paper to match, was the following verse: - - The kitten’s a persistent beast, - It comes when you expect it least, - It comes in ones, it comes in twos-- - And when it comes it always mews. - -“Ah!” Mr. Neatby said softly to himself, “some boy is at the bottom of -this.” - -The clock struck twelve, and he remembered with a start that both his -landlady and Jemima would certainly be in bed. - -What was to be done with the kittens? - -He was far too kind-hearted to turn them out of doors on a cold -November night. They were really uncommonly pretty little beasts, and -as he watched their gambles he found himself quoting: - - Alas! regardless of their doom, - The little victims play, - -and then realized that they had no business to be playing at all at -that time of night, and that he certainly wanted to go to bed. - -He really was a much tried man that night. First, he had to catch the -kittens and put them in the hamper, and as fast as he put one in, the -other jumped out. This took some time. Then he carried the hamper up to -bed with him, the kittens making frantic efforts to escape the while. -And when at last he did get to bed, he had to get up again to let them -out of the hamper, for they made such a frightful din no mortal could -sleep. They finally elected to settle down on Mr. Neatby’s bed, and -in the morning one of them ungratefully scratched his nose because he -happened to move when the kitten in question chose to walk over his -face. - -When at last he arose from very broken slumbers, the black kitten upset -the shaving water and scalded its foot, and made a dreadful uproar, and -the tortoiseshell, while investigating the mantelpiece, upset and threw -into the grate a blue vase belonging to Mrs. Vyner. - -In chapel on Sunday morning, Tod and Peter noted gleefully the long -scratch on “old Stinks’” nose (“Stinks” being, I regret to say, the -name by which Mr. Neatby was known among his pupils). And curiosity -as to how he was getting on with his rapidly increasing family of -cats consumed them. In the afternoon they walked up and down the road -outside his lodgings for nearly an hour, but nothing did they discover; -for Mrs. Vyner’s windows were shrouded by white curtains, no one went -in or out of the house, and all their loitering was not rewarded by so -much as hearing a distant mew. - -The fact was that Mr. Neatby had gone for a long walk to try and work -off his irritation. That morning, while he was still at breakfast, Mrs. -Vyner had appeared in his sitting-room, and somewhat stormily informed -him that her “’ouse was not a ’ome for lost cats, nor never ’ad been.” -And she concluded her harangue as follows: - -“I’ve ’ad gentlemen, masters at the school, for twelve year come -Michaelmas, and some ’ave bin trouble enough, the Lard knows. -With their football and ’ockey, and ’ot baths in the middle of the -afternoon, and the mud on their flannings something hawful; but a -gentleman as surrounded ’imself with cats in sech numbers I never ’ave -’ad nor never won’t again, I ’opes and prays. And although it do go -again my conscience to do it of a Sunday, I _must_ ast you, sir, to -take a week’s notice from yesterday. For start a fresh week with sech -goin’s on, and cats a comin’ by every post as it were, I can’t; no, not -if the king ’imself was to ast me on ’is bended knees.” - -In vain poor Mr. Neatby pointed out that, far from “surrounding -himself” with kittens, they were thrust upon him he knew not by whom or -from whence. That he had no intention of keeping any of them if Mrs. -Vyner objected, and that it would really be extremely inconvenient for -him to have to seek new rooms in the middle of the term. - -Mrs. Vyner was implacable. “I’m very upset about it, too, sir,” she -answered, more in sorrow than in anger; “for I did think as ’ow I’d got -a nice quiet gentleman, you not bein’ given to them ’orrid games as is -so dirty, nor wantin’ an over amount of cookin’. But a gentleman as -’eaven appears to rain cats on like it do on you is not for the likes -of me nor shan’t be. And though I’m truly sorry as you should be so -afflicted, I must ast you to leave my ’ouse, sir, next Saturday as ever -is, and that’s my last word.” - -It wasn’t, not by a long way; for although Mr. Neatby reasoned, nay, -even almost implored Mrs. Vyner to reconsider her decision, she would -hardly let him get a word in edgeways, and remained unshaken in her -desire that he should vacate her rooms. “’Ow do I know, sir,” she asked -again and again, “wot hanimals may be sent you next? My ’eart would be -in my mouth every time the door-bell rang.” - -Truly, Tod and Peter had planned a fearful vengeance had they only -known it. But they did not know it, and their unsatisfied curiosity was -their undoing. On Monday morning at the riding school they arranged -with Figgins that he was to leave the fifth kitten at Mr. Neatby’s -rooms that afternoon, just before afternoon school finished. The -despatch of the hamper had been managed by a railway man, a friend of -Figgins, whose cart started from a parcel-receiving office close to the -riding school, and he delivered the hamper on his evening round. - -Directly school came out, the twins decided to rush down to Mr. -Neatby’s rooms before lock-up, to ask some frivolous question about -a paper he had set, and perhaps by great good luck be present at the -unveiling of the end of the sending. All fell out exactly as they had -arranged. Figgins took the parcel. Mrs. Vyner received it, addressed -as before to “S. S. Neatby, Esq., M.A.” (his real name was “Stuart,” -not “Stinks”), carried it grimly into his sitting-room, and laid it on -the table. She removed all her own ornaments from the chimneypiece and -sideboard, and then went downstairs and brought up all four kittens -(poor Mr. Neatby had not yet had time to arrange for their painless -destruction), and shut them up in the room to await their owner’s -return. - -At ten minutes past five he hastened in, trod on one of the kittens as -he entered the room, and struck a match to light his lamp. The kitten -noisily proclaimed its injury, and the other three expressed their -sympathy in similar terms. When he caught sight of the brown-paper -parcel on the table he turned pale. The very feel of it was enough, and -even before he had torn off the cover he was sure of its contents. Yes, -in a common little bird cage was a fat, white kitten, and an uncommonly -tight fit she was. - -He did not attempt to let her out, though her position was plainly one -of extreme discomfort, but stood with the cage in his hands, and the -four mewing kittens about his feet, in so universally distrustful a -frame of mind that he began to think that Mrs. Vyner herself was in the -plot to victimize him. - -The door was opened, and his landlady’s voice announced: “Two young -gentlemen to see you, sir.” - -Fresh colored and handsome, ruddy from their run in the cold evening -air, square-shouldered and upstanding, Tod and Peter allowed their two -pairs of candid blue eyes to travel from their master’s angry face to -his hands, from his hands holding the caged kitten to his feet, where -congregated the rest of the sending, and then exclaimed in a chorus of -genial astonishment: “Why, sir, what a lot of kittens you keep!” - -Now, although he had been at the school three terms, no boy had -ever ventured to call upon Mr. Neatby before. Other masters might -occasionally ask boys to tea or permit an occasional call out of school -hours to arrange about house matches, etc. But he had ever discouraged -any familiarity whatsoever, and that Tod and Peter should dare to -intrude upon him at such a moment seemed to him, as indeed it was, a -piece of unparalleled impertinence. - -“What do you want here?” he asked angrily. “It’s after lock-up.” - -“Mr. Ord gave us leave to come,” Peter said eagerly. “We don’t -understand this question, sir. Could you explain? What a noise those -kittens do make, don’t they?” - -Now if Tod could only have refrained from looking at Peter, Mr. Neatby -might have remained forever in the dark as to the mystery of the -kittens. But, even as Peter spoke, Tod, unaware that the light from -the master’s lamp shone full on his face, winked delightedly at his -brother, and in a flash Mr. Neatby connected their unexpected and -unnecessary visit with those equally unwelcome visitants whose advent -during the past week had entailed so much annoyance upon him. - -Taking no notice of the paper Peter held out toward him, he laid the -little cage on the table, and said very quietly: - -“Now that you are here, you will perhaps kindly explain what you mean -by sending all these animals to me.” - -“Us, sir!” the twins exclaimed breathlessly, and as usual in -chorus--“Us!” - -“Did you or did you not cause these five kittens to be sent to me?” Mr. -Neatby asked again. - -Dead silence. - -As Tod said afterward, “It was one of those beastly yes or no questions -that there’s no getting out of.” - -“Did you or did you not?” Mr. Neatby asked again, a little louder -than before, though even the kittens had ceased mewing and seemed to -be listening. “But I know you did, and I wish to know further what -you mean by a piece of such intolerable impertinence, and such wanton -defiance of school rules.” - -“There’s no rule about sending kittens, sir,” murmured Peter, with the -least suspicion of a giggle in his voice. - -That giggle broke down the last barrier of Mr. Neatby’s self-control. -For full five minutes he permitted himself to thunder at those boys, -finally bidding them take all five kittens away with them there and -then. - -“But we can’t, sir; we _can’t_ take them back to the house,” pleaded -Tod. “Whatever would Mrs. Ord say?” - -“Well, you must take them away from here, anyway, and what’s more, -you must give up the names of your confederates, that I may take -proceedings against them for their unwarrantable interference with my -privacy. Who were they, now? At once!” - -“It’s absolutely impossible for us to do that, sir,” Peter said firmly, -and Tod might have been heard to murmur something about “can’t and -won’t.” - -“Then,” said Mr. Neatby, “you will both come with me to the principal -now at once.” - - * * * * * - -The principal of that school is one of the youngest headmasters in -England, and he would not be the success he is did he not possess -a sense of humor. He partially pacified Mr. Neatby; he vigorously -“tanned” Tod and Peter there and then, and during the remainder of the -evening he laughed to himself more than once. - -For the remainder of the term Tod and Peter found their comings and -goings so perpetually watched and suspected by the “young brusher” -aforesaid, that even the rapturous recollection of the success of their -sending was somewhat dimmed. But it was not they who suffered most; -to this day Mr. Neatby suspects of sinister intention anyone who so -much as mentions kittens in his presence, and new boys always wonder -why their schoolfellows are so anxious that they should mew in the -chemistry lectures. They only do it once. - - -III - -THE BOY THAT DIDN’T COME - -During the first part of the next, the Easter, term the twins were -so closely watched that their genius for mischief had small scope. -Whereupon the authorities, finding them apparently absorbed in games -and the general routine, relaxed their vigilance. - -At the beginning of February the weather was mild and pleasant, with -just enough rain to keep the footer ground in good order. But at the -end of that fickle month there came a frost, the aggravating sort of -frost that makes a field too hard for football and yet leads to no -skating. - -The never long dormant spirit of mischief in the twins awoke. - -As usual, it was Peter who began it, though Tod was the innocent first -cause. - -Just after first lesson, as Tod was hurrying from one classroom to -another, he met the principal in the corridor, who bade him ask his -form-master to come and speak to him at a quarter past ten. Further -down the corridor Tod met his twin, who instantly demanded what the -“Pot” wanted, and on being informed, went upon his way. - -Peter might have been seen to stop more than one schoolfellow as he -went--the corridor was full of boys changing classrooms--and when he -reached his own he delivered a message to the effect that the Head -would like to see his form-master at ten-fifteen. - -Peter’s form-master, familiarly known as “Pig-Face,” from a fancied -resemblance to that animal in the matter of nose, is a testy man, -much given to abusing his form and to the use of opprobrious epithets -seriously reflecting upon the veracity of boys in general; so, on -receipt of the Head’s message, he knuckled Peter’s head, called him a -“shuffling little beast,” set a complicated sum in discount for his -form to wrestle with during his absence, and hurried away, fuming -inwardly at the unreason of such a summons in the middle of morning -school. When he arrived at the principal’s room he found six other -masters also in waiting, but the principal himself was not there. - -It happened that that gentleman had met Tod’s form-master three minutes -after he had seen Tod, he said what he had to say there and then in the -corridor, and dismissed the matter from his mind. - -The seven masters waited in a grumpy group for ten good minutes, when, -just as they had decided upon immediate departure, the principal -himself rushed in and gazed in somewhat indignant astonishment at the -assembled multitude. - -It took nearly five minutes more to explain the situation, and the only -boy whose conduct in delivering the various messages seemed not wholly -inexplicable appeared to be Peter. For the principal good-naturedly -came to the conclusion that it must have been Peter that he met, not -Tod, and that Peter had misunderstood him. - -Such a charitable view of Peter’s conduct, however, could not last -long, seeing that six angry masters rushed back to their respective -forms to inflict lines upon six perfectly innocent boys, who were not -slow to protest that the message was entrusted to them by another. - -During the morning three young gentlemen from the Modern and four from -the Classical received a summons “to the principal at twelve,” and of -course Tod and Peter were of the number, both looking so seraphically -innocent that the principal was perfectly sure that it was “a put-up -thing.” In this instance the innocent suffered with the guilty, for -Tod got five hundred lines as well as Peter. But they both agreed that -to have so scored off seven “brushers” at one time was well worth the -lines. - -Three days afterward Tod’s nose bled toward the end of morning school -and he was dismissed to his house to clean up. As he raced along the -corridor he noticed that the door of the little room into which the -rope of the school bell descended was left open, and, peeping in, he -discovered that Hooper, the trusty porter, was not within. - -In far less time than it takes to write the words, Tod had rushed in, -and the great school bell that dismisses morning school rang loud -and clear over the peaceful playing-fields surrounding the school -buildings, still humming with the busy life within. - -Every boy and every master stopped short in what he was doing and -looked at the clock. Those possessed of watches consulted them, shook -them, listened to them, dubiously pressing them to unbelieving ears. -And as the clocks in that school are by no means beyond reproach, being -worked by a system of electricity that is, to say the least of it, -capricious in its conduct, all came, not unwillingly, to the conclusion -that morning work had indeed ended. Only the Head of the Modern, that -man of iron endurance, whose whole scheme of creation seemed bounded by -the exigencies of the Civil Service Commissioners, refused to believe -that his watch was wrong, and continued to discuss the “directrix and -eccentric” of a certain angle until it was really twelve o’clock; -while one of the French masters, hailing from Geneva, proclaimed the -unreliability of English clocks in general. - -Meanwhile Hooper, who had gone down to the lodge to speak to his -wife, could hardly believe his ears when his own sacred bell clanged, -somewhat irresponsibly and gaily it is true, without his agency. - -He rushed up the drive to discover the perpetrator of this -extraordinary outrage, only to meet a throng of masters and boys -streaming out into the playground full twenty minutes before the -appointed hour. - -Tod was nearly at his house by this time, and when he did arrive, -hastened to the matron to descant upon the terrific hemorrhage that had -occurred in his nose. - -But Nemesis was never very leaden-footed where the twins were concerned. - -“Other chaps,” Tod remarked mournfully, “can break all sorts of rules -and do no end of mischief and never get found out, but if we do the -least little thing someone’s certain to be down on us like a hundred of -bricks, or else we’re obliged to own up to save somebody else.” - -In this case it was the latter course that Tod had to pursue. The -principal was exceedingly angry at such a wanton curtailment of the -last hour of morning school, and gave it out in the afternoon that if -the amateur bellringer did not disclose himself that very day, the -whole school should stay in on the next half-holiday; and the frost had -broken and football was in full swing once more. - -Of course Tod sought the principal at the earliest opportunity and -owned up. - -When he appeared in the principal’s room after afternoon school -he made, it is true, a valiant effort to present himself with due -solemnity, but his round face was absurdly chubby and cheerful, and -when the principal looked up from the letter he was writing to see who -the intruder was, he sighed deeply. - -“You again, Beaton!” he exclaimed wearily. “So it was _you_, was it, -who rang that bell? What on earth did you do it for?” - -“My nose bled, sir....” Tod began eagerly. - -“What had your nose to do with it?” - -“Everything, sir. I was sent out of class....” - -“Sent out of class?” the principal repeated sternly. - -“Because I made such a mess,” Tod hastened to add; “and the little door -was open--and so I rang the bell.” - -“Beaton, when will you cease to play these senseless and annoying -tricks? Your folly caused six hundred boys, to say nothing of the -masters, to lose twenty precious minutes. If I punished you as you -deserve, you ought to stay in for twenty minutes each day for six -hundred days....” - -Tod gasped. - -“But I won’t do that. Instead, you must do a thousand lines, to be -given up by the end of this week. I shall not cane you, as I have no -doubt you would infinitely prefer it.” - -A good many boys assisted to write those lines, and the impost was -given up at its appointed time. - -Hockey leagues were on and Peter was playing in his house team. On the -morning of the last practice before an important match, he acknowledged -so barely bowing an acquaintance with certain French idioms beloved of -the French master--for was he not their author?--that Peter was told to -stay in after morning school and learn them. - -Peter did nothing of the kind; on the contrary, he went out at the -usual hour and played hockey with his accustomed vigor, with the result -that the French master sent for him that afternoon to know why he had -not done as he was told. - -Peter pleaded “a very important engagement,” and, on being pressed to -disclose the nature of that same, as usual answered quite truthfully. -The French master, not unnaturally exasperated, forthwith reported him -to the Head of the Modern, with the result that Peter was hauled up and -bidden to stay in on the next half-holiday; the very half-holiday on -which his house was to play its bitterest rival. - -During the remainder of that term he got into several rows with his -form-master, and Tod was equally unlucky, so that by the time the -Easter holidays arrived both boys were quite ready for them and left -school vowing vengeance on their persecutors. - -Their parents were in India, so they went to spend the holidays with -a jolly young bachelor uncle, who was an ardent fisherman and carried -both the boys off with him for three weeks’ peel-fishing in a remote -village in North Wales. He was also of a literary turn, that uncle, -and took with him a box of books to enliven their evenings: lots of -Kipling and Stevenson, and amongst the latter the “Life and Letters.” -He read aloud the “Thomas Libby” incident, where Stevenson and certain -kindred spirits roused a whole neighborhood to excitement by constant -inquiries as to the whereabouts of one “Thomas Libby,” who existed only -in his creator’s vivid imagination. That of the twins was immediately -fired by an ambition to go and do likewise. - -The incident, or rather series of incidents, to which the -non-appearance of Mr. Libby led up, enchanted them. They chuckled over -the mysterious Thomas for a whole day, but it was not till evening, at -bedtime, that Tod whispered to Peter how, like “Sentimental Tommy,” he -had “found a way.” - -Sitting on the side of his bed, he announced gleefully: “Tell you what -it is, Peter, we’ll be a parent! A parent with a delicate kid! And -we’ll write long-winded letters in scratchy, small handwriting, you -know, like the masters write....” - -“But,” Peter interrupted excitedly, “how are we to get the answers? It -wouldn’t be any fun if we didn’t.” - -“The answers,” Tod replied calmly, “will come to the post office here, -where we’re living, you juggins! You bet there’ll be answers. They’re -awfully keen after the oof at the good old school. Why, they scent a -new boy a mile off. He shall go into old Pig-Face’s house, just to pay -him out for all his beastliness to you, and I’ll pester the Head about -him and his delicate chest, and all that sort of rot that parents _do_ -write, don’t you know.” - -Peter gasped. “But how can he ‘go’ into anybody’s house if there isn’t -a him to go?” - -“What an ass you are, Peter! _Was_ there a Thomas Libby? And how many -people’s houses was he going to, pray?” - -“Go on,” said Peter humbly, “go on.” - -“The parent’s name,” Tod announced proudly, “is Theopompus Buggins.” - -“Theopompus!” Peter echoed dubiously. “It doesn’t sound very real -somehow--and is the kid to be young Theopompus?” - -“No,” said Tod firmly, “_his_ name is Archibald, and Mr. Buggins is his -uncle.” - -“I thought he was to be a parent,” Peter objected in a dissatisfied -voice. - -“Well, an uncle is a sort of parent; probably the kid’s an orphan.” - -There was silence for a minute while Peter digested this view of the -matter. But still he was not quite satisfied, for presently he said: -“Tod, would _you_ believe in anyone called ‘Theopompus Buggins’?” - -“Well, no, I’m not sure that I would,” Tod admitted. “Why?” - -“D’you believe the Head will?” - -“I never thought of that.” - -“I think,” Peter suggested beguilingly, “that we had better have a -commoner name, don’t you?” - -“P’r’aps we had,” Tod sighed. “Let’s have Jones--Theopompus Jones, now.” - -“Jones is all right,” Peter allowed graciously, “but I don’t fancy -Theopompus much, it’s such a peculiar name.” - -“It’s a splendid name,” Tod exclaimed huffily, “but of course if you -think it’s too uncommon he can be ‘T. Jones, Esq.,’ or ‘John Jones’ if -you insist upon it. How would you like ‘Peter Jones’?” - -“T. Jones will do spiffingly,” Peter answered with some haste. “_We’ll_ -know his name is Theopompus right enough, and it don’t matter a hang to -them whether he’s Theobald or Theophilus or anything; but I say, Tod, -must he be an uncle?” - -“Yes,” Tod replied firmly, “he jolly well must, and, what’s more, -he’s got to be going to Injia just as term begins. We’ll look out the -sailings in uncle’s paper and choose his ship. He’ll just get there in -the hot weather, but that can’t be helped.” - -The twins were well acquainted with the whereabouts of “sailings” in -the papers, as most Anglo-Indian children are. - -“Why, you’ve planned it all, Tod,” Peter said admiringly. “How’ll you -do about the writing?” - -“I shall write as like old Stinks as possible, that niggly, scrabbly -sort of writing, _you_ know.” - -“By Jove! So you can--that’ll be all right. Parents and people call -that sort of writing ‘scholarly,’ but if we did it they’d say we were -beastly illiterate or something.” - -“What I like about a scholarly handwriting,” said Tod thoughtfully, “is -that no mortal can tell whether the spelling’s right or not. When I’m -once through the Shop I shall always write a scholarly hand and not -bother about spelling and that any more.” - -“Boys,” a voice called from the next room, “you get to bed and don’t -keep jawing all night.” - - * * * * * - -It would not be fair to disclose the exact spot in Wales from which -that anxious relative, Mr. T. Jones, indited his first letter to the -headmaster of the Public School which reckoned Tod and Peter among its -pupils. - - “There are several L’s in the place where he dwells, - And of W’s more than one.” - -but it is impossible to be more explicit than this. - -The Principal of Harchester School was at breakfast in his hotel at -the seaside when a letter marked “urgent” and “if away please forward -immediately” reached him. He turned it over thoughtfully before opening -it, for he thought he recognized the handwriting of one of his masters -(familiarly referred to by Tod and Peter as “old Stinks”), a science -master, much given to drawing his attention to various details by means -of lengthy epistles. - -“What in the world can Neatby want now?” he wondered, “and in the -holidays, too; it really is a little too bad!” - -On opening the letter, however, he found that it was not from Mr. -Neatby, and set himself forthwith to decipher a missive in which the -margins were clear and spacious as the writing was small and obscure. -Yet it had the air, so the principal remarked to himself, of being the -letter of an educated man. Tod had played the “scholarly” game with -entire success. - -The letter was as follows: - - “DEAR SIR, - - “I am desirous that my only nephew, Archibald Jones, aged thirteen - years and six months, should be enrolled among the pupils of your - famous seminary at the commencement of the summer session. But - before placing him under your benignant charge there are several - points upon which I am desirous of enlightenment. Certain friends - have recommended to me the house of one Mr. Mannock, but from - other sources I have gathered that he is a man of somewhat violent - temper, sometimes almost abusive, in his intercourse with the boys. - Is this so? Because, if it is, I shall require to seek some other - house in which to place my nephew, an orphan of extremely sensitive - disposition, with a weak chest. It is possible that the accounts - I have heard of Mr. Mannock’s violence may be exaggerated, and I - should like Archibald to enter his house unless you especially warn - me against it. I wish my nephew to be entered upon the Classical - side, as I am given to understand that boys are less overworked in - that department than in that where they prepare for the Army. And - as his delicate chest will prevent my nephew joining in the rougher - sports of his contemporaries, I would suggest that one of the younger - masters should be told off to take Archibald for a walk every fine - day, as, of course, a certain amount of fresh air and exercise is - essential. He must not be placed in too high a class, as owing to - illness he has not been able to make such rapid progress in his - studies as his robuster contemporaries. - - “Any information that you can afford me--and as early an answer as - possible, for I am leaving England at the beginning of May and wish - to see my dear nephew comfortably settled before I sail--will greatly - oblige - - “Yours truly, - “T. JONES.” - -Tod had written “yours turly,” but was corrected by Peter, who, if -he had less sense of style, was fairly dependable where spelling was -concerned. - -Now the postmistress, their landlady, found her household duties so -much increased by the presence of her lodgers that she was fain to -depute her official cares to her daughter, Katie, a damsel who greatly -admired the good-looking twins. And when they confided to her that -if a letter came addressed to “T. Jones, Esq.” it really was for one -of them, she asked no questions, required no further information, -but, concluding that it was only a part of their mysterious charm to -receive letters in a name other than their own, promised to guard the -same should it come, without pointing out to anybody that just then no -person of the name of Jones was residing at the post office. - -The letter came in two days and ran as follows: - - “DEAR SIR, - - “I enclose the entrance form to be filled up by any parent or - guardian desirous of placing a boy at Harchester School. With regard - to the house in which you wish your nephew to board, Mr. Mannock’s - is, as I hope are all our houses, entirely satisfactory. But if - your nephew is, as you imply, a delicate boy, I would suggest that - he should be placed in one of the smaller boarding-houses, as he - would then receive more individual attention than it is possible to - bestow in a house where there are some fifty boys. I have asked the - bursar to send you a prospectus, in which you will find the names - and addresses of all the masters in the school who take boys; and - lest the house you select should be already full, I advise you to - communicate with the master at your earliest convenience.” - -When Mr. Theopompus Jones in the dual shape of Tod and Peter received -this missive they retired to a distant bridge, whereon they sat to read -it, and they laughed so much that they nearly fell over backward into -the river. They gloated over the very envelope. But later on, when -their first glee at getting an answer at all had somewhat abated, they -expressed disappointment that the Head had omitted to answer so many of -their questions. - -“You see,” Peter cried indignantly, “what a shufflin’ old hypocrite he -is. You can’t get a straight answer from him about old Pig-Face, and he -knows what an old brute he is just as well as we do.” - -“Shall we send dear Archibald into one of the smaller houses?” Tod -asked thoughtfully. - -“No,” Peter thundered. “He’s going to old Pig-Face, and to no one else. -Who knows but he may save some decent chap from going there? Let’s -write again to the Pot, it’s such a lark, he answers so nice and quick. -Why, there’s over a fortnight more of the holidays; we can get a whole -volume of his oily old letters by that time. I’ve always wondered how -humbugs like him manage to grease up to one’s people so, and for the -life of me I can’t see why now.” - -That night the twins again engaged in literary labors, much to their -uncle’s surprise, but he was an ardent bridge player, and, having found -three like-minded anglers at the village inn, he was glad to leave his -lively nephews so peacefully employed. - -“Are you chaps writing a story?” he asked that evening as he departed -to his bridge. - -“Yes,” “No,” the twins answered simultaneously, then Tod answered -with some decision: “No, Uncle Frank, we’re writing letters, business -letters, that’s all.” - -“Dear me,” their uncle replied, much impressed, and, having a -peace-loving and incurious disposition, he asked no further questions -and was soon contentedly playing a “no trumps” hand with conspicuous -success. - -A day or two later the headmaster of Harchester sighed gently as he -found beside his plate at breakfast another bulky epistle from the -anxious-minded Mr. T. Jones. This time that gentleman did not content -himself with generalities; he made the most searching inquiries as to -the disposition of the aforesaid Mr. Mannock. - -After thanking the headmaster of Harchester for his “polite letter” -(the headmaster raised his eyebrows as he reached this phrase), Mr. -Jones continued: - - “I fear that I cannot fall in with your suggestion of a private - boarding-house for my dear nephew. In the first place it is too - expensive, and in the second place I wish him to go into Mr. - Mannock’s house if you can satisfy me that he is of the considerate - and forbearing disposition that a man placed in his responsible - position ought to be. I am pressed for time, as I sail on May 1st for - Bombay, and an early answer will greatly oblige. - - “Yours truly, - “T. JONES.” - -Tod and Peter had the very greatest fun in filling in the form of -application. They had long ago decided that the youthful Archibald -was to enter on the Classical side, that he was destined for the -Church, that his father was “deceased,” but as to the late gentleman’s -profession they squabbled. Peter wanted Army or Indian Civil; Tod was -in favor of Navy or Church; when Peter suddenly recollected that there -were “lists and things” in most of the recognized professions and that -an “inquisitive old buffer like the Pot would be certain to look him -up.” - -Finally they decided that the deceased one had better be a “merchant.” -Peter wanted to add “prince,” but Tod, the far-seeing, pointed out that -such affluence would hardly coincide with an objection to one of the -smaller boarding-houses on the score of expense. - -Finally they despatched their entrance form “to the bursar,” -elaborately filled up in the scholarly handwriting of Mr. Theopompus -Jones, the handwriting that so puzzled the Principal of Harchester by -its haunting resemblance to that of one of his masters. - -Again the Pot was prompt and courteous, and by return the twins were -gloating over another letter, which, however, again disappointed them -by its brevity. - - “DEAR SIR (it ran), - - “As your time in this country is indeed getting short, I would advise - you at once to confer personally with Mr. Mannock as to whether he - can find room for your nephew or not; for, in the event of his having - no vacancy, you still may be enabled to place the boy in one of the - other houses.” - -“Oh, the shuffler!” Peter shouted indignantly. “The quibbler! The -sanctimonious humbug! _He_ thinks he’s diddled Theopompus Jones, does -he? He’ll find out his mistake before very long; it’ll be Theopompus -Jones has diddled _him_. I wouldn’t trust that man with a bad -halfpenny. He can’t answer a straight question, that’s what he can’t -do--and yet to hear him talk....” - -“I say,” interrupted Tod, “suppose they send in the bill, what’ll we -do?” - -“You don’t propose we should pay it, do you, you young ass?” Peter -returned scornfully. “They never send ’em in till just before term, -sometimes not till after. Don’t you remember how the pater grumbled -last autumn because it _didn’t_ come, and he wanted everything settled -up before he sailed?” - -“So does Mr. Jones want it all settled before he sails,” Tod remarked -gaily. “He ought to write to old Pig-Face to-night.” - -This the dual Mr. Jones did, and, as before, received an answer by -return of post from Mr. Mannock, who, strange to say, had just one -vacancy, and expressed his willingness that Archibald Jones should fill -that same. And Mr. T. Jones, refraining from further researches into -the character of Mr. Mannock, wrote with his own scholarly hand, or -rather hands, a letter which announced the pending arrival of Archibald. - -By this time the holidays were nearly over, and the twins began to be -somewhat anxious as to the termination of Mr. Jones’ correspondence -with the authorities at Harchester School. But their good genius did -not desert them at the last moment, for just the day before they left -Wales, when they were at their wits’ end for a satisfactory ending to -the episode, they came across the “List of Members” of their uncle’s -club; and, idly turning over the leaves, Tod found that there were no -fewer than thirteen members of the same surname as the anxious uncle of -their creation and three of them had “T” for their initial. Instantly -Tod’s resource was stimulated, and he despatched three letters in the -most scholarly of handwritings to his headmaster, to Mr. Mannock, -and to the bursar respectively, announcing his immediate departure -for London and requesting that all future communications might be -addressed to him at the club in question. - -In his letter to Mr. Mannock, he informed him that Archibald would be -sent one day earlier than that given for the return of the other boys, -as he, Mr. Jones, would be so much occupied in arrangements for his -voyage that he would be unable to give the boy the careful supervision -his sensitive disposition and delicate health demanded. - -“We shan’t see their pompous old letters and bills and things,” sighed -Peter, “but it will liven up the Jones fraternity at uncle’s club--it’s -a good thing he’s not going back to town just yet, or he might hear -something--and Pig-Face will simply raise Cain when that precious -Archibald mysteriously disappears. We’re sure to hear about that, -anyway; two of his chaps are in my form, jolly decent chaps they are, -too.” - -“Mind you never _ask_ anything about it,” said Tod warningly. “They -might suspect something, and if we were ever found to have had any hand -in this we’d be sacked, sure as a gun. We’ve had our fun and now we -must jolly well keep it dark. By the time it’s all finished I should -say both the Head and old Pig-Face will have done their thousand lines -apiece, shouldn’t you?” - - * * * * * - -“Curious thing that fellow never turning up, isn’t it?” one of the -“decent chaps” in Mr. Mannock’s house remarked to Peter, some three -days after term had begun. “Pig-Face is in an awful stew about -it--afraid the boy’s been murdered or something.” - -“What boy? What d’you mean?” Peter asked innocently. “Who hasn’t come -back?” - -“No one hasn’t come back; it’s a new chap hasn’t turned up at all. Both -he and his people have mysteriously disappeared, vamoosed, vanished! -Awfully funny thing. There’s no end of a fuss.” - -“P’r’aps he changed his mind at the last minute,” Peter suggested. -“P’r’aps he heard something about old Pig-Face and funked it.” - -“I don’t know,” said the other. “Old Pig-Face looks awfully worried. -Shouldn’t wonder if we had detectives down, and all sorts of games.” - -Peter looked thoughtful for a minute, and then, to the astonishment of -his friend, who was really impressed by the enigma, doubled up with -uncontrollable laughter. - -The assistance of Scotland Yard, however, was not called in; for, on -writing to the Bishop and Admiral given as references by Mr. T. Jones -(boldly lifted, address and all, from “Who’s Who,” by the ingenious -Tod), the headmaster of Harchester received an emphatic disclaimer from -each of these gentlemen of any knowledge of any such person. Moreover, -an inquiry at the post office of the Welsh village from which Mr. -Jones’ letters were dated only elicited the laconic response of “Gone -away--address not known.” - -Katie had received and faithfully followed her instructions. - -Every Jones of the whole thirteen in that club was approached in -vain, and inquiry at the shipping office only elicited the fact that, -plentiful as persons bearing that patronymic appeared to be, no -passenger of that name had sailed by that particular boat. - -The authorities at Harchester came to the unwelcome conclusion that -they had been hoaxed; and all that remained of the incident were -certain letters, treasured, on the one hand for purposes of possible -identification, on the other for more frivolous reasons. - - - - -“TONY” - - -Tony sat in the gutter, wondering what would be the coolest thing to -do. The front doors of all the houses in the dull, quite respectable -street, wherein he dwelt, were close shut, as were also the -white-curtained windows, lest dust should blow in and sully these -hall-marks of houses that possess a front “best room.” The neighboring -children were all away; some at the recreation ground, some to paddle -their feet in the nearest approach to a river the town boasted--a -little muddy stream about a foot deep at the best of times; now a sort -of pea soup. - -But on this August afternoon Tony felt too slack and too sticky to -seek any amusement that necessitated a walk; so, having been thrust -out of the back door by his mother, who was washing and wanted no boys -“clutterin’ round”--he strolled lanquidly to the front, quite sure that -here, at any rate, he would be left in peace, as the dwellers in Eva -Terrace never used their front doors except on Sundays. - -Just then a man carrying a bag came running down the road, which was a -short cut to the station. - -“Here, youngster!” he shouted, throwing the bag to Tony. “Carry this -for me, and I’ll just do it! Run after me for all you’re worth!” - -Tony caught the bag dexterously and ran. He could run faster than the -man, and was soon jogging on ahead of him. At the station Tony got -sixpence for his pains, thrust it deep into his right trouser pocket, -and walked soberly away. - -Infinite possibilities were opened up by this unexpected windfall, and -he had no intention of mentioning it at home. His people were poor, -but not poorer than their neighbors; his brothers and sisters were all -older than he, and in his case Benjamin’s lot was not accompanied by -the advantages with which it is generally accredited. - -A lonely child was Tony, gentle and biddable enough, quick at his -books, and happiest in his school hours, when people let him alone, and -he succeeded in pleasing the clever, testy schoolmaster, whose life -was embittered by a constant struggle with an overwhelming desire to -whack the young demons who tormented him. He had been “summonsed” twice -by irate parents; so now he restrained himself at the expense of his -teaching powers and his nerves generally. - -Tony stopped in the middle of the road and smacked his pocket. - -“I’ll go to the baths to-morrow morning,” he said aloud, “and see them -young nobs swim; it’s only threepence before nine.” - -A great excitement--unshared, unmentioned--had lately come into Tony’s -life. Every morning for the last week, about eight o’clock he had -watched for two boys who went by on bicycles with towels strapped -on to their handle-bars. One was quite a little boy, far less than -Tony himself; the other bigger, and in his eyes less interesting; and -in a few minutes after them came one for whom Tony had conceived the -extravagant, unreasoning admiration children will sometimes lavish on -somebody with whom they have never exchanged, or hope to exchange, two -words; someone unconscious of their existence as they are the richer -for that other’s. - -Everybody in Tony’s locality knew the recruiting sergeant by sight: -“Sergeant” who taught drill and gymnastics to all the “young gen’lemen” -in the neighborhood. But Tony adored him, not only because he was so -tall and good looking--and Tony was strenuously certain that it is a -goodly thing to be upstanding and to have broad shoulders, instead -of the champagne-bottle variety carried by his brothers and their -like--but because he knew that the sergeant wished him well; inasmuch -as that he, even he also, was one of the hundred and fifty odd boys -in the parish schools of St. James’s. For now that the war fever was -somewhat abating, now that Sergeant himself had come back from the -front that he might send more soldiers out there, he had offered to -drill the boys in St. James’s schools twice a week for love. And it -could not be arranged. - -The authorities, while granting the utility of algebra and French to -those in the seventh standard, who were presently to form the bulk and -bulwark of the nation, saw no good reason why an attempt should be made -to give them straight backs and broad chests. So Sergeant, who loved -his country, and was, in his way, something of a philanthropist, sighed -and swore, and “put the question by.” - -But Tony, who had heard the subject canvassed, and listened to the -lamentations of the boys, was filled with a passion of gratitude, which -found no expression save in a constant hanging round corners to see his -idol pass. - - * * * * * - -Tony sat on his bed naked, in a patch of moonlight, admiring his own -legs. - -“My body be whiter nor theirn,” he said to himself, and indeed, his -limbs looked radiantly fair in the mellow light. “But my arms beant so -’ard as ’is’n for all ’e be such little chap,” he continued, pinching -the soft flesh of the upper arm in a dissatisfied way. - -Tony was too excited to sleep just yet--such a great deal had happened -in the last two days. In all his ten years he had never felt as he felt -now--and yet, from an outsider’s point of view, what a little thing it -was! - -The day before he had gone to the swimming bath, intending just to -watch. It was empty, save for Sergeant and the two boys who went with -him every morning. The water looked so clear, and there seemed so much -room in the big bath, that Tony undressed and went in. - -He paddled shyly about in the shallow end, admiring the two boys, who -dived off the spring-board and the pulpit and swam under water, while -Sergeant roared directions at them, and flung them head over heels in -the deep end, in a fashion that filled Tony with surprise. - -The big boy was practising side-stroke, when the little one, whom -Sergeant, for some reason or other, called the “swashbuckler,” swam -down the bath toward Tony, remarking cheerfully: - -“You’ll get rheumatism if you paddle so. Shall I show you the first -exercise?” - -He was such a little boy, but he swam like a frog. His square, freckled -face was so friendly that Tony forgot that he himself was an “oik,” and -therefore his sworn foe, and said, “Please, sir!” in the meekest of -tiny whispers. - -“You must kneel on the edge further down, and let me chuck you in,” was -the next command--and Sergeant stopped in the very middle of a shout to -chuckle and whisper: - -“Blest if the swashbuckler isn’t giving a swimming lesson on his own -account!” - -And now Tony sat on the edge of his bed and remembered two wonderful -mornings, and pondered what it could be that made that friendly little -boy so different from all the other boys he knew. And through all his -thinking, like the refrain of a song, sounded a sentence he had once -heard at Sunday school. He could not remember the whole of it; but -five words seemed to batter at his brain as though demanding instant -comprehension and attention--“_The temple of your body._” - -Tony nodded as though in answer to a spoken word. He pictured Sergeant -cleaving the water with his long arms, the muscles standing out on his -white shoulders. - -“I s’pose,” said Tony softly, as if in answer to that unseen, -persistent voice, “some folks ’as temples for bodies, and some folks -’as on’y tin churches, or, so to speak, a public.... I’d like a temple -myself for ch’ice.” - -He was not very sure what a temple was, but in a vague way he _was_ -assured that it was something large and beautiful; and his conception -was helped out by hazy recollections of Sunday school and Solomon, and -thoughts of a building spacious and white. - -“There used to be a free night,” he continued, reverting again to the -actual, “but the Corpeeration stopped it--I wonder w’y? It’s tuppence -after six, that’s a shillin’ a week--’ow can pore boys get that?--an’ -I promised ’im as I’d learn the others w’en I could get a chanst, when -he’s learned me....” - -Tony’s voice faltered, he was getting sleepy. He gave his smooth white -arms another stroke, slipped into his nightshirt, and got into bed. - -“E’ve give oi a shillin’ to pay for four more mornin’s, till ’e do go -away,” he whispered ecstatically as he laid his head on the pillow, and -Tony fell asleep. - -That evening Tony’s elder brother “Earny,” who cleaned bicycles, and -was ’prenticed to a dealer in the neighborhood, wanted his Sunday -necktie, for he purposed to “walk out with his young lady.” He ran -upstairs to the room he shared with Tony and another brother, to find -the little boy fast asleep, worn out by unusual exercise and varied -emotions. - -Earny could not find his tie, and on lifting Tony’s trousers to see -if by any chance it was hidden beneath them, a shilling rolled out of -the pocket and finished spinning with a clang, just in the very centre -of the patch of moonlight where a quarter of an hour earlier Tony had -decided that he, at all events, “would ’ave a temple for ch’ice.” - -“’Ullo!” thought Earny to himself, “where did that kid collar a bob? -’E bin a’ter no good, I’ll be boun’, so secret-like and sayin’ nothin’ -to nobody. Serve ’im right if I buys some smokes with ’un;” and Earny -departed quietly, without having fulfilled his original intention of -waking Tony that he might look for the missing necktie. - -At nine o’clock the following morning Tony still lay upon his bed, -wide-eyed, white-cheeked, with blank despair writ large upon his face. -Breakfast was over long ago, his family had all departed to their daily -work; his mother was ironing in the kitchen, he could hear the bump of -the iron as she slammed it on the table; the bedroom could wait till -one of the girls came in at dinner-time, so no one interfered with Tony. - -He knew that it was his brother who must have taken the shilling--the -precious shilling that had meant so much to him. He knew that he had -no redress, no one would believe him if he told them how he came by -it, and in his utter misery he was too poor-spirited even to think of -reprisals. His whole imagination centred round the dreadful certainty -that Sergeant and the little gen’leman and the little gen’leman’s -brother would think him a fraud. For a brief space the sun had shone -out on his drab life, discovering hitherto undreamt-of colors in the -landscape, but now.... - -“I can never watch for ’em no more,” he said, with a hard, tearless sob. - -Presently he stood out on the floor and shook his nightshirt about his -feet; he dressed quickly, and did not even wash his face as he was wont -to do. - -“’Tain’t no use for the likes of me to try,” he said bitterly. - -Then he went to his brother’s drawer and stole the bundle of cigarettes -he found there, and went out and smoked under the railway bridge till -his body was as sick as his heart. - - - - -A SQUARE PEG - - -“I told him plainly beforehand that if he did not get a scholarship -this term he must go into business. He has not won a scholarship, and, -situated as you are, any other course would be absurd.” - -Uncle Henry shut his mouth with a snap, while he stared fixedly over -his sister’s head that he might not see the pleading in her eyes as she -said timidly: - -“But fourteen is so young, Henry, and Rodney is so small for his -age----” - -“I fail to see that his size has anything to do with it; and you, -Felicia, must learn to face things as they are, not as you would have -them. If you defer for one moment the chance of Rodney’s making his -own living, you are doing an injustice both to him and to his sisters. -Pardon my plain speaking, but he is the son of an exceedingly poor -widow and must be dealt with accordingly.” - -Through the open windows came the sound of a boy’s laughter and the -ring of a smartly struck cricket ball. Uncle Henry waved his hand in -the direction of the sound, saying: - -“There, you see; that’s what his education at present amounts to; he’s -a pretty bat, and doubtless looks forward to a life all flannels and -cider-cup and yells of admiration when he makes a few runs; the sooner -all that nonsense is knocked out of him the better.” - -“But Rodney is not idle, Henry,” his mother pleaded; “his form-master -and the Head both speak well of him and say that he has a very good -chance next year, although he has missed this; you know the exam. came -on just after his father’s death, when the boy was dreadfully upset.” - -“I have made you an offer, you may take it or leave it. You can put -him into one of my businesses; there will be no premium, and I’ll -pay for his board at a thoroughly good boarding-house I know of in -Mecklenburg Square, where he will be well looked after. In the meantime -you must try to let this house, and then you can come up and live in -the suburbs, and he can live with you and go to business every day by -train; the little girls can go to a High School. With the many claims -I have upon me, this is all that I can do, and I must serve you in the -way that seems best to me.” - -Uncle Henry sat down and took up the newspaper in token that the -subject was thoroughly threshed out. He had gone into business at -fourteen, and now at little past thirty had a house in Grosvenor -Gardens and a “place down the river.” He had married at six-and-twenty, -“going where money was.” The names of his two sons were down for -Harrow, while his wife already talked of the time when she should -“present” their baby girl. He quite acknowledged that it was his -duty to help his sister now that the collapse of those Australian -banks had practically beggared her; but there was at the back of his -mind a lurking satisfaction that the way he had chosen should be one -calculated to destroy those castles of tradition her husband had been -so fond of building. It was a perpetual annoyance both to his wife and -to himself that Rodney and his sisters should be so very different -in appearance from their own children; that, clean or dirty, these -children without a sixpence should so strongly resemble the old family -portraits that his brother-in-law’s ridiculous will forbade to be sold; -that they should in speech and bearing so unmistakably be gentlefolk, -and yet be his own sister’s children seemed to him a proof of nature’s -ineptitude. - -To be sure he and Felcourt had been on friendly enough terms, but he -had always--though through no fault of Felcourt’s--been conscious that -his brother-in-law and his ancestors for generations belonged to a -class which only of late, and that not altogether with enthusiasm, has -opened its doors to successful men of Uncle Henry’s stamp. - -Rodney’s mother went and stood by the open window. The active white -figures flying between the wickets on the wide lawn seemed all blurred -and indistinct, and she lifted her slim hand to her throat to still its -throbbing ache; she was not a strong-minded woman. All she had asked of -life was the power to make folks happy, and to be loved; and hitherto -her desire had been generously fulfilled. Married at eighteen to a man -who, taking her out of somewhat sordid and uncongenial surroundings, -made her queen of a household where gaiety and good manners had -been vassals for generations, she readily adapted herself to the new -atmosphere, and became a sweet-voiced echo of her husband, and for -fourteen years was absurdly happy. Then Rodney Felcourt died, and six -months afterward came the collapse of the Australian banks. - -Uncle Henry had a way of carrying through any course of action he had -determined upon, and by the beginning of October his nephew Rodney -found himself taking his exercise in the Gray’s Inn Road instead of in -the playing-fields at school. The change of life was so radical and so -sudden that the child hardly understood what had happened. Like the old -woman in the nursery rhyme, he was forever exclaiming, “This be never -I!” in melancholy astonishment. He was learning to tie up parcels, -he stuck on endless quantities of postage stamps, and occasionally -addressed a few envelopes for one of the typists. He did what he was -told as well as he could, the day seemed endlessly long, and by evening -he was so tired that he went to bed soon after the seven-o’clock -dinner. A young boy for his age, he was quite unprecocious and -unformed; hitherto his place in the universe had been clearly defined -and not difficult to fill; to do well in his form, thus pleasing the -“mater” and his form-master, to be “decent” to his little sisters at -home, and “jolly” with the chaps at school, to be good at games and get -into the “house” eleven, and to be absolutely “straight” in word, deed, -and across country--such was Rodney’s conception of the whole duty of -boy, and he had acted up to it with considerable success. Now, life was -not only complicated but unintelligible, and he was too bewildered even -to rebel against a fate that kept him tying up parcels indifferently -well when he felt that by all the ordinary standards of conduct he -ought to have been writing Latin verses. - -Every Sunday he wrote neat, stilted little letters to his mother, which -informed her that he had been to church at the Foundling, was going for -a walk in the afternoon, that he was well and hoped that she was well, -and that he was her very loving son. Felicia crushed the paper against -her cheek in the vain attempt to extract from it something real and -Rodney-like. She thought of the school letters last term, how full of -life they had been, how numerous the requests they contained! Rodney -never asked for anything now, and she knew that the boy was holding -himself well in hand lest any part of the truth might hurt her. - -At the end of October, Cecil Connop came back from Paris. His arrival -was announced in all the papers, for he was of some importance in -literary circles; his great ability was acknowledged on all sides, the -more freely that he was something of a failure. Though his work was -widely read and appreciated by cultivated people, he was not popular. -His appearance was quite ordinary, and he made no attempt to resemble -any historical personage. He abhorred advertisement, considering that -his published writings had no sort of connection with his private life. -His readers were quite ignorant as to whether he had a mother or not, -and his personal friends suffered under no apprehension that their -loves or their bereavements would figure, flimsily disguised, in his -next book. His rooms in Jermyn Street had never been photographed, and -only his servant knew whether he liked his bath hot or cold. The fact -was that Cecil Connop kept one face for the world and quite another -for the old friends who loved him--a proceeding so out of date among -literary people as to be almost medieval. But it has its advantages for -such as like curtains to their windows. According to his own account -he never had any money, and was, when in England, in hourly danger of -Holloway Jail; but he paid his card debts and never seemed to lack any -of the things that go toward making life pleasant. - -Felicia’s letter announcing little Rodney’s apprenticeship was a great -surprise to Cecil. He had, of course, heard of her serious losses, but -he knew that her brother was a wealthy man and “people always manage -somehow”; that in this case they hadn’t “managed” came upon him with -quite an unpleasant shock. - -For some reason which she would not define even to herself, Felicia had -not asked any of her friends then in town to look up Rodney. She was -absolutely certain in her own mind that he had no business there, but -circumstances were too strong for her, and she dared not offend Henry. -When she read in the paper that Cecil had returned to town she felt -distinctly relieved. Here was an understanding person who would ask no -questions and could be depended upon to give a faithful account of the -child. - -Cecil wrote at once to Rodney asking him to lunch at his club on the -following Saturday, and to Felicia, to say how pleased he would be to -do what he could for him while he was in town. - -Rodney sat on the edge of his bed, too tired to undress. His flannels -and “sweater” were spread on the pillow, and from time to time the -boy laid his face down on them, inhaling the clean, woolly smell. He -had of course never worn them since he came to London--Uncle Henry -had not thought it necessary to make any arrangement as to how Rodney -should spend his Saturdays--yet the sight of them comforted him. He was -beginning to employ that saddest of all philosophies, that nothing can -take from us the good times we have had. He had eaten hardly anything -all day, and the ache in his throat was well nigh intolerable. His door -opened, and the maid announced: “A gentleman to see you, sir. Said he’d -come up here.” - -Cecil had come before his letter. As the open door betrayed the -listless little figure with the scattered flannels the whole situation -was revealed to him in a flash, and for the hundredth time in a not -over well-spent life he cursed the folly which had rendered him so -incapable of helping his friends in any material way. When Rodney -realized who was his visitor, he simply flung himself bodily upon him, -and Cecil Connop, who was tender-hearted and easily touched, kissed -him and had been rapturously kissed in return before he had time to -consider whether the boy would be offended or not. Then they both sat -on the bed and for the first time for six weeks Rodney chattered. One -of the boarders, a girl who did typewriting in Chancery Lane, passing -his doorway, stopped and smiled as she heard the ripple of Rodney’s -laughter; she waited for a full minute, enjoying the unwonted sound, -then passed on to her own room unaccountably cheered. People in that -house were too busy and too tired to laugh! - -When Cecil Connop got back to his rooms he sat and smoked for a long -time before he wrote the following letter to Felicia Felcourt: - - “To-night I have spent an hour with Rodney, and find him apparently - well and cheerful. I cannot faithfully report upon his appearance, - as it was candle-light and I did not see him very distinctly. He - talked freely enough about you all at home, about his old school, - about myself; but, when I come to think of it, said nothing about - his business. You will, I know, pardon me if I ask you in all - seriousness--is this necessary? The whole time I was with him I had a - curious sense that he was playing truant and ought to be at school; - and there is one thing that an expression in your letter impels me - to say at the risk of being impertinent: no amount of money in the - world is such a possession as the breeding you and his dead father - have given your boy. Forgive this frankness and believe me that I - feel with you the more keenly that I am so conscious of my own gross - impotence to help.” - -On Saturdays Rodney left business at one, and on this particular -Saturday flew back to “Meck” to change into his “Etons,” when he hied -him on the top of an omnibus to lunch with Cecil Connop at his club. -When he was seated opposite to his host, that gentleman proceeded -to examine him critically. The boy was unmistakably a gentleman: -everything about him, from the long slender hands of which he was so -unconscious, to the way he looked his companion straight in the eyes, -proclaimed him to come of a race who had spent their days otherwise -than in tying up parcels. Men passing in and out looked pleasantly at -the pretty boy who was so plainly enjoying the unwonted experience; -but Cecil noted that he was very thin, that after the first flush of -greeting was past the little high-bred face was pale, and that there -were black shadows under the long-lashed grey eyes. Moreover, although -there was everything for lunch calculated to please a boy, he ate -hardly anything. - -“Are they decent to you at your place of business?” asked Cecil, -carefully pouring cognac into his coffee. - -“You see,” said Rodney slowly, “I don’t seem to know anybody....” Then, -with a twinkle of amusement, “They call me a fool when I make mistakes, -which is pretty often, and if I do things right nobody says anything.” - -During the next week or two Cecil made a point of seeing Rodney from -time to time, and after each meeting he felt more and more convinced -that the boy’s health was failing. He did not complain, but the -sedentary life was beginning to tell upon a constitution that had never -been so tried. He began to stoop, and even with Cecil his laugh was by -no means so ready or so frequent as it had been. - -Felicia, although at first much comforted by Cecil’s account of Rodney, -longed after him as only widowed woman can long for her son; but she -had promised her brother that she would not attempt to see the boy for -three months lest it should unsettle him, and it only wanted three -weeks of the stipulated time. - -Rodney had not seen Cecil for a fortnight; he was out of town, but -this Rodney did not know. It was Saturday, and a smell of onion curry -pervaded the boarding-house, the Square garden looked hopelessly -uninviting, and he felt that he could endure neither the one nor the -other a moment longer. So he hied him to Pall Mall to see if he could -catch a glimpse of his friend. A conspicuously forlorn little figure, -he strolled slowly past the many clubs, when a man coming hastily down -some steps stared hard at Rodney, and, fixing his eyeglasses more -firmly on his nose, turned and walked swiftly after him. - -“Felcourt! Felcourt! What are you doing here?” asked a sharp, nervous -voice, and Rodney started violently as his house-master, “Fireworks -Fenton,” caught him by the shoulder and shook him. - - * * * * * - -“You young ass! Why didn’t you write and tell me all about it?” said -“Fireworks Fenton” an hour later, as he angrily thumped a tea-table in -“Stewart’s” till the cups jumped off their saucers. “We all thought -you’d gone to another school, and here have you missed a whole term, -and lost flesh and muscle, and forgotten everything you ever knew. -I’ve no patience with you; it’s preposterous, and must be put an end -to at once! Give me your uncle’s address and your mother’s----” and -“Fireworks” glared at Rodney through his eyeglasses, and Rodney sat -swallowing uncomfortable things in his throat, while his heart felt -lighter than it had been for many a long week. It was so good to be -bullied in that particular fashion once more. Now he dared to look -forward. He didn’t in the least know how it was to be managed, but his -old master had told him he was to come back to school next term, and -_he_ always got his own way even with the Head himself. “Fireworks” -was not afraid of twenty Uncle Henries--“Worthy but mistaken, worthy -but mistaken,” he had muttered more than once during his late pupil’s -explanations. Rodney went with him to Paddington to see him off, and -it was only as the train steamed out of the station that “Fireworks -Fenton” recollected that he had omitted the special business he -had come up to town to do. But he only frowned and muttered: “That -ridiculous little Felcourt put it out of my head, but I’m glad I found -him--glad I found him. What fools these dear women are! What fools! -What fools!” and whenever he turned over a sheet of newspaper (of which -he didn’t read a line), he frowned again, exclaiming: “What fools!” - -The particular fool Mr. Fenton had in his mind found two letters -beside her plate on the following Tuesday morning. She knew both the -handwritings, and gave a little sigh as she opened that from Rodney’s -house-master: it would be to ask how Rodney was getting on: he had -always been fond of the boy, and she had told him nothing. - - “You will, I hope, acquit me of frivolous interference,” ran the - letter, “in matters that do not concern me, when I tell you that I - have seen Rodney and heard from him of the very great change it has - been necessary to make in his life. I greatly wish that I had known - sooner your reasons for taking him away from school, as I think one - of the chief obstacles could have been, and still can be, easily - removed. Dear Mrs. Felcourt, it is with considerable diffidence that - I venture to ask you to do me a great favor, namely, to allow me - to undertake Rodney’s education; my one stipulation being that he - should come back to my house. You know that where there are twenty - to thirty boys, one more or less makes but little difference, and - in becoming responsible for the school fees, I am doing no more - than my headmaster did for me. My mother was left a widow with five - children and very little of this world’s gear. I am fully aware how - much I shall be the gainer if you allow me to have Rodney, for, - young as he is, he had a distinct influence upon that mysterious and - fluctuating commodity, the ‘tone of the house,’ and I have not the - slightest doubt that he will be able to make his own way by aid of - scholarships, ultimately earning his own living nearly as soon as if - he had remained in business. - - “Forgive me where I have expressed myself clumsily, and believe me, - - “Faithfully yours, - “REGINALD FENTON.” - -It was a long time before Felicia took up the other letter, which was -from Cecil Connop, and of this one sentence stood out in letters of -fire to the exclusion of everything else: - -“I don’t believe the boy’s health will stand it, Felicia; come and see -for yourself.” - -Felicia packed her smallest box and went. - -When Rodney came back from business that evening Selina, the -parlormaid, informed him that a lady was waiting in the drawing-room to -see him. Selina, usually so grim, was all “nods and becks and wreathed -smiles”; she liked Rodney, though he did “throw about his clothes -something shameful.” - -He was very tired and his head ached, as it always did in the evening -lately, but something in the maid’s tone made him forget his weariness, -and he raced up the stairs certain that only one lady could have -produced such unwonted geniality on Selina’s part. But he paused on the -mat outside the door; suppose it should only be his aunt! She had never -come yet, but she might, and how was Selina to know that he did not -care particularly for his aunt? - -The door opened suddenly from the inside. - -“I _knew_ nobody else would come upstairs like that. What were you -waiting for, you dear goose?”--and Rodney’s mother inspected her boy -for herself. - -Next day she went to see her brother at his office, and told him that -she had decided to accept Mr. Fenton’s offer. She rather surprised -Uncle Henry, she was so decided and so cool; he did not know that -Cecil Connop had got up two hours earlier than usual, in order to have -plenty of time to fortify Felicia for the interview, only leaving her -at the office door. - -“Do you think he will refuse to have anything more to do with us?” she -had asked timidly. - -“He couldn’t be so absurdly unjust,” answered Cecil stoutly; “but, even -if he were, you have Rodney to think of. It is a chance in a thousand; -it would be worse than madness to throw it away. He’s a square little -peg, is Rodney; you’ll never fit him into that hole.” - -Uncle Henry gave in quite graciously, though he was not best pleased. -Had he but known it, he revenged himself upon Mr. Fenton for his -interference by writing him a solemn letter of thanks, in which he -spoke of his “generous, nay munificent offer.” “Fireworks Fenton,” very -red and uncomfortable, rolled the letter into a ball and dropped it -into his waste-paper basket, exclaiming: - -“Pompous idiot!” - -When Rodney went home his little sisters found him more delightful -than ever, but he was reticent as regarded his experiences in London, -describing it briefly as “a beastly hole.” - -On his return to school “Fireworks Fenton” sent for him the very first -evening. - -“A row already, Felcourt!” exclaimed his best friend in dismay. - -But Rodney ran along the passage and knocked at the study door without -any fears on that score. As he closed the door behind him it was the -master who looked embarrassed, as he jerked out: - -“I’m pleased to see you back, Felcourt. Remember that if you are in -any way perplexed, or get into trouble ... or ... do you want any -pocket-money, by the way?” and “Fireworks” bent anew over the letter he -was writing. - -“No, sir, I have the usual pocket-money, thank you; but please I would -like to----” - -“Now, Felcourt, don’t you see that I’m busy? Go away, go away!” - -“But please, sir----” - -“I know perfectly well all the absurd and ridiculous things you would -say, and I very much prefer that you should not say them. One thing -_I_ have to say, attend to your English prose! I have a distinct -recollection that your spelling of English is revolting--positively -revolting. Attend to it!” - - - - -A TWENTIETH-CENTURY MISOGYNIST - - - What a place to be in is an old library! It seems as though all the - souls of all the writers that have bequeathed their labors to these - Bodleians were reposing here, as in some dormitory, or middle state. - I do not want to handle or profane the leaves, their winding sheets. - I could as soon dislodge a shade. I seem to inhale learning walking - amid their foliage; and the odor of their old moth-scented coverings - is fragrant as the first bloom of those sciential apples which grew - amid the happy orchard.--CHARLES LAMB. - - -I - -Every Easter holidays the schoolmaster went back to Oxford. Head of a -flourishing preparatory school in the north, a bachelor, absorbed in -his boys, strenuous, matter-of-fact, he yet retained after some twenty -years of monotonous grind a romantic affection for the dear city of his -youthful dreams. - -He always put up at the King’s Arms, that ancient hostel with the -undulating floors, where the ale is brown and strong, and the cold beef -tender and streaky. On his very first day he hied him to a solitude he -loved, paid his modest threepence, and mounted to a favorite haunt of -his--the picture-gallery of the Bodleian Library. - -It was always empty; it almost always is empty. Undergraduates know -it not; artistic and intellectual residents appear to scorn its -prosaic portraits of bygone poets and college benefactors, its humble -curiosities. Visitors seldom trouble themselves to mount the few -extra steps leading to it from the world-famed library below. But -the schoolmaster loved to wander up and down the second gallery. He -loved the double archway with the traceried roof, where the statue -of William, Earl of Pembroke, stands in the centre, and the two wide -bay windows are filled with pale stained glass, and one has a deep, -comfortable seat. - -As usual, the gallery seemed deserted, and the schoolmaster let -the peace of its solitude slide into his soul, till his spirit was -compassed about with a great calm. He strolled slowly through the -gallery, his hands, holding his straw hat, clasped behind him. He -always uncovered the instant he entered the little modest door in the -corner of the great quadrangle that leads to so many wonders. Presently -he reached the archway where he was wont to sit and dream. - -With a start of surprise he discovered that it was already tenanted. - -Under the portraits of Ben Jonson and Joseph Trapp, curled up in -a corner of the deep window-seat, his muddy boots reposing on the -sacred oak, was a boy--a small, thin boy in Norfolk jacket and -knickerbockers, apparently about twelve years old, who read absorbedly -a popular illustrated magazine. He never looked up as the schoolmaster -approached. Apparently he neither heard his footstep nor realized that -the newcomer had paused to stare at him in speechless astonishment. - -Amazement, accompanied by extreme annoyance, was the schoolmaster’s -predominant emotion. There seemed to him something incongruous to the -verge of irreverence in anyone daring to read a modern magazine under -the very roof of the building that contained so much of venerable -scholarship. - -It is true that the boy was perfectly quiet. Beyond the turning of -his page, he made no sound of any sort, and the schoolmaster found -himself watching this reader with a sort of dreadful fascination. He -longed that the child should reach the bottom of his page and look -up. He even gave a little cough to attract his attention. But the boy -seemed absolutely unconscious of either the stranger’s presence or his -scrutiny, and read on unmoved, smiling occasionally at what he read. - -The schoolmaster fussed to the end of the gallery, pausing at every -window to look out over the roofs at the towers and spires of Oxford. -Then he fussed back again along the other side, where the view consists -of the grey-walled quadrangle, a veritable “haunt of ancient peace.” -The peace that had enveloped him on his first entry spread her wings -and fled. Irritation and curiosity had taken her place, and as he -reached the archway again he stopped and looked at the motionless -little figure in the window. - -The boy was no longer reading. - -The magazine lay on the window-seat beside him. His knees were drawn up -to his chin, his arms clasped about them, and he stared unblinkingly -at the portrait of Abraham Cowley on the wall that faced him. - -The schoolmaster walked round the statue of William of Pembroke -till he, too, faced the boy. This time the child certainly glanced -in his direction, but the glance was of the most cursory order, and -wholly without interest. In an instant he had returned to his grave -contemplation of the poet, and the schoolmaster might himself have been -the statue of William of Pembroke for any interest he excited. - -The boy was pale and thin-faced, with large, hollow eyes and a tall, -wide forehead--a scholar’s forehead, as the schoolmaster, accustomed -for years to the observation of boys, had already noted. But what -latent scholarship was displayed in the reading of that obnoxious -magazine? And what business, the schoolmaster asked himself angrily, -had a boy of that age to be boxed up indoors on a fine afternoon in the -Easter holidays? - -The schoolmaster was a conscientious man in the pursuit of his -calling. From the very first he had taught himself to look upon boys -as individuals. He loved them; he whole-heartedly wished them well. -They were to him of most absorbing interest; but he liked to get away -from them sometimes, and nowhere had he been able to pass so completely -from his ordinary life of a hundred petty duties and anxieties as in -the high solitude of that deserted gallery, set in the very centre of -the scenes he held most dear, now spoilt and desecrated by this young -interloper with his horrid modern magazine. Why on earth did he choose -to come here? - -The schoolmaster could bear it no longer. “Boy,” he exclaimed, “why do -you come and read here?” - -Slowly the boy turned his melancholy eyes upon his questioner. -“Because,” he answered, civilly enough, but without any enthusiasm, “it -is generally perfectly quiet here.” - -There was the faintest perceptible emphasis on the “generally,” not so -much impertinent as gently reproving. Having answered, he turned his -eyes again upon the chubby, smiling countenance of Abraham Cowley, and -silence fell upon them like a pall. - -The schoolmaster was baffled, but more curious than ever. He was quite -conscious of the implied reproach in the “generally,” and he noted the -absence of the courteous “sir” with which any properly constituted boy -would conclude a remark made to an elder. But he could not feel that -the boy had been willfully rude. He would try again. “May I ask,” he -said pleasantly, “why you are so fond of looking at the portrait of -Abraham Cowley?” - -Again the boy shifted his gaze from the smug charms of the poet to the -worn and somewhat homely features of his questioner. - -“I like him cos he’s so good-tempered--in this one,” was the brief -reply. - -The schoolmaster came and stood beside the boy, and looked at the -portrait. Above it was another, also by Kneller, but representing him -as thin and severe-looking. - -“They’re very different, aren’t they?” the schoolmaster remarked. -“You’d hardly think they were the same man, would you?” - -“I expect,” the boy said solemnly, “in the top one he’s been married.” - -This startling supposition fairly took away the schoolmaster’s breath. -He racked his brains to remember all he had ever heard or read of -Abraham Cowley, and couldn’t for the life of him recollect whether he -was married or not. It is not in the nature of a true schoolmaster to -leave a youthful mind in the darkness of ignorance if he can be the -bearer of a torch whose light may pierce that gloom, so he said: “I -expect it was his political troubles that caused so marked a change in -his appearance. Do you know anything about him?” - -“No, but I like him.” - -“Shall I tell you about him?” - -“No, thank you,” the boy answered politely, but with firm finality. - -He took up his magazine again, opened it, spread it upon his knees, and -in one instant was absorbed in its pages. - -The schoolmaster sat down on the window-seat and gazed alternately -at the boy and at the portraits of Ben Jonson and Joseph Trapp above -his head. Since he had been a little boy himself he had never felt -so snubbed. He was wholly unaccustomed to be a cypher in the eyes of -boys, and suddenly with devastating force there was flung upon him -the conviction that he never saw a real boy at all--that the boys -he saw were all carefully expurgated editions arranged to suit his -sensibilities. - -A wild spirit of enterprise seduced the schoolmaster. He felt himself -as one who after long sailing in smooth, familiar waters suddenly -sights an unknown and precipitous shore. - -He had come to Oxford to get away from the boys he thought he knew. -What if, at Oxford, he received real enlightenment with regard to a boy -he did not know? The sunshine faded and the gallery grew dark. Outside, -he heard the soft patter of a heavy April shower. - -“You ought not to read in this light,” he said suddenly, “you will hurt -your eyes.” - -The boy looked up surprised at this fresh interruption, but he -obediently closed his book: there is something almost irresistible in -the commands of those accustomed to exert authority. - -“Do you come here often?” asked the schoolmaster. - -“Yes, whenever I’ve got threepence to get in.” - -“Has no one ever told you that when you are talking to an older man it -is considered polite to say ‘sir’?” - -“No. I don’t know many old men, nor men at all, for the matter of that.” - -“Why, Oxford is full of men.” - -“That may be. I don’t know ’em. I only wish I did.” - -The boy spoke bitterly and his eyes were full of gloom. - -“Don’t you go to school?” this “older man” asked anxiously. - -“No, I’m too delicate, so they say.” - -“Who teaches you, then?” - -“A guv’ness. I say, do you think we _ought_ to talk here?” - -“I see no reason why not. This isn’t the library, there is no notice -enforcing silence.” - -The boy looked as if he wished there was. He sat perfectly mute, with -his eyes fixed on the placid portrait over the schoolmaster’s head. - -“Wouldn’t you like to come downstairs with me and see some of the -curiosities in the library?” the schoolmaster suggested beguilingly. - -“No, thank you.” - -Really it was most difficult to make any headway with this boy. But the -schoolmaster possessed to the full the necessary perseverance of his -craft, so he continued his catechism: - -“Do your parents live in Oxford?” - -“I haven’t got any parents, they’re dead.” - -“Dear me, how sad! With whom do you live, then?” - -“Aunts.” - -Written words can in nowise express the snappiness with which the boy -ejaculated this monosyllable. The schoolmaster felt unaccountably -chilled and worsted, and silence fell upon them once more. - -The black cloud had passed over the Bodleian, the rain ceased, and the -sun shone out again. The boy swung his feet off the window-seat, put on -his cap and picked up his magazine, and without a word of farewell, -strolled nonchalantly out of the gallery, leaving the schoolmaster to -exclaim when he had finally vanished, “Well, of all the curmudgeony -boys it has ever been my lot to meet, there goes the most curmudgeony!” - - -II - -Yet he found it difficult to dismiss the ungracious youngster from his -thoughts. Next afternoon he sought the gallery again, but there was -no little figure curled up in the deep window-seat. The poet Cowley -smiled serenely, the gallery was deserted, dignified, reposeful as -of yore: with all its mellow charm of faded coloring, that even the -luminous stillness of that April afternoon could not burnish into real -brightness. But the usual sense of pleasant well-being, and ordered -peace, failed to enwrap the soul of the schoolmaster. Even as the day -before he had found the presence of the reading figure in the window -irritating and incongruous, so to-day he found its absence singularly -disturbing. He walked once round the gallery, sat a few minutes looking -at the portrait of Cowley and wondering what mysterious charm it -held for the queer child who loved it, and so into the dear familiar -irregular streets, where he scanned every boy who passed, in the hope -of coming across his small acquaintance of the day before. He went -every day to the gallery, but no boy was there. He almost gave up hope -of ever seeing him again, but he did not forget; and when, eight days -after their first meeting, he mounted to the gallery and saw the -little figure crouched in the window as before, with a gaily covered -magazine open on his knees, the schoolmaster’s heart beat a little -faster, and he hurried forward, exclaiming: “Where have you been all -these days?” - -The boy started at his greeting, looked up, and a smile of recognition -changed his face so absolutely that the schoolmaster felt a queer -tightening in the muscles of his throat. - -“I don’t get my pocket-money till a Friday,” the boy explained. “I -couldn’t come before.” - -“Well, now you are here, let’s have a chat together,” the schoolmaster -said genially. “We both like this place, let’s tell each other the -reasons why, and see if they’re the same.” - -He sat down beside the boy, just out of reach of the muddy boots. The -boy, his magazine still held open on his knees, surveyed his neighbor -with dark, mournful eyes. Now that the smile had ceased to lighten -his face, the schoolmaster was shocked at the sharpness of the thin -cheekbones, the hollows and the blue shadows under the solemn eyes. - -“I can’t tell you why I like it,” said the boy, “’cept p’r’aps because -it’s so quiet, no one ever talks here, and there’s no women.” - -“But women can come here if they like,” the schoolmaster objected. - -“They never _do_ like, not when I’m here,” the boy exclaimed eagerly. -“I’ve been here every week for months and months and I’ve never seen -one.” - -“But why do you object to women?” the schoolmaster persisted. “We -should be in a poor case without them, most of us.” - -“_I_ don’t object to them,” the boy said wearily; “it’s them objects to -us, and they do talk so--talk and talk and talk about their sufferings.” - -“Sufferings?” the schoolmaster repeated. - -“_You_ know,” said the boy impatiently, “women’s sufferings and votes -and things, and Parliament and injustice and that.” - -“Suffrage, suffrage, you mean suffrage!” cried the schoolmaster. - -“It’s all the same, that’s what they talk about, and inferiority and -that. One can’t help being born a boy, can one?” - -“_Help_ it!” exclaimed the schoolmaster. “Why, who’d be born anything -else if they had their choice?” - -The boy’s pale cheeks flushed. “Do you really mean that?” he asked -eagerly. - -“Of course I do. It’s a glorious thing to be a boy who’s going to be a -man.” - -“_They_ don’t think so, they say it’s much better to be a girl; they’re -sorry I’m a boy.” - -“Oh, come,” the schoolmaster said chaffingly. “You can’t expect me to -believe that. They may say so in a kind of joke, but they don’t really -mean it.” - -“Do you know my aunts?” - -“Well, no; but I expect they are very like other ladies, who often say -what they don’t mean.” - -The boy gave one scornful glance in the direction of the schoolmaster, -lowered his eyes to the printed page, and was instantly absorbed. - -The schoolmaster felt that he was dismissed. He had been weighed in -the balance, and found wanting in sympathy and insight, a mere stupid -looker-on at the outside of things. Five minutes ago the boy had -welcomed him. Now, it was as though the child had risen with the royal -prerogative, and closed the interview. The schoolmaster sighed deeply. - -The boy looked up. His eyes were the color of a still pool in a -Devonshire trout stream, brown, with olive-green shadows, suggesting -depths unfathomable. The schoolmaster instantly seized upon the small -concession, exclaiming: “I came here every day in the hope of seeing -you again, and now that you are here, you sit and read. Don’t you think -it’s rather unkind?” - -The boy flushed hotly, and once more the transforming smile illumined -his face as he said: “You came here on purpose to see me? Why?” - -“Well, you see, I’ve known a good many boys in my time, and I thought -you seemed a bit lonely....” - -The hungry eyes devoured him, and the schoolmaster stopped in the -middle of his sentence, for, like all Englishmen, he dreaded any -manifestation of feeling, and the boy looked as if he were about to -cry. His fears were groundless, however, for the child only said: “How -many boys have you known?” - -“Rather over a thousand, I fancy. You see, it has been my business to -have to do with boys for over twenty years.” - -“Over a thousand boys--and I don’t know one! How unfair things are, and -beastly.” - -The boy looked enviously at the grizzled man who had known so many -boys; and the man looked pityingly at this boy who seemed to have been -somehow cheated of all that makes youth joyous. - -“How is it you have no friends of your own age?” he said presently. -“Why don’t you beg your aunts to send you to school? You’d probably get -stronger directly you got there, with the regular games and busy life.” - -“My aunts don’t like schools. They say boys learn to be tyrants and -bullies at school.” - -“Oh, do they? You couldn’t have fifty tyrants in one place, or they’d -be the death of one another, like the Kilkenny cats.” - -“My aunts say,” the boy continued, “that I’m to be a result. I won’t -be a result. It’s beastly to be a result. I’ll be a policeman when I’m -grown up. Just you wait. I’ll stand outside Parliament, and if a woman -comes near I’ll carry her to jail. You see if I don’t.” - -The boy spoke with such vindictive bitterness that the schoolmaster was -shocked. - -“I have no doubt,” he said soothingly, “that your aunts have good -reasons for many of their views. You cannot possibly judge of such -questions for many years to come.” - -“You’d judge if you heard it all day long like I do,” the boy retorted. -“It’s only here I get away from it. Here in this nice quiet with that -fat, contented chap smiling at me; and now you’ve been and made me -talk about it, so even _he_ will know. You’ve gone and spoilt my -place--it’s too bad.” - -The boy looked as if he was really going to cry this time, and the -schoolmaster felt dreadfully guilty. - -“Tell me about your parents,” he said hastily. “Do you remember them?” - -“My father died before I was born, and my mother just after--she always -was very unwise.” - -“My dear boy, you ought not to speak about your mother like that. You -shock me.” - -“Well, _they_ say so.” - -“If anyone was to say to me that my mother was unwise, I’d--I’d knock -him down!” the schoolmaster exclaimed. - -“P’r’aps you knew her?” - -“Thank God, yes!” - -“Ah, I didn’t, you see--and I don’t think I could knock Aunt Amabel -down--she’s very strong.” - -“Of course not, of course not,” the schoolmaster said hastily. “I never -suggested such a thing for a moment. I expect you misunderstand your -aunts, and it is possible that they don’t quite understand you.” - -The boy said nothing. He no longer stared at Cowley’s portrait. He -stared at the schoolmaster, and in his melancholy gaze was concentrated -all the bitterness and disappointment of his twelve short years. - -“Let us come out and walk by the Cher,” said the schoolmaster. - -The boy followed him obediently, and as they turned into Catharine -Street, slipped his hand into that of his new acquaintance. - -“Twelve years old,” thought that worthy, “and he takes a fellow’s hand. -Poor little chap!” Aloud he said: “Boys generally take each other by -the arm, you know.” - -Instantly his companion seized him by his, and arm in arm they sought -the sheltered walk loved well by Joseph Addison. - - -III - -After that they met every day in the quadrangle of the Bodleian by -appointment, and together mounted to their favorite seat in the -picture-gallery. The boy no longer read a magazine; instead, he asked -questions--endless, anxious, exhaustive questions--as to the usual -doings and habits of boys who lived with each other and were brought up -by men. All his ideas on the subject were gathered from school stories, -and in consequence were crude and chimerical in the extreme. It was -undoubtedly a shock to him when this kindly friend of his frankly -admitted that he had frequently caned boys, and that he was supposed -to have “rather a heavy hand.” And the schoolmaster was still more -shocked at the bitterness of soul he discovered in this queer, quiet -boy. He gathered that the aunts--generally spoken of as “they”--were -ladies wholly absorbed in politics and every kind of movement for the -emancipation of women, and the schoolmaster pictured them as members -of the shrieking sisterhood, ill-favored and ill-dressed, oblivious of -the fact that feminine political opinions do not necessarily march in -elastic-sided boots. When the boy did condescend to mention one of his -aunts by name it was always of “Aunt Amabel” he spoke. She appeared -to be the guiding spirit of the trio, busy, strong, and energetic, -spending what time she could spare from politics in the pursuit of -all those games from which the unfortunate boy was debarred by lack -of comrades, and the schoolmaster found himself thinking with quite -unusual enthusiasm of the sister who kept house for him. At times he -had regretted her exclusively domestic talents. Now he even began to -share her serene conviction that women were, on the whole, so much -superior to men that only the very foolish could wish to resemble them. - -In the course of their long talks the schoolmaster had enlightened -his companion as to what constituted, in his simple creed, the whole -duty of boy; and so far as his ideals related to honor and courage and -truthfulness, he found the child singularly receptive and responsive; -but when he touched on the chivalry that should be shown to women, when -he tried to arouse the protective instinct that is generally so deeply -rooted and spontaneous in even the most rough and tumble average boy, -he was met by blank incomprehension, or a veiled hostility that puzzled -and depressed him. “If this,” thought he to himself, “is the result -of the feminist movement on the rising generation of men, God help the -next generation of women!” - -The men had come up, and the schoolmaster’s holiday was nearly ended. -In two days more he would need to return to his duties in the North, -to look after the cricket pitches in the playing-fields, and to see -that all was shipshape for the boys’ next term. For the last time he -met his sad-faced little friend in Catharine Street. This time they did -not go up to the picture-gallery. It was a sunny day in late April, -when Oxford seems to burgeon and blossom in a riotous ecstasy of youth -and gladness. River and playing-fields were gay with lithe, flannelled -figures, and everywhere the air was sweet with the scent of opening -lilacs. - -“We’ll go on the river this afternoon,” cried the schoolmaster when he -spied the little figure waiting for him; “it’s far too fine to be boxed -up indoors. I’ll take you in a Canadian canoe. You must sit very still, -you know. You don’t think your aunts would mind, do you?” - -“They’re in London. Aunt Amabel comes back to-night, but she’ll be off -again in a day or two; she’s always going to meetings. I’m jolly glad -she’s been away this week; she might have wanted to interfere----” - -“I don’t think she would mind your coming out with me, or I wouldn’t -take you. You must tell her all about it this evening. I’ll give you my -card to show her, and you can explain how we met.” - -The boy’s dark eyes were mutinous as he took the proffered card and -put it in his pocket, but he said nothing. On the river in the bright -sunshine the schoolmaster noticed how very ill he looked, and a great -desire possessed this kindly soul to make things easier for the boy. -The sight of the black shadows encircling the sombre eyes that should -have been so bright with youth and hope decided the schoolmaster to do -what he most hated doing--to interfere in another’s affairs, where he -had no possible excuse or even reason for so doing. - -He walked back with the boy to his home, one of the large, ugly, -comfortable houses “standing in its own grounds,” that have sprung -up on the outskirts of beautiful old Oxford: a house that looked -excessively well-to-do and trim and neat. “Nothing of Mrs. Jellyby -here,” thought the schoolmaster. - -“Shan’t I see you again?” asked the boy in a husky whisper, as they -reached his gate. “It’ll be awful when you’re gone.” - -“We’ll see, we’ll see,” the schoolmaster said hastily. “I can’t make an -arrangement now. Good-bye, my boy. God bless you!” - -The boy’s wistful eyes were more than he could bear. The man turned -hastily and walked away, nor once looked back at the watching figure by -the gate. - -Next morning he called upon Aunt Amabel about ten o’clock. The less -conventional the hour, the more possible did he feel it might be -to explain his errand. She was at home and would see him. The boy -had evidently done his bidding. As he followed the maid from the -drawing-room to the study, he prayed that some Pentecostal gift of -tongues might be vouchsafed to him. - -Aunt Amabel was seated at a large knee-hole table covered with -papers. She rose as he came into the room and held out her hand. -The business-like table, the litter of papers, was exactly what the -schoolmaster had expected, but the lady was wholly unlike the lady of -his dreams. Tall, well-dressed, good-looking, and by no means old, she -made things harder for him by her welcome. “You are the gentleman who -has been so good to Reginald? It is kind of you to call. I am most -pleased to meet you. He is a somewhat unusual boy, is he not? We rather -pride ourselves on his taste for old buildings, and things that do not -generally appeal to boys.” - -The schoolmaster mumbled some vague politeness and seated himself upon -a chair which faced the knee-hole table. Aunt Amabel’s eyes were dark, -like the boy’s, but they were bright and lively, and she turned them -now upon her visitor with full inquiring gaze. - -“I came,” the schoolmaster said bluntly, “to see you about your nephew. -He is not well, and I think his state of health arises largely from the -fact that he has no companions of his own age, nor suitable interests. -Why don’t you send him to school?” - -As he spoke he was perfectly conscious that this self-possessed -young woman was misjudging him, and the knowledge made him even less -diplomatic than usual. - -“We have never considered him strong enough for school life. He is an -unusual child of difficult temperament. He would be extremely unhappy -at school.” - -There was a superior finality in the lady’s tone that roused all the -fighting element in the schoolmaster. “He could hardly be more unhappy -than he is at present,” he said sharply. “I know that this must appear, -as indeed it is, a piece of unwarrantable interference on my part, but, -having become really interested in the boy, I could not reconcile it to -my conscience to leave Oxford without warning you that if you persist -in keeping your nephew away from the natural companionship, amusements, -and employments of his age, he will wither away as surely as a plant -withers when light and air are withheld from it. That boy will die.” - -He shook a thick forefinger at her, and the scorn died out of her eyes. -The men who most countenance the woman’s movement are seldom masterful. -Aunt Amabel began to like this dictatorial man. It was a new, and not -altogether disagreeable, experience to be rated. - -“You have a school, haven’t you?” she asked, sweetly. - -The schoolmaster’s dun-colored face crimsoned. “My dear young lady,” -he answered hotly, “if you imagine that I came to see you because I -was touting for another pupil, pray dismiss the idea from your mind.” -This time it was Aunt Amabel who blushed. “I came because, knowing a -good deal of boys, I feel sure that your nephew is delicate because -he is lonely and unoccupied; he is a very boyish boy, a boy who needs -the companionship of his own kind. You have an excellent preparatory -school quite near here. Try for a term--see what it does for Reginald.” - -“To be quite candid,” said Aunt Amabel, “we do not care for the -training, mental or moral, that boys receive at the average preparatory -school.” - -“Try one that’s not average,” he interrupted. “There are plenty of -them, all fads and flannel shirts and girls thrown in. He won’t learn -anything, but what does that matter? It’s health and youth and gladness -that you want for him, and a normal point of view; at present that -child’s a perfect misogynist.” - -The lady started at the word, and at this critical moment her nephew -came into the room. At first he did not see his friend of the Bodleian; -when he did he stopped short, looking from his aunt to her visitor with -puzzled, timid eyes. - -“Reginald,” said Aunt Amabel, “this gentleman says you are lonely and -unhappy, and that you would really like to go to school. Is this so?” - -“Yes.” - -The timid look faded from the boy’s eyes to be replaced by one that was -almost stern, so earnest was it. - -“Why have you never said anything to me about it? You have never -complained.” - -“What was the use?” - -“But how could we know you were not happy if you never said anything?” - -“He knew, without my never saying anything.” The boy pointed at the -schoolmaster, who sat with downcast eyes. - -“So it appears,” the lady said somewhat tartly, “although you seem to -me to have said a good deal. That will do, Reginald; you may go.” - -But Reginald did not go. He looked at the schoolmaster, and he looked -at his aunt. He took a step forward, exclaiming earnestly: “If you will -let me be like other boys, Aunt Amabel, I won’t be a policeman when I’m -grown up; I’ll give it up; I’ll truly be something else.” The boy spoke -as one who promises to part with some long-cherished and imperishable -ideal. - -“Oh, child!” exclaimed poor, puzzled Aunt Amabel, “I can’t imagine what -you are talking about. _Do_ run away.” - -“You see,” said the boy sadly to the schoolmaster, “she never _can_ -understand,” and he hastened from the room. - -The schoolmaster rose. “Believe me,” he said gently, “I do not want -your nephew for a pupil. I’d far rather keep him as a friend--I don’t -mean to say that a master can’t be a friend to his boys, but the -relationship must necessarily be a little different, and it has been a -pleasant experience to come across a boy under quite new circumstances. -I wouldn’t spoil it for the world.” - -Aunt Amabel looked down, and the schoolmaster noticed that her -eyelashes were long and very black. “I am sure you mean kindly,” she -said gently, “and you may be sure I shall give every consideration to -what you have said.” - -When her strange visitor had gone she sat for a long time quite still -in front of her table, staring with unseeing eyes at the many papers -scattered upon it. She knitted her black eyebrows and thought and -thought, but apparently to no purpose, for presently she said to -herself: “What _could_ he mean by calling that little boy a misogynist, -and what on earth could the child mean about not being a policeman?” - -The boy was waiting for the schoolmaster at the gate as he went out. -“Well, was it any use?” he cried eagerly. - -“My dear chap,” said that gentleman, “you are a little noodle. That’s -what you are.” - -And the boy, as he trotted by the schoolmaster’s side, found something -vaguely comforting in this cryptic speech. - - - - -PART II - -CHILDREN OF LAST CENTURY - - - - -A SMALL EVENT - - - All service ranks the same with God: - If now, as formerly He trod - Paradise, His presence fills - Our earth, each only as God wills - Can work--God’s puppets, best and worst, - Are we; there is no last nor first. - - Say not “a small event”! Why “small”? - Costs it more pain than this, ye call - A “great event” should come to pass, - Than that? Untwine me from the mass - Of deeds which make up life, one deed - Power shall fall short in or exceed! - - _Pippa Passes._ - -Every night the Alfresco Entertainers gave their performance on a -little platform set right under the shadow of the great cliff; while -in front of them, not a dozen yards away, the rhythmic wash of the sea -on a rocky shore seemed a sort of accompaniment to their songs, much -softer and more tuneful than that of the poor, jingly, rheumatic piano, -which had nothing between it and every sort of weather save an ancient -mackintosh cover. - -The village itself was but a shelf of shore with one long, straggling, -lop-sided street: cottage and shop and great hotel set down haphazard, -cheek by jowl, all apparently somewhat inept excrescences on the side -of the green-clad cliffs rising behind them straight and steep, a sheer -five hundred feet, and just across the narrow line of red road lies the -Bristol Channel, with, on a clear day, the Welsh coast plainly in view. - -At ten years old, people are generally found more interesting than -scenery, and Basil took a great interest in the variety entertainers. -They looked so smart and debonair, he thought, in their blue reefers, -white duck trousers, and gold-laced yachting caps--though they none -of them ever put out to sea. There were five of them altogether, two -ladies and three men. Basil did not care so much about the ladies, in -spite of the rows of Chinese lanterns that outlined the little stage -and shone so pink in the darkness; there seemed no glamor or mystery -about them. They were not transcendently beautiful like the gauzy good -fairy of pantomime, or the peerless, fearless circus lady in pink and -spangles: neither did they possess the mirth-provoking qualities of the -dauntless three clad in yatching garb. One always sang sentimentally of -“daddies,” or “aunties,” or “chords,” that had somehow gone amissing; -and the other--Basil almost disliked that other--sang about things he -could in nowise understand, in a hoarse voice, and danced in between -the verses, and she didn’t dance at all prettily, for she had thick -ankles and high shoulders. - -But the three “naval gentlemen,” as Basil respectfully called them, -sang funny songs, and acted and knocked each other about in such -fashion as caused him almost to roll off his chair in fits of ecstatic -mirth. Nearly every fine night after dinner, if nobody wanted him, -Harnet, the tall man-servant, would take Basil, and they sat on two -chairs in the front row and listened to the entertainment. Sometimes -grandfather himself would come, but he generally went to sleep in his -chair at home; for when a man goes peel-fishing all day, walking half -a dozen miles up the rocky bank of a Devonshire trout stream to his -favorite pool, he is disinclined to move again, once he has changed and -dined. - -The bulk of the audience attending the Alfresco Entertainment sat on -the wall separating shore from road, or on the curbstone, but there -were always a few chairs placed directly facing the stage, which were -charged for at sixpence each. Harnet was far too grand and dignified to -sit on either wall or curbstone, and as grandfather always gave Basil a -shilling to put in the cardboard plate, Harnet preferred to spend it in -this wise. - -Now all that company had high-sounding, aristocratic names, except -one, who was called, as Basil said, “just simply Mr. Smith.” There -was Mr. Montmorency, the manager, whose cheeks were almost as blue -as his reefer, and his wife, the lady who danced in the evening, but -in the daytime affected flowing tea-gowney garments and large flat -hats; there was Mr. Neville Beauchamp, who sang coster songs, to whom -the particular accent required for this sort of ditty really seemed -no effort, as all his songs were given in similarly pronounced and -singular fashion. The lady of the melancholy ballads was called De -Vere; she looked thin and young and generally cold, as well she might, -for she played everyone’s accompaniments, and never wore a coat, -however cold the night. But it was for Mr. Smith that Basil felt most -enthusiasm. In the first place, his speaking voice was as the voices of -“grandfather’s friends.” In the second, he was, to Basil’s thinking, an -admirable actor--changing face and voice, even his very body, to suit -the part he happened to be playing; and thirdly, he was funny--funny in -a way that Basil understood. Even grandfather laughed at Mr. Smith and -applauded him, and when the cardboard plate went round, he sent Basil -with the first bit of gold they had had that season. - -“Clever chap that,” he said as they strolled homeward under the quiet -stars. “Reminds me of someone somehow--looks like a broken-down -gentleman; got nice voice, and nice hands--wonder what he’s doing with -that lot?” - -Basil, however, was quite content to admire Mr. Smith without -concerning himself as to his antecedents. He forthwith christened him -“the jokey man,” and it rather puzzled him that, except at night, the -jokey man was hardly ever with the others, but went wandering about by -himself in an aimless and somewhat dismal fashion. Could it be that -Mr. Montmorency and Mr. Neville Beauchamp were proud, Basil wondered, -because they had such fine names. - -Basil’s face was as round as a full moon, and fresh and fair as a -monthly rose. Tall and well set up, he was good at games, and keen -on every kind of sport. Long days did he spend up the river with his -grandfather fishing for trout--he was to have a license for peel -next summer, but had to be content with trout during this. He went -sea-fishing, too, in charge of a nice fisherman called Oxenham, and -caught big pollock outside the bay, and every morning Oxenham rowed -Basil and Harnet out from the shore that they might have their morning -swim, for the coast is so rocky and dangerous that bathing from the -land is no fun at all--though the rocks are very nice to potter about -on at low tide, when energetic persons can find prawns in the pools. - -One day as Basil was busily engaged in this pursuit, who should come -up behind him but the jokey man, looking as melancholy as though there -was no sunshine, or blue water, or pleasant pools full of strange sea -beasts. Indeed, although he was by profession such an amusing man, he -had by no means a cheerful face. Tired lines were written all round his -eyes, his shoulders were bent, and his long slim hands hung loose and -listless at his sides, yet it was plain that he was by no means old. -Moreover, he had changed his smart yachting suit for an old tweed coat -and knickerbockers, and a grey billycock dragged over his eyes bereft -his appearance of all traces of the jokey man. So that for a minute or -two Basil did not know him, even although he sat down on a rock close -by and lit his pipe. - -Basil was standing bare-legged and knee-deep in water in pursuit of a -particularly active and artful shrimp, so that it was only when he at -last lifted his head with an emphatic “bother,” that he noticed the -stranger; then he beamed, for chance had tossed plump into his lap the -opportunity he had long been seeking. - -“How do you do?” the little boy inquired politely, taking off his -muffin cap with one wet hand while he grasped his net with the other. -“I am so pleased to have met you; I’ve wanted to for ever so long.” - -“That’s very nice of you,” said the man, and when he smiled he looked -quite young. “I am sure the pleasure is mutual.” - -“I’ve something most pertickler to ask you,” continued Basil eagerly, -scrambling out of the pool to sit on the rock beside him, “and it -seemed as if I was never to get a chance. It’s not for myself either, -it’s for Viola--you know Viola by sight, I daresay?” - -Now it happened that the jokey man, like most other people in that -village, knew Viola by sight very well indeed. In fact, Viola, and the -General, and Basil, were as speedily pointed out to every stranger who -arrived as though they had been bits of scenery. For they came every -summer and the village was proud of them. - -“Is she your sister?” asked the jokey man, suddenly taking his pipe out -of his mouth. - -“Yes, and she’s two year older than me, but she doesn’t go to -school--I’ve been for a year--she has a ma’mselle. I daresay you’ve -seen us with her. It’s been such a bore having her here, but she’s -going to-morrow, and then we shall do just what we like, for there -will be only Harnet and Polly, and we like them. Grannie had to go off -quite suddenly to nurse Aunt Alice, and won’t be back for a week, so -there’ll be nobody but grandfather and us; it’ll be simply ripping,” -and Basil paused breathless, beaming at the pleasant picture he had -conjured up. - -The jokey man put his pipe back into his mouth and waited; but it had -gone out, so he just laid it on the rocks beside him, saying: - -“What was it you wanted to ask me?” - -“It’s rather difficult to explain,” Basil began, turning very red and -rumpling his hair. “It’s Viola, you know; she wants so dreadfully to -come to your entertainment. I’ve told her about it, you know, but -grandfather says----” Here Basil paused, and turned even redder than -before: “One has to be so particular over one’s girls, you know,” he -interpolated apologetically, “and she’s the only girl in our family. -Grandfather never had any sisters or any daughters, so he thinks no end -of Viola, and father and mother are in India, and he says----” - -“That some of the songs are vulgar,” said the jokey man shortly. “So -they are; he’s perfectly right.” - -The jokey man looked at Basil, and Basil looked at the jokey man for a -full minute. Then the little boy said very earnestly: - -“Do you think that you could persuade them--those other gentlemen, I -mean--to leave out one or two songs one evening? There’s that one about -the ‘giddy little girl in the big black hat’ that Mr. Montmorency -sings. Grandfather doesn’t like that one, and it’s not very amusing, is -it? And Viola _does_ want to come so dreadfully.” - -The jokey man made no reply, but stared straight out to sea with a -very grave face. Perhaps he was thinking of all those other Violas who -listened night after night to the songs the General objected to, and -were perhaps, unlike his Viola, not “cared about, kept out of harm, and -schemed for, safe in love as with a charm.” - -Basil waited politely for some minutes, then, as the jokey man didn’t -speak, he continued earnestly: - -“You see she can just hear that there is music and singing when the -windows are open, and it’s so tantalizing, and you see it would be rude -to walk away when we’d heard you, and come back next time you sang, -wouldn’t it? It doesn’t matter for boys----” - -“I’m not at all sure of that,” said Mr. Smith hastily; “it matters very -much for boys, too, I think--especially if they don’t happen to have -wise grandfathers with good taste. I’ll see what can be done, and let -you know.” - -“Oh, thank you so much!” cried Basil; “that is kind of you. Viola will -be so pleased; she’s up the village now with Polly, or I’d fetch her to -thank you herself.” - -Now while Basil was talking he noticed that the jokey man’s coat had -got leather on the shoulders, and that the leather looked as worn as -the coat, so he rightly deduced that at some time or another his new -friend must have been something of a sportsman, and asked: - -“D’you fish at all?” - -“Not here,” said the jokey man, “but I’ve done some fishing in my time. -Have you had good sport?” - -Then immediately ensued a long discussion on the relative merits of -flies, and Basil gave forth his opinion, an opinion backed up by the -experience of numerous natives, that the “Coachman” was the fly for -that neighborhood, but that there were occasions, especially early in -July, when exceedingly good results might be obtained by using red -ants. They told each other fishing stories. Basil confided to the -jokey man that he had just got a beautiful new split cane rod from -“Hardy Brothers,” promised to show it to him at the earliest possible -opportunity, and they speedily became the best of friends. For it is -a curious fact that although the actual sport itself is a somewhat -taciturn pursuit, there are no more conversational sportsmen in the -world than ardent followers of the gentle craft. - -Another thing--they are always courteous listeners, and generally full -of good stories themselves, yet have the most delicate appreciation -of other people’s anecdotes. You can nearly always tell a member of a -fishing family by this rare and pleasing trait. - -Next morning the jokey man called at the hotel and asked for Basil -at the door. He wouldn’t come in, and when Basil, greatly excited, -appeared, only waited to say hastily: “If you like to bring your -sister to-night, I think I can promise you that it will be all right.” -Then fled before Basil could thank him, and was soon pounding up the -steep hill that ends abruptly at the hotel door, as though he were -training for a mountaineering race. - -Basil tore back into their sitting-room to lay the case before his -grandfather, who, for once, was lunching in the hotel. - -“He promised, you know,” he concluded jubilantly, “so she _can_ come, -can’t she?” - -Grandfather pulled his moustache and laughed. Then Viola came and laid -her fresh soft cheek against his, murmuring pleadingly: “Darling, -it would be so lovely,” till he pinched Viola’s cheek and made -stipulations about heavy cloaks, and the children knew the day was won. - -And the end of it all was that, at half-past eight that evening, -grandfather, Basil and Viola were seated on three chairs in the very -middle of the road that ran past the Alfresco Entertainers’ stage; -but as the road ends abruptly in a precipitous rock some thirty yards -further along, there is no fear of being run over by traffic. - -What an evening of delight that was! How Basil and Viola laughed, and -how pleased was grandfather! Another thing is quite certain--that the -Alfresco Entertainers in no way lost by the alterations they had made -in their programme; the rest of the audience seemed as pleased as Basil -and Viola, and no one appeared to miss the “giddy little girl in the -big black hat” the least little bit in the world. - -“Really, it’s vastly civil of Mr. Thingummy,” said grandfather on their -way home. - - * * * * * - -Grandfather and Harnet had gone fishing for the whole day. Mademoiselle -had departed, only Polly was left in charge, and she had so bad a -headache--she put it down to the close, cloudy weather--that she was -fain to go and lie down directly she had waited upon Basil and Viola -at their lunch, having given the children permission to go for a walk -along the beach. - -It was a grey day, humid and still, and, being low tide, there seemed -no fresh wind blowing in from the sea as usual. The children scrambled -over the rocks, very happy and important at being, for once, left to -their own devices, and they decided to make an expedition to a little -sandy bay that can be reached from the shore at low tide, and to come -back by a steep winding path up the cliffs which terminates in the -coach road just above the village. They had not considered it necessary -to confide their intention to Polly, who would certainly have objected. -They reached the bay all right, paddled for a little time on the hard, -smooth sand, and then set out to climb the path which winds in and out -of the side of the cliff for all the world like a spiral staircase up -to some nine hundred feet above the sea. This path is so narrow that -travelers can only walk in Indian file. On the one side is the steep -face of the heather-clad rock, on the other a sheer drop on to the -rocks below. - -When the children had climbed about a third of the way they found -themselves enveloped in white mist--a mist so thick, and fine, and -clinging, that you cannot see your own hand held before your face. It -was no use to go down again; the tide had turned, and soon the sea -would be lapping gently at the foot of the pathway. There was nothing -for it but to go on slowly, carefully, step by step, feeling all the -time for the rocks on the inner side; by and by the path would widen. - -“Don’t be frightened, Viola,” said Basil cheerfully. “It’ll take us a -goodish while, but a bit higher up we can walk together.” - -“I’m not exactly frightened,” said Viola in a tremulous voice, “but I -rather wish we hadn’t come.” - -“So do I,” Basil answered fervently. “If I hadn’t been such a juggins -I’d have looked up and seen the mist on those cliffs long ago. Probably -you can’t see that there _are_ any cliffs in the village now.” - -On they toiled, slowly and painfully. It is really a most unpleasant -mode of progression, walking sideways up a hill with your back against -a very nubbly sort of wall. - -“Hark!” cried Basil presently. “Didn’t you hear a call?” - -The children paused, leant against the cliff, and listened -breathlessly. Sure enough someone was calling. It sounded very muffled -and far off; but it was plainly a man’s voice, and he was calling for -help. - -“Do you think it’s above or below?” Basil asked anxiously. “I can’t -seem to tell in this fog.” - -“It must be above, or we should have heard it before. Call out that -we’re coming.” - -Basil shouted with all the force of his young lungs, and again the -faint, muffled voice answered with a cry for help. - -“Come on,” exclaimed Basil in great excitement; “we’ll find him!” and -sure enough in another bend of the path Basil nearly fell over the -prostrate figure of a man lying right across it, for here it suddenly -grew wider. The man raised himself on his elbow, exclaiming: - -“I say, do you think that when you get to the village you could send -help? I’m very much afraid that I’ve broken my leg. I can’t stand, and -moving at all hurts it no end.” - -“Why, it’s the jokey man!” Basil cried out in dismay. “However did you -do it?” - -“Oh, dear! oh, dear!” added Viola. “This is sad.” - -None of them could see the other, but nevertheless, the jokey man knew -in a minute who had come to his rescue, and forgot his injuries in his -surprise, exclaiming: - -“Whatever are you two doing here? Is the General with you?” - -“Oh, dear, no,” said Viola proudly; “we’re _quite_ alone, or we -shouldn’t be here, but isn’t it a good thing we _are_ here? How did you -fall?” - -“I was mooning along, not thinking where I was going, when down came -the mist. I made a false step and went bang over the edge, but only -fell on to the path below, not right over, as I might have done.... -Perhaps it would have been better if I had,” he added to himself. - -“You’d better go and get help, Basil,” said Viola decidedly, “and I’ll -stay and take care of Mr. Smith till they come.” - -But Mr. Smith wouldn’t hear of this. The children helped him to crawl -as near the inner side as possible, and when they left him he nearly -fainted with the pain of moving. It began to rain, the cold, soft, -wetting rain of a Devonshire summer, and Mr. Smith groaned and shivered. - -“I am so sorry for you,” said a soft voice close beside him. “Is there -nothing I could do? Wouldn’t you be more comfortable if you were to -rest your head in my lap? It would be a sort of pillow. Daddie used to -go to sleep like that sometimes out on the moors last summer, when they -were home.” - -“Oh, Viola, Viola!” exclaimed the jokey man, with far more distress -than he had yet shown, “why did you stay? You will get cold. It’s -raining already, and they will be ages.” - -“There’s no use worrying about that,” said Viola, edging herself -nearer. “We couldn’t leave you here all alone and hurt, and Basil -wouldn’t let me go on to the village ’cause of the fog, so of course I -stayed. I hope you won’t mind very much; I won’t talk if you’d rather -not, but I think I’d like to hold your hand if you don’t mind. It would -be comforting.” - -The kind little hand was curiously comforting to the jokey man: he -insisted on taking off his coat and wrapping Viola in it, in spite -of all her protests. Presently the white pall of mist lifted a little -and they could see one another, and it certainly was a great pleasure -to the man lying against the cliff to watch the little high-bred face -with the kind blue eyes turned in such friendly wise toward him. -Viola was so like Basil, and yet so entirely individual. Basil’s -face was round, hers was oval; Basil’s nose was broad and indefinite -as yet, Viola’s nose was small and straight and decided, with the -dearest little band of freckles across the bridge. Basil’s manner was -extremely friendly, Viola’s was tender and protecting, and it was such -a long time since anyone had taken care of the jokey man, that he -almost crooned to himself in the delight of being so tended. She was -very tender in her inquiries after his aches and pains, expressed a -pious hope that he always wore “something woolly next him,” and being -reassured on that head, proceeded to suggest that he should smoke if he -found it comforting. Then she told him a great deal in very admirative -terms about daddy, and grandfather, and Basil, for Viola was of that -old-fashioned portion of femininity that looks upon her own mankind -as beings of stupendous strength and wisdom. The man lay watching her -very intently, but it is not certain that he heard half of what she -was saying. He had the look of one who was trying to make a difficult -decision. The voices of habit and tradition called very loudly to him -just then--dared he listen? - -Presently Viola’s voice ceased. She was evidently waiting for an -answer, and none came. - -“Have you any sisters, Mr. Smith?” she repeated. - -Mr. Smith shook his head, then he raised himself on his elbow, saying -earnestly: - -“Look here, Viola! I want you to tell me exactly what you think -about something. Suppose Basil--of course it’s utterly impossible, -but still--suppose that when he was grown up he did something that -annoyed you all very much, something disappointing and entirely -against his father’s wishes”--he paused, for Viola looked very grave -and pained--“and then,” he continued, “if he went right out of sight, -and you, none of you, heard anything more about him for nearly a -year--supposing _then_ he was sorry, said he was sorry----” - -“We should never lose sight of Basil,” said Viola decidedly, her eyes -dark and tragic at the mere thought. “At least, I’m sure I shouldn’t; -whatever he did I should love him just the same. You don’t love people -for their goodness--you love them because they’re _they_.” - -“Are you sure?” asked the jokey man earnestly. - -Viola looked hard at him, turned very red, and said shyly: - -“Do you think you could tell me just what you did? I know it’s you.” - -The man leant back against the wall again. - -“It’s not an interesting story,” he said wearily, “but it may pass -the time. I was at the ’varsity, Cambridge. I was always very fond of -acting, and I was extravagant and lazy, too. The very term I went in -for my degree I was acting in the A.D.C., and--I was plucked. My father -was furious. Then came a whole sheaf of debts. He said I must go back -to a small college, live on next to nothing, work, and take my degree. -Instead of taking my punishment like a man, I quarreled with everybody, -vowed I’d go on to the stage, and came to this. I have kept body and -soul together, and I don’t think I’ve done anything to be ashamed of -since, but I’m sick and sorry at the whole business. Yet now that -I’m all smashed up and useless, it seems somehow mean to go back. My -father’s a parson, you know, not over well off, and there are a good -many of us.” - -All the pauses in his story, and there were a good many, had been -punctuated by Viola with reassuring little pats, and now that the pause -was so long that he seemed to have finished his story, she turned a -beaming face toward him. - -“How _glad_ they will be!” she exclaimed. “You must write to-night -directly you get back. How _glad_ your mother will be!” - -A spasm of pain crossed his face. “My mother died just before I left -school,” he said. - -Viola’s eyes filled with tears, and she had just exclaimed, “And -you have no sisters either, you poor dear?” when the rescue party, -accompanied by Basil and the nearly frantic Polly, appeared just -below them. They carried the jokey man to the foot of the cliff and -took him back to the village in a boat, and as his ankle proved to be -very badly broken he elected to go into the cottage hospital on the -hill. The long wait in the wet, that had not in the least hurt Viola, -proved altogether too much for the jokey man. That night he became -feverish and delirious, and when the children and the General went to -ask for him next day, they were told that he was very ill indeed, and -that the broken ankle was quite a small matter in comparison with the -pneumonia. That evening the doctor called on the General, and directly -the performance was over, the General went to see the Alfresco Players -at their lodgings. - -“Do you happen to know who his people are?” the General asked Mrs. -Montmorency. - -“He never let on that he’d got any folks, poor fellah,” she answered -with a sob. She had a kind heart if her ankles were thick. “He was -never one to talk about himself, and he’s never had so much as a -postcard by post since he’s been here, that I do know. His real name’s -not Smith at all; all his linen--beautiful and fine his shirts are -too--is all marked ‘Selsley.’” - -“Have you no idea what part of the country he came from?” the General -asked. “Then we could look in a directory. It would be a horrible thing -if----” - -“He joined us in London,” Mrs. Montmorency gasped between her sobs, -while her tears made little pathways on her painted cheeks. “He hadn’t -any references, but I persuaded my husband to take him. He carried his -references in his face, I said, and so I’m sure we’ve found it, for a -nicer, more obliging, gentlemanly----” - -“Do you think, sir,” Mr. Montmorency interrupted, “that he told the -little lady anything about himself when they were up on the cliff -together?” - -“God bless my soul!” exclaimed the General in great excitement. “Of -course he did; I have it. Who has got a clergy list?” - -Naturally none of the Alfresco Players possessed such a work, and it -was already too late to knock up the vicar of the parish. But next -morning the General called on the vicar very early, and then despatched -an exceedingly long telegram to the post office and several bottles of -champagne to the cottage hospital, where Polly, Basil and Viola hung -about the doors all the morning hoping for better news. The Alfresco -Players got out a green leaflet to the effect that there would be that -night a benefit performance for that talented artist, Mr. Smith, who -had been suddenly stricken down by serious illness. The General seemed -to send and receive a great many telegrams, and did not go fishing all -that day. At sundown there was no better news at the hospital, and it -seemed exceedingly probable that the jokey man would joke no more. The -General met the last train, and drove away from the station accompanied -by an elderly, severe-looking clergyman. They stopped at the hospital -and the clergyman went in. - - * * * * * - -The jokey man was so noisy and talked so continuously that the hospital -authorities had him moved from the men’s surgical ward into a little -room by himself. As the matron showed the strange clergyman into this -room, a nurse rose from the chair at the bedside. The jokey man’s -voice was no longer loud, but he kept saying the same thing over and -over again. - -“All day long he keeps repeating it,” she whispered. “I’m so thankful -you’ve come, for he can’t possibly last if this restlessness continues.” - -“I’m sure he’ll come if you send,” the weak, irritable voice went on. -“Why don’t you send? I want my father--‘father, I have sinned’--that’s -it--‘father, I have sinned’--but I know he’ll come if you send. I want -my father, I tell you--why won’t you send? I want my father.” - -The whispering voice persisted in its plaint, the hot hands plucked at -the sheet when other hands closed over them, holding them firmly, and -the voice he was waiting for said quietly: - -“My dear son, I am here.” - -As the sick man raised his tired eyes to the grave grey face bent -over him, his troubled mind was flooded with an immense content, his -poignant restlessness was calmed. - -“Good old father!” he said softly, and lay quite still. - -The jokey man thought better of it, and didn’t die after all. In -another week Basil and Viola were allowed to go and see him. They stood -very hushed and solemn on either side of his bed, for he looked very -thin and white, and was still lying right on his back, which made him -seem more ill somehow. For quite a minute nobody said anything at all, -till Basil, who held a large folded bracken leaf in his hand, laid it -down on the jokey man’s chest and spread it out. A fish speckled with -brown reposed in solemn glory in the midst. - -“It’s for your dinner,” whispered Basil. “It’s only four ounces off the -pound. I caught it myself two hours ago. Viola saw me do it. I think a -‘Coachman’s’ the best fly after all.” - - - - -IN DURANCE VILE - - -Gabrielle always remembered the day that the ringmaster of the circus -came to see her pony jump. She was proud of her pony, who was dapple -grey and Welsh, and could jump nine inches higher than himself. - -Gabrielle was five, and had ridden without a leading rein for two -years, but her father never let her jump Roland, the pony. So the pony -jumped by himself, greatly to the edification of the ringmaster who had -been bidden to see the feat. - -While all this was going on, Nana called her to nursery tea, and as she -trotted down the long yard, past the stables, and towards the drive, -the ringmaster turned to Jack Ainslie, Gabrielle’s father, and said: -“Has the little Missie hurt her foot? She’s a thought lame.” - -Jack Ainslie looked hastily after the idolized little figure, and noted -that the ringmaster was right. She _was_ a thought lame. - -Hastily excusing himself, he ran after the child. “Have you hurt your -foot, darling?” he asked anxiously. “You’re limping a little. Did you -twist your ankle?” - -“Oh, no, Daddy dear, I’m not hurt. I’m going to tea.” Gabrielle put -up her face for the ever-expected kiss and ran after her nurse. Jack -Ainslie dismissed the subject from his mind and showed the ringmaster -the rest of the horses. - -From that day, however, things changed for Gabrielle. Other people -noticed the little limp, and her parents, terrified and distressed, -sent for the family doctor. He discovered that in some way, probably -at birth, her hip had been dislocated, and had formed a new socket for -itself, and that henceforth she would limp--unless--and here all the -mischief began--something could be done. Her father was frantic. Of -course something must be done. That his Gabrielle, his dainty little -lady with her pretty face, her quick intelligence, and her gracious -ways, should be lame--oh, it was intolerable! He was broken-hearted -and rebellious, and even his wife’s steadfast patience and unchanging -tenderness could not make him resigned. Then began for Gabrielle a -series of visits to London. She was taken from one great doctor to -another till she grew quite used to marching about on thick piled -carpets, clad in nothing but her sunny hair, while they discussed her -interesting “case.” - -“Doctors are chilly men,” said Gabrielle; “their hands are always cold -to my body.” - -An operation was arranged, but at the last moment Jack Ainslie drew -back, for the surgeons would not guarantee success, and the family -doctor said grave things about Gabrielle’s constitutional delicacy. -So it was decided that more gradual means must be tried to bring -about the desired result. The “gradual means” assumed the shape of -an instrument, hideous to behold and painful to wear. It broke Jack -Ainslie’s heart to see his little lady cabined and confined in such a -cruel cage, and for the little lady herself it blotted out the sunshine -and made life very grey and terrible. One thing was quite plain to -Gabrielle, and that was that evidently Nature was very much to blame -in having provided a new “socket” for the poor little dislocated bone. -This impertinence must be interfered with at all costs--the doctors -seemed to agree upon that. And Gabrielle wondered why it was so wrong -to have no pain, to be perfectly unconscious of her “affliction,” as -her nurse called it, and so interesting (to the doctors) and right, -to be uncomfortable and to wear a hideous high-soled boot and an iron -cage, with crutches under the arms that pushed her shoulders up to her -ears. - -As for the instrument, it was designed and ordered by three famous -surgeons, and it cost the price of many ponies. Gabrielle tried to be -brave. She was curiously conscious that the pain her parents suffered -was far greater than her own. The instrument was adjusted in London, -and on the way home in the train her mother asked her many times, “Does -it hurt you, my darling?” And Gabrielle always answered bravely, “I can -bear it, mother dear; I can bear it!” - -When she got home that night, the poor little leg was black from the -cruel pressure, and Mary Ainslie broke down and cried till she could -cry no longer. Gabrielle tried to walk bravely in her cramping irons, -and to smile at her parents when she met their troubled eyes. At -first she broke the thing continually, for she was an active child, -much given to jumping off chairs and playing at circus on the big old -sofa. But by and by all desire to jump and run left her. She grew -high-shouldered, and would sit very still for hours, while her daddy -told her stories or drove her behind Roland in a little basket-carriage -he had bought for her. Truly the iron entered into her soul, the cruel -iron that cramped the child’s soft body; and Gabrielle’s eyes grew -larger and larger, and her chin more pointed, while the once plump -little hands were white as the petals of the pear-blossom outside the -nursery window. - -“I wish people wouldn’t ask me about it; they are kind, but I wish they -wouldn’t,” Gabrielle would say. “I’m tired of telling them about the -socket, and I’m not ‘a poor little soul’--I’m daddy’s little lady!” - -There came to Jack Ainslie a very old college friend, a doctor, -Gabrielle’s godfather, and devoted to her, and he was supremely -dissatisfied with her treatment and implored them to take her to see a -young surgeon, a friend of his own, who was making a great name, and -doing wonders for everyone who came under his care. Jack Ainslie and -his wife needed but small persuasion, and it was decided that Gabrielle -should go to London as soon as possible. - -What hastened the visit was this: Gabrielle was devoted to fairy lore, -and a favorite play of hers was to be the beautiful princess who is -freed from giants and dragons and lions by the gallant “Boots” of the -Norse tales. Her father always enacted the part of that redoubtable -third son, and was wont to kneel before her, making extravagant -protestations of his devotion, which she accepted with gracious -condescension. On this particular afternoon, just after tea, her father -proposed to play the favorite game, but Gabrielle would have none -of it. “I can’t be a princess any more, Daddy; I’m sure no princess -ever wore an instrument!” she said. “I don’t feel like a princess any -more at all.” Her father caught her up in his arms, with a great hard -sob, which frightened her, and she stroked his face, saying tenderly: -“Don’t be sorry, dear, dear Dad! I didn’t mean to hurt you. I’ll be a -princess, I will, indeed! I _will_ feel like a princess really!” The -next day Jack Ainslie and his wife took Gabrielle up to town. They did -not even take the faithful Nana, for Gabrielle’s mother could hardly -bear to let any hands but hers touch her darling, ever since the day -that the ringmaster had made his sad discovery. - -Mary Ainslie took Gabrielle to the new doctor the following morning, -while Jack sat in the smoking-room of the hotel, lighting innumerable -cigars which he did not smoke, and turning over illustrated papers -which he did not see. Then he turned out of the hotel and walked down -Piccadilly, blundering into the passers-by, and when he crossed the -road, was nearly ridden over by an omnibus, so blind and stupid was -he in his heavy sorrow. Poor Jack! his honest heart was very full of -grief, for he loved his little lady dearly, and he felt that unless -something were done quickly, he would soon have nothing but a tender -memory to love. - -Gabrielle and her mother were shown into the new doctor’s -consulting-room at once. He was a tall young man, with red hair -and keen green eyes. Her mother undressed Gabrielle, all but the -“instrument,” which clasped the tender little body, and seemed so -cruelly unnecessary. The young doctor frowned when he saw it, then he -took it off himself, and Gabrielle noticed that his touch was as gentle -as her mother’s, and that his hands were warm. She gave a happy little -shake when she was free of it, a little wriggle and jump of relief. -Then the doctor made her walk, and felt her all over, after which he -rolled her up in a big fur rug, to sit in front of the fire, while he -went into the next room with her mother. They were not long away, and -on their return Gabrielle looked up at the doctor with bright, curious -eyes. - -“Does the instrument hurt you?” he asked. Gabrielle looked at it, as it -leaned feebly against a chair, and said: “It does, rather; but it does -its best not to. I think...!” - -“Well, any way, you’re not going to wear it any more. Are you glad?” - -“But what will the socket do?” - -“Bless me, child; they’ve talked about you far too much. The socket -will do beautifully--much better without it than with it!” - -“May I wear shoes like other little girls?” - -“Certainly; the prettiest shoes that can be got!” - -“Not compensatum shoes?” - -“No; ordinary shoes, exactly alike!” - -By this time Gabrielle had been arrayed in some clothes. She noticed -that her mother’s hands trembled, but that her eyes were glad. The -child looked up at the tall young doctor, who was watching her with his -keen green eyes, and said: “My Daddy will be so glad. He will look at -me, and not look so sorry, and there will be no hard things to stick -into him when he cuddles me! He will be so glad!” - -The doctor made a queer little sound in his throat; then he lifted -Gabrielle in his arms and carried her to the window. - -“Do you see the end of this street,” he asked, “where the roar and the -rumbling sound comes from? That’s Oxford Street. Well, in that street -is a beautiful shop full of shoes--shoes for little girls--and you are -going there directly, to get the prettiest pair that mother can find -for you!” - -“May they have silver buckles?” Gabrielle asked eagerly. - -“I think it extremely advisable they should have big silver buckles. -You will walk both fast and far in buckles shoes, and you must learn to -dance the _tarantella_, and all the dolls will sit in a row to watch -you!” - -Gabrielle gave a delighted laugh. “Will the leg that wore the irons get -fat again, like the other?” - -“Oh, dear, yes! You mustn’t think about that leg any more, but you must -do all the exercises mother is going to show you, and when you can -hang on a trapeze for twenty minutes, without falling off, you must -write and tell me.” - -Then Gabrielle’s mother finished dressing her, all but her boots. The -boot with the “compensatum” sole lay near the instrument. Gabrielle -looked at it with great aversion. “It’s a very dry day,” said she. “May -I go to the cab in my stockings, and not put on no shoes till I have my -new ones?” - -The doctor pushed the little boot out of sight, under the chair, with -his foot, and said: “I’ll carry you to the cab, and mother or the -cabman will carry you to the shop across the pavement, and you shall -never see that iron horror or that boot again!” - -As the doctor carried her across the hall, Gabrielle put her arms round -his neck, and kissed him on both his eyes. - -“Your eyes taste very salt!” she said, “But you are the best doctor in -the world!” - - - - -THE SURRENDER OF LADY GRIZELL - - -Geordie had found the world a rather draughty place since that March -morning when his mother went out hunting and was brought back in a -strange secret fashion, and he saw her face no more. - -“Your poor Ma’s met with a haccident, Master Geordie--poor lady she’ve -broke her back and now she’s gone to ’Eaven.” - -So Nana explained things to him. New black clothes came from the -tailor’s, and Geordie went with Nana to lay flowers upon his mother’s -grave. - -At five years old discomfort is felt, rather than defined; Geordie -was conscious of a difference, an uncomfortable difference in his -surroundings, but by no means directly traced its cause to the loss of -his mother. Nor was he actively miserable. It is true that he sometimes -wondered why Nana so often omitted his bath in the morning, and why he -was never dressed to go down in the evening; but in some respects he -had quite a dissipated time. So many people asked him out to tea, and -amusement of which Nana distinctly approved, for she went too. - -Geordie regarded his father with immense admiration, he was so tall, -and handsome, and jolly. But since that day when everything was -altered, the Hon. Donald Cochran found less time than ever to devote to -Geordie. It is true he did not go out hunting any more, but he seemed -always to be shut up in that hitherto almost unused room--called the -“study,” sorting papers and interviewing stout gentlemen, who wore -aggressive watch-chains, and whose footsteps were much lighter than -those of the hunting friends who used to come about the house. - -After a month of vague loneliness and discomfort there came a change in -Geordie’s fortunes. His aunt, Lady Grizell Fane, who had been abroad at -the time of Mrs. Cochran’s death, appeared upon the scene. - -A tall woman, with keen grey eyes, a woman who observed much and said -little--Lady Grizell after three days realized the exact position of -affairs. On the fourth day she went back to the Towers, taking Geordie -with her. - -Lady Grizell was one of those women, so often childless, in whom the -maternal instinct is passionately alive. The love of children was a -religion with her, and all the love she would have lavished on her own -child had the fates bestowed one on her, she lavished upon Geordie. - -The world suddenly became a sunny, sheltered place for the lonely -little boy. Baths were plentiful and nursery tableclothes were clean, -as meals were regular. Above all, somebody wanted him, somebody took -an interest in his doings, and a great warm human love “enwheeled -him round.” A new experience this for Geordie--no one had ever been -actively unkind to him, his mother had looked after his creature -comforts thoroughly. He was always well dressed and well tended, but -she had never found his society particularly interesting, nor did she -manifest any desire to see him often during the day. Though a fine -strong child, he was too like the Cochrans to be pretty. Big nose, -grey eyes, thin face, high cheekbones, and dogged mouth, may be well -enough in a man, but in a child are apt to be all indefinite and out -of proportion. No, Geordie was not a pretty child. Neither was he very -clever; but he was honest and kind-hearted, and he worshipped those who -were kind to him, Aunt Grizell most of all. - -Uncle Fane was a philanthropist, absorbed in blue books and statistics. -When Parliament was sitting he went to London, while Aunt Grizell not -infrequently preferred to remain with Geordie at the Towers. - -Geordie learned to ride with his aunt (his father had never been -able to afford a pony for him, it takes such a lot of money to keep -hunters), he did gardening with her, and with her he learned to read -indifferently well. But he learned many things more important than -these. - -He learned to be immensely proud of “the family,” to hold the reigning -house in due respect certainly, but with reservations in favor of one -Charles Edward, and his descendants, for whose sake “the family” had -greatly dared and suffered. He learned that he must be courteous and -deferent in his manners, true and just in all his dealings, and that he -must control his temper, which, like that of the rest of the family, -was inclined to be hasty. Moreover, he quickly discovered that his aunt -_was_ herself all she would have him be. To know that a thing grieved -her was enough with Geordie to prevent its happening again, so they -were very happy. - -His father came from time to time to spend a few days at the Towers, -praised his improved appearance, and his seat in the saddle, took him -out shooting on occasions, and was always profuse in his thanks to his -sister for her care of the boy. - -But this happy and peaceful state of things was not to last. A cloud -came over the horizon. Lady Grizell went about with red eyes and a -harrassed look, and Geordie found Uncle Fane regarding him with an -expression, kindlier than of yore certainly, but in which he discovered -so large a proportion of pity that he resented it, without knowing why. - -Then Lord Lochmaben, his father’s eldest brother, came to the Towers. -During his visit, the child was always hearing scraps of conversation -in which the words “madness,” “that woman,” and “social suicide” -occurred with bewildering frequency. He felt that in some mysterious -way these irrelevant remarks had some bearing on his own fortunes. Lord -Lochmaben also regarded him with that strange pitying expression, and -during his lordship’s visit, Aunt Grizell’s eyes were redder, and her -manner more perturbed than ever. - -At last, one morning at the end of May--Geordie will always hate the -scent of the lilacs--Lady Grizell called him from his play to come to -her in the morning room. - -He came, running through the open French window, and when he reached -his aunt’s chair she put her arm round him, saying huskily: “Geordie -dear! your father wants you at home, until September--and then you are -to go to school!” - -Lady Grizell made the announcement abruptly. To her surprise it was -received in absolute silence. Geordie was, as his aunt herself would -have said, “utterly dumbfoundered.” To go to school some day was -natural and proper--but to go home.... “Why does father want me now?” -asked Geordie in a shaky voice. The Hon. Donald never betrayed any -distress at parting from him when he left the Towers--what could it -mean? - -The child was very like “the family,” he was not at all demonstrative, -and he “thought shame” to cry. - -He flung his arms round his aunt, holding her so tight that the buttons -of his Norfolk jacket made deep dents on her cheek, and Lady Grizell -could hear how painfully the little heart was thumping. - -There was silence for a minute between these two who understood each -other so well; then Geordie asked: “When am I to go, Aunt Grizy?” - -“In a week--oh, what shall I do without you, my bonnie man?” - -“But I shall come to see you often, shan’t I? Papa won’t want me all -the time, and you will ask him to let me come often, won’t you, Aunty?” - -Lady Grizell stroked his hair tenderly, but she could not deceive even -a child, and she shook her head. - -“I’ll ask him, my dear, you may be sure. But I fear he may not be able -to grant my request. Unfortunately, there is a subject upon which your -father and I cannot agree, and he is vexed with me, and naturally wants -his son for himself.” - -“Is it that ‘suicide woman’ that is the subject?” asked Geordie -breathlessly. - -Lady Grizell gazed at him in thunderstruck amazement. “What _do_ you -mean, child?” - -“Well, whenever I was out walking with Uncle Lochmaben and Uncle Fane, -I kept hearing little bits about ‘that woman’ and ‘suicide’ and papa, -so I thought it might be that. I didn’t listen, truly--I couldn’t help -hearing, and I didn’t understand.” - -Lady Grizell put back the hair from the boy’s square forehead and -looked into his honest grey eyes, then she spoke: - -“Geordie dear, there are always things in life that we cannot -understand, and things we cannot help; what we must do is to be as -brave and honest as we can, and leave the rest to God. Your dear father -is very lonely and he has recently married a lady who will be your new -mamma. You must try to be as good and courteous and obedient to her as -you are to me--and Geordie, son! don’t forget me!” - -Here Lady Grizell broke down, and Geordie thought it no shame to cry -too. - -That week was terribly short. At the end of it Geordie went out into -the draughty world again, while Lady Grizell went about saying like -her more famous namesake: “Oh, werena my heart lecht I wad dee!” - -Geordie could never be induced to speak much about the three months -that followed. During those three months Lady Grizell grew thin and -pale. - -One morning she received a letter from the Hon. Donald in which he -informed her that he and his wife had made arrangements for Geordie to -go in September to an excellent school in the Forest of Dean where boys -received board and education for the modest sum of twenty guineas a -year. - -Lady Grizell gave a little cry, and stared at the letter in her hand as -though it had been some horrible phantom. Then she flew downstairs and -into her husband’s study, where he sat writing a report for the Society -of Agriculture. - -“Augustus, read this! I am going to see Donald to-day, and tell him -that I will receive his wife--I can’t let my pride stand in the way of -that child any longer--read this!” and she thrust the letter under her -husband’s aristocratic nose. - -Mr. Fane put on his glasses, read the letter, took them off, folded -them up and put them in the case--a methodical, deliberate man, Mr. -Fane--then he said slowly: - -“Have you considered what people will say? Have you forgotten that -everybody knows her most unpleasant story?” - -“I cannot help it. People must say what they please. I will not have -Geordie go to such a school, even if I have to receive half the fallen -women in London to prevent it. If Lochmaben never marries, Geordie -will be head of our house.” - -Lady Grizell spoke with passionate excitement. Mr. Fane felt that he -hardly knew his wife, always so gentle and dignified, in this woman -with the pale face and blazing eyes. He expostulated forcibly and at -his usual length. If he was somewhat less conscious of the dignity -of the House of Cochran than was Lady Grizell, he was keenly alive -to the dignity of the House of Fane. But all his exhortation, all -his arguments were of no avail. He could not shake Lady Grizell’s -determination; and the afternoon saw her speeding in the express toward -the interview with her brother. - -The journey was not long, but the August day was hot. Lady Grizell felt -faint and shaken when the omnibus (she had been too excited to wire for -a cab) deposited her at her brother’s door. - -The parlormaid looked curiously at the tall lady who asked so pointedly -for _Mr._ Cochran, and showed her into the study. No ladies ever -called, and here was an undoubted lady--“my lady” to boot--as the sharp -girl discovered on reading the card. - -She carried the card to her master in the garden, where he was sitting -with his wife. He flushed as he read it, and tossed it to the woman -beside him, exclaiming: “Grizie, by Jove!--can she be coming round?” - -The woman caught the card, reading the name aloud in an eager, excited -voice, then said, a little bitterly: “She only asks for _you_.” - -“She wouldn’t come here to insult you. I know Grizie. It’s something -about the boy, and she wants to be friends. You wait here till I send -for you.” - -He strode across the lawn, and entered the study by the open French -window. - -“Now this is really good of you, Grizie; Geordie will be in -raptures--it’s kind and friendly!” - -Lady Grizell was pale, and the cheek she turned to his kiss was very -cold. She clasped her hands to stay their trembling and began in a low -voice: - -“Donald! you said that if I would receive Mrs. Cochran----” - -“Nelly, you mean!” interrupted the Hon. Donald. - -“If I would receive your wife--you would let me keep Geordie. If I -promise to ask you both to the Towers--twice every year--will you let -me have him, instead of sending him to that horrible school--will you, -Donald? I’ll educate him, he shall cost you nothing--I have a little -money, you know, and Augustus is very generous to me--will you let him -come to me?” - -Donald looked rather shamefaced as he muttered: “Isn’t it rather like -selling the little chap?” - -“But it’s selling him into happiness, Donald: he is such a dear lad, -and he loves me, and ... it isn’t very easy for me!” - -There was silence for two minutes. Lady Grizell’s heart thumped in her -ears. - -Overhead there was a sudden patter of little feet, and Lady Grizell -sank upon her knees, sobbing: “Oh, give him to me, Donald, for God’s -sake, give him to me! I cannot bear it!” - -Donald’s eyes were red as he raised his sister and gently put her in an -easy chair. He patted her shoulder soothingly, and his voice trembled -as he said: “Look here, Grizie! you shall have the boy. There shall -be no bargain between us; I never meant to send him to that beastly -school. I tried it on to fetch you--as it has--but I can’t play the -game so low down as that--I don’t set up for a model parent. I know -you’ll bring him up better than we should. You can leave this house -without meeting my wife if you prefer it, and I’ll send Geordie to you -to-morrow. But, if you like to do a kind and generous thing to a woman -who has known little but unkindness, and shame, and sorrow all her -life, and who is a good and loyal wife to me, then I say, God bless -you, Grizell Cochran, for you are a good woman!” - -Donald was not given to the making of long speeches. His voice broke -many times in the course of this, and the tears were running down Lady -Grizell’s pale cheeks. She held out her hands to him, saying simply, -“Take me to her!” and the two tall figures went out across the grass -together. - - - - -A CLEAN PACK - - -Basil sat alone in the schoolroom, although it was past bedtime. Nurse, -like everybody else, had apparently forgotten him, but Basil, absorbed -in his own thoughts, sat on by the dying fire. There were always fires -in his grandfather’s house whenever it was in the least cold, and that -August it was very cold, so cold that grandfather, getting wet through -out shooting, somehow got a chill, was ill only three days, and now -was lying dead in the big bedroom over Basil’s head. So Basil had a -good deal to think about. It was not that death was new to him--from -his earliest infancy it had been impressed upon him that his father -was dead--but that he could not by any stretch of fancy imagine what -life would be without grandfather--grandfather who was lying with his -beautiful hands crossed on his breast in that long, light-colored -wooden box upstairs. - -Basil resented the fact that grandfather’s coffin should be made of -light wood. It seemed incongruous and impertinent, somehow, that -anything used by grandfather should be otherwise than old--old and -rich-colored and seemly; and the child found himself wondering whether -grandfather was annoyed. There were many things in that bedroom -calculated to annoy him, Basil reflected. In the first place, when -mother took him in that afternoon that he might lay the asters gathered -in his own garden at his grandfather’s feet, he remarked that all -the blinds were down, and grandfather would have hated that, and the -windows were shut, and there was a heavy scent of hot-house flowers. -“I fear he’s very uncomfortable,” whispered Basil to himself. “He’ll -be glad to get to heaven out of that stuffy room.” For grandfather had -loved air as much as he liked fires. - -The horizon of Basil’s experience was somewhat limited. It consisted -of mother and grandfather, and of “other grandfather,” who lived at -Altringham in Cheshire, and was mother’s father. - -Every year Basil and mother went to Altringham for six weeks, and life -there was so utterly different from what it was with grandfather that -Basil never ceased to puzzle over it and to wonder why mother always -cried when she came away, and why “other grandfather” always said: “You -moost bear with the old heathen, Sophia; he’s been generous enough as -regards mooney, and, remember, you can be _in_ the world but not of it.” - -There were aunts, too, at Altringham, who made a great fuss of Basil -for about three days, and then seemed to find him greatly in the way; -while “other grandfather” had a most embarrassing way of suddenly -demanding: “Well, yoong mon, and how’s the ciphering?” - -Basil loved his mother very dearly, but he could have wished that she -took life a little less sadly. A gentle melancholy characterized her -every thought, and the child felt rather than understood that her -mental attitude toward her father-in-law was that of a deprecating -disapproval. Grandfather felt it too, for only a week before Basil had -heard him say to one of the gentlemen who were tramping the stubble -with him: “We shall never understand each other, my poor little -daughter and I, though we’ve lived together seven years. She’s as good -as gold, and I don’t think I’m particularly _difficile_, but there it -is--we can never get the same focus for anything.” Basil was walking -just behind with the keeper, who blushed up to the roots of his hair as -he called out: “I’m here, you know, grandfather.” - -Grandfather pulled up short and turned to look at Basil. Then he gave -a queer little laugh. “There’s not much Manchester about the boy,” he -said, and tramped on. - -They all went to London from November till the end of March, and there -grandfather generally dined at his club and played whist afterward, -while Basil’s mother had supper with him or had friends of her own to -dinner, just as she liked. Grandfather could not get on without his -rubber. Even in the country, three times a week three broughams drove -solemnly up the drive, and three old gentlemen descended therefrom to -dine with grandfather and play whist afterwards. - -In London on fine nights he walked to his club, and Basil used to watch -him go from the nursery window just as he was going to bed; and at the -lamp grandfather always stopped and looked up at the curly head pressed -against the pane, then he would lift his hat with a grand sweep and -walk on, while Basil hugged himself with the delighted conviction that -_his_ grandfather was the very handsomest old gentleman in the whole -world. And sometimes grandfather would crush his hat over his eyes, -while a spasm of pain crossed his clean-shaven, stately old face, and -he’d whisper to himself: “My God! how like he is to my poor boy.” - - * * * * * - -Among the very first things that Basil ever learned were the different -“suits” in cards. Grandfather taught him and gave him a shilling for -every suit as he knew them and the values of the cards, as in whist. -Then he taught Basil whist, playing double-dummy, and explaining as -they went along: “I wish you, Basil, to play whist as a gentleman -should, carefully and with due consideration, with the intelligence and -respect that the game deserves, not like a counter jumper for penny -points.” - -It must be confessed that Basil took to this instruction much more -kindly than to that included under the heading of “ciphering,” or even -of reading and spelling. At six he could play a “fair hand,” at which -he was somewhat puffed up, the only drawback being that mother did -not seem to take any interest in his achievements. She never played -herself, though grandfather impressed upon her that she was preparing -for herself an unhappy old age; in fact, she did not seem to like cards -at all. - -One very wet Sunday grandfather had arranged four “hands” on the -library table, and was proceeding to play a game out of “Cavendish” -for Basil’s instruction, when his mother suddenly came into the room. -She gave one quick glance at the table with the cards, and came forward -and stood beside it, saying very quietly: “I do not wish Basil to play -cards on Sunday.” - -Grandfather had risen to his feet as Basil’s mother entered the -room. It would never have occurred to him to sit down while his -daughter-in-law was standing; he swept the cards into a little heap -with one swift movement of his beautiful white old hands, and said, -with a grave little bow: - -“I apologize, my dear. I had for the moment forgotten -your--er--convictions on this question. What _may_ we play at?--for -I’ve made a bet with myself to keep Basil amused till teatime, and I -don’t want to lose it.” Then, turning to Basil--who, conscious of the -thunder in the air, felt very unhappy indeed: “It’s not your fault, my -boy. You’ve not been naughty. It’s I who was forgetful.” - -Basil’s mother looked from one to the other a little piteously. She -had no weapons wherewith to meet her father-in-law’s smiling courtesy. -She might have liked him better had he sometimes been rude. “Other -grandfather” was not uniformly courteous. - -On Sunday mornings they all three went to church together, and -grandfather sat under the big carved tablet which set forth how Basil’s -father had died at Ulundi, “aged twenty-nine.” Grandfather always -carried his daughter-in-law’s prayer book for her up to the house, -discussed the sermon with her, and was, as he himself would have put -it, “vastly agreeable.” - - * * * * * - -A piece of coal fell out on the hearth and startled Basil out of his -reverie. He had evidently come to some decision, for he nodded his head -emphatically, muttering: “I’d better do it. I’m sure he’ll be bored if -I don’t, and I mayn’t get another chance.” - -The room was quite dark but for the flickering firelight, which had -brightened since that big piece of coal fell apart. Basil went to -his own special cupboard and took from it a pack of cards, which his -grandfather had given him only last week. Grandfather never used the -same pack on two consecutive evenings, and gave one to Basil nearly -every week with the instruction: “Never use dirty cards, even to build -castles with.” The child had never played with the ones he held in his -hands, and his big grey eyes filled with tears as he wrapped them up in -a leaf torn out of his copy-book. Then, laboriously, for Basil was no -scribe, he wrote on the packet, a proceeding which took a considerable -time. He gave a sob as he kissed his message, but there was no time to -be lost. Slipping off his shoes, he opened the door very softly, raced -across the hall and up the stairs. The staircase was quite dark, for -Chapman had forgotten to light the lamps. - -When he reached his grandfather’s bedroom door he paused with his hand -on the handle. His heart was pounding in his ears, and for a full -minute he could not hear whether all was quiet in the room or not. -Opening the door very softly, and as softly shutting it after him, he -ran across the room and pulled up the blind of the big window that -faced the bed. The moon came out from behind a bank of cloud, as if to -aid him in his task, and shone full on that strange last couch at the -foot of the bed in which grandfather lay so still under his coverlet -of flowers. Basil pushed at the heavy window, but it was fastened far -out of his reach, and he could not let in the fresh night air that -grandfather loved. As his eyes grew accustomed to the lighter room, he -came and stood by that light-colored box that he hated so, lifted the -white cloth covering his grandfather’s face, and looked at him long and -earnestly. - -Basil had very vague notions as to what heaven was like; but, on -reviewing all that he had heard of it, he came to the conclusion that -if there was no whist there grandfather would be dull, and he had -often heard him say: “There’s only one thing that I dread, and that’s -boredom.” So Basil had decided that at all costs such a contingency -must be avoided, and grandfather must teach the angels to play whist. -“They can p’obably make more cards when they’ve seen them,” said Basil -to himself, and pushed his little packet underneath the folded hands, -kissed them, and turned to go as softly as he had come. - -But the door opened at that moment, and his mother, candle in hand, -stood on the threshold gazing at the little figure standing full in the -strand of moonlight thrown across the carpet. - -“What are you doing here, Basil?” she asked breathlessly. - -“I came to give something to grandfather. Oh, don’t take it away from -him!” - -The passionate distress in the child’s voice moved her. - -“I will take nothing away from him that you wish to give him. But what -is it? Is it flowers?” - -“No, mother, it is not flowers.” - -She came into the room, closing the door after her. - -“I must see what it is,” she said very gently. - -Basil stood where he was as though turned to stone. Would she take it -away--or would she put it back? He could not see her, for he stood with -his back to her, and seemed incapable of turning round. His mother, -noting the disarrangement of the flowers, drew out the little packet, -and, holding her candle close, read the inscription in the large -uncertain writing: - - “DEAR GRANDFATHER, - - “I’m sory it’s not a cleane pak, but I don’t know where they are. - - “Your loving boy, - “BASIL.” - - - - -AN IRON SEAT - - -He sat at one end of the seat, she at the other, and the seat was on -the cliffs overlooking the sea at Wolsuth on the Suffolk coast. They -say that if your eyes were strong enough you could see the coast of -Holland; but even with telescopes no one has yet succeeded in doing -that. - -At first he hardly noticed her--she was so small and still and read her -book so assiduously; but she could have passed a searching examination -as to his appearance, for she had studied it carefully. She would -have told you that he was tall, and thin, and dark, and “rather old”; -that his beard was grey, though his hair was black and decidedly thin -on the top; that his spectacles had gold rims and the eyes behind -them were very kind; that his manner struck you as extremely grave -and decorous: what impressed her most, however, was that big, dull, -paper-covered book he was always reading. She was sure it was dull, for -_she_ couldn’t read a word of it; it was in German--she knew that much, -and she had tried to pronounce the title to herself in bed at night, -but never came near it at all, for it looked like this: “Mendelejeef -Chemie,” and it would take a very sharp little girl of ten to make much -out of that. - -No one ever came to sit between them on that iron seat; it was far from -the esplanade, and overlooked a lonely part of the beach where there -were no “entertainments.” When they had sat there for several days, -the man who read “Mendelejeef Chemie” looked up suddenly to find that -his companion at the other end of the seat was wiping her eyes with -the absurdest little red-bordered handkerchief. She held her book in -one hand--a somewhat large and heavy book for such a little hand--and -wiped her eyes with the other, and yet the man was sure that she was -not unhappy, for her thin brown cheeks were flushed, and though her -mouth was tremulous it wore a proud and happy smile. He was devoured by -curiosity. What book could it be that had the power to move a little -girl in so complex a fashion? - -He shifted down the seat toward her; but she was so absorbed in what -she was reading that she never looked his way, and he found that the -book she held in her hand was “From London to Ladysmith via Pretoria.” - -Suddenly she looked round and saw him. Quite simply and naturally she -offered him a share of her book, saying enthusiastically: - -“Isn’t it splendid? And my daddie was there through it all.” - -“Are you ready?” she said presently. - -The man nodded, and she turned the page. Then, with tears still shining -on her cheeks, she began to read aloud: - - “It was a procession of lions. And presently, when the two battalions - of Devons met--both full of honors--and old friends breaking from the - ranks gripped each other’s hands and shouted, everyone was carried - away, and I waved my feathered hat and cheered and cheered until I - could cheer no longer for joy that I had lived to see the day....” - -Here she stopped, and, turning her radiant face to the man beside her, -cried: - -“Aren’t you glad you weren’t born in any other century? Isn’t it a good -thing to be in the world when there are such splendid things happening?” - -The man smiled down at her, saying heartily: “It is, indeed!” And -straightway they were friends. - -Ever afterward they sat in the middle of the seat quite close together, -and although Winny--that was her name--continued to read “From London -to Ladysmith,” she read it aloud, and “Mendelejeef” lay neglected on -the far end of the seat. - -They talked a great deal about the war, and the man found that this -little girl knew all about it, from the battle of Glencoe to the relief -of Ladybrand, the name and whereabouts of every regiment, the result of -every single engagement big or little. - -He learned that last year her father had been home on long leave -and had brought them all to Wolsuth, “and oh! we did have a lovely -time!” but that this year mother couldn’t afford it, “War risks are so -expensive, you know,” that she--Winny--had been silly enough to get -influenza in July, and an aunt had consented to let her come with her -own family. - -“Mother and the boys--there’s three boys younger than me: I’m the -eldest--have got to stay at home this year. I’m so sorry, though I’d -far rather be with them, only I’ve _got_ to get strong. Daddie said so -in his last letter.” - -The man gathered that her aunt and cousins were not altogether -_simpatica_, though Winny never said so; still, every day she came -and sat on the iron seat after her bath and talked of her book, for -which she had unbounded admiration, and of her own small affairs. -Being an excellent listener, the man found himself well amused, for -he was one of those people who keep the best part of themselves for -old friends and little children, and are always quite misunderstood -and unappreciated by casual acquaintances, which lack of appreciation -doesn’t trouble them in the least. - -He learned that one of the “boys” was going into the Royal Engineers, -“because there you can live on your pay from the first if you’re -careful,” another into the Artillery, “and we may spare one for the -Navy.” - -“And what are you going to be?” he asked one day, after they had -exhaustively discussed the futures of the three boys. - -“Oh, I’m going to be a mother,” she replied, with immense decision. -“You see, you have such a lot of people to take care of you and love -you, if you’re a mother.” - -“But you have to take care of them first, haven’t you?” he asked. - -“Oh, yes, just at first--but afterwards---- You should just see the -care we take of mother, daddie and all.” - -The man looked out to sea and tried to picture the eager little figure -at his side as a large comfortable mother of many children. He tried so -hard that he forgot to answer her last remark, and she asked anxiously: - -“Don’t you think it’s a good thing to be?” - -“Excellent!” he answered heartily. “It is one of the oldest and most -honorable professions; mothers are people we can in nowise ever do -without.” - -“That’s what I thought,” said Winny, in a satisfied voice, “and that’s -what I’m going to be; I made up my mind years ago.” - - * * * * * - -One day as he arrived at their trysting place he discovered that Winny -was crying in right down earnest, and not for joy that Ladysmith had -been relieved. The little red-bordered handkerchief was screwed up -into a tight, wet ball, and the small figure in blue serge looked very -woebegone indeed. She had taken off her fisherman’s cowl, and cast -it on the ground beside her; and when she saw her friend, instead of -waving him a gay welcome as he came up, she shook her curly brown hair -round her cheeks to hide her face. - -All this was so unlike Winny that the man immediately reflected with -dismay that he had not read the morning paper at all carefully. It was -possible that some disaster had happened to her father. In those days -we were apt to trace all sorrows to South Africa. - -“No bad news, I hope?” he said in rather a hesitating way as he came up. - -Winny shook her head till her face was entirely hidden by her hair; but -she did not answer otherwise. - -“You may as well tell me what’s the matter,” said the man; “it may not -be past mending.” - -Now there was something about this man that inspired confidence; -moreover, he offered Winny his own handkerchief, which was large and -clean and comforting. So she accepted it, mopped her wet face, shook -back her hair, and began: “I don’t bathe with the others, you know.” -Here she paused so long that the man said, “Well?” though it was -against his principles to interrupt anybody’s narrative. - -“I bathe at Herrington’s machines,” she continued, “where we always -bathed last year--daddie too--right far away at the end of the beach. -My aunt and cousins bathe where the niggers are, and the concert, and -such crowds of people you have to wait ever so long for a machine. So I -asked if I might bathe with Herrington like last year, for he’s such a -nice man, and he takes such care of me, and daddie liked him awfully. -There’s been Herringtons in Wolsuth since 1400!” - -Winny paused after this announcement, evidently expecting comment of -some sort. - -“That’s a long record,” said the man, rising to the occasion. “And what -was Mr. Herrington before he took to keeping bathing-machines?” - -“He was mate on a schooner, and one of his sons is a captain of a -merchantman; he’s raised himself tremendously. Then there’s two -sons who help Herrington, and are fishermen in winter; and Mrs. -Herrington does washing. Oh, they’re such a nice family!” she exclaimed -ecstatically. - -The man looked out to sea, wondering what on earth all this had to do -with her tears. But he was a patient person; so he waited. - -“I go home to-morrow,” she continued, “and I’ve had one of Herrington’s -bathing-machines ever since I came--going on for three weeks now--and -he’s taken me out in the boat and let me dive and swim, and been so -kind and jolly, and to-day, when I asked my aunt for the money to pay -him--it’s fourpence each time--she wouldn’t give it me, and laughed and -said that it wouldn’t hurt him to take me for nothing this year, he -made such a lot out of us last. Think of it!” she exclaimed, clasping -and unclasping her hands. “It’s his living! It’s like taking a leg of -mutton from a butcher for nothing. I told auntie that mother would send -it to her if she’d let me have it, but she only laughed and said it was -nonsense. Of course mother will send it to _him_, but that’s not the -same. He’ll have to think me shabby and ungrateful for nearly three -days, for I can’t go and say good-bye to him when I’ve nothing to give -him. I’ve only sixpence. Isn’t it dreadful?” - -The man reflected that there were people who had no objection to -accepting legs of mutton from their butchers, who rather resented the -fact that these same butchers ventured on occasion to send in a bill; -but evidently the soldier who had been shut up in Ladysmith brought up -his children with a different view of their obligations. He was very -sorry for Winny, but he didn’t dare to offer her the money. There are -people to whom one cannot offer money. - -“Can’t you tell Herrington how you are placed?” he feebly suggested. - -“Of course not,” the child answered scornfully. “He’d say I was ‘more’n -welcome’ to my baths, and that it didn’t matter a pin. It’s just -because I know he’d gladly give me my baths that it hurts so. It’s his -_living_,” she repeated. As she spoke she stood up and stuffed the -little wet handkerchief into her pocket. - -The man was sitting with his hands thrust deep into his own, as men -will when perplexed or troubled. Winny stood with her back to him, -gazing sorrowfully at Herrington’s bathing-machines on the distant -beach. - -The little pocket gaped, and the man succumbed to temptation. Very -gingerly he dropped a crown piece into the opening which displayed the -drenched handkerchief. Then he stood up. “I’m going by the afternoon -train,” he said, “so I fear I must say good-bye. But I hope we shall -meet again some day.” - -“I hope so,” sighed Winny, as she held up her face to be kissed, and -wondered why he seemed in such a hurry and never even asked her to walk -back with him. - - - - -LÉON - - I would have our children taught, so far as teaching can go, to love - and admire France, that glorious nation which has done so much and - suffered so much for humanity.--WILLIAM ARCHER, 1898. - - -We did not believe it possible that a boy of nine could wear -high-buttoned boots, a pale blue sash, and long hair like a girl’s, -and yet possess a character unaffected by these deplorable externals. -That, in addition to this, he should be French, speaking that -“_nimini pimini_” language with perfect ease; and, in further proof -of his mental slipperiness, speak English almost equally well--but -for a curious roll and rumble of the letter “r” in the back of the -throat--was another serious stumbling-block in the way of our liking. -It was not natural. Had he been puny, or sallow, or in any way -physically “Frenchy” as we supposed it, we should have found him less -bewildering. But he was sturdy, ruddy, and fair-haired; tall for his -age, and of a frank cheerfulness that was rather engaging. Absolutely -unashamed of his inferior nationality, unconscious, seemingly, of those -elongated buttoned boots, he would shake back his tawny hair and look -you squarely in the face with big blue eyes that smiled. He didn’t -look a “Molly,” somehow, in spite of his hair; but we children were -convinced that he “must be one, really,” and that what the twins called -his “false French smile” was a sort of cloak for the innate cowardice -of his disposition. - -What induced Aunt Alice to marry a French officer, we could not -think! That she and her husband were what mother called “devoted to -one another” seemed to us an insufficient explanation. Not only did -she marry this foreigner and desert her native land, but she became a -Roman Catholic--nurse minded this most and called her a Papist--and -she seemed perfectly happy in her exile. She was supposed to be a very -beautiful person, but what most impressed us during her rare and brief -visits was the quality and quantity of the sweets she brought us; -sweets in gorgeous boxes which bore the mystic device _Gouache_. France -was, we were convinced, a poor sort of place, but exception must be -made in favor of her sweets. - -In reflecting upon our general attitude toward France and the French at -this time, I am reminded of the man who scornfully held up to ridicule -a country so far left to itself as to speak of bread as “Pain.” - -“But,” suggested a more tolerant friend, “we call it bread.” - -“Ah! it _is_ bread, you see.” - -But to return to Léon. His father’s regiment had been ordered to some -place in Africa, where they could not take Léon, and as Aunt Alice was -going with her husband for at least six months, Léon was sent to us. - -Eric and I decided that it was a bore. Jennie, who is queer and -contradictory at times, said nothing. She adores Aunt Alice. The twins, -who had just been doing the Battle of Waterloo in history, and were -rampantly patriotic, expressed grave doubts as to whether it was quite -loyal to Queen Victoria to receive Léon at all. - -“No one likes to go about all day with a mountebank!” grumbled Eric. - -“If only he’d had fewer clothes!” I sighed. - -But even the most sanguine destroyer of garments could hardly hope that -Léon would wear out the quantity of which he was possessed in less than -six months. - -The twins and Léon came toward us from the tennis lawn; the twins red -and triumphant, Léon red and evidently perturbed. Jennie followed, -lingering in the rear; she is lame, not a cripple, you know, but -noticeably lame. - -“England won!” shouted the twins. They always seemed to speak in a sort -of chorus. - -Léon sat down on the bank beside us and shook his hair back from his -face. He evidently intended to appeal to Eric about something; but just -as he opened his mouth to speak, he noticed Jennie. - -“Come, my cousin,” he called, patting the bank beside him; “we shall -have good fortune another time!” - -“England won!” chanted the twins again. “We always do!” - -“That is not so!” cried Léon angrily. “Why do you speak to despise -my country? If you were in France, my guest, we speak not forever of -Hastings?” - -“Oh, that was ages ago,” said Eric judicially; “but you were not fairly -matched.” - -“Léon had me, you see,” put in Jennie. - -“Not so, my cousin, your play was beautiful,” said Léon, and he took -her hand and patted it. He had queer affectionate ways, and never -seemed to mind showing that he liked people. “We beat them next time.” - -“I wonder what makes Léon so chummy with Jennie?” I asked Eric half -an hour later, as we rested after a hot “single.” “Do you think it’s -because she’s the only one of us that couldn’t lick him?” - -Eric raised himself on his elbows and stared at me. - -“Well, of all the chuckle-headed ideas I ever heard! Really, for -downright wrong-headedness, give me the average girl. Can’t you see, -you silly, that it’s because she’s lame, and the little beggar’s sorry -for her? He’s a good-hearted kid if he is Frenchy, and as to licking, -just you wait----” - -I felt very much snubbed and rather aggrieved, for only that afternoon -Eric had grumbled about Léon’s clothes and called him a “mountebank.” -Boys seem to keep things separate somehow, in a curious way. - -One day Jennie and Léon had been sent to the Home Farm to fetch eggs. -It was really the twins’ turn, but they hid so that they shouldn’t -have to go, for it was a very hot afternoon. Eric and I went for a -stroll through the fields in the same direction to look at a nest of -young yellow-hammers in the big paddock. There’s a sort of hill in the -big paddock, and we saw Jennie and Léon coming down the cart road from -the farm; they went by the road because Jennie hates climbing gates--it -hurts her. Léon was carrying the eggs and they came very slowly, -because Jennie was tired. Toward them came one, Fred Oram, a village -boy, not a nice boy at all. He hates us because the head groom gave him -a thrashing when he caught him throwing stones at the thoroughbreds. - -Fred Oram began to limp like Jennie, and called out: - -“’Ullo, Frenchy! Shall I plait your ’air for ya?” - -Eric, who happened to be at home because two-thirds of his school got -measles and mother was nervous, began to run, and I ran after him; -but we were a good way from the gate, and the hedge is too thick to -get through. We ran alongside of it, and heard Léon say in his funny, -stilted English: - -“Please hold the eggs, my cousin!” Then, evidently to Fred: “How dare -you to mock at my cousin and insult me?” - -As we reached the gate Eric pulled me back. - -“Let the kid alone!” he whispered. “He’s not afraid.” - -It reminded me of old King Edward, and “Let the boy win his spurs.” - -None of the three saw us. Jennie was standing on the grass at the side, -looking very red and excited; Fred Oram was pulling Léon’s hair and -dancing round him, making derisive remarks. Léon wrenched his head -away, and with a bound stood in the middle of the road, facing his -enemy. In spite of his buttony boots--in spite of his blue sash and his -long hair--Fred seemed rather afraid of him, for Léon looked, and was, -furious. - -For about half a minute they stood looking at each other. Léon shouted, -“Lâche! Lâche!”--he forgot to speak English, he was so excited--then, -“En garde!”--and there seemed a thousand _r_s in that _garde_--and he -sprang on Fred, who went down like a ninepin. - -Eric vaulted the gate, yelling excitedly, “By Jove! the kid can box.” - -Jennie laid down the eggs on the grass, and hid her face in her hands. -But she looked through her fingers. I saw her. - -In another minute Fred was upon his feet. He was bigger than any of -us--even Eric. Léon went at him again, calling out what we supposed to -be battle-cries in French, and I do believe that the French alarmed -Fred as much as the pommelling. Anyway, down he went again, with Léon -on the top of him. - -“Time!” shouted Eric, picking upon Léon and wiping his face, which was -hard to see, for his nose was bleeding and one eye was swollen. - -But Fred got up and began to walk away, remarking with surly dignity: - -“I don’t care for to fight with no French tiger-cats.” - -Léon broke away from Eric, and ran after his late foe. Fred stopped and -took up a defensive attitude, but Léon went up with his grubby right -hand held out. - -“Shake!” he cried. “We have foughten; it is over. Shake with me?” And -Fred shook. “That was quite English?” asked Léon anxiously, as he came -back to be cleaned. - -Eric looked at him very kindly. “It was all right,” he said; and Léon -squared his shoulders with modest pride. - -“I never saw such a nose to bleed!” exclaimed Eric, ten minutes later, -as the last available handkerchief had been reduced to a crimson, pulpy -ball. “There’s one sash done for, anyway. I suppose the suit’ll wash, -which is a pity.” - -On the way home Eric carried the eggs, and Jennie walked hand in hand -with Léon. They rather lagged behind, and presently I heard Jennie -whisper--I have very sharp ears: - -“Léon, am I so very lame?” - -“My little cousin, I do not see you lame at all, except when you are -fatigued; and we all of us walk badly when we are fatigued;” and he -stopped and kissed Jennie on both cheeks. - -I had often heard that the French say what is pleasant at the expense -of what is true; but just then I wondered if it was always such a bad -thing, for when I turned and looked at my little sister her face was -perfectly radiant, and she was hardly limping at all. - -“I’ll tell you what it is,” said Eric, when Léon had been carried off -by the authorities to have keys put down his back, his eye bathed, and -to be generally cleaned up; and we were all five sitting in solemn -conclave on the largest wheelbarrow--the twins had joined us, much -excited by recent events--“I’ll tell you what it is: you kids must drop -that Waterloo business, and we must none of us mind his queer clothes -any more. He’s a ripping good sort, and, after all, he can’t help being -French!” - -“And he wouldn’t help it if he could!” cried Jennie. “France is a great -country.” - -For a wonder nobody contradicted her. We were all busy readjusting -preconceived ideas. - - - - -THE OLD RELIGION - - God is above the sphere of our esteem, - And is the best known, not defining Him. - - ROBERT HERRICK. - - -It’s a far cry from a busy street in Leith to a village in the -loveliest part of wooded Gloucestershire; but, at eight years old, -vicissitude is borne with a calm philosophy seemingly unattainable in -later years, and Maggie McClachlan expressed no great wonder at her new -environment, rather to the disappointment of her worthy aunt, who was -fully aware of her own extreme good nature and condescension in “taking -the lassie for the whole summer, and paying her fare _both_ ways.” - -Measles followed by an obstinate “hoast,” was the commonplace cause -that transported Maggie to this strange new country. The long, roaring, -whirring, bewildering journey--in which she was passed by a kindly -official into the varied guardianship of such passengers as were going -her way--left her dazed and puzzled, but not unhappy. Her childless -uncle and aunt were kind, and there were the woods. - -The first thing that struck Maggie about these woods was the singular -absence of bits of paper; neither did she come upon any broken bottles -in the course of her wanderings. This lack seemed even more wonderful -to her than the presence of innumerable foxgloves. She had spent an -occasional afternoon in the woods at Aberdour, but always in a crowd. -Here the spaciousness and peace attracted her, even as it filled her -little soul with an awe that was a thing apart from fear. If in after -years Maggie should read what Mr. Henry James has written of “a great, -good Place,” she will understand it better than most people. - -For the first week she met with no adventures. Her aunt, a bustling, -busy, thrifty Scotswoman, worked a great deal up at the big house; her -uncle assisted in the manufacture of the “superfine broadcloth” for -which the little village used to be famous, and Maggie was left to do -much as she pleased. Her cough left her, and the color came into her -pale cheeks, and the sun set his mark upon the bridge of her nose in -the shape of a band of the dearest little brown freckles. - -Hitherto she had not gone far into the woods, but with returning health -came a spirit of adventure. One afternoon she wandered on and on, -singing softly to herself a ditty relating that “Kitty Bairdie had a -coo,” going on to describe minutely, and at length, the various animals -owned by this worthy lady, and concluding each verse with the cheerful -injunction, “Dance, Kitty Bairdie!” - -Everything seemed to want to sing that afternoon, and did sing, too, -lustily and long. Unconsciously Maggie raised her voice till the -final “Dance, Kitty Bairdie!” had quite a rollicking sound, and she -found herself doing a sort of double shuffle among the ground ivy and -foxgloves. - -It is not easy to dance in and out of ground ivy and brambles, and -Maggie paused for breath, only to catch it again in a perfect agony -of fear, as, not five yards from her, she beheld a big white figure, -apparently just risen out of the ground. - -Paralyzed with terror, she stood staring at the vision. A tall man it -was--she was sure it was a man, and no ghost--clad in curious flowing -robes of soft whitey flannel, falling to his feet in innumerable folds, -while in his hand he held what Maggie took to be some instrument of -torture. It was a butterfly net; but Maggie did not know this, for -people did not catch many butterflies in Commercial Street, Leith. - -The whole dreadful truth flashed upon her. This was one of the monks! -Had she not read in a guide to the neighborhood that “The Dominican -Priory of the Annunciation is a large and handsome building; here -candidates for the priesthood pursue a course of study in divinity and -philosophy. It is under the government of a Prior.” This, then, must -be one of the priests, and having been very well brought up in the -strictest sect of the Free Kirk, she was sure that if only he succeeded -in “catching her,” she would be put to unspeakable tortures, or forced -to recant her faith. - -Had she not with her own eyes seen her mother hastily slam the door of -their flat in the face of a woman wearing a queer head-dress and long -cloak, who had come to beg for money? - -“I’ll ha’e none o’ they Papishes here!” her mother exclaimed angrily, -and then--for it was just before Maggie came south--“and you, Maggie, -if you see ony o’ them when you’re wi’ your aunty, just turn and flee. -I’m told there’s a whole clamjamfray o’ them there, an’ ye can never -tell what they Jesuits will be at.” - -So, having found her breath sufficiently to give a wild cry, Maggie -turned and fled. - -The queer white man, who, as she afterward remembered, looked -astonished, called something after her. But Maggie’s heart was thumping -in her ears to the exclusion of every other sound, and she ran blindly -on till one treacherous little foot, more used to pavements than rough -forest ground, gave under her with a horrid wrench, and she fell -forward in a terrified little heap just as she reached a footpath -leading she knew not whither. - -There she lay shivering with pain and fear, with her eyes shut, for she -heard the soft swish of long garments through the undergrowth. Then a -shadow fell upon her, and she was lifted up into a pair of strong arms, -while a voice that even her excited imagination could not construe as -unkindly exclaimed: - -“I do believe I frightened you, and I’m awfully sorry. I don’t suppose -you ever saw such a funny frock before!” - -There was something human and disarming about the “awfully” and “funny -frock”; moreover, the owner of the voice did not hold her as though she -were a captive. He sat down at the foot of the big tree whose gnarled -roots had tripped Maggie up, and set her on his knee. Besides, the -voluminous flannel garment had a most reassuring and workaday smell of -soap. But she could not bring herself to open her eyes just yet. She -screwed them and her courage up very tight, and whispered: - -“I’ll no recant! Ye may burn me, but I’ll no recant!” - -The big, queer man threw back his head and laughed, and his laugh was -even more inspiring of confidence than his speaking voice. But he -pulled himself up short in the very middle of his laugh to ask: - -“I say, though, did you hurt yourself when you fell?” - -Maggie opened her eyes the tiniest little bit, and for the first time -saw this queer man’s face. It was a kind face, a handsome face, with -large merry brown eyes and an exceedingly straight nose. His mouth was -well cut and firm, and when he smiled as he did then, he showed two -rows of admirably white and even teeth. And the good smell of soap was -in no way deceptive, for there was about this queer man’s appearance a -radiant cleanliness that was by no means merely physical. All this did -Maggie gravely take in through half-shut eyes, and though the pain in -her ankle was horrible, and her heart still danced a sort of breakdown -against her ribs, she was no longer afraid--only very, very curious. - -The queer tall man, looking down at the face resting against his arm, -noticed that it was small and white, with long-lashed closed eyes set -rather far apart, and that the little freckles looked pathetically -prominent across the thin small nose; and even as Maggie was comforted -by the good smell of clean flannel, so he recognized approvingly that -he held in his arms a very clean little girl, even though her pinafore -was patched and her shoes worn at the toes. - -“Are you hurt, you poor mite?” he asked again. - -For answer Maggie stuck out the painful foot, and behold! there was a -big lump on the ankle, and it looked twice as big as the other one. - -“Here’s a pretty kettle of fish!” cried the queer man. “You’ve sprained -your ankle.” - -As he spoke he set Maggie on the ground beside him very gently, and -diving into the folds of his habit produced a large handkerchief, which -he proceeded to tear into strips. Then, very gently and deftly, he -bandaged up the poor swollen foot. By this time Maggie’s blue eyes were -wide open, and as he stooped over her foot she found time to wonder why -he wore such “a wee, wee roond cappie” on the back of his head. The -pain was bad, but she tried hard not to flinch, and when it was all -done and the bandage fastened with a little pebble brooch that she had -worn at her neck, he said gaily: - -“And now to carry you home, for that foot must have hot fomentations as -soon as possible.” - -Here, however, Maggie demurred. “I can walk fine,” she announced with -great dignity, and tried; but it was no use--she couldn’t even stand, -the pain was so bad. - -So the “papist man” picked her up in his arms and set off toward the -village. - -Now, Maggie was just a little anxious at this, for she had wandered a -good way into the park, and the path he took seemed quite unfamiliar. - -With unprecedented courage she took hold of his chin with her hand and -turned his face that she could see it. - -“You’re sure you’re no takin’ me to your convent?” she asked gravely, -as one who begs to know the worst at once. She still had fleeting -visions of a dungeon followed by stake and faggots if she proved leal -to the faith of her fathers. - -“My dear child, they wouldn’t have you there. We don’t allow any women -to come in--not even little girls--where I live.” - -Maggie was silent for a minute; then, because every Scotsman, woman, or -child loves an argument, and a theological argument best of all, she -said slowly: - -“But you worship a woman--images of a woman.” - -“Ah, that’s rather different. I don’t think we’ll discuss that, -because, you see, we look at everything from rather different points of -view. How’s that poor foot of yours? You’re a regular Spartan to bear -pain. Am I carrying you comfortably?” - -Here was another facer for Maggie; he did not want “to discuss that.” - -“I thought,” she said, “that you liked to burn everybody wha’ didna -’gree wi’ you--when ye got the chance,” she added. - -“Oh, we’re not quite so black as we’re painted, and the world is big -enough for us all nowadays, even though there are so many more people -in it. Isn’t that a good thing?” - -Maggie’s honest little heart yearned over this mistaken man, who -carried little girls so tenderly, who seemed so kind and gay. - -“I wish that you were no a papish,” she said softly, “for I’m sorely -afraid that ye’ll no win Heaven if you worship graven images.” - -The papist in question stopped short in the middle of the woodland -path. The sunlight shining through the leaves painted fantastic -patterns on his white draperies, and his eyes were very kind as he said -gently: - -“Don’t you think there will be even more room in Heaven than there is -here for all sorts of people, provided they are kind, and brave, and -honest, and do their best?” - -And Maggie agreed that it might be possible, and was something -comforted. By and by he asked her what the nice song was that she had -been singing when he first met her, and she sang it again for him all -through, till he, too, learned the tune; then she taught him the words, -and although his Scotch left much to be desired, they made a very -considerable noise between them, and the woods resounded to the strains -of “Dance, Kitty Bairdie.” - - * * * * * - -“They monks seem different to the ordinary sort,” said Maggie that -night, when, after much fomentation of the injured ankle, her aunt -tucked her into bed. - -“They’re just harmless haverals,” said her aunt indulgently; but -Maggie “added a wee thing” onto her prayers, and whispered under the -bed-clothes: - -“Please make room for yon clean man at--any--rate.” - - - - -COMRADES - - -He was called Bunchy because, when a very little boy, his clothes -_would_ bunch; the tiny petticoats were short for their width, and -everything stuck out all round him like a frill. - -Now that he was five, and wore breeches with four little buttons at the -knee, the name still stuck to him, though it was no longer appropriate. - -Bunchy was lonely. - -If Pussy had been there it would have been very different; but she had -been sent for quite suddenly to go and nurse dad, who had incontinently -fallen ill with influenza just three days after mother (Bunchy always -called her Pussy), Nana, and he had settled down for a fortnight’s -holiday in a Cotteswold village. - -It was a delightful village! It had a green with noisy geese upon it, -a stream that gurgled and splashed and told fairy tales on sleepy -September afternoons, and real woods surrounded it. - -The cottage where Pussy had taken rooms was ever so pretty, and had a -garden full of currant-bushes and celery. - -For three days they had a lovely time. They sought giants in the -woods, finding squirrels instead--which were prettier and only less -exciting; they paddled their feet in the stream and caught minnows in -a bottle; they pretended that the geese on the green were “Trolls,” and -routed them with great slaughter; and they had found mushrooms before -breakfast in a neighboring field. - -Then Pussy had to go away, and for Bunchy the face of Nature was -changed and clouded. Only Nana was left, and, although very kind, she -was not an exciting companion. She knew nothing of giants, and seemed -to care very little about Trolls. Moreover, on this particular morning -she sat indoors making a cotton dress, and told Bunchy to “run and play -in the garden like a good little boy, and not worry.” How can people, -he thought, sit in a room and sew when all the beautiful out-of-doors -seems clamoring for them to come and admire it? - -However, he played in the garden for a while; but it was rather a small -garden, and he grew tired of being a “third son” all by himself, with -no one to admire him, so he came in again and climbed the steep little -staircase. Finding the door of his mother’s room open, he went in. The -dressing-table faced the door, and the first thing he saw was a pair -of Pussy’s slippers standing in front of it. They had tall curly heels -and buckles, such as she loved, and he remembered how, even with the -tall heels, she did not reach to daddy’s shoulder. Somehow the sight of -those slippers made him want her so dreadfully that he couldn’t stay -in the room or in the garden. He went out into the road to walk and -walk until he should come to Yorkshire, where daddy was laid up in the -house of a bachelor friend with whom he had gone to shoot. - -It was a very straight road, with a trim path by the side. By and by -he came to some big gates. There was a little house inside them, all -covered with purple clematis. The gate stood open, and as Bunchy was -rather tired of the neat, straight road, he turned in, and went down a -very broad gravel path. A little way inside the gate stood two little -churches, one on each side of the path; beyond them, as far as Bunchy -could see, it was all garden. There were flowering shrubs, and trees, -and lots of grass, but it was unlike any garden he had ever seen -before, for it was full of little mounds, and there were crosses, and -slabs of stone, and marble angels dotted about among the mounds. - -He turned down a side-path to investigate further in this strange -garden. Nobody was in sight, and he wandered on by himself till, -turning a corner suddenly, he came upon a man. - -The man was dressed in black, and was sitting on a big stone slab--a -very grew old slab; but close at his feet there was one of those -curious mounds that puzzled Bunchy, and although this one had no grass -upon it, you could hardly see the brown earth, for it was almost -covered with scattered flowers--all of one kind. - -Bunchy knew the flower by sight, for Pussy always wore a bit in her -tam-o’-shanter when she came back from Scotland. The man did not move -as Bunchy came up to him. The little boy regarded him with grave brown -eyes, and something in his expression made Bunchy sure that the man -was sorry. - -Now, in Bunchy’s house, when people are sorry, Pussy talks about -something else, and she does it so beautifully that they straightway -forget their sorrow in the interest of her remarks. Bunchy felt that he -ought to talk about something else to this man who looked so sorry; but -how can you change a subject when no subject has been broached? - -So the child went up to the sorry man and lifted his tam-o’-shanter, -saying politely: - -“Can you, please, tell me whose garden this is?” - -Now it is an easy thing to take off a tam-o’-shanter, but when you try -to put it on again it has a shabby way of curling up and sitting on -the top of your head so insecurely that it topples off again directly. -Pussy generally put Bunchy’s on again for him, and as she wasn’t there -he left the matter alone and held it in his hand. The man started a -little as Bunchy spoke, then he said slowly: - -“I think it is God’s garden.” - -Bunchy was not surprised. He felt that he knew God very well indeed. -When you say prayers morning and evening, and know that there is a -benevolent Somebody somewhere, who gives you your home, and your -parents, and your little white bed, who likes you to be truthful and -courteous, and to have clean hands at meals, it is quite natural to -hear that this benevolent Person has a garden. All nice people ought to -have gardens, so Bunchy said: - -“Why does God have so many little rockeries in His garden? Why are -there all these stones, and figures, and little mounds?” - -“When people die they are buried in this garden, and their friends put -up the crosses and stones----” - -“And angels?” interrupted Bunchy admiringly; and as he looked up in the -man’s face he noticed that his eyes were very kind, but that there were -big black shadows round them, and their lids looked red and heavy. - -“They put up the crosses, and stones, and angels to show where their -friends are sleeping,” continued the tall man. - -“Then it’s a funeral,” said Bunchy solemnly, and there was silence. - -The man looked sorrier than ever, and Bunchy felt that now was the time -to talk of something else, so he said: - -“Can you tell me the nearest way to Yorkshire?” - -The man seemed to give himself a shake, as though he were trying to -wake up. He held out his hand to Bunchy, who placed his own in it -confidingly; then he drew the child toward him and set him on his knee, -asking: - -“Why do you want to go to Yorkshire, old chap?” - -“Because Pussy is there and I am so lonely,” Bunchy’s voice broke. -“I went into her room, and I saw her shoes--the ones with the curly -heels--and they made me want her so bad. They’re such tall heels.” - -“She had such little feet,” murmured the man. - -And Bunchy saw that he had gone to sleep again, so he sat very still -for a minute or two, then he said mournfully: - -“I’m so lonely!” - -“So am I,” said the man. “My Pussy has gone to sleep. She is not coming -back any more. She is sleeping under the heather here.” - -Bunchy felt the man’s shoulder heave as he leant against him, but he -said nothing. He felt that this was not a time to talk of something -else; this sorryness was something beyond him; so he stroked the man’s -face with a soft, sticky little hand, and the corners of his mouth -drooped, but he did not feel quite so lonely. - -The man seemed to like the feel of the little hand, for he bent his -head, and, laying his cheek against Bunchy’s, said in a queer broken -voice: - -“How is it that you understand, you quaint little boy?” - -“Sorry people always understand, and I feel to love you! Will you come -to Yorkshire too? We should be such nice company.” - -The man seemed to consider; then he said: - -“It’s a long way. I’m afraid we shouldn’t get there by candle-light. -You’d be very tired, and your shoes would be quite worn out.” - -“Couldn’t you carry me a bit sometimes? Daddy does when I’m very tired.” - -“Well, I might do that; but even then we shouldn’t get there to-day. -How is it you are here all alone?” - -The man seemed waking up, and waited quite anxiously for Bunchy’s -answer. - -“Well, you see, Nana was busy sewing, and I was lonely wivout Pussy, so -I thought I’d walk to Yorkshire just to see her.” - -“Suppose you come to lunch with me instead. It’s not so far as -Yorkshire; still, it’s a good way, and we’ll go and tell Nana you’re -coming, then she won’t be anxious. I don’t think Pussy would like you -to walk all that way to-day. She’ll come back as soon as she can, you -may be quite sure. Will you come? We’d be nice company, as you say.” - -Bunchy looked up into the man’s eyes; then he slid off his knee, saying: - -“I’ll come, thank you.” - -The man got up off the big flat stone and held out his hand to Bunchy; -but the little boy had knelt down by the mound all covered with -heather. He stooped his curly head and kissed the flowers, saying in -his sweet child’s voice: - -“Good-bye, man’s Pussy! I hope you are happy in God’s garden.” - -Then he took the man’s hand and they walked away together. - -But the man had gone to sleep again, for he said: - -“Nay! And though all men, seeing, had pity on me, she would not see.” - - - - -LITTLE SHOES - - -The Vicarage stands at the bottom of the market place, inside high -walls and entered by wooden gates which generally stand open. Thus the -passer-by can, for a moment, feast his eyes upon the perfect garden -within. - -The Vicaress was dead-heading her roses. She does this carefully every -summer afternoon just after lunch. She had reached the bush of cabbage -roses close to the gate, and her long lath basket lay on the drive -beside her. - -The market place was empty and still; nobody was shopping, for all the -world rested preparatory to attending the Earl’s garden-party later -on. Road and houses alike glared white in the hot June sunshine, while -in contrast the Vicarage garden seemed doubly cool and shady. The yew -hedge just inside the gates threw long green shadows on drive and lawn. -Such a lawn it was! Plantains or dandelions were a thing unknown. Other -lawns might get brown or worn in a drought, but the Vicarage lawn was -watered every night by a specially constructed hose, that the beauty -of its velvet turf might never vary. The Vicar was wont to excuse his -exceeding pride in his lawn by quoting: “The green hath two pleasures: -the one, because nothing is more pleasant to the eye than green grass -finely shorn; the other, because it will give you a fair alley in the -midst.” It was a sunken lawn surrounded by smoothly shaven banks and -reached by broad stone steps. - -The Vicar and like-minded clerics occasionally played bowls upon it; -but to think of lawn tennis or croquet in connection with such grass -were little short of sacrilege. - -Presently the Vicaress became aware that a woman stood in the doorway, -a woman carrying a baby, while a little girl of some three years clung -to her skirts. - -They stood gazing wistfully into the garden. As both mother and child -wore red kerchiefs instead of hats, the Vicaress looked for the -inevitable organ, but could not see it. - -As she strongly disapproved of indiscriminate charity she shook her -head at them, saying: “We never give at the door!” - -Wearily shifting the baby to her other arm, the woman answered, with a -touch of gentle dignity: “I have not ask the senora for money, but if -she permit that we rest on the seat in the shade; we do no harm.” - -Her voice was soft, and her English refined by its foreign accent. The -Vicaress pointed to a rustic seat under the yews, saying: “You may -certainly come in and rest.” Then she continued to deadhead the cabbage -rose--it was an untidy bush that cabbage rose. - -As the child toddled past her to climb into the seat the Vicaress -noticed that the little feet made red marks on the gravel. The woman -pointed to them with an apologetic shrug: “The little Zita she wear out -her shoes, her feet bleed. The senora has a pair of old shoes of her -children? Yes?” - -The Vicaress shook her head, and a spasm of pain crossed her face. -There were no children at the Vicarage now. But shoes? Yes! there were -shoes. She bent down to look at the ragged little feet, and very gently -took off Zita’s shoes. “Her feet must be washed,” she announced. “Will -she come with me?” - -Zita shook her curls out of her eyes, but on further inspection of the -senora declined to budge. “Then I must bring the water here,” said the -Vicaress, marching away to fetch it. - -She was a tall, thin woman, with keen grey eyes and a lined, hard face, -framed in hair that Nature had intended to break into fluffy rings of -sunlight round her brow. But the Vicaress coerced her hair with some -abomination that kept it flat and close to her head. It was only when a -shaft of sunlight struck the tight braid at the back that one realized -it was of the true Titian color. She went up the wide oak staircase -into her cool, sweet-scented bedroom, where the _Gloire de Dijon_ -roses nodded into the windows. Stopping in front of a big Chippendale -wardrobe, she pulled out one of the deep drawers. - -“I can’t bear to do it!” she murmured, “but I never give money, and her -little feet were cut and bleeding.” - -In that drawer lay many pairs of half-worn little shoes--shoes that had -pattered gaily down the Vicarage stairs and danced across the sacred -lawn. Her eyes were very soft as she chose out a pair of little strap -shoes and some woollen socks. Had the Murillo cherub, chattering in -her sweet jargon of Pyrenean Spanish under the shade of the yew trees, -seen the face of the Vicaress just then, she would not have refused -to go with her. But the Vicaress kept what Mr. Barrie tenderly calls -her “soft face” for solitary places. The best that people could say -of her was, that if her manner was hard her deeds were often kindly. -She filled a basin with warm water and went through the silent house -into the garden again. Zita laughed and showed her white teeth as -she dabbled her feet in the water, becoming quite friendly; then the -Vicaress dried her brown legs and arrayed her in the new shoes and -socks. On the party being regaled with Vicarage cake and milk, the -mother informed her hostess that they purposed to go on to Gloucester -that day--a fifteen-mile walk. - -“Have you no money to go by train?” asked the Vicaress. - -“Oh, no, senora! My ’usban’ sell ze ice cream there, he cannot send me -large money.” - -“But you can’t get there to-night; where will you sleep?” - -The woman shrugged her shoulders, turning her unoccupied hand outward -with an expressive gesture. “In the hedge, senora, it is cool and dry.” - -“But the children?” - -“Oh, zay sleep--and Zita, she walk well till her foots come to ze -ground.” Then turning to the child she said something rapidly in -Spanish, adding: “She sing for you, senora, you so kind for her.” - -“_A la puerta del cielos, venden zapatos_,” crooned Zita in her funny -little nasal chant, and sang the lullaby right through. - -“What is it all about?” demanded her hostess with a queer little catch -in her voice. - -“Senora! it is that zay sell shoes at ze doorway of heaven, to ze -ragged little angels who have none!” - -The woman rose, and shouldering the brown baby, prepared to depart. But -the baby, who approved of Vicarage cake, choked alarmingly, and delayed -matters for a while. - -The baby’s equanimity restored, they bade their hostess farewell. They -had not gone very far, however, when hearing hasty footsteps behind -them, they turned. It was the Vicaress. She thrust something into -little Zita’s hand, exclaiming breathlessly: “I wish you to go by -train; it is not safe for such babies to be out all night!” Then she -turned and fairly ran home. - -An hour later, as she stood in front of her looking-glass, smoothing -her hair till it looked like a yellow skull-cap, she said to herself: -“To pay for a person’s railway journey is not indiscriminate charity!” -and her eyes grew tender as she thought of the little shoes. - - - - -“PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN” - - -“You sent for me, mother?” - -“Yes, child; I sent for you to say good-bye. I am going away for some -time.” The woman spoke deliberately in the monotonous voice of one -giving a piece of information tedious to give. - -Angus did not express any surprise, or regret. The nine years he had -spent with his mother had not helped him to know her. Without in the -least understanding wherein lay her strange aloofness, he was conscious -that he was supremely uninteresting to her. He wondered why it should -be so, and his honest boyish soul was sometimes troubled. But children -submit readily to the inevitable, and Angus had his compensations. - -Vera Warden looked at her son with more interest than was usual with -her. He was certainly a handsome lad, tall and well built, with blue -eyes that were both kind and honest. She had been long in making her -decision. Now that it was made she did not regret: she only wondered -if, somehow, she had missed something that more commonplace women find -easily. - -“Angus, dear, you must take care of father. You and your father are so -much alike--understand each other so well--that it will be easy for -you. You must be especially good to him, now.” - -There was a curious little catch in Vera’s voice as she said the “now.” - -“Why are you going, mother?” questioned Angus, feeling that here was -something even more puzzling than usual in his mother’s manner. “When -are you coming back? Father will miss you.” - -“Will he?” asked Vera wistfully. “And you, Angus, will you miss me at -all?” - -Angus was profoundly astonished. He would like to have kissed his -mother just as he kissed dad, but he did not dare. He only grew red, -and fidgeted awkwardly, as he answered: “Of course I shall miss you, -mother--at meals.” - -It was not greed that prompted the child’s definition, but the fact -that he seldom saw his mother, except at breakfast and lunch. - -Vera Warden did not care for children, and said so--frequently. - -The carriage came to the door, good-bye being said without much emotion -on either side. As she was driven out of the big stone gates, Vera gave -herself a little shake, saying: “And now for life!” - - * * * * * - -An hour later Thomas Warden returned from a fishing expedition on the -other side of the Dale. The oak trees in the avenue had burst into -gold-green leaf. The big chestnut on the lawn--the only chestnut on the -estate--was covered with cones of pinky blossom. The May sunset touched -the grim grey house with rosy light, and Thomas Warden felt a welcome -in it all. - -Laying down his rods and fishing-baskets in the hall, he went straight -to his study. There on his blotting-book lay the letter he had both -dreaded and expected. - -His sunburnt face looked grey as he took it up. He sat down heavily; -then, with shaking hands, opened the letter and read: - - “I have burnt my boats; there is no going back. I warned you that - it would come to this: that I would bear the monotony no longer. I - have given you ten years of my life--the ten best years. Now I owe it - to myself to live--it may be ten years more--but anyway, to _live_. - Marriage and maternity have, for me, proved uninteresting; but I have - endured them for your sake, and for the sake of the boy--while he was - quite young. Had he been in any way an unusual boy I might have found - life more tolerable. To develop his mind would have been an interest - for me; he might have shared, in some degree, my aspirations after - a fuller intellectual life. But he is a healthy, handsome, quite - commonplace boy, who will grow into what you would call ‘an honest, - God-fearing man’ without my help. He has an excellent governess, and - your good mother will doubtless come frequently to worship you both. - I wish I could free you of me altogether, and that you could marry - again and be happy. But you are not the sort of man to bear with - equanimity any sort of scandal or publicity, and you have my promise - that the life I lead shall be such as can give you no cause for - offence other than the fact that I lead it away from you. For your - never-failing courtesy and kindness I thank you. Believe me, I shall - always have the sincerest affection and respect for you. The fact - remains, however, that I cannot lead your life, and you can lead no - other. Let us then separate, and go our different ways in peace. - - “In every conventional and actual sense, I am and will be your - faithful wife, - - “VERA WARDEN.” - -There was nothing in the letter that she had not said to him, many -times, during the last six months. - -Now, she had actually carried out her so often announced intention, and -was gone; and the realization stunned him. He felt cold and numbed. The -roar of the beck, in which he had stood all morning, was in his ears, -and he gazed out into the gathering twilight, seeing nothing--only -conscious that it was dark and chill everywhere. - -There was a knock at the door, and a servant came in, saying: “Please, -sir, Master Angus is ready, and would like you to come to him, if you -are not too tired.” - -Dragging himself out of his chair, he passed his hand across his -dazed, strained eyes. Then he went out of the room and up the wide old -staircase to his dressing-room, where Angus slept. - -“I’ve got a new nightsuit, dad, just like yours. Look--pocket and -trowsies, and all!” exclaimed the child, displaying the latter garments -with great pride. “Miss Taylor had them made for me in York. Aren’t -they nice?” - -“Yes, my boy, yes--very!” but the voice was absent, and Angus felt that -there was a something lacking, something that he generally found there. - -The child felt frightened. Was dad, too, going to hold himself “aloof”? -Would he, too, take to looking over people’s heads, and answering in a -far-away voice? The thought was one full of omen. - -Angus gazed into his father’s face, as he sat wearily on the edge of -the little bed. The child, if commonplace, was quick to understand -those who loved him. In a moment he acquitted his father, and came and -knelt beside him, rubbing his curly head against his knees. He said his -prayer with devoutly folded hands, as Grannie had taught him. Then, -climbing into Warden’s arms, put his own round his neck. - -“Shall I sing my psalm, dad? Or are you too tired?” - -His father held him very close. “Sing it, laddie. Sing Grannie’s psalm.” - -Grannie was Scotch. When she came she taught Angus the psalms in metre. -She taught him other things that he learned more easily than the -psalms; chief among them a great love and trust in her, and through -her, for everything Scotch. - -Shortbread was Scotch, and it was good. Scones were Scotch, and they -were good, especially with currants. Edinburgh rock was excellent; -therefore the psalms, too, were probably superior in the Scotch -version. Angus learned all Grannie’s favorites, the first of which was -the twenty-third: - - My table thou hast furnished, - In presence of my foes. - -The child always pictured a long table, covered with a fair white -cloth, and plentifully plenished with plates piled high with scones and -shortbread. He wondered what “foes” were, for he hadn’t any; he thought -they must be the servants who handed round the plates. - -“Goodness and mercy all my life shall surely follow me.” The sad, -patient tune Grannie had taught him sounded almost triumphant, as the -child’s strong treble voice rang out. When he had finished, his father -leant his head against the little rounded shoulder, and there was -silence save for the man’s quick breathing. - -“Good-night, dad!” said Angus at last, turning himself to see his -father’s face. - -Thomas Warden rose hastily; he laid the boy in his little white bed, -kissed him, and blessed him, and went down and sat in the study again. -But a man cannot dine in his fishing boots; so he went upstairs, had a -bath, and while he dressed, Angus discoursed cheerfully to him through -the half-open door. - - * * * * * - -The silence was unbearable; it was so lonely. Thomas Warden could not -sleep. He got up and walked about his room. Only one o’clock! The night -had hardly begun. - -The moon shone brilliantly, but the wind blew shrewdly through the open -casement. May nights are cold in the North country. - -He went into the dressing-room and looked at Angus. “If she had only -loved the boy--if she had only loved the boy.” He could have forgiven -her all the rest. A just and tolerant man, he knew his own limitations. -He granted to the full his wife’s intellectual superiority; but she -might have loved the boy. - -“Goodness and mercy all my life shall surely follow me.” Why did those -lines ring in his head? and then, there always followed the sentence in -his wife’s letter: “I cannot live your life, and you can live no other.” - -It was true: _he_ could live no other. But the boy--why did she not -love the boy? - -He drew up the blind, and the mellow moonlight fell on the sleeping -child. Surely he was a goodly child, so comely, and kindly, and honest. -As he looked at the boy his heart went out to him. He did not stoop and -kiss him as a woman would have done; he reverenced too much this fair -sleep which wrapped him round. He went back to his own room and got a -pillow. Then, laying his long length on the floor beside the little -bed, and with the child’s psalm still sounding in his ears, he too -slept. - -The room was flooded with moonlight when Angus awoke. There was a sound -of regular and heavy breathing. Angus felt puzzled; puzzled, but not in -the least afraid. Such breathing must come from a man, or a dog; from -men and dogs the child had experienced nothing but kindness. - -He sat up, and listening, looked about to see where the sound came -from. He shook his hair back from his forehead, and rubbed his eyes. -Yes! he was not mistaken, it _was_ his father who lay there on the -floor beside his bed. - -Angus rose softly, and touched his father’s bare feet; they were very -cold. “Poor dad,” he said to himself--“and him so tired!” - -Then suddenly he remembered his mother’s words: “You must take care of -father.” It was bad to sleep without a covering, Grannie had told him -that. He pulled his little quilt off his bed, and laid it lightly on -his father. To his delight the sleeping figure never stirred, but the -quilt was short, and Thomas Warden was long--by no amount of stretching -would it cover both his shoulders and his feet--poor cold feet! Then -Angus was seized by an inspiration, which even his mother could not -have called quite commonplace. He lay down at his father’s feet, and -unbuttoning the jacket of the new sleeping suit, he cuddled up so that -the cold feet rested on his own warm breast. Then he, too, fell asleep. - -The kindly moon shone in upon them, and it was very still. - -When Thomas Warden awoke the moonlight had changed to pearly dawn. He -was no longer cold, and when he realized why, he was no longer lonely. - - - - -A THROW BACK - - -Nana had at last gone out and left the coast clear. Kit seized her -little brother’s hand, and they sped down the long passage to the red -baize door which swung heavily but did not latch, shutting off the -nursery quarters from the house. - -Kit was a person of dramatic instincts, and as they ran down the -passage she quoted in a deep and awful voice, “The tiger is a fearful -beast, He comes when you expect him least.” Addison gazed fearfully -over his shoulder, and ran at the top of his speed. - -At last by a mighty effort they pushed open the heavy red door, and -the staircase and the house lay before them for exploration. It was a -very wide staircase, black and shiny and slippery, and as they went -down their little feet made a pattering noise which seemed to echo -and multiply in the silent house. Kit turned and said, “Hush!” in a -reproving voice to Addison, who was, like Agag, walking delicately, on -the banister side. “I can’t hush any more than I’m doing!” he replied -in an injured tone. “I must put my feet down firm or I’d skate!” - -“Come on!” said Kit. “Let’s go and see if Jakes is in the dining-room, -and he’ll tell us what’s for lunch.” - -They crossed the stone-flagged hall, and Kit opened the dining-room -door and marched boldly in. There was no one there; the big room was -wrapped in silence, and Addison felt very small and timid as he stood -on the threshold. Not so Kit; she walked boldly up to the table, which -was laid. There was a great deal of old silver on the table, and many -flowers; but its appearance was evidently most displeasing to Kit, for -she exclaimed angrily: - -“Look here, Addison, just look here! Jakes has only laid lunch for -_one_!” - -Even the mild and gentle Addison was roused to something like -indignation at this tremendous intelligence. To have breakfast and tea -in the nursery is an understood thing; but lunch--whoever heard of a -well-conducted child having lunch anywhere but in the dining-room, once -he or she could hold a spoon and fork? It was abominable; it had to be -seen into at once. - -Kit gave an indignant sniff, saying: “I know it isn’t Jakes; it’s Nana. -She’d go and say we could have lunch with her till Miss Mercer came; -but I’ll go and speak to grandpapa at once; it’s a shame; I won’t stand -it. Come on!” - -The obedient Addison trotted after Kit across the hall with some -alacrity. He hadn’t seen much of grandpapa; but what he had seen he -liked. How still the old house was, no sound to be heard but the drip, -drip of the rain on the ivy outside the windows and the sizzle and fiz -of the big logs in the great stone fireplace. - -The children looked upon “Nanas” and their like as necessary evils. -They divided mankind into two classes, which they called respectively -“the dears” and “the deafs.” To the “dears” belonged father and mother, -all father’s friends and most of mother’s; Gaffer and all Gaffer’s -servants; orderlies--particularly orderlies--and grooms. To the “deafs” -belonged nurses, governesses, cross gardeners, and a great many young -ladies who wore smart frocks and were affectionate in public. These -latter were called “deafs” not because of any defect in their aural -arrangements, but simply because the children considered them incapable -of discussing anything interesting. “Stupid people!” Kit was wont to -observe, “who ask you how old you are, and who fetch stale cake out of -tin boxes, and one’s got to eat it for politeness’ sake. Oh, I hate -deafs!” - -When Kit reached the study door she knocked, but there was no answer. -“Mother says he never hears if he’s writing,” she whispered. “Let’s -go in--come on!” So she turned the handle of the door and went in. -Grandfather was writing. His great knee-hole table was piled with open -books, and he had on his gold-rimmed spectacles. He never looked up as -Kit shut the door softly behind her. For one thing, doors never creaked -in grandfather’s house. - -The children stood inside the door and waited, but he never looked -up. “Come on,” said Kit, as, holding Addison by the hand, they walked -leisurely across the room, till she stood close by their grandfather; -then she said in a loud and cheerful voice: - -“Good-morning, Gaffer; we’ve come to see you!” - -“We’ve come to see you!” echoed the ever-obedient Addison. Grandfather -was fond of old-fashioned things, and the name “Gaffer” was so -delightfully inappropriate that he encouraged the children to use it -when they spoke to him. - -“Oh, you’ve come, have you?” he said, taking off his spectacles and -turning himself in his heavy revolving chair toward the children. “And -how are you, my dears? Did you sleep well after your long journey?” - -It did not take long to install a child on each knee. Addison gazed -at him in adoring silence, but Kit hastened to unbosom herself of her -wrongs. “I’ve come to complain!” she began with dignity. “They’ve -only laid lunch for you in the dining-room. Now I know you’d like our -company. Mother said we were to keep you company--will you give orders -about it?” - -Gaffer seemed duly impressed, as he said: “I will give orders at once. -Of course you are to have lunch with me while you are here. It’s a pity -it’s so wet for your first day, but it’s nice to think that those dear -people are going further and further away from the fogs and damp. It -will do mother so much good to be in a warm climate, and you must try -not to feel dull without them.” - -“I wish they’d taken me!” said Kit. “I love hotels!” Gaffer looked at -her and laughed: “What a traveled little person you are! I never slept -in a hotel till I was seventeen.” - -“Ah, but that’s long ago. People go about more now, and, you see, we -have to go with the regiment.” - -“To go with the regiment,” echoed Addison. - -Kit conversed affably with her grandfather for some time; she told him -who were her favorite officers, and which her favorite puddings. She -carefully explained that, as she was four years older than Addison, she -went to bed an hour later, and that she intended to spend that hour in -her grandfather’s society. She expressed her approval of the study as -a room, but thought it was a pity that, owing to the large number of -books, there was no space for any pictures on the walls. Addison stared -about him in solemn silence, till at last Gaffer suggested that, as he -had got to write to mother, they had better go back to the nursery till -lunchtime. Then they trotted across the room together, but when they -reached the door and Kit had gone out, Addison raced back and stood -by his grandfather’s chair, whispering breathlessly: “Will you let me -see some of the books some day--wivout Kit?” There was a passionate -eagerness in the question which startled Gaffer. He looked down at the -imploring, upturned face. - -And then “a strange thing happened.” It was no longer Addison, his -namesake, that he saw; it was himself. Himself of sixty years ago. -There he stood, the quaint, serious-eyed boy, whose portrait hung in -his dead wife’s dressing-room. The boy who longed for books, and who -had asked the same question of a scholar in an Oxford library, on a -long-forgotten morning all those years ago. With a sudden rush of -gratitude he remembered how the question had been answered, and though -his smile was very pleasant, his voice was a trifle husky as he said: - -“Assuredly!” - -“Wivout Kit?” persistently questioned the little boy. - -“Without Kit, I promise,” repeated Gaffer. Then he and Addison shook -hands, and Addison followed Kit. - -She was waiting in the hall. “What did you say to Gaffer?” she asked -inquisitively, but Addison shook his head. He could keep his own -counsel even when coerced by pinches. - -At lunch Gaffer inquired: “Addison, can you read?” - -“Not well!” answered Kit. “He can’t read well; he’s only doing -‘sequel,’ and he’s six. He’s very backward!” - -“I asked Addison, my dear,” said Gaffer, in gently reproving tones. - -Addison blushed and held down his head; then he said: “I don’t like -what I read; it’s so uninteresting. They ask such silly questions, over -and over again.” - -“He knows heaps of poetry!” said Kit magnanimously. “He can learn -anything when he’s heard it once, and he knows pages of verses, and -psalms, and that, but he’s no good on horseback. He’s got no nerve. Dad -says he’ll never be any good across country! And he’s afraid of the -dark!” - -“Are you not nervous?” asked Gaffer. - -“Me nervous!” said Kit with great scorn. “I can ride dad’s chargers!” - -“Ah, you’re like your mother,” said Gaffer, smiling at her. “Now I, I -was never any good across country; but yet I haven’t found that it has -alienated my friends, or done me any great damage in life. Has Addison -begun Latin?” - -“Oh, no; Miss Mercer doesn’t teach Latin, and he’s far too backward in -other things to begin.” - -“I began Greek when I was his age,” said Gaffer dreamily; “but there’s -no reason why Addison should not begin Latin. He shall begin it with -me.” - -Addison flushed up to the roots of his hair; then he scrambled off his -seat--a most unheard-of proceeding in the middle of lunch--and ran -round to his grandfather. He threw himself upon him, exclaiming: “I -love you; oh, how I love you!” - -Kit regarded him with astonished eyes. That Addison, who never kissed -anybody but mother, who was so undemonstrative, so slow to show -feeling, should behave in this extraordinary manner, because he was -told he might have Latin lessons, was to her incomprehensible; and -Gaffer seemed to approve, for he lifted Addison on to his knee, and -said in such a queer voice: “I think we’re rather of a kidney, you and -I; we’re going to understand each other uncommonly well,” and Addison -sat enthroned on Gaffer’s knee all the rest of lunch, and shared his -cheese. Kit felt injured. - -When Gaffer went back to his study he sat down before the fire, and he -pondered for a long time over his queer little grandson. Then he gave -his shoulders a shake and sighed: “I was a disappointment to my father, -and he’ll be a disappointment--he is a disappointment--poor little -chap, to his. He is unaccountably like me.” - -A lonely child was Addison. The fact that he was always called Addison -from the time he ceased to be baby was proof enough. A child who is -understood gets a nickname. Kit had fifty. Addison was always called -by his baptismal name. It was Gaffer’s name, and Gaffer’s grandfather -had been called after a gentleman who wrote poetry and things. Little -Addison knew that much, and he wondered if the writings of that -far-away Mr. Addison were more interesting than “Step by Step.” Addison -was called an “old-fashioned child”; he was not very sure precisely -what that was, but that it was something a child ought not to be, he -was convinced. Kit was pretty, very pretty; so the officers said, not -infrequently to Kit herself. Kit was never afraid of anything by day -or by night. Kit always spoke the truth; Addison had been known to -prevaricate when he was frightened, and he was often frightened--at -nothing at all, Kit said. - -But the worst and most unforgivable thing about Addison was this: he -had no wish to be a soldier--and said so. The sound of a pop-gun caused -his heart to thump against his breast in an unpleasantly violent -manner, and a review was to him a prolonged agony that made him ill for -days. - -His mother--whom he worshipped--and who loved him tenderly, was quite -unconscious of his many sufferings. She was absolutely devoid of nerves -herself, and thought that Addison would grow out of his “delicacy,” -as she called it. She was proud of his remarkable resemblance to -her father, whom she admired above all mortal men--but she was -disappointed; and poor Addison, with the quick intuition of childhood, -was perfectly aware of it--at his being what her husband called “such a -Molly.” - -So it came about that Kit was always brought forward, and Addison kept -in the background--to his own satisfaction certainly, but very much to -the detriment of Kit. - -Edinburgh, where the regiment was stationed, was too cold for mother, -and dad obtained leave to take her to the Riviera for the worst months; -so Kit and Addison were sent to Gaffer, and for Addison it was the -turning-point of his life. - -To most people, their initiation into the accidence of the Latin -language is not a very happy recollection. To Addison it is a -recollection little short of rapturous. - -To him the first pages of a Latin grammar call up the picture of a -large, old-fashioned room, flooded with a mellow light like that of -the sun through a veil of yellowing beeches. There is a goodly smell -in the room, the smell of dressed and well-kept leather. The walls are -lined with books, books bound in calf and russet-colored Russia, and -in the middle of the room stands a knee-hole table both deep and wide. -It, too, is covered with books; but here they lie open, one upon the -other, a crowd of witnesses to the tastes of the owner of the room. -That gracious owner! Addison’s eyes grow dim as he thinks of the spare -upright figure seated in the revolving chair; the keen scholarly face -and noble white head. He hears again the kind, cultivated voice ever -ready to answer questions, to answer them so fully and so beautifully, -with such a tender sympathy for the eager childish questioner. And then -Addison goes down on his mental knees and thanks his God that as yet he -had brought no look of sorrow into those kind eyes, but many a look of -pride and joy. - -Is there not one shelf in that library devoted to Addison’s prizes? -And the row is lengthening by leaps and bounds. Yet they wonder at -Winchester why he should be so fond of classics. - - - - -THE INTERVENTION OF THE DUKE - - -I - -ENTER WIGGINS - -The Reverend Andrew Methven stood at his study window gazing out to -sea. The sea was very blue, the sands yellow and smooth, but it was not -the sea that the Reverend Andrew saw. - -Elgo, on the Fife coast, is growing fashionable. In summer every house -is let, and there are sometimes as many as fifty bathers at once in -the bay. At Elgo the bathers usually wear blue serge, adorned it may -be by red or white braid. Pale blue silk with white facings and short -sleeves is not the usual uniform. It impressed the Reverend Andrew, -and consequently he stood and stared. Moreover, the wearer of this -wonderful creation--he felt it was a “creation,” though he had never -heard the word so used--came out of the house next door to the Manse, -the house being that of his most worthy parishioner, Mrs. Urquhart, -Baker and Confectioner, who let her rooms during the summer months. - -Elgo streets are somewhat one-sided, the town being built upon the -cliff with a railing near the outer edge for the protection of the -unwary. - -The vision in pale blue silk tripped down the steep steps cut in the -rocks, and ran across the sands. She was followed by a small thin boy, -whose freckled face was broad and good-natured. On the sands they took -hands and danced into the water together. - -The vision was tall and slim, with wonderful arms that flashed white -in the June sunshine, and the minister remarked that she could swim -magnificently. The little naked boy splashed after her, looking like a -terrier as he shook the water from his crop of curly hair. - -The minister’s window was open, and across the sunlit sands came the -sound of a woman’s voice, crying: “Come on, Wiggins, get on my back, -and I’ll swim with you to the Cock’s-tail Rocks!” - -The Reverend Andrew swung his telescope into position; he had the grace -to blush as he did so, but none the less did he eagerly follow that -swimmer by its aid. She did it, there and back; then she and the small -boy ran dripping over the sands and vanished through Mrs. Urquhart’s -side door. - -An hour later the minister (he was the Free Kirk minister really; there -is an Established Church in Elgo, but as its pews are empty and its -incumbent of small account, he was “the minister” to Elgo) strolled -into Mrs. Urquhart’s shop to buy cookies. Mrs. Urquhart herself bustled -forward to serve him. - -“You’ve let your rooms, I see, Mrs. Urquhart! And early in the season, -too!” - -“Yes, sir! I’ve let my rooms, and to my own young lady that I was -nurse to; you’ll mind my telling you of Sir John Penberthy and his -bonny family. Well, Mrs. Burton is just my Miss Mary, married and -widowed too, poor lamb, and she and Master Wiggins have come all the -way from London to be with me, and it’s proud I am to have them!” Mrs. -Urquhart paused breathless. - -The minister murmured something sympathetic, and taking up his bag of -cookies strode back to the Manse. “Mary, mother of names,” he thought, -as he turned over the information he had received. “Widowed! She -doesn’t wear much mourning anyway!” as he thought of the blue silk -bathing-dress. Then he said with a sigh, “She is very beautiful!” and -sat him down to write his Sunday sermon. - -In the afternoon he met Wiggins on the beach: that gentleman was -digging while a French _bonne_ kept guard in the rear. - -“Do you like Elgo?” asked the minister. He had a kindly way with -children; he was rather childlike himself, and they knew it. - -“Awfully,” answered Wiggins, patting his castle walls, and barely -looking up. - -“Have you ever been to the sea before?” - -“Oh, dear, yes; haven’t you?” - -“I live here,” said the minister, rather discomposed by this -exceedingly cool child. - -“I wish I did!” sighed Wiggins. “I hate Kensington.” - -“Ah, that’s London! I’ve never been there,” said the minister simply. -“I wish I had.” - -“It’s not a very nice place. There’s gardens and busses, and sometimes -we ride in a hansom, and you always have to wear your shoes and -generally gloves, it’s beastly.” Wiggins spoke bitterly, as one who had -tasted the hollow shams of Kensington. - -The minister sat down on the sand. - -“Isn’t there a museum there, and an Art Gallery?” he asked. - -“Oh, yes, but you mayn’t touch anything, and you have to wear your hat!” - -“You seem to object to clothing,” remarked the minister. - -“Don’t you?” responded this discomposing child. - -“Well, no, I can’t say I do. It’s warm, and----” - -“Oh, it’s warm enough in Kensington, if that’s what you want!” and -Wiggins turned to dig a fresh channel from his castle to the sea. - -“M’sieu Wiggins, il faut aller à la maison pour le thé. Faites vos -adieux à M’sieu le Curé!” and Madeleine, the pretty French _bonne_, -folded up her crochet, and rose. - -But Wiggins was smitten with deafness, and waded deeper into the water, -with a seraphically unconscious look. - -Madeleine went down to the water’s edge, where she discoursed volubly -for about five minutes. The minister sat watching; he wondered why -French people speak so fast, and whether Wiggins understood. He -evidently did, for he answered derisively, and sat down suddenly in -the water. Then he came out, and grinning at the minister, remarked -gleefully as he took his dripping way homeward: - -“That’s the third pair to-day, soon shan’t have any left to wear. What -a rux!” - -“So that’s a London child!” mused the minister. “He’s a fine frank lad; -I must call upon his mother.” - - -II - -A NEW ATMOSPHERE - -But the days went on, and the minister did not call. He was a sociable -fellow, much beloved by his fisher folk, and by such summer visitors -as knew him. Elgo was his first “charge.” Had he been small, instead -of six-foot-three, he would doubtless long ago have been dubbed “The -Little Minister,” after Mr. Barrie’s immortal hero, for he was young as -a minister can be. - -He did not call on Mrs. Burton because he had conceived for her an -extravagant admiration, or rather adoration. He met her constantly on -the beach and in the village street, and on these occasions gravely -lifted his hat. Had he followed his impulse, he would have gone down -on his knees and begged leave to kiss her feet. We do not follow our -impulses in these matters nowadays, and Mary Burton never wondered why -he did not call, for she thought about him not at all. - -She did not go to church that first Sunday, but played with Wiggins on -the beach all the morning. Mrs. Urquhart was scandalized and suggested -the Episcopalian church at Pittenweem; but Mary only put her arms round -her old nurse and laughingly promised to come and sit in her pew next -Sunday. - -The minister progressed in his friendship with Wiggins; while Mary was -scouring the country on her bicycle, Wiggins and his new friend played -on the beach or fished for poddlies from the rocks. - -Madeleine with the inevitable crochet sat on the beach and beamed at -them. - -“You’re a Presbyterian, aren’t you?” asked Wiggins abruptly of the -minister one afternoon. - -“Yes, I’m a member of the Free Kirk.” - -“Oh, you’re Free Kirk, and Madeleine’s a Roman Catholic, and mother and -me is Pagans!” - -“Pagans?” echoed the minister in astonished tones. - -“Well, mother says so. It means that you love the sun, and the sea, and -bare feet and meringues and music-halls and things!” - -“Pagans, music-halls!” The minister gazed in horror at the unconscious -but breathless Wiggins. “Do you mean to say,” he asked solemnly, “that -you do not know anything about our Saviour who died for us?” - -Wiggins turned and looked at him with something of reproachful scorn on -his broad freckled face; then he said slowly: “Of course, I know, but -we never talk about _that_ to strangers, mother and me. It is bad form, -like the people who give you tracts in busses.” - -“I beg your pardon, I misunderstood,” said the minister. - -They were silent for a few minutes, during which the minister digested -this, to him, new view of confessing your faith before men. - -Although he himself never gave tracts either in busses or anywhere -else, he had certainly in a sort of hazy fashion considered that to do -so was praiseworthy, if mistaken. - -“There’s mother!” announced Wiggins suddenly. “Let’s come and talk to -her.” - -The minister scrambled to his feet, and in another moment he had shaken -hands with Mrs. Burton, and they all sat down on the beach together. - -Wiggins did most of the talking, and then it began to rain. - -“Will you come in and have a cup of tea with Wiggins and me?” asked -Mrs. Burton. - -The minister felt that no words at all expressed the rapture with which -this proposal filled him. - -Mrs. Urquhart’s parlor looked so different that afternoon. Many -photographs stood on the mantelpiece, books other than albums or Family -Bibles were scattered on the table, papers and magazines strewed the -horsehair sofa, while on the mantelpiece among the photographs and -the little vases full of roses were the ends of many half-smoked -cigarettes. Another shock was in store for the minister. - -They had tea; he drank three cups and ate endless scones in order to -prolong the meal. To sit opposite to Mary and watch her white, heavily -ringed hands flit in and out among the cups as she made tea was a -wonderful thing. To listen to her as she praised Elgo, and Scotland -generally, in her soft Southern voice was wonderful; but most wonderful -of all was to gaze at her unrebuked, to drink in the beauty of her -face, to note the gracious line of cheek and chin as she turned her -head, and lose himself in the depths of her eyes, brown as the trout -stream beyond Glen Dynoch. When at last some small consciousness of -material things awoke in him and he rose to go, Mary reached to the -chimneypiece for a slim tin box. - -“Will you have a cigarette?” she asked. “Dear Mrs. Urquhart forgives my -evil habits, and pretends she thinks that I smoke for asthma. I don’t -look asthmatical, do I?” - -“Thank you,” faltered the minister. “I do not smoke now--I gave it -up after my student days, just as I gave up drinking anything, for -the sake of my people. I daresay it was useless, but I thought it was -right--then.” - -He spoke diffidently, humbly, half expecting a flash of amused scorn in -her, such as he not infrequently encountered in Wiggins. But Mary held -out her hand, saying softly: - -“I am sure it was right then, and is now; but don’t judge me hardly, -for I have no flock to influence. My boys will smoke, anyhow, when they -are big.” - -“It is kind of you not to laugh at me,” he said, and with that took his -leave. - -Mary lit her cigarette and smoked thoughtfully for some time. Wiggins -was once more searching for treasure on his beloved beach. She sat at -the open window and watched the boats come in. Presently she rang the -bell for Mrs. Urquhart. When that good lady appeared, breathless from -her ascent of the steep little stairs, Mary pushed her into an armchair -and sat down at her feet, with her head against the old woman’s knees. - -“Amuse me, nursey; tell me about your minister. Where does he come -from? How is it that, without having been anywhere or seen anything, -he is such a perfect gentleman, and why--oh, why is he a Free Church -minister?” - -“And what for no, my dearie? He’s an excellent, well-doing young man. -You should hear him preach; it’s just wonderfu’. His father’s a doctor -near Aberdeen; bein’ douce people they are--a large young family, and -all doing well. He was at the college in Edinburgh, and passed very -high. But it’s no his learning that we care about, it’s his kind, -friendly ways. He’d take his turn nursing a body that’s sick just like -one of the family; and he’s just a wonderful way with young men. To -be sure, he’s young himself--only just twenty-six--but he’s not a bit -bumptious or puffed up, like many young men. He’s greatly set up with -Master Wiggins; they’re grand friends.” - -“He has been very kind to Wiggins. I’ll ask him to dinner. Will you -cook me a very nice dinner, nursey dear, on Thursday evening?” - -“He’ll no come then, my dearie, for it’s prayer-meeting night. I just -wish you’d go yourself.” - -“I’ve never been to a prayer-meeting. What’s it like? What happens?” - -“It’s just beautiful, my dearie; and the gentry go too. Mrs. Braid, of -Elgo House, she always goes.” - -Mary made a little face. “She called upon me yesterday. I didn’t find -her very exciting. I’ve got to dine there to-night, so I suppose I must -dress. You might send Madeleine to do my hair. Dear nursey, I’d far -rather stay with you than go to Elgo House.” - - -III - -“ALL SECRET SHADOWS AND MYSTIC SIGHTS” - -Dinner parties at Elgo House were not, as a rule, exciting. The -conversation generally vibrated between the harvest prospects and the -game prospects, with somewhat numerous flashes of silence, during which -each guest madly racked his brain for a fresh topic of conversation, -only to fall back finally upon the weather. - -Andrew Methven did not expect to enjoy himself much on that particular -evening. His presence at Elgo House was something of an anomaly, for -the family were “established” by conviction, yet Mrs. Braid attended -the Free Kirk because she liked Andrew’s sermons. - -He felt rather as though he were poaching on his neighbor’s preserves -when he went there. He liked his brother cleric (as he liked most -people), who, if old and somewhat dull, was kindly and human. So long -as his evening pipe and toddy were forthcoming with regularity the -“established” minister recked little if he preached to empty benches. -Andrew Methven felt the blood rush to his face as on entering the -Braids’ drawing-room he heard that voice which had been ringing in his -ears ever since his parting with Mary that afternoon. - -Daylight lasts long in the North Country, and there were no candles -needed at Elgo House for dinner. Mary sat opposite the minister, and -had he been given to cursing he would have cursed the tall epergne of -fruit that hid her from his sight, especially as the majority of her -remarks were addressed to him. - -The only other guests were an elderly colonel and his wife, who were -staying at the hotel. The colonel, whenever he looked at or spoke -to Mary, seemed by his very atmosphere to ejaculate “Monstrous fine -woman,” and Andrew felt an insane desire to choke him there and then in -his own high white collar. - -Dinner over, they all strolled into the garden, and then that happened -which made an epoch in Andrew Methven’s life. - -When they had all duly admired the roses and the goodly promise of -peaches on the south wall, someone brought a guitar out of the house -and Mary sat down to sing. - -Her dress, some soft transparent blackness over white, faded into the -shadows among which she sat. Somehow it reminded Andrew of the silver -birch trees in the copse beyond. She bent her head as she tuned the -guitar, and the throb of the strings seemed an appropriate background -to the sweetness of her profile. Vision and sound became indissolubly -mixed. Andrew could never afterward separate Mary’s face from her -voice, and both were irresistibly a part of the beech copse seen dimly -in the evening light. The whole making a picture, subtle, detached, -vivid; an experience in which all the senses bore an equal part and -were indistinguishable. - -Mary’s voice was a big, soft contralto, as unlike the usual -“drawing-room voice” as it is possible to be, and she sang seriously. -She gave her message to the four winds to be carried where they listed. -She sang to the scented night, to the distant sea, to the flowers and -the moonlight: not to the little handful of human beings, whose chairs -creaked as they sat, and who, saving one, only realized that she was a -beautiful woman who had a fine voice. - -They thanked her when she had finished, all but Andrew, who, -white-faced and dumb, gazed into the deepening shadows as he stood by -Mary’s chair. - -“It’s really most extraordinary to be able to sit out at night in -June in Scotland, is it not?” said the colonel’s wife in his ear. He -started, looking at her stupidly. “A very absent young man!” she said -to herself. - -Truly he was absent, for he had been in heaven. - -Mary, too, was silent, softly beating out a faint melody on her guitar -as it lay across her knees. - -Suddenly she looked up at Andrew, saying under her breath: “The rest -may reason and welcome, ’tis we musicians know!” - -“The rest” did not hear, or hearing did not understand; but Andrew -said: “Thank God!” - -The colonel’s voice was heard declaring that it was “deucedly chilly,” -and everybody made a move to go indoors, except Andrew, who, pleading -work, fled down the drive, only to walk for miles aimlessly in a -direction leading further and further from the Manse. - -Had he but known it, that walk was symbolical of the rest of his life. -When he did get home his rather ancient “evening shoes” were quit worn -out. - - -IV - -THE EDUCATION OF THE MINISTER - -“The Duke is coming at the end of the month,” announced Wiggins to the -minister, as they anchored and fished for poddlies in the bay. - -“What Duke?” - -“My brother; he’s at school at Leamington; he’s going to Eton in three -years. He’s ten, four years older nor me.” Wiggins was a model of -conciseness in the way he imparted information. - -“Why do you call him the Duke?” asked the minister in rather an -abstracted voice; he was watching a tall lady on the distant links. - -“’Cause he is one; his name’s Marmaduke, and he is a tremenjous Duke; -they all say so.” - -“Who are _they_?” - -“Oh, mother, and uncles, and boys, and people.” - -“Is he like you?” - -“Not a bit; he’s handsome; he’s exactly like mother.” - -The minister smiled. Was Mary handsome? he wondered. For many days now -he had forgotten to take her beauty into account. He never compared her -with other women. She was not to him more beautiful, not more clever, -not more kind than other women; she was simply what that Frenchman said -of his lady--she was _mieux femme_. There was no one else. - -“Are you very fond of your brother?” asked the minister, forcing -himself to attend to Wiggins. - -“I’m glad he goes to school,” replied that gentleman guardedly. “He -rather bangs me about.” - -“Is Wiggins a family name?” abruptly demanded the minister. - -“You _are_ a jokey man,” said Wiggins admiringly. “Why, it’s because of -my hair they call me that; my name’s Tregenna--‘Tre, Pol, and Pen,’ you -know. Mother’s Cornish.” - -At this moment Wiggins had a bite, therefore excitement reigned for the -next five minutes, and even the advent of the Duke was forgotten. - - * * * * * - -Did Mary Burton know what she was doing when she admitted this obscure -Free Kirk minister to friendship and intimacy? Did she realize how -contact with her kindness, her simplicity, her gentlehood, was making -him every day more hopelessly her slave? In after years, when he walked -in darkness, with a hunger that nothing appeased, Andrew would ask -himself this question, and whichever way he answered it he blessed -her. He no more thought of blaming her than the sailor thinks of -tracing the storm to the evening star. - -“She shall have worship of me,” he said in those early days of wonder -and happiness. “She still has worship of me,” he said after years of -unsatisfied longing and ceaseless pain. - -There was a song that Mary used to sing, a song he loved, written by a -man for whom and for whose writings in those youthful opinionated days -Andrew felt a hatred that was almost fear. Yet the song dominated him, -and in after years he would repeat it to himself with a curious fierce -sense of possession. - - O brother, the Gods were good to you. - Sleep, and be glad while the world endures. - Be well content as the years wear through; - Give thanks for life, and the loves and lures; - Give thanks for life, O brother, and death, - For the sweet last sound of her feet, her breath, - For gifts she gave you, gracious and few, - Tears and kisses, that lady of yours. - -Again across the silence he would hear Mary’s voice; again would he see -against the evening sky her delicate pale profile and the little head -weighted with its coils of shadowy hair; accompanying it all, the soft -plash of the waves as they rolled over the sands beneath her window and -the sharp salt wind which sighed foreboding things. - - * * * * * - -“No! I won’t sing any more to-night; let us talk,” said Mary. - -The weather had turned unkindly, a bright fire flickered on the -hearth, while the rain outside drove and pattered against the rattling -windows. The minister had come in “for some music” as had become his -habit during the last weeks, but, Mary was in no mood to sing, so she -laid the guitar aside. - -“You told me that you intended to criticize my sermon of yesterday,” -said Andrew deferentially. “I gather that you altogether disagree with -me.” - -Mary lit a cigarette and smiled at him, her own indulgent smile, which -always softened the severity of her remarks. “Yes, I think your view is -narrow, and in some respects unjust. Of course, I know it is the kind -of sermon that is popular; and it is certainly kind to the novelists -to abuse them from the pulpit--it increases the sale of their books so -enormously. But that was hardly your object, was it?” - -“I do not know what was my object, unless it were to deliver a message -that I felt had been entrusted to me. I do feel strongly on this -question. It seems to me so pitiful that people should waste their time -in reading injurious trash, when all the time there waits in silent -patience the great company of the Immortals.” - -“I like Schumann’s view best. He says, ‘Reverence what is old, but -have a warm heart also for what is new.’ Much that is new is true, and -beautiful, and helpful.” - -Mary leant forward, looking eagerly through a little cloud of smoke at -the minister. - -He shook his head. “A great deal is hopelessly false, and ugly and -lowering.” - -“I think you overrate the influence of bad books,” said Mary. “It is -only the great books that live; a meretricious book may have a few -months’ popularity, and then no one reads it any more, it is forgotten -as absolutely as we forget the smell of decaying cabbage when we have -passed the rubbish heaps.” - -“But surely you will allow that there is a great badness as well as a -great goodness. Look at those Frenchmen; you cannot say their work is -good, but it certainly will live, because it is great.” - -The minister spoke earnestly. He hated that she should think him -narrow; but he had the courage of his opinions. - -Mary was silent for a minute, then she looked at him and smiled, saying -frankly: - -“That is true; but I believe that in all genius there must be something -of goodness. We are all going to heaven, and De Maupassant is going -too.” - -“I would like to think they are all going, but it seems to me some of -them have much to answer for. Influence is an awful responsibility. -I believe it is the one thing for which we shall have to give the -strictest account.” - -Mary looked grave. “Do you think that people always realize when they -have influence?” - -“No, not always; they do not certainly realize the extent of their -influence. You, for instance, were you less noble-minded, might do -incalculable harm, for you never think about the effect you produce at -all.” - -“Oh, please don’t be so seriously complimentary,” she exclaimed. “To -pose as ‘a good influence’ would be too dreadful! I should feel like -seven curates rolled into one. Confess now, though, that you always -thought a liking for cigarettes was the sign in a woman of moral -obliquity, now, didn’t you?” - -Andrew blushed. “I have seen very little, and known few interesting -people,” he said modestly; “none from your world.” - -“How far we are getting from your sermon on modern literature; that is -what we were going to talk about.” - -“I spoke as I felt; I daresay I am wrong, but I can’t feel wrong yet. -It may be that I overestimate the influence of books; but you see, in -my case, books have been the only great influences I have known--until -lately,” he added softly. - -Mary looked into the fire in silence for a few minutes, then she said: -“Never judge a man by one book any more than you would judge him by one -single act, but be grateful when you come across any piece of work that -you like. It always seems to me that we render so little gratitude to -the people who give us so much pleasure, and it must be sad for them.” - -She threw the end of her cigarette into the fire, and stood up, holding -out her hand. - -“I must send you away, for it’s half-past ten, and we are early folk -here.” - -Andrew bowed over the fair kind hand, and went back to his study at the -Manse. Here there was no fire, no genial smell of smoke, everything was -orderly, cold, and dull. Andrew sat down by his writing-table, and laid -his head down on his arms. Truly the thoughts of youth are long, long -thoughts. - -A sleepless night is interminable at six-and-twenty. At forty, one -takes it as something that has to be got through, probably with the aid -of chloral. - - -V - -MARY - -There are people who can stir up the worst that is in us; that strange, -inherent moral obliquity, which few are so happy as to be without, but -which most of us bury under our strivings after things lovely and of -good report. When success crowns the efforts of these moral dredgers, -and they are generally as successful as they are persevering, they -stand aside, apparently aghast, and proceed to cry “shame” noisily upon -our depravity. These are they who “compound for sins they are inclined -to” by damning, not “those they have no mind to,” but such sins as at -the time they happen to be tired of. - -There are others, thank God for it, with whom intercourse is a sort -of festival, not merely because their own outlook is so generous and -kindly, but because they rouse what is best in one’s self. One leaves -such friends--they are friends if you have met them once--strong and -gay and full of belief in the infinite possibilities of life. - -Mary Burton was of this latter class. She made no great sacrifices, she -enjoyed her life thoroughly, taking eagerly all pleasure that came in -her way; but her temper was generous, her mind broad, and because she -herself could not understand meanness, she never suspected others. She -was seldom disappointed. It is the narrow little soul who so constantly -encounters other narrow souls. The simple, kindly people meet with -simplicity and kindness. - -Perhaps the fact that their outlook was so similar proved the great -bond between Mary and the minister of Elgo. Their upbringing and -environment were so absolutely dissimilar, their views of life so -unlike, yet beyond it all and through it all sounded the same note, -dominating the discords and making harmony. - -“He’s such a lovable good fellow,” Mary would say to herself. “One -forgives him for always using shall and will in the wrong places, -and for denying himself everything that some people think makes life -endurable.” - -“She is so kind and gracious, so dignified without being haughty, so -absolute an aristocrat in all her beautiful ways; she is a princess. -What does it matter if she does smoke and read French novels? If she -does it, it must be right for her.” So argued the minister, though he -kept his own sturdy Scottish opinion with regard to the unwholesomeness -for ordinary digestions of some of the literature which Mary affected. - -So the days went on and these two lovable good people saw more and more -of one another, worshipper and worshipped, and although the parties -mainly concerned preserved the ostrich-like blindness of people in -their condition, the “summer visitors” of Elgo and the parish itself -took a lively interest in their doings and waited with a somewhat -impatient expectation of the climax. - -One thing struck Andrew Methven as curious: in all their many -conversations Mary had never mentioned her husband. She talked frankly -of her father and her brothers, of the people she had met in India, and -of those she was in the habit of meeting in London, but of her husband, -never. Andrew found himself wondering what manner of man Captain Burton -had been; but it never occurred to him to try to find out anything -about Mary or her surroundings. He never spoke of her to anyone, and -winced if anyone spoke of her to him. About his own family and his own -“past,” if so uneventful life can be said to have a past, he was most -frank. - -“My people are what you would call ‘nice middle-class’ people, perhaps -a little fonder of books than their sort are in England, but you have -never met anybody of that kind except me, and you would not find them -congenial.” - -Mary made a little face. “I’m sure I never spoke of anybody as a ‘nice -middle-class person,’ I shouldn’t be such a snob, and I have met all -sorts of people--people you would think Bohemian and terrible!” - -“I should like to meet literary people,” said Andrew wistfully, “but I -suppose I never shall.” - -“Oh, yes, you will, and you won’t find them any more interesting than -your Fifeshire fisher folk. Epigrams pall upon you when they form the -staple commodity of conversation. The somewhat dingy journalist, who -has a trick of smart talking and who poses to himself as everything -he is not, is just as great a bore as the respectable city clerk who -lives at Hornsey and expatiates upon its advantages. You must not -mistake cleverness for genius. The one is often merely the result of -environment and atmosphere. The other nearly always appears in unlikely -and seemingly impossible places. You know what Swinburne says: ‘There -is only one thing we may reverence, and that is genius. There is only -one thing we may worship, and that is goodness.’” - -“It seems to me,” said Andrew thoughtfully, “that you reverse it. You -reverence goodness and worship genius!” - -“Perhaps I do, certainly and perhaps fortunately, the one is much rarer -than the other. The best things in life are the commonest. There are -flowers, and children, and love, and friendship for everybody, if they -will have them.” - -“And death and disillusion.” - -“You, turning pessimist, _Padre mio_! This will never do. You are -too serious--far too serious. I prescribe a course of Anthony Hope -immediately. I have the ‘Dolly Dialogues’ with me, and you must force -yourself to appreciate them. It’s plain you have met with little real -tragedy in your life, or you would be more cheerful.” - -“Have you a tragic past, that you are always gay?” - -Mary shivered, but she did not answer. She called to Wiggins to come -out of the water, for it was growing cold. - -The minister scourged himself for four hours afterward, for he noticed -that she was pale, and that there were shadows under her brown eyes. -What had he said? - - -VI - -MARY’S HUSBAND - -Mary had gone to play golf at St. Andrews. The minister called on Mrs. -Urquhart anent some parish matters and she detained him, rather against -his will, to talk of Mary and her perfections. She never spoke of her -except as “My Miss Mary,” and it was apt to bewilder the uninitiated. -Suddenly she asked the minister: - -“Does she ever talk to you of the wee girlie who was killed?” - -“What wee girlie? Never!” - -“Eh, it was just an awful thing. Sit down, Mr. Methven, and I’ll tell -you.” - -“But, Mrs. Urquhart, do you think if it is so sad, and if she--Mrs. -Burton never told me herself--that she would like----” - -“Tuts, sir! It’s nothing disgraceful; it’s just fearfully sad. Ye can -only admire her the more for her courage. Well, as I was saying, she -had a wee girlie just three years old when they all came home from -India on long leave. Master Wiggins was the baby, and Miss Molly was -the bonniest creature you ever saw. The Captain--a fine, free-handed -gentleman he was, if a wee thing wild--was just wrapped up in her, -the boys were nowhere; and he would aye go and fetch her out o’ her -cot every evening after dinner and play, and nothing Miss Mary could -say would stop him. Well, that August they had taken a house down in -Cornwall to be near Miss Mary’s father. And one evening Miss Mary had -gone to dine with an old aunt some miles off, and the Captain and a -gentleman staying dined alone. It is thought that the Captain may have -taken rather much champagne--he did whiles--but anyway he went and got -Miss Molly out of bed and wrapped her in a blanket and carried her -out-of-doors. It was no use for the nurse to say anything--he was a -masterful gentleman, and brooked no interference. The other gentleman -had gone to write letters in the study. Well, Miss Mary came home about -ten, and of course went straight up to the night nursery. The little -boys were both in bed asleep, but Miss Molly’s cot was empty, and the -nurse told her the Captain had not brought her up to bed yet. Miss Mary -was rather indignant, for she thought it so bad for the child, and -went down to fetch her. But the Captain was not in the study, and the -other gentleman had not seen him since dinner. He seemed rather alarmed -when he heard that Miss Molly was missing, and everybody went out to -search the garden, for they were nowhere in the house. They sought and -sought, and nothing could they find. Then Miss Mary sent the grooms out -with lanterns, and she and the gentleman took the carriage lamps and -went down to the foot of the garden where the cliff went sharp down to -the sea. There was a steep path cut in the cliff, and down this they -went. At the bottom, lying on the hard rock, they found the Captain, -with Miss Molly in his arms quite dead, and his back was broken. He -lived for three days, and he died with his hand in my dear lady’s. -She never spoke one word of reproach; but he didn’t need it, poor -man; his grief was terrible to see, they say. He must have stumbled -and fallen sheer over. It’s six years ago now; my young lady was only -three-and-twenty. Eh, it was a heavy sorrow for a young thing like -that!” - -Mrs. Urquhart’s voice broke, and she stopped. The minister was very -white, he held out his hand to her, but did not speak. The Scotch -understand each other. They have realized this great truth--that some -things are unsayable. The minister held good Mrs. Urquhart’s hand in -both his for two silent minutes, then he took his hat and went his way. - -“He’s a grand young man yon!” said Mrs. Urquhart to herself, “he’ll -make it up till her.” - -But the young man in question felt that he was further off than -ever from his divinity. The wall of unshared experience is high and -impassable; we may break it down in places, but it stretches its gaunt -length along life’s highway and we each of us must keep to our own -side. - - -VII - -“BESIDE THE IDLE SUMMER SEA” - -“I rather like that minister person,” said the Duke to Wiggins in his -most patronizing voice, “he seems a decent chap.” - -“He is,” ejaculated Wiggins with immense conviction; “he’s a splendid -chap--a bit Scotchy, you know, but he’s awfully kind.” - -“The mater likes him too, doesn’t she?” - -“Oh, yes. He’s always with us, you see, living next door and that. He -knows all the best places to fish, and he can build the most splendid -castles with moats and secret passages and no end!” - -The Duke turned his handsome head and smiled indulgently at Wiggins. “I -bet he can’t shoot or play cricket much, or ride anything but a bike. -You can’t remember father, Wiggins; he was a soldier, you know, and he -used to say: ‘Ride straight, shoot straight, and speak the truth, and -you’ll be a gentleman, sonny.’ An officer and a gentleman. I remember -though it’s so long ago.” - -The Duke’s eyes grew soft. He had loved that big handsome father of his -with the uncomprehending, admiring love of a little-noticed child. The -little daughter had been everything to Captain Burton, yet the Duke -cherished his memory and rendered him a devotion greater than that he -gave to the mother who understood him; a devotion which Mary took care -should never be disturbed by any word of hers. - -As Captain Burton lay dying he had lifted his weak arms and dragged her -head down close to his face. - -“Don’t tell the boys,” he whispered. “Let them think the best of me. -Duke is a fine chap; he’ll make it up to you. I’ve been a beast and a -fool, but I always loved you, Mary. Promise you won’t tell the boys.” - -And Mary promised. - -The Duke was a singularly handsome boy, with grave, beautiful manners. -He never looked untidy or slovenly. Like his mother, he wore his -clothes in such a way that he always seemed better and more suitably -dressed than other people. He was rather a silent person, but gave -one the impression that he was silent from choice, not because he had -nothing to say. - -He was very unmistakably a member of the “classes,” and though -exceedingly urbane and gracious to what he was pleased to call mentally -his “inferiors,” he was so because it would be ungentlemanly to be -otherwise. - -He would gravely assist a fishwife to raise her heavy creel to her -shoulders, and lift his cap to her with a Hyde Park flourish when -she started on her way. But he did so because he considered it the -duty of a gentleman to assist women--not as Wiggins would have done, -from a friendly interest in that particular fishwife. Slim, tall, and -aristocratic, with oval face, straight nose, and big brown eyes, the -Duke was a noticeable boy anywhere, and Mary was immensely proud of him. - -He was good at most games, and quick to learn. He ferreted out a pony -in the next village and rode about the country, to the admiration of -the natives. He golfed on the gentlemen’s links and played a very good -game for his age. He went fishing with the minister and Wiggins, and he -bicycled with his mother. - -Since the advent of her eldest boy, it seemed to the minister that -there was a certain remoteness about Mary. Certainly her time was very -much taken up. The Duke required other amusements than those afforded -by the beach, a bucket, and a wooden spade. He expected and received -the constant companionship of his mother. On several occasions the -minister was allowed to join their bicycling expeditions. To watch -Mary bicycle was a never-ending wonder to him. She never seemed to go -fast; it was only when you rode after her that you found she was hard -to catch. The minister always wondered why her skirts never seemed to -bunch and blow as did those of other women. He knew nothing of tailors -as a great artistic power, but he was keenly alive to the result of -their labors in the grace and symmetry of her appearance. - -The Duke also was a constant surprise, but for him the minister’s frank -admiration was tempered by a subtle but searching discomfort in his -society. - -“Do you know,” he said ruefully one day to Mary, “that the Duke makes -me conscious of my boots, and the lack of trees to keep them on? I -never thought of it before, but I am sure now that it has been a -serious omission.” - -“The Duke is the descendant of generations of dandies, and has all -the faults and the good qualities that belong to the class. In many -respects the dandy is a limited person both for good and evil; certain -social solecisms are, of course, impossible to him, but he generally -is lacking in imagination. The Duke, for instance, is less sympathetic -than Wiggins, but he is harder on himself also.” - -“Can a woman be a dandy?” inquired the minister in a tone of grave -interest. - -Mary laughed. “Every woman of the world is more or less a dandy, but -she takes the position less seriously than does a man. If in some -directions our sense of proportion is undeveloped, it has arrived at -perfection in matters of clothes.” - -“I’m glad I can only wear one sort of clothes; it saves so much -trouble, and I should be certain to get the wrong ones.” - -“I think you would. Be thankful for your uniform; it is becoming!” - -“It’s very hot and uncomfortable in summer. I almost feel I could echo -Wiggins in his abuse of clothing.” - -“Why don’t you wear flannels?” - -“I do for tennis, but one can’t call on one’s parishioners in flannels; -they’d think it casual and disrespectful.” - -“So they would. Well, you must dree your weird!” Mary spoke lightly, -but for the minister her last words had an ominous sound. - -Presently they all halted “to give the bicycles a feed” as the Duke put -it--the fact being that they had arrived at the foot of what was for -Fife a very steep hill. The day was hot, and they had six more miles -to do before they reached the East Neuk, whither they were escorting -the Duke. Grass and the shade of trees looked inviting. Mary and -the minister decided to rest, but the energetic Duke went off on an -exploring expedition in an adjacent wood. - -The minister and Mary sat quite silent for some minutes; then Mary said -slowly: - -“Mrs. Urquhart told you of my great trouble six years ago. I am glad. I -wanted you to know, and I wanted you to know that I am glad.” Her voice -was very soft, her eyes were bent on the grass. - -Andrew Methven looked at her but he did not speak. - -She looked up a little surprised, and saw his face working strangely. -She understood. - -“Don’t try to say anything,” she said, laying her hand on his arm. “You -are sorry. You are a good friend of mine.” - -Somehow the touch of the little gloved hand on his arm made the -minister lose his head. He did not attempt to hold it in his own--his -reverence for her was too great for that--but he told her simply -and forcibly what he felt for her. She did not try to stop him. The -sunshine and the summer had got into her blood, and this worship that -was offered to her was sweet and precious. There was nothing ridiculous -in it, nothing impossible. He did not ask her to be his wife; in his -wildest dreams of happiness he had never reckoned on the possibility -of that. He did not ask to be anything to her; all he told her was what -she was to him. - -And in the very middle of it all the Duke came back, saying: - -“If we are to get to the East Neuk by teatime, we’d better be off; it’s -four already.” - -So they rode off, and very silent companions the Duke found them. - - * * * * * - -Seven years before in Simla, Mary had had a great success. She had been -made much of, and had enjoyed it. Many men had made love to her, and -she had enjoyed it. A beautiful, healthy girl accepts admiration as her -natural right. - -But the men who made love to her did not enjoy it, for many of them had -the misfortune to be serious, and although Mary accepted their flowers -and their compliments and their devotion in her own gay, gracious -fashion, she gave nothing in return but that gay graciousness and the -privilege of her society. - -“If she were in love with that card-playing, drinking fool, her -husband, I could understand it,” said Major Molyneux of the 42nd; -“but she isn’t in love with him, not a bit; and yet she’s an icicle -to every other chap. It’s not as if she were one of those cold, -saint-in-a-shrine sort of women; she’s as human as she can be. She’s no -fool, either. What, in heaven’s name, made her marry her husband?” - -“Calm yourself, my dear Molly! Calm yourself,” answered the elderly -civilian to whom he was unburdening himself. “You have yet to learn -that the selective faculty is latest of development in women. Most -women, especially if they are pretty, marry before it has developed -at all. If they are good as well as pretty, they take care it shan’t -develop afterwards.” - -“Burton hasn’t even the grace to be jealous; he lets her do just what -she pleases. He’s so mighty conceited that he never seems to think she -may come across a man capable of understanding her.” - -The commissioner smiled. “I don’t think much of Burton’s intellectual -capacity, but I do give him credit for this--he understands his wife, -and because he understands her, he trusts her absolutely. It’s no use, -my dear boy, Simla will never have the pleasure of discussing Mrs. -Burton in connection with any sort of scandal; she’s not that kind!” - -The commissioner was right. Her husband never had reason to find fault -with Mary, and since his death she had devoted herself to her boys and -to the cultivation of her mind. She took it as a matter of course that -men should fall in love with her; they always did. But her experience -did not make her eager to investigate further the realms of marriage. - -Men made love to her because they wanted to possess her. She was so -tired of hearing, “Don’t you understand? I want you for myself, for my -very own.” - -Mary understood, but as yet she had felt no desire to belong to anybody -in that exclusive fashion. - -Andrew Methven touched her. Here at last was the Princely Giver she -had dreamed of, as women will dream, the man ready to give everything, -asking only for leave to lay his homage at her feet, nothing more. - -When she had first met him, she set him down as one of those who are -destined “to do something.” It was not his fate to remain an obscure -Free Kirk minister, of that she was sure. The more she saw of him the -more she felt the reality of the strange power that lay behind his -apparently commonplace views of men and things. “It is there,” she said -to herself exultingly, and now that he had made love to her in this -strange, unusual way, she was seized with a passionate desire to take -this man into her life, and help him to give form and substance to that -latent force of his. - -So Mary dreamed dreams while she listened to the minister as he -discoursed upon the historical interests of the East Neuk; as they rode -home swiftly and for the most part silently; as, the Duke having gone -to bed, she sat at the open window and watched the moonlight on the sea. - -Then she went and looked at the boys in their two little straight beds -side by side. As she bent over the Duke he smiled, and threw his arm -round her neck, murmuring sleepily, “Dear mater.” - -Shading the candle with her hand, she looked long and greedily at the -sleeping children, and, like all women at such moments, the triumphant -sense of possession swamped every other feeling. - -As she reached her own room and stood before her glass, she looked into -the reflected eyes, saying: “Take ship, for happiness is somewhere to -be had!” - - -VIII - -THE COLONEL INTERFERES - -“There’s little Burton. I’ll ask him if it’s true,” ejaculated Colonel -Colquhoun, as he noticed three or four small red-coated figures coming -down the long slope at the far end of the gentlemen’s links. - -“No, not the child; I would not ask the child if I were you, -Colquhoun.” Mr. Braid spoke earnestly, laying his hand on the colonel’s -arm to detain him. “He may know nothing about it, you know, there may -be nothing to know. In any case I wouldn’t ask the boy.” - -But Colonel Colquhoun had just made an inferior drive, he was in a -bad temper as are many people during the royal and ancient game, -so he bustled off, ignoring his friend’s remonstrance, toward the -putting-green where the Duke was triumphantly holing in after a -specially brilliant placing of his ball. - -The caddie shouldered the colonel’s clubs, and Mr. Braid followed more -slowly. He felt a curious disinclination to join the little group on -the putting-green. His own lad--just home from Fettes--was one of the -players; he had said kind things of the pluck and perseverance of -little Burton. Mr. Braid’s heart was tender, and he himself had not -forgotten the moment when he first heard of a possible stepfather. He -walked more and more slowly. - -The hole that the Duke and his friends were playing was the last on -the links; the boyish figures were outlined sharply against the sky. -Mr. Braid saw the Duke lift his cap as the colonel came up. He could -not hear what passed, but he saw the four boys turn, and one after -another tee their balls and drive. The colonel was left alone on the -putting-green, where his ball was not. The caddie stood grinning, and -the colonel cuffed his ears, declaring that the young ruffian had -stolen his ball. - -Mr. Braid waited in patience till the ball was discovered in some -distant bents, but the colonel did not again mention little Burton or -his mother. - -The Duke was playing abominably. Halfway home he said: “Braid, would -you think me an awful cad if I break up the foursome? I can’t play a -hang.” The child’s lips were quivering, and his sunburnt cheeks looked -white under the tan. - -Braid put his arm round his shoulders affectionately. “You go home, -old chap. You’re hipped, but never mind that old beast Colquhoun, he’s -always making mischief. Don’t you notice him.” - -“I didn’t--much, did I?” the Duke asked anxiously. “I hope I -didn’t--show.” - -“Not you--not a bit. Here, scoot! I’ll bring your clubs.” - -The Duke broke into a run, and regardless of the enraged “fores” which -sounded on every side, made straight across the links to the rocky -shore. There he would be alone--alone with this terrible possibility -that flashed its lurid light across his path. - -Once behind the rocks he sat down and sobbed, even as he did so -wondering when he had cried before. The Duke did not “blub”--never--he -considered tears unworthy of a man, “of an officer and a gentleman,” -had not the father whose memory he adored once said to him: “Curse if -you like, old man, but never cry.” So the Duke never cried, though his -language on occasions would have surprised his mother by its forcible -variety. Before ladies, though, “gentlemen do not swear,” so Mary -remained in blissful ignorance of her son’s proficiency in certain -forms of objurgation. - -Now, however, the Duke sobbed, great tearing, dreadful sobs that racked -his slender body with a pain that was almost physical. - -The colonel had done his work. As he walked across the green to -enlighten Duke, he had said to himself: “I’ll make it hot for Mrs. -Burton, haughty minx; the boy’s a tartar.” - -Mary had found it necessary to snub the colonel on more than one -occasion; so he no longer called her “a monstrous fine woman.” A -fancied slight rankles in the mean and narrow soul; revenge is doubly -sweet if one near and dear to the offender can be made the instrument -of punishment. - -The Duke sat behind the rocks and sobbed until he felt sick and stupid. -Had he not heard of that horrible institution called a stepfather? Had -he not read only last holidays a book called “David Copperfield,” -wherein the iniquities of such an one were set forth with terrible -distinctness. - -He was not a religious child. Mary was not dogmatic in her teaching, -she influenced more by her example and her mental attitude than by -conscious effort. Yet here and now the boy felt that circumstances were -too strong for him, and he prayed in a hopeless, muddled fashion that -if his mother did this thing, God would take him to join the father she -seemed to have forgotten. - -It is a mistake to think that children never come face to face with -despair. They do, more often than the superior, omniscient grown-ups -themselves. There is a finality about every sorrow for children, they -cannot realize that such pain as they feel _can_ pass; they do not -believe it. That saddest of all poets must have thought of sorrowing -children when he wrote: - - We are most hopeless, who had once most hope, - And most beliefless, who had most believed. - -What matter if the grief be short, its poignancy while it lasts is none -the less acute. - -The Duke stopped crying, and looked at the bare wall of rock before -him with hopeless, unseeing eyes. Then as he prayed, a great wave of -tenderness, of longing for his mother, broke over his child soul, and -he got up. Scrambling over the great boulder he had hidden behind, he -set off to run home. If this amazing, this shameful news were true, he -would set a seal on his misery, and uncertainty would be at an end. If -it were false, the Duke set his teeth as he thought of the colonel, -then he squared his shoulders and dropped into the swinging run which -made him such an admirable hare at “hare and hounds.” - -He ran by the beach, a good three miles, and burst into their little -sitting-room, tear-stained and breathless, just as Mary had arranged -her writing-board on her knee. - -She looked up in astonishment at his somewhat noisy entrance. He still -wore his cap in the room, before her, and his face was dirty. Who had -seen the Duke with a dirty face since he arrived at years of discretion? - -“My darling boy, what has happened? Is it Wiggins? Is he hurt?” Mary -stood up in her excitement, and the paper and envelopes were scattered -about the floor. - -The Duke only looked at her, his lips trembling. - -“Speak, Duke, what is it? Don’t keep me in suspense.” - -“No one is hurt, mother, except me, and I’m only hurt in my heart.” The -tears ran down his cheeks as he spoke. “Mother, is it true--are you -going to marry Mr. Methven? Oh, say it isn’t true. It’s so dreadful!” - -Mary drew the boy to her, and sitting down she took him on her knee. He -buried his dirty face in her neck and sobbed. - -“My dearest, who has said that I am going to marry Mr. Methven? Surely -you do not suspect me of telling people--other people--before I would -tell you such a thing as that! Oh, Duke, I thought you trusted me.” - -“But, mother, you might not have _told_ them, they might have guessed, -and it’s not the not knowing that I mind, it’s--it’s--Mr. Methven!” - -“Dear Duke, did it never strike you as possible that I might marry -again?” - -“Never! Never! You belong to Wiggins and me--and father. Have you -forgotten father?” - -“No, sonny, no. I have not forgotten.” - -“Oh, mother, say it isn’t true, say it isn’t true, or I shall die!” - -Mary folded the boy closer in her arms. “It is not true, dear. Mr. -Methven has not even asked me to marry him.” - -As she spoke she remembered her own words as she looked into the glass -the night before. Her face grew very sad. - -“But if he did ask you, mother, you would say no? You would say no?” - -The Duke’s voice, husky with long crying, was very pathetic. - -Mary leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes. She held her boy -very close, and her breath came quickly. - -“I don’t think he will ask me, dear, but if he does, I must say no, for -his sake!” - -The Duke sat up and gazed at his mother in absolute amazement. - -“For his sake,” he repeated in a hushed, almost frightened voice. “Do -you want to marry him, mother?” - -“It does not matter much what I want to do, my little son; it’s what I -must _not_ do that we have to do with. I shall not marry Mr. Methven. -Some day when you are a man you will realize what I have given up for -you--and for him!” And Mary fell a-weeping with her boy clasped in her -arms. - -The Duke felt her hot tears on his short-cropped hair, and he trembled; -then, releasing himself from his mother’s arms, got off her knee and -stood beside her, very pale and grave. - -“Dear!” he said solemnly, “if you want to marry this--gentleman--if it -will make you happier, you shall. Do you hear, darling? You shall.” -And throwing himself into his mother’s arms, they cried together. When -it came to the point, he found that he loved his mother better--than -himself. - -Presently Mary began to laugh. “Oh, Duke, Duke, how funny you are! You -talk as if I were a little girl, as if--but it doesn’t matter--some day -you will understand.... It’s not going to happen, Duke dear. It’s been -a storm in a teacup. You must never listen to what ignorant people say.” - -“May I contradict them, politely?” asked the Duke eagerly, with an -immense relief shining in his eyes. - -“Certainly, if anyone has the impertinence to speak of such a thing -again. It is an insult to Mr. Methven and to me. Oh, Duke, there’s -somebody coming upstairs. Quick, go and say I’ve got a headache and -can’t see people.” - -It flashed across the boy’s mind that he was not very presentable -either. However, the staircase was dark, and he shut the sitting-room -door behind him. A tall, black-coated figure was ascending the stairs. - -“Mother can’t see anyone to-day, Mr. Methven; she’s got a headache.” - -But even as he spoke the door at the top of the stairs opened, and Mary -said: - -“I’ll see Mr. Methven, sonny, but ask Mrs. Urquhart to say I am engaged -if anyone else calls.” - -The sitting-room door closed behind the minister and Mary. The Duke -went to his own room to wash his face, and to ponder over his mother’s -words. - - -IX - -VALE - -Somebody has said that women have no sense of humor. It is one of those -knock-me-down assertions that provoke argument. The sense of humor is -so blessed a gift, it were unjust indeed to deny its benefits to the -larger half of humanity. The gods had bestowed it with no niggardly -hand upon Mary. It had stood her in good stead during many a crisis; -its divine attribute did not desert her now. - -There was a poetic justice in the appearance of Andrew Methven at that -particular moment that appealed to her sense of artistic inevitability; -and as Andrew shut the door behind him, though the tears shone wet upon -her cheeks, she laughed. - -“I am sorry you have a headache,” began Andrew lamely. “Shall I go -away?” - -“No, sit down; I want to talk to you. I’ve just been through a somewhat -trying scene with the Duke, and I long that somebody should horsewhip -Colonel Colquhoun.” - -“I don’t possess a horsewhip, but I have a good stout stick.” The -minister’s manner was most unclerical as his grasp tightened on the -weapon in question. - -“You do not even ask what he has done.” - -“He has annoyed you--that is quite enough; but I wish he was a younger -man.” - -“He is not young enough to thrash, and he is not quite old enough to -ignore; all the same, we shall have to ignore him. But, you Quixotic -person, would you really thrash a man because I asked you to?” - -“If you asked me to thrash a man, I should know he well deserved -thrashing, and I--should enjoy it.” - -“You’re more man than minister, after all,” said Mary, more to herself -than to him. - -“Better man, better minister. Do you think I could have had any sort of -influence over my colliers at Cowdenbeath if I couldn’t fight? I can’t -fence, but I can box. I’ll teach the Duke, if you like.” - -“Why don’t you ask me what Colonel Colquhoun has done?” - -“Because if you want to tell me, you will tell me; and if it is -unpleasant to you to tell me, why should you?” - -“It’s as unpleasant as it is necessary I should tell you, because we -must both publicly contradict a foolish report that has got spread -abroad in Elgo to the effect that we are to be married.” - -Mary did not blush as she spoke, but the minister crimsoned to the -roots of his hair. “I am too sorry you should have been subjected to -this annoyance. You know what my feeling for you is; you also know that -I have not the right to ask a fisher lass to marry me. I am nothing, -and have nothing; but you have let me lay my great love at your feet.” - -Mary made a little sound, half sob, half laugh, and held out her hands -to him in a helpless, unseeing way that went to his heart. He caught -them in his own, and looking into the dear face with purple shadows -painted by tears under the eyes, he knew that she, too, cared. - -What does it avail to tell in words how these two plighted their troth, -that was to be ever unfulfilled? The tenderest and truest of lovers -have generally small literary value. - -For half an hour they went to heaven together. - -Then they faced realities, and Andrew asked: “Will you write to me?” - -Mary shook her head. “No; if we write we shall simply waste our lives -in everlasting watching for the postman. We are very human, you and I, -and how can we hope to be better and wiser than other people?” - -“You are hard,” murmured Andrew. “I can find no comfort in virtuous -soliloquy. A letter would be something tangible.” - -“No, I am not hard; but I am old who once was young, and I know. As it -is we shall have a perfect and unspoiled memory, full of tenderness -and grace and poetry; but if we write we shall be miserable, ever -unsatisfied, hanging, like Mahomet’s coffin, between heaven and earth. -No; let us keep this sweet experience untarnished by impotent tears and -regrets.” - - * * * * * - -Three days after, Mary and her boys had joined some of the numerous -uncles at a shooting-box near Kingussie. The Duke was very happy; but -Wiggins missed his beloved sea. “I think my minister must miss me,” he -said. “I miss him so very much; he’s such a kind man.” - - - - -PART III - -CHILDREN OF THIS - - - - -JEAN, A PORTRAIT - - -She was remarkable in the first place because she never rode in a -perambulator like other children; either she walked--on bare, shapely, -pink feet--or her own personal attendant, Elspeth (a very tall woman -indeed), carried her in a plaid slung over one of her broad shoulders. -Elspeth despised the “bit barrows” of the other nurses, and was quite -strong enough to have carried Jean’s mother as well as Jean. “She will -go barefoot,” Elspeth would say, “till she iss seven, and when she iss -a woman she will walk like a queen, and not like a hen!” - -Jean, if possible, went bareheaded as well as “barefoot,” and perhaps -that is the reason why her hair is so abundant, so curly, so full of -golden light that in the sunshine it almost makes you blink. Moreover, -her eyes are big and blue. Sunshine and rain, and kind fresh winds have -tinted her face with the loveliest warm browns and pinks; she is not -yet five years old, and she can dance the sword dance! It is really a -great sight to see Jean’s pink feet twinkling in and out between two -unsheathed swords of her father’s, and he is a proud man. - -Yet there never was such a “girly” girl as Jean. - -She has an enormous family of dolls--for her adorers all bring dolls, -and _they_ are as the sands of the sea in number--she takes a motherly -interest in them all, both dolls and adorers, but her inseparable -companion is one “Tammy,” an ancient and dirty-faced rag soldier; with -arms and legs resembling elongated sausages, a square body, no feet, -and a head shaped like a breakfast “bap.” Not an attractive personality -to the uninitiated, but he and Jean were as Ruth and Naomi. It is -something of a sorrow to her that the exigencies of Tammy’s figure do -not admit of a kilt, just as she puzzled all last summer in sorrowful -surprise that her father never once donned the uniform she so admires. - -Jean’s people live at a house on the Terrace, which has at the back a -shady old-fashioned garden with a big square lawn in the centre. There -Jean’s brothers, Colin and Andrew, played cricket, while Jean fielded -or drilled her dolls under the trees. In the evening, after dinner, -there would be a sound of men’s voices and an occasional thrum of the -banjo under those same trees, and a cheerful clink of glasses, while -men with brown faces and trim, well-set heads laughed and rejoiced in a -coolness that concealed no malaria. - -Jean’s father had a reprehensible habit of bringing her, wrapped in a -blanket, out into the garden at ten o’clock at night, when she would -be handed about from knee to knee like a superior sort of refreshment. -To be fetched out of bed in this fashion would have been upsetting -to some children, but Jean, with an adorable sleepy smile, would make -herself agreeable for half an hour or so, and when carried back and -tucked into bed--always by her father--fell asleep again directly, -and never seemed a scrap the worse. On such occasions she was always -expected to sing. She never sang anything but Scottish songs--mournful -or martial, mostly Jacobite, and her repertory was enormous. While -other children were learning “Little Jack Horner,” or “Hey diddle -diddle!” Jean, thanks to Elspeth, learned “Hey Johnny Cope,” or “Cam’ -ye by Athol,” and her voice was as the voice of Katherine of France, -“broken music,” for her voice was music, and her English broken. -Sometimes a belated passer-by would wait outside to listen in wonder to -someone singing in the clearest baby voice: - - Sing Hey, my bra’ John Hielandman, - Sing Ho, my bra’ John Hielandman, - -and at the end of each refrain she always kissed her father, for -there was no one in the world to match with him in Jean’s eyes. -She absolutely declined to sing the last verse after that day upon -which she discovered what “hanging” meant, Colin and Andrew having -suspended Tammy from the apple tree. At times, Jean could raise her -voice otherwise than in song, and on that occasion the whole Terrace -resounded with her shrieks. - -Next door there dwelt a very grumpy gentleman. With that easy -confidence in a neighbor’s neighborliness generally manifested by -people who have lived much abroad, Jean’s father, on taking up his -quarters, had written asking permission to put some wire-netting on -the top of the party wall to prevent cricket balls going over. To his -immense surprise he received a curt and discourteous refusal, which -terminated in a warning to the effect that, if balls did come over, -there they would have to stay, as the writer would in no circumstances -have boys running in and out of his house, and there was no back -entrance. Of course balls went over; but Colin and Andrew found an -unexpected ally in Mr. Knagg’s housekeeper, who threw the balls back -again without consulting him; and Mr. Knagg felt rather aggrieved that, -as yet, he had found no cause for complaint. Complaint in some form or -other was as the breath of life to him; he had gone to law with so many -of his fellow-townsmen that his society was no longer sought after, and -his exceedingly clean steps were untrodden by strangers. He intended at -first to complain that the banjo-playing in the garden disturbed him at -his studies, when he happened to hear Jean sing “This iss no my plaid,” -and somehow he gave up the idea. - -Colin and Andrew possessed a “mashie” each, and a game of “putting -golf.” It was reserved for Sunday afternoons as being of a quiet and -decorous nature. - -But one Sunday afternoon Andrew forgot to “putt,” and gave his ball -a drive that lifted it high over the wall into the next garden. Now, -the wall was too high to climb; besides, the fear of Mr. Knagg was -upon them, and the housekeeper was out--they had seen her go. They had -only two balls, and it was yet a long two hours off teatime. Father and -mother were both out. They retired to consult Jean under the trees. - -“If he wasn’t such an old beast, I’d go and ask for it myself,” growled -Andrew. - -“You wouldn’t get it if you did,” said Colin the practical. - -“Why shouldn’t Jean go? He’d give it to her,” suggested Andrew, who had -noted the weakness of his sex where Jean was concerned. - -“Of course he would. You must go, Jean. Hurry up!” - -“What, all on my lonely?” exclaimed Jean in pained astonishment. - -“Oh, we’ll come with you to the door and ring the bell for you, and -then cut away before he can open it. Then you ask him nicely. Come on, -Jean!” - -She seldom long opposed her brothers. She had what Elspeth called a -“tender head,” and strongly objected to having her hair pulled. Between -them they marched her up the flagged path to Mr. Knagg’s front door, -rang loudly, and departed precipitately. - -Maighda, the great deerhound who shared with Elspeth the guardianship -of Jean, rose from amidst the company of dolls, where she had been -reposing, and walking gravely into the front garden, jumped the iron -fence, and joined Jean at the top of the steps. - -Jean clasped Tammy firmly with one arm and coiled the other round -Maighda’s neck as the door opened rather noisily to disclose an -irate-looking little gentleman in gold-rimmed _pince-nez_. - -“If you please,” began Jean, in a still, small voice, “there iss a wee -ball-y wass putted into your garden--will I get it?” - -Mr. Knagg stood staring at his strange visitors, while Jean rubbed one -pink foot over the other and Maighda sniffed at him dubiously. Tammy, -with his customary reserve, betrayed no emotion whatever. - -“Come!” said Mr. Knagg shortly, holding out his hand. As Jean -disappeared Colin and Andrew flew into the back garden and swarmed up -an apple tree, whence they surveyed their sister’s proceedings with -interest. - -“Wonder why men are so much decenter to girls than to us?” mused Andrew. - -“Oh, well; his housekeeper likes us best, anyway. Everyone’s got their -cranks.” - -“Fore,” cried a clear little voice, and the ball fell with a soft -“plop” at the foot of the apple tree. - -“She throws very well for a girl,” said Colin as he dropped onto the -grass. “Let’s finish the game.” - -“What do you mean by ‘fore’?” asked Mr. Knagg. - -“Heads, you know,” said Jean; but her host was more puzzled than ever, -for he had not even a bowing acquaintance with the royal and ancient -game. They stared at each other in silence for a minute, then Jean, -remembering that one of the most important precepts of her clan was to -accept no service without rendering some return, said shyly: “Will I -sing you a song?” - -“Pray do!” exclaimed Mr. Knagg; and his eyeglasses flew off his nose, -he frowned so hard. - -“My love’s in Germanie--send him hame! send him hame! My love’s in -Germanie--send him hame!” Jean only sang three verses. Elspeth never -taught her the last two, and when the last notes full of longing had -died away, she added cheerfully: “But he iss at home just now.” - -“Who is?” - -“My father. Nearly all my songs iss about father.” - -“Really!” ejaculated Mr. Knagg, and blew his nose noisily. “So that’s -Scotch?” - -“All my songs iss Scottish. I promised Elspeth, and I will know them -all some day. Goot-bye!” and Jean, settling Tammy more comfortably on -her arm, prepared to depart. As she spoke she had lifted her face to be -kissed, and Mr. Knagg kissed her. - -“He iss a dull man,” said Jean confidentially to Colin; “but he was -douce enough to me.” - -The man in question sat in his favorite chair and read his Sunday -newspaper upside down. It was thirty-five years since he had kissed a -child! - -Colin and Andrew were at school, father and mother had gone out in the -dog-cart, taking Maighda with them for the run, Elspeth was ironing -frocks, and Jean entertaining Tammy and all the dolls at tea on the -lawn. Suddenly she threw back her head and listened--no one had such -quick ears as Jean--the color rushed to her face, and she scampered -across the grass, round by the side of the house, and out at the garden -gate; bareheaded, with flying rosy feet, she raced to the end of the -terrace, and as she ran the sound which so excited her grew louder. It -was the pipes! - -Would she find “the regiment,” she wondered? Had it come to show what -Elspeth called “this wee stuck-up bit towney” what real John Hielandman -were like? Jean pictured the frowning castle and windy Esplanade, the -steep, stony street, flanked by tall grey houses, down which “the -regiment” “in tartan plaid and philabeg” swept with swinging steps. -That was the setting in which she knew her father’s men. How would they -look in this trim Southern town? And would she dare to stop them to ask -after her friends? - -No, it was not a march the piper was playing, and very soon she -discovered that there was no regiment--only a solitary piper playing -the “Keel Row,” with a crowd of unkempt children following him. - -Jean pushed in among the children, who made way for this hatless, -shoeless person in some astonishment. - -“He iss not the ‘Forty-second,’ nor the ‘Gordons,’ nor the ‘Seaforth,’” -said Jean to herself, “and why will he wear two tartans?” Then, pulling -at the piper’s kilt, she cried shrilly, above the skirl of the pipes: -“Can you play ‘Oran an Aoig’?” - -The piper took the chanter out of his mouth, and smiled down at the -eager, upturned face, asking: “_Wot_, my dear?” - -“‘Oran an Aoig,’” repeated Jean eagerly. - -“Sorry I cawn’t oblige you, but I never ’eard tell of that toon,” and -the “Keel Row” sounded with renewed and aggressive vigor. - -Jean loosed her hold of the kilt and turned to go. There was something -uncanny in the speech of this piper, and as she looked more closely, -a certain incongruity in his uniform which chilled and disappointed -her. The children, however, having recovered from their surprise at her -sudden appearance in their midst, decided to have some fun with Jean, -and she speedily discovered that to be the only shoeless person in a -heavily shod crowd is to be in a most unpleasant minority. Also, she -had never been alone in the street before. - -Mr. Knagg heard the pipes on his way home to lunch, and having the -greatest abhorrence of all street noises, holding that they were, every -one, “disturbing to the peace of His Majesty’s lieges,” was hurrying -across the road to expostulate with the perpetrator of this new outrage -upon his ears, when he caught sight of a familiar shining in the very -middle of that rabble of children. He laid about him with his white -cotton umbrella, presently emerged from the crowd, bearing a very -tearful Jean in his arms, and hailed a cab. The cab and the dog-cart -drove up to Jean’s door at the same moment. Mr. Knagg left Jean on the -pavement and stalked into his house. - -“I said he was a douce man,” sobbed Jean, in the safe shelter of her -father’s arms; “but it wass a pittence piper, not one of ours at all.” -They say that she felt the deception even more than the bruises on her -toes. Her father never managed to thank Mr. Knagg though he called -three times. - - * * * * * - -“Of course the master’s gone to the war with the regiment. He only got -six months’ leave, after all, and Miss Jean talks and sings about him -all day long, and the mistress just listens. But she says if Master -Colin and Master Andrew were older, she’d send them, too; for there’s -aye been some of our family for the men to follow.” Elspeth left -Mr. Knagg’s housekeeper standing at the wire fence, for she “never -encouraged clash.” - -In the wintry days her neighbors saw less of Jean, as play in the -garden was impossible. But even then the pink feet splashed bravely -through the puddles and over the wet stones. - -One evening about six, just as Mr. Knagg was turning into the Terrace, -a newspaper boy, shouting with raucous voice, proclaimed: “Serious -British Reverse!” “’Ighland regiment trapped and cut to pieces!” The -old gentleman darted across the road, crying: “Stop that infernal din, -and I’ll buy every rag you’ve got! Don’t come down here again, mind!” - -He hurried down the Terrace with a great bundle of pink papers under -his arm. Just outside his own house he paused and looked up. Jean’s -nursery window was open at the top, the curtains were not drawn, and -the room was full of rosy light. Suddenly a child’s voice soared into -the stillness: - - He’s as brave as brave can be; - Send him hame, send him hame! - He’s as brave as brave can be; - Send him hame! - -Mr. Knagg took off his hat and bent his head. - - - - -THE DOLL’S-HOUSE FLAGS (1917) - - -To begin with the youngest. - -“Me an’ the war’s the same age,” said Jasper, for Jasper was born on -August 4th, 1914. - -Perhaps that was why he manifested such a decided and independent -disposition almost from his earliest months. - -It may have been that everybody was so busy he was more thrown upon his -own resources than are babies in more leisurely times. But whatever the -reason, he ran about when he was one, talked fluently--if in somewhat -impressionistic fashion--when he was eighteen months old, and by the -time he was two he had attained very definite characteristics. - -Barbara came next, four long years older than Jasper. She had a round, -rosy face and kind brown eyes that readily filled with tears, and her -little heart overflowed with love and pity for the wounded. - -Alison was quite old when war broke out. She could remember times when -sweets “were nothing so very much--everybody eat them,” when “gentlemen -often had _two_ eggs for breakfast and lots of other things as well,” -when “Mummy could buy anything she liked in shops, and nearly everybody -had motors.” - -Alison was six when Jasper was born. - -Tall and pale was Alison, with straight black hair that reached her -waist. She took the war very seriously indeed, and was implacable in -her conviction that nothing else mattered. She was even rather shocked -that mummy could take comfort in the thought that it would probably be -over before Jasper was old enough to join up. - -Then there was George. - -He was an American and the same age as Alison and lived quite near, -though after the unfriendly fashion of London, they might never have -known him but that it happened his mummy and theirs worked at the same -hospital. - -He was an “only,” and when they first knew him went as a day boy to -a preparatory school quite a long way off; but as time went on and -transport of every kind became more crowded and difficult, he came to -do lessons with Alison and Barbara. - -Nothing made Barbara so happy as to be allowed to visit the “dear poor -ones” in the hospital where mummy worked; but when she first saw the -blind soldiers from St. Dunstan’s and they were explained to her, it -seemed as though she really could not bear the knowledge. The children -lived on the south side of Regent’s Park, and Nannie always took them -there for their walks. - -“Will they never be able to see?” she would ask piteously. - -“I fear not in this life,” was Nannie’s invariable answer. - -“Not anything? Ever?” - -“Nothing at all. But they are very brave, Miss Barbara; _they_ don’t -cry.” - -For days after when Barbara met them in Regent’s Park, her mouth would -go down at the corners, and though she did not actually cry she was, -as nurse said, “queer and quiet” for a long time afterward. Their -inexorable doom weighed on her little soul, and even her serene faith -in a kind God and protecting angels and the “tender Shepherd” of her -prayers was somewhat shaken that such a cruel thing could be. Ah! if -they could only have met _Him_! He would have “touched their eyes” -and all would have been well. Perhaps some day---- In the meantime -the fairies--and she believed in them as firmly as in the heavenly -hierarchy itself--came to her aid, and by some process of reasoning she -decided that the blinded soldiers were under an enchantment. That a -wicked ogre, a German ogre, had taken away their sight (even as trolls -and cruel step-mothers and evilly disposed fairies blinded her favorite -heroes in the “Tales from the Norse”), but that some day a kind fairy -or wise, friendly beast would put them in the way of getting their eyes -back again. Surely among all the animals in the Zoo there would be one -who knew exactly under what tree in the Park the healing dew might be -found. - -She never spoke of the St. Dunstan’s men as blind, but as the “poor -enchanted ones,” to distinguish them from the “dear poor ones” of the -hospital, and she would never speak of “Blindman’s Buff,” but always of -“Enchanted Buff.” - -Jasper had learned to salute and was immensely proud of himself. Every -man in khaki or hospital blue that came in his way, from brass-hats to -the most newly joined recruits, received his respectful and ecstatic -salutation. Two-foot-six in a white Persian lamb coat and white gaiters -would stand rigidly to attention and bring up a diminutive hand clad in -a white glove smartly to his forehead. If the man he desired to honor -happened to be in hospital blue, he then kissed his hand to express -affection as well as respect. When the warrior in question perceived -Jasper he invariably returned the courtesy with _empressement_. -Generals were most punctilious in this matter, and when Jasper saw -one coming he would trot forward, plant himself firmly in the line -of vision of the eyes under the brass hat, and, rosy and triumphant, -wait till Nannie came up, announcing proudly: “I t’luted ’im _and_ he -t’luted me.” - -Everyone smiled upon Jasper. He was so small and round and earnest, -and his absurd hair curled around the edge of his cap in the most -entrancing fashion. He knew he was popular and enjoyed it amazingly. - -Therefore was he surprised and chilled when one day, having as usual -trotted ahead of Nannie, he stopped opposite two blue soldiers resting -on a seat in the park and they took not the slightest notice of him. - -They seemed to be looking right at him as he stood at salute, but they -neither “t’luted,” nor did they smile or speak. - -Jasper kissed his hand. - -Still no response. - -He kissed his hand, and blew the kiss right at them. - -Puzzled, he looked from one to the other. They weren’t asleep. Their -eyes were wide open, and their faces kind and patient, but they didn’t -seem a bit glad to see him. - -They just took no notice--no notice at all. And Nannie came up with the -pram. - -“I t’luted ’em,” he said in rather trembling tones, quite unlike his -usual strong treble, “but they don’t seem to like me.” - -“Eh, what?” said one of the men suddenly. “What’s that?” - -Nannie said something hurriedly in a low voice. “He’s only two and a -bit,” she added. Then, “It’s too cold for you to be sitting there. Have -you lost your bearings?” - -“That’s about it,” said the man who had first spoken. “Perhaps you’ll -put us on our way. It’s time we were getting back.” - -“We’ll go with you. Give him your hand, dear, and bring him along.” - -“I _did_ t’lute ’em,” Jasper said again, feeling that an important -ceremony had somehow been scamped. - -Both the men stood up, and the one who had spoken to Nannie jogged his -friend with his elbow, saying: “And so do we salute you, young man,” -and they both did. - -The man put down his hand and touched the top of Jasper’s Persian lamb -cap, and laughed: - -“What a big man!” he said. - -And hand in hand they followed Nannie to St. Dunstan’s. - - * * * * * - -“Now you know what it’s like for the poor enchanted ones,” Barbara -said, taking her hands from Jasper’s eyes. - -Jasper looked very solemn. “Poor ’chanted ones,” he echoed; “I’ll -t’lute ’em and kiss my hand _and_ kirtsey ne’st time I meet ’em.” - -“You talk to them, my dear,” said sensible Nannie; “they’ll like that -better than all your salutin’s.” - -This Jasper was most ready to do at great length in his little high -voice that the poor enchanted ones came to recognize a long way off. -But all the same he never failed to “t’lute and kiss his hand _and_ -kirtsey.” No signs of respect and affection could be too much, Barbara -said. - -“It’s the worst thing of all, so we must love them most.” - -Fairies and angels were inextricably mixed up in Barbara’s mind, and -when her mother came to kiss her good-night on Christmas Eve, she -murmured sleepily: “I simply can’t ’astinguish between God and Father -Christmas, so I mus’ just let it alone.” - -Even the toys were much affected by the war. Jasper’s Teddy Bear wore -an expression not unlike the pathetic puzzled look of his brethren -in the Mappin Circle, now that nobody threw them buns, sat they on -their tails never so pleadingly. Alison had made him the brassard of a -special constable, and he always wore it when he went out with Jasper -in the pram. The lady dolls had all become V.A.D.’s or bus conductors -or window-cleaners, and one quite recent acquisition was a land girl. - -As for the doll’s house, it wore a martial yet festive air, for the -flags of all the allies were stuck in a tight band of string with which -Alison had bound it thrice just under the roof. - -It was not a new doll’s house. In fact as doll’s houses go it was -almost venerable. It had belonged to grannie’s mother, and was built in -the early part of Queen Victoria’s reign. Unlike modern doll’s houses, -it did not open in front. In front it was square and solid, with two -large windows on either side of the door, which had glass panels, and -actually opened and shut, and there were three oblong windows on the -next floor. The roof was made of real little slates, with chimneys at -either end of it. The ground floor was a shop, with two black counters -that could be taken out and dusted, and the walls were fitted with -innumerable shelves and cupboards. It was a silversmith’s shop, and -on the brass plates under the windows were, on one, “David Strachan, -Silversmith and Jeweler,” on the other, “By Appointment to Her Majesty -Queen Victoria.” By which it could be seen that it was a Scottish -jeweler’s shop, for nobody called “Strachan” could be of any other -nationality. Moreover, there were tiny toddy-ladles of various sizes -among the stock-in-trade. - -Daddy used to tell the children an entrancing serial story about the -inhabitants of this wonderful house, whereof most of the plenishings -remained in their original form, though Mr. and Mrs. Strachan, the two -shop assistants, and the baby, had been renewed from time to time, -but always as nearly as possible resembling their predecessors. Thus -it came about that Mr. Strachan had side-whiskers--daddy painted them -himself--a stock and peg-top trousers, and Mrs. Strachan a crinoline -and an amazingly slender waist; while Jenny, the maid, who slept in -a box-bed in the kitchen, had a mob-cap and always wore her sleeves -rolled up. The bedroom of Mr. and Mrs. Strachan was much bemuslined, -and the parlor had green rep chairs and a round table. - -“It’s all of our doll’s house,” Barbara used to say. “It doesn’t belong -to anyone partickler. Grannie said so.” - -“George’s, too,” Jasper always added. He couldn’t bear George to be -left out of anything. - -And perhaps because George was an American he was a little less on his -dignity than an English boy of the same age. He didn’t despise girls, -he treated them in a comradely fashion that Alison and Barbara greatly -appreciated. And Jasper adored him, for George realized that a person -might be not quite three, with nether garments so abbreviated as to -be almost indistinguishable from petticoats, with woolly gaiters and -shoes so small they refused to make a martial tramp, however much one -tried--and yet the said person might possess the most boyish soul in -the world. - -Therefore was George made free of the doll’s house, and assisted Alison -with the serial story which she had taken over since that day, early -in the war, when daddy went with his Territorial battalion to France. - -It was on New Year’s Day in 1917 that George brought Alison the -American flag for the doll’s house. It was a beautiful little silk one, -and he had selected it himself at Selfridge’s. - -“I’d like Mr. Strachan should have it,” he said. “We want the allies to -win. You bet we do.” - -But Alison shook her head. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I hate not to take -it--I’ll have it myself if you like, but it can’t go on the house. Not -yet it can’t. America’s not in, you see.” - -“After all,” said George, “we’ve done a good bit, haven’t we? Look at -my dad--he’s been driving an ambulance--he gave it himself--ever since -the beginning of the war, and he’s been wounded.” - -“I know,” Alison answered, “I know all that, but”--and her grave -little face was set like a flint--“you’re not in it yet, you’re not -_fighting_, and only countries that are fighting _with_ us can have -their flags on the doll’s house. Mr. Strachan’s most partickler about -that. My daddy’s been wounded twice.” - -“Wouldn’t he have it at the back?” Barbara suggested. She couldn’t bear -people to be hurt, and George looked very much hurt. - -“No, thank you,” he said haughtily. “If it can’t be put with the -others, you needn’t have it at all. It’s a great flag.” - -“I know,” said Alison, “and I’m awfully sorry. Mr. Strachan would love -it the minute you’re really in ... but till you are----” - -“We’re in right enough,” George said bitterly, “in up to the neck. -Mother says so. It’s only the President hasn’t said ‘Go’ yet--you know -what Governments are, ‘waiting and seeing,’ and all that rot. Look at -your own! And everybody getting killed all the time.” - -“I know,” Alison said. “But that’s what makes the difference. We _are_ -getting killed, all the time, even here in London.” - -George put the little flag in his pocket. “I came to wish you a happy -New Year, Alison,” he said with an effort to speak pleasantly. “I’ll -have to get you something else. There’s some little silver things for -the shop for you, Barbara, and a machine-gun for Jasper. Perhaps the -partickler Mr. Strachan wouldn’t mind having that on his roof to fire -at the Huns when they come over.” - -“Won’t you let me keep the flag?” Alison asked. “Then if ever -America....” - -“If ever,” George interrupted scornfully. “That’s all you know about -it. If you’ll wait you’ll jolly well see this time. And you won’t wait -long!” - -But he kept the flag in his pocket; and that night he put it in an -envelope to keep it clean. - -George was right. She didn’t have to wait so very much longer, for on -April 6th, America declared war on Germany, and he appeared directly -after breakfast waving a Stars and Stripes large enough to have covered -the doll’s house like a tablecloth, so they hung it out of the nursery -window instead, and Jasper “t’luted” it when he went out in his pram. -And Alison got the little flag from George and put it between that of -England and France on the doll’s house, and he further presented the -Strachans with two little khaki gunners to man the gun on the roof, for -there were rumors to the effect that London would get it particularly -hot that summer. The Huns were so angry about America. - -That very morning great-uncle Jasper came to see the children, and gave -each of them, including George, a bright new half-crown. - -Jasper was much pleased with his, and refused to be parted from it -even after Nannie had dressed him to go out. He declared he would hold -it exceedingly tight and not “jop” it. Nannie had taken him with her -down to the kitchen to get the list of wanted groceries from cook, -and before you could say “knife” he had raced into the scullery, -mounted a chair, and thrust the new half-crown down into one of the -divisions of the knife-machine, proclaiming triumphantly that it was -“a bid money-box.” And there the half-crown remains to this day unless -somebody has been demobilized who understands Kent’s knife-machines. - -Nannie hated to take Jasper to shops instead of the Park, but she -had to do it sometimes because things had to be got and there was no -one else to fetch them; besides, the “pram was handy for parcels.” -He thoroughly enjoyed these expeditions and certainly cheered up the -shopping of other people. - -That morning when they arrived at the grocer’s there was the usual -tired, cross-looking throng of housewives bearing string bags, -irascible old gentlemen with leather ones, and the inevitable slate -with the restrictive announcement: “No Matches. No Jam. No Bacon. No -Tea. No Cheese. No Lard.” - -“Tut, tut,” muttered Nannie. “No cheese again!” - -“No tzeeze adain,” Jasper instantly repeated, but in ringing tones that -might have indicated glorious news, and everybody laughed. - -“Bless his heart,” said Nannie when she got home, “he does his bit as -well as anybody.” - -Alison was always ready enough to take care of Jasper, and was -thoroughly trustworthy as regards letting no harm befall him; but she -looked upon such “minding” in the light of “war work,” and her methods -were somewhat austere. - -She was annoyed that he should constantly interrupt mummy when she -read aloud the latest war news from _The Times_ by frivolous calls for -admiration of his clock-work rabbit, and that mummy never failed to -respond. And Alison was positively shocked that he could go on playing -absorbedly with the said rabbit even when mummy read to them a letter -from daddy in France. - -She forgot that, for Jasper, daddy was chiefly known as a picture in -a frame that stood on a table by mummy’s bed, whereof he kissed the -glass, making a smudge on it, every night when he had said his prayers; -whereas the familiar rabbit was furry and comforting to carry, and went -across the floor in a succession of exciting hops when it was wound up. - -After all, Jasper was but a very little boy. - -As for Barbara, she followed where Jasper led. Barbara was no sort of -use for minding. Yet she could devise most delightful games, and gave -dolls’ tea-parties when all the vanished delicacies that used to grace -such festivities before the war appeared again. So lavish was she with -chocolate éclaires and cream buns and “white and pink sugar cakes” that -Alison, the conscientious, was moved to expostulate, exclaiming: “What -about the rationing, Barbara?” - -“There’s no war in fairyland,” Barbara answered serenely, “and this is -a fairy tea, so you can have as many lumps of sugar as ever you like.” - -Jasper was a cause of anxiety at these functions, because he _would_ -put a whole plate in his mouth at once. The V.A.D. doll fell over -backward, she was so shocked. Such voluptuous gastronomic joys as -chocolate éclaires and cream buns woke no responsive thrill in Jasper’s -breast, for he had never either seen nor tasted one or the other, so -when called upon to pretend to eat something, he seized the nearest -thing of handy size. - - * * * * * - -The children’s house had a basement, but George’s mother lived in a -beautiful Willet house that had none, so that autumn he and his mother -and their maids used to run over “to spend the raid” with Jasper’s -household when the first maroons sounded. - -After the Zeppelin raids the doll’s house had been brought down from -the nursery to a room in the basement where there was a gas fire, -and the children used to play with it and enact many thrilling dramas -while the raids were going on. As George had prophesied, London got it -particularly hot during the harvest moon of 1917, with five raids in -eight nights. - -They had all just got back from a holiday in the country and, with the -exception of Barbara, who was gun-shy and hated the noise, they really -felt the strain far less than the grown-ups. - -Jasper usually slept most of the time in his mother’s arms, but after -a particularly loud crash would rouse himself to murmur with sleepy -complacency: “That was a good one. We got ’em that time.” - -But Barbara, when the barrage was unusually deafening and prolonged, -remarked rather piteously: “How it must ’asturb the poor angels!” - -It was during the very last raid of all, in May of the following -year, that something happened to the doll’s house. It was on a Sunday -night, and the maroons didn’t start till eleven o’clock. George and -his household hurried over as soon as he had got some clothes on, and -Jasper woke up and was very talkative and cheerful. Arrayed in a blue -dressing-gown and bed-shoes, he ran about the room, interfering with -George and his sisters in their arrangement of the Strachan family, and -shouting lustily in concert with the louder crashes. - -He wasn’t often allowed to touch the interior of the doll’s house, -for his methods were too Bolshevist, and he was inclined to instigate -conduct wholly opposed to the characters of so _douce_ and respectable -a family. - -That night Barbara insisted that Jeannie, the maid, and the baby should -take refuge under one of the counters, while Mr. and Mrs. Strachan and -the shop assistants crouched behind the other. - -It happened that just then Jasper had developed a mania for collecting -smooth, round stones, and Alison had suggested he should form an -ammunition dump to supply the Strachans’ machine-gun. This dump he -was allowed to build near the stumpy little low oak table on casters -that had supported the doll’s house from the time it was first built. -Mummy had carefully explained to him that he must on no account throw -the stones _at_ anything, because Jasper came of three generations of -left-hand bowlers, and had already shown that he could throw a ball in -the direction he wanted it to go. So far he had never thrown a stone -either at things or people, for he was a kind little soul and no more -disobedient than the generality of small boys of three. But he carried -a stone in his hand all day long unless Nannie discovered it and took -it from him. He liked the feel of it, its smoothness, its roundness, -its vast potentialities. - -That night he had been shooed away from the doll’s house half a dozen -times, for Alison and George were absorbed in a thrilling play in which -the Strachans captured a German spy who was guiding enemy air-craft by -means of forbidden lights. - -Just as the “Archies” were barking their loudest, and an unmistakable -bomb dropped somewhere, Jasper, on the other side of the room, gave a -whoop and let fly the stone he had in his left hand straight at the -doll’s-house roof. It took one of the wooden chimneys broadside on -and broke it clean off, narrowly missing the massed heads of his two -sisters and George, which were luckily almost inside the house absorbed -in the spy drama. - -It also cracked some of the neat little slates on the roof. - -There was a general consternation and excitement, and Jasper scurried -across the room to secure another stone from the dump, when he would -have undoubtedly had a shot at the other chimney had not Nannie caught -him and held him tight. - -Then it was that Alison astonished her family, for instead of demanding -instant and condign punishment for her destructive little brother, she -danced about the room and burst into poetry, shouting at the top of her -voice: - - The Strachans are in the War Zone, their house has been hit, - They’ve caught a bad spy and they’re all done their bit. - -“She’s a most onaccountable child, Miss Alison,” said Nannie to cook -next day; “she was actually sorry that the stone didn’t go right -through the roof, an’ you’d have thought she’d have gone on ever so ... -anyway, it kept them from caring much about the raid.” - - - - -CONCERNING CHRIS AND EASTER (1916) - - -Easter is the only girl, a sort of happy afterthought at the end of -a long family of five boys, with six years between her and her next -brother. - -Chris is the only precious child, born after a good many years of -marriage to devoted and adoring parents. - -Easter doesn’t think much of boys. They are common as blackberries in -her family and she is keenly sensible of her own distinction in having, -as she puts it, “chosen to come as a girl.” - -Thus it came about that her mental attitude struck Chris with something -of a shock; not wholly unpleasant; stimulating; the tingle of -resentment tempered by a thrill of amused surprise. It was so odd and -new to meet anyone who felt like that. - -Besides, till he came to live in Easter’s village he had been rather -lonely, and she supplied a felt want. Especially had this been so -in the last two bewildering years, for his parents had seemed less -absorbed in him than was quite dutiful. And for the last year his -father had vanished altogether to that mysterious place that swallowed -up so many pleasant and familiar folk; that overshadowing, omnipotent, -vastly extending region known as “the front.” - -Easter, on her part, welcomed the society of Chris. She, too, was -lonely by reason of the very same cause as Chris. Little girls were -scarce in that village and Easter’s mother was busy all day long with -war work of one sort and another, and owing to the same cause Chris’s -governess, Miss Radley, only gave him her society during the bare hours -of lessons, which lessons had for some time been shared by Easter. - -Now Easter was much better at lessons than Chris; much quicker, in -most things far more intelligent and receptive. Only in arithmetic did -Chris shine, and in this subject he had soared away from Easter and did -abstruse calculations in the end of the book all by himself with Miss -Radley. - -Easter was born on an Easter Day, and this year she was eight years -old. Chris was born on Christmas Day, and last Christmas he was eight. -Therefore, in spite of his prowess in arithmetic, he maintains that he -is a year older than Easter. - -“Weren’t you born in 1908?” he demands sternly. - -“Ye-es,” answers Easter, “on an Easter Sunday. They _were_ so pleased.” - -“And I,” says Chris, “was born in 1907. Take seven from eight and what -remains?” - -“One, but it isn’t a real, whole one,” Easter objects. - -No one knows this better than Chris, but he stoutly maintains: “A -year’s a year, and you’re either born in it or you’re not--so there.” - -However, in spite of this and many other differences of opinion, they -had decided to get married when they came to what Easter’s nurse calls -“a suitable age.” - -As a rule Chris follows blindly where Easter leads, giving in to her -stronger will and considerably stronger body, though not always without -protest. - -Easter is tall for her age and very muscular. She has a gentle, -early-Victorian, regularly featured, delicately tinted face, with a -high forehead, abundant curly, fair hair, and large pathetic blue -eyes that are entirely misleading. In fact, her appearance is as -unlike her real character as it is possible for such an extremely -agreeable exterior to be. She looks all softness and gravity and gentle -melancholy. Whereas she is a ruthless and determined young person -who cares nothing for “moral suasion” and less for punishments and -penalties, provided she gets her own way. - -Chris, on the contrary, is soft-hearted and easily ruled through his -affections. He would rather not be disobedient and troublesome unless -such breakings of the law are expressly commanded by Easter. - -But to be called a “muff” is more than he can bear, and rather than -Easter should think this of him he will offend his whole dynasty of -friends. - - * * * * * - -Chris and Easter were sitting under a hedge brilliant with scarlet hips -and cloudy with “traveler’s joy.” The hedge topped a fairly steep -bank, with a ditch full of muddy water at the bottom of the bank. - -A heated argument was in progress as to the names of their eight -daughters. Easter had already chosen the names, and they ran as -follows: Irene, Semolina, Rosalind, Majorca, Minorca, Vinolia, Larola, -and Salonica. Chris objected to Semolina and Vinolia. - -“I hate semolina,” he observed gloomily, “almost as bad as I hate rice.” - -“But it sounds so much nicer.” - -“And Vinolia, too--greasy stuff you smear on chapped legs.” - -“It’s got a lovely smell,” said Easter. - -“And why,” demanded Chris, who was in a bold and captious mood, “should -there be eight of ’em? Why can’t there be some boys?” - -“I won’t have boys, I tell you,” Easter declared firmly. “Girls are far -prettier.” - -“_Are_ they?” asked Chris incredulously. “I’ve never seen any pretty -ones.” - -Instead of asking “Where are your eyes?” Easter said huffily, in -life-like imitation of nurse: “That’s as it may be. Anyway they wear -far prettier clothes.” - -“You don’t,” Chris pointed out. - -Easter looked down at her extremely short and faded navy-blue skirt, -at her long legs stuck out in front of her, at her muddy boots, at the -large hole in the knee of her stocking. Save for the said skirt she -was dressed almost exactly like Chris, in muffin cap, reefer and brass -buttons. - -“Sometimes I do,” she maintained; “but anyway, Irene, Semolina, and -Rosalind, and Majorca, and Minorca, and Vinolia, and Larola, and -Salonica will all have lovely frocks, silk ninon, with sashes. Chris, -they’ll be perfectly sweet, and we’ll make them walk two and two in -front of us to church.” - -“I tell you,” Chris declared, unmoved by this entrancing vision, “that -I don’t _want_ so many daughters. I don’t like them, I don’t want ’em -and I won’t have ’em.” - -“Then,” Easter ejaculated in breathless tones that should have warned -him, “I shan’t marry you.” - -“I don’t care,” the callous Chris announced. “The country wants men. I -heard my daddy say so the last time he was home. There’s far too many -women as it is. They can’t fight.” - -“Can’t they?” the indignant Easter exclaimed ironically, and giving -Chris a vigorous and wholly unexpected push, rolled him down the steep -bank and into the ditch with a mighty splash; and then, adding insult -to injury, she dug her heels into the wet grass, and taking off with -skill and surety, jumped over his prostrate body on to the road, -whereupon she ran away, laughing derisively. - -Chris got most uncommonly wet, for the bottom of the ditch was slimy -and soft. Even after he had struggled to his feet they slipped about -and sank in far over the tops of his boots. And when he did manage to -scramble up the bank to the road, he certainly looked a deplorable -object, covered with mud and green slime and with water oozing from -every bit of him. He stamped his feet and rubbed them on the wet grass -that bordered the road without much visible betterment. - -There was no going back through the village in such a plight, so -he climbed the first five-barred gate he saw and started on a long -cross-country journey that was to bring him home by unfrequented ways. -He found the unfrequented ways, for he didn’t meet a soul, but he lost -his bearings altogether. The wind got up and there followed cold, gusty -showers of rain and hail. He felt chilled and miserable and dreadfully -tired. Field after field he traversed and yet found no familiar -landmarks, till, having toiled uphill over a heavy ploughed field, he -reached a road that stood fairly high, and below him on the far horizon -he recognized the square tower of his own church. He plodded on and on -till at last he trotted wearily up his own drive, and there he saw that -not only Miss Radley but the three maids were all gathered on the steps -of the front door. The moment Miss Radley saw him she ran toward him, -exclaiming: - -“Oh, Chris! Where _have_ you been? We were getting so anxious. Do you -know it’s half-past five? My dear boy, how wet you are! Come in and get -changed at once.” - -The maids went back into the house when they saw Chris, and Miss Radley -hurried him in and upstairs, not even waiting to make him wipe his feet. - -“We’ve been so anxious,” she repeated. “I went to Easter’s, and she -said you’d parted ever so long ago. Why did you go off by yourself like -that?” - -Chris was half in, half out of his sailor blouse by this time, and -mumbled something about having got tired of Easter. - -Miss Radley didn’t worry him much with questions, nor did she comment -severely upon his dirty state. She was extraordinarily kind and got her -hands all over mud in helping him to take off his boots; and it was -not until he was lying luxuriously in a hot bath that it struck him -as odd that his mother didn’t come to him. All the time, too, he had -the feeling that Miss Radley wanted to tell him something and yet she -couldn’t seem to begin. - -“Where’s mummy?” he asked at last. “Isn’t she back yet? I wish she’d -come and talk to me.” - -Miss Radley looked queerly at him, almost as though she were going to -cry. “Chris dear,” she said, and waited for quite a long time, “mummy -has had to go away....” - -“Away! For the night? Where to? Why?” - -“Chris dear”--again Miss Radley seemed to find it difficult to go -on--“she had a telegram, just after you went out, from the War Office, -asking her to go at once. Your father is in a hospital at Boulogne, -very ill ... wounded.” - -“Dangerously wounded?” asked Chris, who was familiar with war terms. - -Miss Radley nodded, and two tears ran down her cheeks. “That’s what it -said.” - -“I think,” said Chris, “I’d like to get out of this bath now.” - -When he was dressed he didn’t seem to want the long-delayed tea, even -though there was a beautiful brown egg and lovely buttered toast. In -spite of the hot bath and a bright fire in the schoolroom he felt -horrid, cold trickles running down his back all the time. He was -extremely tired, too, yet only conscious of one overwhelming want--to -be taken on his mother’s knee and comforted. Miss Radley took him on -hers and sat with him right in front of the fire. She was very kind and -told him how sorry mummy had been to go off in such a hurry without -saying good-bye, but there was just one train that would reach London -that night if she caught it at the junction; and the squire, Easter’s -father, had driven her himself in his motor, and they just managed; and -she was crossing to France that night in charge of a brother officer of -dad’s--she had her passport long ago. - -Every now and then Miss Radley lightly touched his face, which was -very hot, and then she would hold his hand, which was very cold. -Half-asleep, Chris would murmur from time to time, “dangerously -wounded,” but somehow he couldn’t feel about it as he knew he ought to -feel. Though he adored his daddy, all he felt was this overpowering -ache of longing for his mother. - -Easter’s scornful refusal to have any boys in her family had hurt him -very much. He felt lonely and pushed out, somehow; and he badly wanted -the one person who never failed in her appreciation of little boys, -even if they were thin and small and not particularly good looking, and -could not run so fast as ... certain little girls. He was conscious of -being all these undesirable things, and yet he was convinced it was a -great and glorious thing to be a boy, even if Easter didn’t think so. -Once, after a long and acrimonious discussion with her on this very -subject, he had said to his mother: “I choosed to come as a boy, didn’t -I?” - -“God chose,” said his mother gravely. - -“Me and God settled it together,” Chris announced complacently, and his -mother got up suddenly and looked in a cupboard for something she never -found. - -In Chris’s mind God and Father Christmas were inextricably mixed up. -He had no fear of either one or the other. Both were beneficent and -considerate and ready to give people their choice both as to presents -or other things. - -Yet when he was put to bed that night he couldn’t dream of pleasant, -soothing things, but was pursued by eight strong daughters in -embroidered ninon frocks and pink sashes, who formed themselves into -a solid phalanx and drove him to the edge of an awful precipice, and -were just pushing him over ... when he would wake to find Miss Radley -standing beside his bed, looking anxious and troubled, shading a candle -with her hand. - - * * * * * - -The war had not touched Easter very nearly. Her mother had forbidden -nurse to talk about it to her; and her father (judging her -sensitiveness wholly from her gentle, Early-Victorian appearance) was -careful to keep all frightening or depressing news from her as far -as was possible. All her life she had been sheltered and adored and -spared and spoiled. Her brothers, being so much older, had “given -in” to her from the very first, and although the two eldest were -fighting--one in the navy, the other in the army--their doings did not -seem to affect her particularly. And of the three still at school she -had, of late, seen very little, for in the holidays they were always -doing O.T.C. training, or making munitions somewhere. - -Yet one thing had impressed her during the last two years. She was -always hearing that some of their acquaintances had “lost” a son, a -brother, or a husband. They did not talk of “killed” or “missing” to -Easter; but they did speak of this continual and mysterious “loss,” and -with the queer secretive puzzledom of childhood she never asked people -outright what they meant by the phrase. - -It worried her, this continual losing. She never heard that these -lost ones got found again. Suppose she herself got lost in this -irretrievable way? How dreadful it would be. What would her family do? -In justice to Easter one must allow that the thought of her people’s -consternation quite overshadowed any possibly unpleasant consequences -to herself. - -She had never discussed the question with Chris, who knew a lot -about the war and wanted to talk about it to the exclusion of more -interesting topics--such as daughters. But this was easily overruled. -Moreover, Easter’s mother had decided that far too much was said about -the war in Chris’s hearing, and she had asked Miss Radley to warn him -not to talk about it to Easter lest it should upset her. - -Miss Radley had her own opinion of Easter’s sensibility. She had not -taught the children for six months without discovering which was the -more susceptible and imaginative. But she did as she was bid, and Chris -had done his best to obey in his turn. Perhaps in a lofty masculine way -he was rather proud that he should be allowed to know things closely -hidden from the domineering Easter, and was therefore the less anxious -to share his knowledge with her. - -He whole-heartedly admired Easter. She was so strong, so good at -things, so invariably cheerful and well, with a never-failing fund of -good spirits and energy. It is very possible that one of her chief -attractions for him lay in the fact that she seemed so entirely outside -those great and grave anxieties that obsessed everybody else. - -Easter was brought up to understand that any “career” that she -chose was open to her. She should have an equal chance with any of -her brothers; she might be a doctor for a factory inspector, or a -police-woman, or go in for any art or craft she fancied. Literature, -art, music, even the stage, were to be open to her, should she so -wish. But, so far, her sole ambition was centred in the possession of -a husband, a meek husband, and eight meek daughters to move and have -their being at her decree. - -It was the swing of the pendulum with a vengeance. - -No one told Easter about Chris’s daddy that afternoon. In the evening -she prepared her lessons with her customary energy and intelligence, -and giggled cheerfully from time to time at the recollection of Chris’s -comical appearance as he lay floundering in the ditch. - -“That’ll teach him,” said Easter to herself, “whether it’s to be -daughters or not!” - -Next morning at breakfast her mother said: “Miss Radley can’t take you -to-day, Easter dear, so it’s no use your going over. They had very bad -news yesterday, and Mrs. Denver has had to go to France. The major is -very ill.” - -“Has Chris gone?” Easter asked. - -“No, dear; but Miss Radley sent over a note quite early to say he has -got a bad, feverish cold (he got so wet yesterday--it’s a pity he -didn’t come back with you), and we don’t know what it may turn to. So -you must just take a holiday, for I’m due at the hospital supplies at -ten, and shall be away all day.” - -“What’s the matter with Major Denver?” - -“I fear,” said her mother, anxiously watching the earnest, delicately -tinted face upturned to hers, “I fear he is very badly wounded.” - -“Oh!” said Easter, and she looked very grave. - -“Be as happy as you can, my precious,” her mother called to her as she -drove away. “I’ll get home as early as possible.” - -That was a very long day for Easter. - -For one thing, it rained all the morning; for another, her father had -to go a long way off on business connected with special constables, and -couldn’t take her; and Amelia, the usually cheerful housemaid, went -about the house with red eyes and a perpetual sniff, because she had -heard that morning she’d lost a cousin in the “big push on the Somme.” - -Amelia was distinctly depressing. - -Easter knitted a few rows of her scarf--the scarf that was always begun -by her and finished by somebody else because she got tired of it. -She found she was missing Chris far more poignantly than was at all -pleasant. - -After all, even if he didn’t always quite give in to her, he was good -company; and Easter found herself remembering many kind things he had -done. The chocolates he had always shared so generously, the apples so -unequally divided always in her favor. Once when she fell off a wall -and scratched her hands and tore her frock so badly, he hadn’t laughed, -and he was so seldom rough in play, only when unbearably provoked. -Easter was too honest not to admit that even at the time. - -It cleared up in the afternoon and she ran over to the Denvers’ house -to see if Chris was up yet and could play. - -Emma, the parlormaid, was firm in her refusal to admit Easter. - -“Master Chris is that bad, so feverish it might turn to anything, the -doctor says. Miss Radley said no one was to come in, and she haven’t -left Master Chris a single minute herself. It’s dreadful, and us all in -such trouble about the major, too.” - -“You haven’t lost him, have you?” Easter asked. - -“Good gracious! no, not yet, so far as we knows. But he’s as bad as -bad, and,” she added, “if anything was to happen to Master Chris and -his ma away an’ all--but, there! I can’t bear to think of it. You run -along home, Miss Easter. I’ll tell Miss Radley you came to ask.” - -And the door was shut in Easter’s face. - -Next day the news was no better. Even Easter’s mother could not keep -from her the universal anxiety as to Major Denver. He had been their -doctor for a year before the war, and in that time had managed to -endear himself to everybody. - -It was said he had taken a country practice because he thought the -bracing air would be good for Chris. Every soul in the village felt a -special right to know the latest news of the major, and Miss Radley had -the telegrams pinned on the front door as soon as she got them. - -All day long people came up the drive to read these telegrams, and -presently there was a bit of white paper as well, concerning Chris, for -the doctor’s little son lay grievously sick at home, while his father, -they feared, was dying of his wounds in France. A white-capped hospital -nurse had come to help Miss Radley. - -Easter was a very lonely little girl. She felt, too, that in some -inexplicable fashion she was shut out from things, that more was -happening than she was allowed to know; and, worst of all, Chris had so -entirely disappeared that she began to fear that he, too, was lost, and -they were afraid to tell her. - -At the end of nearly a week she felt she could not bear this -furtiveness and suspense a minute longer, and she determined to go to -Chris’s house and find out for herself just what had happened and was -happening. She would not ring the bell. She would go round to the side -of the house and see if the schoolroom window was open, and get in and -find Miss Radley and force her to tell the truth. If Chris was lost, -then she, Easter, must herself set forth to find him without more delay. - -All fell out as she had planned. - -The schoolroom window, which opened like a door divided down the -middle, was open, and Miss Radley, with her back to it, sat at the -table, writing. - -Easter could move quietly as a cat when it suited her. She came in -without making a sound, and stood just behind Miss Radley, who was so -absorbed she noticed nothing. - -“Have you lost Chris, Miss Radley?” Easter asked loudly. - -Miss Radley started violently, and Easter came round to her side, and -she noticed that Miss Radley’s usually round, rosy face was pale and -much less round than it used to be. - -“Oh, Easter dear, how you startled me! Don’t suggest such a dreadful -thing! We’re awfully anxious, with his mother away and all this other -trouble, but ... we must hope always, always hope--for if anything -happened to Chris....” - -“What _has_ happened to Chris?” Easter asked, searching the very soul -of Miss Radley with her large clear gaze. - -“He got so wet after he left you that day last week--I can’t think -how--and he got a real bad chill, and now there are all sorts of -complications--and his temperature keeps up so.” - -“What are complications?” Easter interrupted. - -“You wouldn’t understand.... Oh, Easter, child, don’t stare at me like -that! Aren’t you sorry?” - -“I know how Chris got so wet,” Easter said slowly. “I pushed him into -the ditch.” - -Miss Radley drew back a little from Easter; then she put out her hand -and laid it on the child’s arm. - -“I expect it was only in fun ... you couldn’t know....” - -“Can’t I play with him a bit? Is it catching?” Easter’s voice was still -quite loud and matter-of-fact. “It’s rather dull and lonely for me.” - -“For _you_!” Miss Radley echoed indignantly. “Don’t you understand? -Don’t you care, you hard child? But you never did care for anybody but -yourself.” - -“Does Chris?” - -“Yes, indeed he does. He’s always been a dear, kind boy. Easter, you -must go home. I can’t stop to talk to you now. Try to think about other -people a little....” - -Miss Radley did not finish her sentence, for Easter had gone from her -as silently as she had come. For a minute the governess sat quite -still. Then she sighed and shivered, and went on with her letter. - -Easter fled down the Denvers’ drive and out into the road, but she -didn’t go home. She ran and ran till she could run no more, and -dropping into a walk, turned downhill along a winding lane thickly -bordered by trees so high that they almost met overhead, forming an -arch. The light in this avenue was curiously lurid, for the trees were -beeches, and though rapidly thinning, were still gorgeous in reds and -yellows. The avenue led to a church in the next parish (Easter had run -such a long way), and she had been there quite lately with Chris to -a fruit and flower service in aid of the local hospital. Miss Radley -had taken them both, and now Easter remembered there were very large -vegetable marrows at the base of one of the pillars, and wondered if -they were still there. She and Chris had sat next each other at that -service, and during the sermon he had let her hold his knife. It had a -corkscrew and a thing for taking stones out of horses’ hoofs, as well -as blades, and all were very difficult to open. Chris was good about -lending his things. And he never told of people. What did old Raddles -mean when she called her hard? She did care for Chris, but she wasn’t -going to say so to Raddles. Yet Raddles looked awfully sad. Supposing -they _had_ lost Chris, after all, and were afraid to say? Supposing -she, Easter, got lost, now, to-day? This was a long, lonely, unfamiliar -road, with such a queer light in it. Supposing it were enchanted and -she couldn’t find her way back? Then she would be like all those sons -she had heard about lately. Her heart began to beat very fast. Ah! -somebody was coming up the road. She would ask her way. It would be -dreadful to be lost. - -A very tall lady came toward her walking slowly up the hill. She was -dressed in black, with a long thin veil turned back from her face. -She looked restlessly from side to side, as though trying to find -somebody in the shadows. This seemed quite natural to Easter. Timidity -or shyness with strangers was unknown to her. She was glad to see -somebody, and the tall lady’s face was very gentle. - -“Have _you_ lost anybody?” Easter asked as they met. - -The tall lady stopped, and though she looked straight down at Easter, -the child was uncomfortably conscious that she didn’t really see her. - -“I have lost my only son,” said the lady. - -“You, too!” cried Easter, and what she could not say to Miss Radley -she found it easy to say now to this pale lady who looked at her so -strangely. “Oh, I _am_ sorry!” - -And she took one of the lady’s hands in both her own. - -The lady did not draw her hand away; with her eyes still fixed on -Easter’s face with that queer, unseeing look, she said: “Dear child! -And you?” - -“Not yet,” said Easter. “Not yet--at least, they say so, but I’m -dreadfully afraid.” - -“Don’t be afraid,” said the lady. “Don’t be afraid. That’s what he -always said.” - -“Everyone,” said Easter, and her hard little voice grew soft, “everyone -seems losing sons and people. Won’t you never, never find him again?” - -Into that lady’s face there leapt a sudden radiance as when a clearly -burning lamp is carried into a dark room. Her eyes were luminous and -bright, and Easter felt that she was really seeing her at last. - -“We shall all find them again,” she said almost joyously. “Everyone of -us.” - -“Are you sure?” Easter questioned. - -“In sure and certain hope,” said the lady. - -“In sure and certain hope,” Easter repeated. “I like that. You _are_ -sure?” - -“Absolutely. Tell me, dear, who is it you are anxious about?” - -Hand in hand they had started slowly to mount the hill. - -“It’s Chris,” she said. “He plays with me a lot and we do lessons -together ... and they won’t let me see him, and I want to tell him I’m -sorry.” - -“But why won’t they let you see him?” - -“Because they’re afraid they’ll lose him--I heard _that_, though -Raddles denied it when I asked her.” - -“Then he’s ill?” - -“I suppose so.” - -The lady looked curiously at Easter. There was no doubt whatever that -she was troubled, and yet ... how oddly the child spoke. - -As they walked on, hand in hand, the lady said, more to herself than to -Easter: “Does the road wind uphill all the way?” - -“No,” said Easter; “when we get to the end of this it’s quite flat.” - -When they came to the main road Easter took her hand out of the lady’s. -“I know my way now,” she said. “Good-bye.” - -The lady stooped and kissed her. “I should write to Chris if I were -you,” she said. “He’ll probably like a letter very much when he’s a -little better.” - -Easter nodded and started to run, with that swift, long-distance, -steady running that had so often worn out Chris; that was his -admiration and his despair. And as she ran she repeated over and over -again: “In sure and certain hope” all the way. - -She would write to Chris directly she got in. Her copies were always -neater than his. - -But she couldn’t do it the minute she got in, for tea was ready, and -her mother there to have it with her. Her mother looked pleased, too. -Better news had come from France. There was hope that Major Denver -might pull through, after all; and she had seen Miss Radley, and -Chris’s temperature was nearly down to normal. - -It was a lovely tea; and directly after it Easter sat down at -her mother’s desk and wrote to Chris. Very large, with beautiful -up-and-down strokes: - - “DEAR CHRIS, - - “I’m sory I pushed you. Sum of them shall be boys. The ones with the - names you don’t like. Please don’t get lost. - - “Your loving - “EASTER.” - -She licked the flap of the envelope with copious completeness, and in -one corner of the address, very thick and black, in inch-long printed -letters was the word “EARGUNT.” - - - - -TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES: - - - Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_. - - Obvious typographical errors have been corrected. - - Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized. - -*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE VAGARIES OF TOD AND PETER *** - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the -United States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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Allen Harker</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online -at <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you -are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the -country where you are located before using this eBook. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: The Vagaries of Tod and Peter</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: L. Allen Harker</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Release Date: April 25, 2021 [eBook #65162]</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Language: English</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Character set encoding: UTF-8</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Produced by: Tim Lindell, David E. Brown, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)</div> - -<div style='margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE VAGARIES OF TOD AND PETER ***</div> - -<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/cover.jpg" width="40%" alt="" /></div> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> -<div class="chapter"> -<p class="center"><span class="large">BY L. ALLEN HARKER</span></p> - -<hr class="tiny" /> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="verse">THE VAGARIES OF TOD AND PETER</div> -<div class="verse">THE REALLY ROMANTIC AGE</div> -<div class="verse">THE BRIDGE ACROSS</div> -<div class="verse">MONTAGU WYCHERLY</div> -<div class="verse">ALLEGRA</div> -<div class="verse">CHILDREN OF THE DEAR COTSWOLDS</div> -<div class="verse">JAN AND HER JOB</div> -<div class="verse">THE FFOLLIOTS OF REDMARLEY</div> -<div class="verse">MISS ESPERANCE AND MR. WYCHERLY</div> -<div class="verse">MR. WYCHERLY’S WARDS</div> -<div class="verse">MASTER AND MAID</div> -<div class="verse">CONCERNING PAUL AND FIAMMETTA</div> -<div class="verse">A ROMANCE OF THE NURSERY</div> -</div></div> - -<hr class="tiny" /> - -<p class="center"><span class="large">CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS</span></p> -</div> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h1> -THE VAGARIES<br /> -OF TOD AND PETER</h1> -</div> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/i_title.jpg" alt="" /></div> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="titlepage"> -<p><span class="ph1">THE VAGARIES<br /> -OF TOD AND PETER</span></p> - -<p>BY<br /> -<span class="large">L. ALLEN HARKER</span></p> - - -<p><span class="large">NEW YORK<br /> -CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS<br /> -1923</span></p> -</div> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p class="center"> -<span class="smcap">Copyright, 1923, by</span><br /> -CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS<br /> -<br /> -Printed in the United States of America<br /> -<br /> -Published September, 1923</p> - -<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/i_colophon.jpg" alt="" /></div> -</div> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p class="center"> -<span class="large">TO<br /> -MARGARET GWENELIN WATSON</span><br /> -<br /> -WITH LOVE AND HIGH HOPES FOR<br /> -HER FUTURE</p></div> - - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_vii">[vii]</span> - -<h2 class="nobreak">FOREWORD</h2> -</div> - - -<p>A small boy coming down to the drawing-room -at half-past five for the sacred hour of play, found -a visitor absorbing his mother’s attention. For -five minutes or so he politely refrained from interrupting -their conversation, and he wandered about -the room, a little disconsolate perhaps, but in that -state of being described by nurses as “not a bit of -trouble.” When, however, the five minutes lengthened -into ten, he felt that direct action of some sort -was imperative. So he advanced upon the lingering -guest, laid small, imperative hands upon her -knee; and lifting an anxious face to hers, enquired -in honeyed tones: “Is you going to stay very much -longer?”</p> - -<p>That was in the forgotten, by some regretted, by -many derided, nineties.</p> - -<p>The other day I was having tea with a charming -friend, wise mother of many sons, when the -youngest, aged two, came for the sacred hour. It -was pleasant in that drawing-room and I made no -haste to go. Whereupon he came to me and, with -a gracious, even a gallant, gesture, held out his hand -to me with the utmost friendliness, conversing the -while perpetually and emphatically in a manner -difficult for the uninitiated to follow. Pleased and -flattered, I took the kind little hand, which pulled -me to my feet. He then firmly led me to the door -and out to the top of the staircase, and was preparing -to escort me downstairs and to the front -door, when his mother ran after us and fetched us -back.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_viii">[viii]</span>Whatever else is changing in the present; bewildering -world, there is one section of the community -that is essentially Conservative, not to say “Die -Hard.”</p> - -<p>Outside my window there is a long, straggling -street of old cottages which have altered very little -since the fourteenth century, and in those little old -houses dwell many children who play in the street, -games that were doubtless popular “in Thebes’s -streets three thousand years ago.”</p> - -<p>The adult attitude towards children has changed -even during the last fifty years, and largely for the -better. Yet the child’s attitude towards his playmate, -and even towards the omniscient grown-up, -is fundamentally what it has been throughout the -ages.</p> - -<p>The early nineteenth century is often quoted by -deprecators of the twentieth as a time when the -attitude of youth towards age was particularly -praiseworthy in its modesty and reverence. Such -people, who are perhaps a little prone to forget -their own youthful viewpoint, tell us that in those -golden days children accepted without question the -opinions of those who were set in authority over -them, and were almost invariably obedient, contented -and unenterprising. Yet, researches in the -literature published especially for children by that -“friend of youth,” John Newbery, at “the corner -of St. Paul’s Churchyard,” in his little “gilt books”—most -of them published between 1745 and 1802—prove -that badly-behaved children were by no -means uncommon, and that over-indulgent parents -were not unknown. In the “Histories of More -Children than One; or, Goodness Better than<span class="pagenum" id="Page_ix">[ix]</span> -Beauty,” Master John and Miss Mary Strictum, -who, as their names imply, are models of deportment, -are unfavorably contrasted with Master -Thomas and Miss Kitty Bloomer.</p> - -<p>Thomas insists upon his papa’s horse being -brought into the parlour for him to ride round the -room. His mamma tried “to persuade him not to -want it, but he would have his own way.”</p> - -<p>“Thomas was much pleased to have it, but Kitty -was afraid of it and did not like that it should stay. -She therefore began to scream and beg it might go -out. ‘Pray take it out!’ said she. ‘It shall go -out; it shan’t stay.’</p> - -<p>“‘It shan’t go out. It shall stay!’ said her -brother.</p> - -<p>“They made such a noise that they frightened -the horse, and he began to kick and prance,” and -all manner of disasters followed. Not even the -most weak-minded modern parent could go further -than this in the way of indulgence.</p> - -<p>Even in so didactic a work as “The First Principles -of Religion and the <i>Existence of a Deity Explained -in a Series of Dialogues Adapted to the -Capacity of the Infant Mind</i>,” you will find a child -as human and engaging as any infant born since -the Armistice. In this work the particular infant -selected for enlightenment is one Maria, made after -no formal pattern. Throughout the long and deadly -dialogues her nimble mind outpaces mamma’s ponderous -aphorisms. As, when that lady discourses -on the awful consequences of taking God’s name in -vain, Maria demands demurely: “But would it not -be politer and prettier to say either Mr. or Mrs., -and not plain God?”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_x">[x]</span>Again, when her mother, as an example of the -evils of slyness, relates how “the two Misses Quick -had pincushions of the same make, but Miss Betty’s -was larger than Miss Sally’s,” and Miss Sally by a -subterfuge manages to exchange her own for her -sister’s, Maria says thoughtfully: “Do you think -then, Mamma, that it signifies to God which of the -Miss Quicks had the larger pincushion?”</p> - -<p>Could the most recent Realist ask a more searching -question?</p> - -<p>At Christmas time the papers seemed full of descriptions -of <i>blasé</i> children who insisted on going to -expensive shops to choose their own presents, who -scoffed at fairies or Santa Claus, and scouted the -idea of any sort of childlike party. I do not move -in plutocratic circles, so I cannot vouch for either -the truth or falsehood of these dismal revelations. -But I do know that the vast majority of gently-bred -children born before and during the years that -followed 1914 are easily pleased, and are grateful -for very small mercies in the way of amusement, -because nothing else is possible to the greater part -of the upper middle class for financial reasons. -And no one who, in recent years, has been to “Peter -Pan” and looked round the crowded theatre gloriously -garlanded with chubby, rosy faces, and heard -the full-throated affirmative that greets the question -“Do you believe in fairies?” can doubt that -children are still pretty sound on subjects of that sort.</p> - -<p>This being so, is it incredibly bold or superlatively -simple, on my part, to have ventured to collect -into a little sheaf some fugitive sketches of the -kind of children I have known during the last -twenty-five years?</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_xi">[xi]</span>Perhaps it is, and that being so, I can only quote -the lines in which Mr. Kipling has once and for all -time summed up the humble plea of the free-lance:</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="verse">When ’Omer smote ’is bloomin’ lyre,</div> -<div class="indent">He’d ’eard men sing by land an’ sea;</div> -<div class="verse">An’ what he thought ’e might require,</div> -<div class="indent">’E went an’ took—the same as me!</div> -</div></div> - -<p><span class="smcap">Cirencester</span><br /> -<span class="indentleft">1923</span></p> - - - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2 class="nobreak">CONTENTS</h2> -</div> - - -<table border="0" cellpadding="2" cellspacing="2" summary="table"> - - -<tr><td> </td><td class="tdr"><small>PAGE</small></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Foreword</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_vii"> vii</a></td></tr> -<tr><td> </td></tr> - -<tr><td class="tdc" colspan="2">PART I—BOYS</td></tr> - -<tr><td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">The Vagaries of Tod and Peter</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_1"> 1</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="tdl">“<span class="smcap">Tony</span>” </td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_56"> 56</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">A Square Peg</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_64"> 64</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">A Twentieth-century Misogynist</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_79"> 79</a></td></tr> - - -<tr><td> </td></tr> - -<tr><td class="tdc" colspan="2">PART II—CHILDREN OF LAST CENTURY</td></tr> - -<tr><td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">A Small Event</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_105"> 105</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">In Durance Vile</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_126"> 126</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">The Surrender of Lady Grizell</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_134"> 134</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">A Clean Pack</span> </td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_144"> 144</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">An Iron Seat</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_152"> 152</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Léon</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_160"> 160</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">The Old Religion</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_168"> 168</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Comrades</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_177"> 177</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Little Shoes</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_184"> 184</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="tdl">“<span class="smcap">Passing the Love of Women</span>” </td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_189"> 189</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">A Throw Back</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_197"> 197</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">The Intervention of the Duke</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_207"> 207</a></td></tr> - - -<tr><td> </td></tr> - -<tr><td class="tdc" colspan="2">PART III—CHILDREN OF THIS</td></tr> - -<tr><td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Jean, A Portrait</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_253"> 253</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">The Doll’s-house Flags</span> (1917)</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_264"> 264</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Concerning Chris and Easter</span> (1916)</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_280"> 280</a></td></tr> -</table> - - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2 class="nobreak">PART I<br /> - - -<small>BOYS</small></h2> -</div> - - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_1">[1]</span> - -<h3 class="nobreak" id="THE_VAGARIES_OF_TOD_AND_PETER">THE VAGARIES OF TOD AND PETER</h3> -</div> - - -<h4>I<br /> - -THE MURDER</h4> - -<p>By the people who live in the same terrace they -are known as “those dreadful twins.” By the -more plain-spoken of the masters at the preparatory -school which they attend they are distinguished -by an adjective whose meaning is the -reverse of “heavenly”; and their schoolfellows -are filled with respectful admiration for the boys, -the most resourcefully and superfluously naughty -of their acquaintance, whose genius for making the -most patient of masters lose his temper is unsurpassed.</p> - -<p>The only person who takes them and their ways -with calm philosophy is their mother. She, with -that sense of proportion and balanced wisdom so -frequently vouchsafed to mothers of large families, -laughs and loves them, and believes in their -ultimate regeneration. There is some ground for -the faith that is in her; for when a woman has -seen six sons fare forth into the world to cut no -such indifferent figure in it, she is not apt to despair -of the two youngest, roister they never so.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_2">[2]</span>Moreover, she declares that most of their evil -doings are “really Mr. Stevenson’s fault,” and -there is truth in the charge, for from the moment -that some thoughtless person, probably a godfather -(I have known godfathers, living at a distance, -who would present trumpets, nay, even -concertinas! to the sons of men whom they have -called by the name of friend), gave Peter a copy -of “The Merry Men” and Tod “Treasure Island,” -they have tried to fit their surroundings to the -characters they are forever enacting; with the -result that the plain workaday world, that knows -not the “Master Mage” of Samoa, is always -puzzled and generally wroth.</p> - -<p>That genial “spirit of boyhood” had never so -much as to beckon to them; he had but to hold out -his friendly hands, and Tod and Peter, each clasping -one in both their own, were his, body and soul, -forevermore.</p> - -<p>They are alike as the two Dromios, these twins; -and the mistakes and complications arising from -this likeness are a never-failing source of satisfaction -to them. For instance, Peter will cheerfully -undergo a caning intended for Tod that he may -afterwards meekly demand of his chastener what -he has done to deserve this discipline, gleefully -watching the while the weary wonder on the -master’s face grow to a disgusted certainty that he -has, as usual, “punished the wrong one.”</p> - -<p>The fact that they are rather noticeably comely -boys—they came of a family where on both sides -of the house good looks are the invariable rule—only -serves to increase the confusion. Both are<span class="pagenum" id="Page_3">[3]</span> -tall and straight, fair-haired, blue-eyed, ruddy, -and of a uniformly cheerful countenance. But -kind Nature has bestowed on Tod an accomplishment -she has denied to Peter, to his lasting grief.</p> - -<p>At certain seasons of the year Tod “moults” -and can pull out quantities of his thick fair hair -without the slightest inconvenience to himself. He -generally chooses to perform this feat during the -silent hours of “prep.” They have done their -evening work at school ever since the night they -were discovered grilling “Home Influence” and -“A Mother’s Recompense” over the study fire, -when they ought to have been wrestling with -“Excerpta Facilia.” When the master in charge -has walked down to the end of the long schoolroom -where Tod “keeps,” and has turned to go -back again, Tod is suddenly seized by a perfect -paroxysm of despair, clutches at his hair with -frantic though absolute noiseless gesticulations, -and casts whole handfuls of fluffy curls on the -floor about him.</p> - -<p>Naturally his companions, including Peter, get -lines for disturbing the placidity of “prep” with -their unseemly giggles. And George, when he -sweeps up the schoolroom next morning, may be -heard to mutter:</p> - -<p>“Wherever all this ’air do come from passes -me!”</p> - -<p>Tod’s real name is Percy—he is called after a -wealthy and aristocratic relative—but he refuses -point-blank to answer to it, for he fancies that it -savours of those “eeny peeny” children in “Home -Influence,” a work that earned their undying hatred<span class="pagenum" id="Page_4">[4]</span> -when it was read aloud to them by a well-intentioned -but mistaken aunt while they were -recovering from measles.</p> - -<p>On the occasion of its holocaust, before referred -to, their mother, passing the study, and struck by -the unwonted stillness reigning therein, opened the -door softly and looked in. Both boys were stooping -over the fireplace and prodding a solid yet -feathery mass that glowed and gloomed in the -heart of the embers.</p> - -<p>“There goes Herbert, ‘the almost-angel boy,’ -and ‘haughty Caroline,’ and ‘playful Emmiline,’” -whispered Tod, poking viciously. While Peter, -quoting from “Thrawn Janet,” added in an awful -voice:</p> - -<p>“<i>Witch, beldame, devil! I charge you, by the -power of God, begone—if you be dead, to the -grave—if you be damned, to hell.</i>”</p> - -<p>I regret to say that their mother’s sense of humor -is stronger than her dislike of strong language, -and that she stole away to laugh, leaving -the conspirators unrebuked for the moment. But -they did their “prep.” at school henceforth.</p> - -<p>Peter’s manner is singularly misleading in its -frank sincerity, and he will on occasion answer a -sudden question in a way which is, to say the least -of it, bewildering to his interlocutor.</p> - -<p>For instance, one day in the football-field a new -master asked him the name of a small boy some -distance off who was “slacking” abominably.</p> - -<p>“Who’s that chap with the red hair by the goal -posts?” he said to Peter, who had been somewhat -officiously putting him right on several points.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_5">[5]</span>“Dumpkins, sir,” that youth replied, demurely, -and strolled off to a distant part of the playground.</p> - -<p>“Dumpkins!” bawled the master. “Dumpkins, -why aren’t you playing up?”</p> - -<p>But Dumpkins heeded not the voice of authority -and continued to loll and gaze heavenward in easy -inactivity.</p> - -<p>“Dumpkins! Dump-kins!” again he bellowed.</p> - -<p>But Dumpkins only took an apple out of his -pocket and began to eat it.</p> - -<p>He is a hasty-tempered young man that master, -and he strode toward the hapless Dumpkins and -shook him angrily, exclaiming:</p> - -<p>“Why don’t you answer when I call, you cheeky -little beggar?”</p> - -<p>“Please, sir, you never called me, sir,” expostulated -the boy, wriggling in the master’s grip.</p> - -<p>“Why, I’ve been shouting ‘Dumpkins’ all over -the field for the last five minutes!”</p> - -<p>“But, please sir, my name is Jones!”</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>“Why did you tell me Jones’s name was Dumpkins, -you, Peter?” the master indignantly demanded -of Tod some minutes later.</p> - -<p>“I couldn’t have done that, sir,” said Tod, -gravely, “for there’s nobody called Dumpkins in -the school.”</p> - -<p>It was this young master who rechristened the -twins when Peter next day insisted that “a point -has position but no gratitude.”</p> - -<p>Strangely enough “The Merry Men” finds even -greater favor with them than “Treasure Island,” -and with the enigmatical decision of childhood<span class="pagenum" id="Page_6">[6]</span> -their favorite of all the stories is “Markheim,” -not “Will o’ the Mill,” beloved of critics. It is -doubtful if they understand much of it, but nevertheless -they read it over and over again to each -other aloud, or silently with their curly heads -pressed together, till they knew it by heart. To -be sure, “Thrawn Janet” has a dreadful fascination -for them, and they acted one of the principal -scenes with somewhat direful results.</p> - -<p>Peter made Tod “tie him by the neck” to the -bed with red worsted, while Tod, in his character -of the minister, had to creep in, candle in hand, to -discover the dread spectacle; and Peter’s representation -of the fearsome Janet was so truthful -and blood-curdling that Tod dropped the candle -and fled downstairs howling at the top of his voice, -and such was his haste that he fell and sprained -his wrist. Meanwhile, the candle had set fire to -the valance of the bed, and altogether there was -a fine hullabaloo; there was also an end put to -their dramatic efforts for a week or two.</p> - -<p>Nothing daunted, however, about a month later, -on a Sunday evening when the servants were all at -church, and their mother writing for dear life the -long weekly letters that have to be written when a -woman has husband and four sons scattered about -the globe, Tod and Peter sought the seclusion of -the kitchen and determined to “act” “Markheim.”</p> - -<p>All went well and quietly for a long time; the -firelit kitchen with loud ticking clock answered -admirably as the scene of the murder, the dialogue -between Markheim and the mysterious stranger<span class="pagenum" id="Page_7">[7]</span> -went without a hitch, and Tod sallied forth into a -“wonderful clear night of stars,” while Peter shut -the back door softly after him. Peter, in his character -of Markheim, was bent upon making the -speech with which the story concludes, where the -maidservant rings the door-bell and Markheim -opens to her with the words: “You had better go -for the police; I have killed your master!”</p> - -<p>Poor Tod had to be the maidservant—he always -had to follow where Peter led. He shivered as he -ran up the area steps; it was a cold night, he had -not troubled to provide himself with a coat, and -his heart was heavy, for, to tell the truth, he has -far more imagination than Peter, and sometimes -their plays are to him one long agony of apprehension.</p> - -<p>He positively dreaded ringing that area bell, -and the sinister announcement that would follow -on the act. No longer was he Tod, but a trembling -servant lass who was forced by fate to ring a bell -which sounded a tocsin of dreadful import.</p> - -<p>He ran down to the end of the terrace and stood -under a lamp that he might brace himself for the -final effort.</p> - -<p>Meanwhile, Peter, swollen with importance at -the thought of the mighty sensation he would make -in a minute or two, stood squeezed against the -hinge of the door waiting for the fateful ring.</p> - -<p>Then came a patter of light feet down the area -steps and someone gave the bell a modest pull. -Peter drew open the door with great suddenness -upon himself, exclaiming in a deep and tragic -voice, the result of long practice in solitary attics:</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_8">[8]</span>“<i>You had better go for the police; I have killed -your master!</i>”</p> - -<p>The visitor gave a piercing shriek and rushed -up the steps again, calling breathlessly upon -Heaven and the police. Peter, behind the door, -wagged his head, exclaiming admiratively:</p> - -<p>“How well that kid does act; I could almost -declare I heard skirts rustling.”</p> - -<p>Peter waited awhile for his brother to return -and be congratulated, but Tod didn’t appear, so -he concluded that he had gone round to the front -door and come in that way; besides, the servants -were just due from church, and cook would be -cross if she found him in her domain. He ran -upstairs and waited for his twin in the drawing-room. -His mother looked up from her letters and -smiled at the little figure tip-toeing on the hearth-rug -to admire himself in the glass. Then scratch, -scratch went her pen again.</p> - -<p>Now, Ada, the housemaid, has a dear friend in -service at the other end of the terrace, and she -attends a church where the sermons are shorter -than those at the one frequented by Peter’s household. -On this particular Sunday she got out of -church quite early and thought she would see -whether Ada happened to be in. Thus, while Tod -with lagging feet crept slowly down the terrace -from one end, she was already fleeing affrightedly -to the other in search of the nearest policeman.</p> - -<p>She found him at the pillar-box, and fell into his -stalwart arms, crying hysterically:</p> - -<p>“Oh, come quick! There’s bin murder done at -Number 9. Someone’s bin an’ killed the marster!”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_9">[9]</span>P.C. Lee turned the light of his bull’s-eye upon -Ada’s friend and found her fair to look upon. All -the same, although he still supported her trembling -frame, he shook his head slowly, saying:</p> - -<p>“’E ain’t there for to be murdered; the Colonel’s -bin in Hinjia this las’ ten weeks; the missis -tol’ me so ’erself, when she ast me to keep a special -heye to them premises.”</p> - -<p>All the same, in spite of his incredulity, P.C. -Lee was already on his way to Number 9, half -leading, half carrying Ada’s friend with him.</p> - -<p>“But I tell you,” persisted the girl, “when I -ring that there bell, the door opened sudden-like -as if someone was be’ind it, and a hawful voice -says to me, ‘You’d better go for the perlice,’ it -says, ‘I’ve killed your master,’ and I was that -taken to, I did go for you, Mr. Lee, as fast as I -could lay foot to the ground. It may be as one -of the young gentlemen’s bin murdered, ’is pa -bein’, so to speak, abroad. It give me such a -turn——”</p> - -<p>And Ada’s friend was forced to stop in the -middle of the road, overcome by the horrid recollection.</p> - -<p>“But didn’t you see no one?” asked P.C. Lee, -in a judicial voice.</p> - -<p>“No, trust me, I didn’t wait to <i>see</i> nothing; I’d -’eard enough without that. I’ll wait out ’ere,” she -continued as they reached the scene of the tragedy, -“on the top of the steps. I couldn’t abear to see -no dead bodies;” and Ada’s friend disengaged -herself from the policeman’s protecting clasp and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_10">[10]</span> -clung to the area railings for support, exclaiming -afresh: “I’d never get over it—never!”</p> - -<p>“But you must come in and give evidence wot -you did ’ear,” expostulated P.C. Lee. “I don’t -believe myself as anything criminal ’as occurred; -but I’ll just ring and ast.”</p> - -<p>“I’d take my dyin’ oath them was the very -words that murderer says to me,” cried Ada’s -friend, jibbing on the top step as the minion of the -law put forth a large hand to assist her down. -“‘I’ve killed your master,’ says ’e, despairin’ like, -as if it was no use to try an’ ’ide it.”</p> - -<p>P.C. Lee proceeded to perform a solo on the bell -very different to the two timid tintinnabulations -that had preceded it during the last ten minutes; -for while Ada’s friend sought the protection of the -strong arm of the law, poor little Tod had screwed -his courage to the sticking-point, gone back and -rung the area bell, when, to his unspeakable relief, -he was admitted by cook, just returned from -church in so benign a humor that she forebore to -scold him for being out at such untoward hours -“without so much as a ’at,” and bestowed a piece -of bread and dripping upon him “to stop ’is teeth -a-chatterin’.”</p> - -<p>Whereupon, comforted and refreshed, he departed -to find Peter.</p> - -<p>Meanwhile P.C. Lee insisted that he must see -the missis, for Ada’s friend was unshaken in her -evidence, question they never so, and the four -maids at Number 9 declared that they could not -sleep comfortably in their beds unless the search-light -of his bull’s-eye was thrown on every dusky<span class="pagenum" id="Page_11">[11]</span> -corner of the house by P.C. Lee himself before he -took his departure.</p> - -<p>Ada’s friend was seated weeping in the front -hall surrounded by the others, when the mistress, -fetched by Ada herself, and accompanied by Tod -and Peter, descended to hold parley with P.C. -Lee.</p> - -<p>“I can’t understand it, ma’am,” concluded the -policeman, after a long explanation, continually -interrupted by Ada’s friend with such interpolations -as: “Oh, a hawful voice, that mournful”—“Them -was the very words,” etc.</p> - -<p>During this recital Tod and Peter crept further -and further into the background, nudging each -other in the ecstasy occasioned by such an unexpected -tribute to their histrionic powers.</p> - -<p>But their mother knows her Stevenson—and the -twins—so before the narrative was nearly finished -she turned swiftly upon them, demanding sternly:</p> - -<p>“Which of you was it?”</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>“Young varmints!” said P.C. Lee to Ada’s -friend, as he escorted her home; “I might ’a’ -knowed it was them. ’Tain’t the fust time I’ve -come across ’em, neither....”</p> - - -<h4>II<br /> - -THE SENDING</h4> - -<p>When the time came for those twins, Tod and -Peter, to go to public school, their mother seriously -considered the advisability of putting them<span class="pagenum" id="Page_12">[12]</span> -into different “houses.” At first she thought that, -perhaps, it might make for righteousness to -separate them. But on hearing the subject mooted, -they so whole-heartedly fell in with her opinion, -rapturously reviewing the possibility of “changing -houses” whenever they felt so inclined, that -she instantly dismissed the idea; rightly coming -to the conclusion that if their extraordinary resemblance -was a cause of general muddle and -mystification while they were together, it would -become confusion worse confounded were they -separated. Moreover, she reflected that even -schoolmasters are men of like passions with ourselves, -and rightly refrained from adding to such -a one’s already heavy burden by a separate superintendence -of the twins.</p> - -<p>Tod and Peter, whose mental attitude was always -that “all is for the best in the best possible -of worlds,” decided that after all propinquity has -its advantages, and rejoiced that family tradition -sent them into a house whose head was proverbially -the “slackest old slackster in the whole -school.” A dreamy, mild-mannered, gentlemanly -man that master, who left the management of the -“house” entirely to an extremely energetic wife -and a “young brusher” (“brusher” is the familiar -term for master in that school), whose prowess -in the playing-fields was only equalled by his extreme -fussiness where rules of his own making -were concerned.</p> - -<p>“Not a bad chap,” the twins decided after their -first week; “but a bit like the German Emperor,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_13">[13]</span> -you know—wants things all his own way. Still, if -you humor the youth, he’s all right.”</p> - -<p>So successfully did they humor the “young -brusher” in question that for the first month all -went smoothly, and the house-master himself, a -gentle optimist, ever ready to believe the best of -boy-humanity, really thought that the “character” -that had preceded them from preparatory school -was perhaps over-emphasized.</p> - -<p>Their late headmaster, while giving them full -credit for general integrity and fair abilities, had, -in mercy to his brethren of the craft, pointed out -that they were ever “ready to join in frivolity and -insubordination, when not under my own eye.” -They had to work, for they were on the Modern -Side, and destined for the army, and in that particular -school, not the wiliest shirker in creation -can escape the argus eye of the “head of the -Modern,” or the retribution, swift, sharp, and -sure, that follows any such line of conduct.</p> - -<p>But, bless you! ordinary work and games, at -which both were good, never found sufficient scope -for the energies of Tod and Peter, and by the time -the first month was up they began their tricks.</p> - -<p>One Mr. Neatby, M.A., taught the twins chemistry. -Not that they went to him together. They -were in different, though, as far as work went, -parallel forms, and finding that their systematic -“changing” was never so much as suspected, and -therefore carried with it no spice of danger or -adventure, they gave it up, devoting their energies -to the tormenting of Mr. Neatby, who had by his -severity incurred their august displeasure.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_14">[14]</span>Mr. Neatby was tall, severe, and dignified. He -really liked his subject, but felt, as a rule, little -affection for his pupils. Nevertheless, he was -conscientious to the last degree in the discharge -of his duties. His way of expressing himself was -what Peter called “essayish”; he gave lines lavishly, -and had but little mercy on the reckless -breaker of test-tubes. He did not rant, or stamp, -or call people by opprobrious names, as did many -better loved masters. He was always cold, cutting, -and superior. But the thing about him that -most excited Peter’s animosity was his necktie.</p> - -<p>“He wears revolting, jerry-built, Judas-like -ties,” the indignant Peter proclaimed to an admiring -audience of lower boys; “ties that slip -down and show a beastly, brassy stud. His socks, -too, leave much to be desired; in fact, his extremities -altogether are such as betoken a bad, hard -heart.”</p> - -<p>“Let me see,” said Tod softly, looking up from -a book he was reading; “do you think that a <i>sending</i> -might soften the man’s hard heart?”</p> - -<p>At this particular stage of the twins’ career, Mr. -Kipling was the God of their idolatry, and both of -them had “gloated,” even in the manner of the -immortal “Stalky” himself, over the vengeance of -Ram Das.</p> - -<p>“It might be managed,” Peter answered, -thoughtfully scratching his smooth chin; “but -then again, it may be close-time for kittens just -at present; don’t they generally bloom in the -spring?”</p> - -<p>“There’s always plenty of kittens, you juggins,”<span class="pagenum" id="Page_15">[15]</span> -ejaculated a prosaic friend. “Why, when I was -down at the riding school this morning, there was -a cat with six in an empty loose-box; they’ll have -to drown five of ’em, they told me. D’your people -want one or what?”</p> - -<p>“<i>I</i> want one,” Peter rejoined excitedly; “not -one, but five, to give to a dear friend.”</p> - -<p>“Shouldn’t think he’d be your dear friend -long.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, yes, he will. He’s an S.P.C.K., or whatever -it is. He’s awfully profane—humane, I -mean.”</p> - -<p>“Well,” said the other boy, still unconvinced; -“you can ask about ’em when you go for your -lesson to-morrow morning. They weren’t half bad -little beasts, but I shouldn’t advise you to give -your friend more than one at a time, anyhow.”</p> - -<p>Both Tod and Peter went twice a week to the -riding school in the town, as they were both destined -for cavalry. Every underling about the place -knew them well, and liked them. Their father had -lived in the town during his last leave, jobbed his -horses at the riding-master’s stables, and had himself -assisted at the lessons of elder brothers of -Tod and Peter.</p> - -<p>Now there was at the school a certain Figgins, -a generally handy man, or rather boy, who worshipped -the ground the twins walked upon; and -after their next lesson they and Figgins might -have been seen holding long and earnest parley in -the loose-box containing the cat and kittens.</p> - -<p>The twins laughed uproariously all the way -home, and just as they reached the house, Peter<span class="pagenum" id="Page_16">[16]</span> -remarked: “I hate anything dead. Figgins has -promised not one of ’em shall be drowned, and -when they’re fit to be moved, he’ll tell old White -he’s found good homes for the lot. And then—and -then Tod, my boy! our dear teacher shall have -’em alive, ‘alive, all alive oh! alive, all alive oh!’” -and Peter burst into song in the exuberance of -his joy.</p> - -<p>Mr. Neatby lived in lodgings within a convenient -distance of the school. He was therefore spared -any intercourse with the boys after school hours, -and usually spent his evenings in correcting innumerable -marble-boarded exercise books, containing -chemistry notes. He was so engaged one evening -about nine o’clock, when his landlady entered -the room and laid a square parcel at his -elbow.</p> - -<p>He finished correcting the book he had in hand, -and took another, when his attention was arrested -by an indescribable sound.</p> - -<p>Mr. Neatby lifted his head and gazed about the -room. “Could it be a mouse under the skirting-board?” -he wondered. Then half unconsciously -his eyes fell on the parcel his landlady had brought -into the room. It was an oblong cardboard box, -about the size of an ordinary shoe-box. But, although -tied up with string, it was not wrapped in -paper, and on looking at it more closely, Mr. -Neatby discovered that the top was riddled with -small holes.</p> - -<p>Had it been summer, he, being something of a -naturalist, would have at once concluded that<span class="pagenum" id="Page_17">[17]</span> -someone had sent him some rare caterpillars, but -what caterpillars are to be found in November?</p> - -<p>He drew the parcel toward him, and there arose -that curious sound again, louder and more insistent. -He hastily cut the string and removed the -lid of the box, and inside, reposing on a nest of -hay, lay a very young and mewey kitten. A kitten -who most evidently was homesick and aggrieved at -being reft from the maternal bosom. A sprawly, -squirmy, noisy kitten, that immediately proceeded -to climb out of the box and crawl uncertainly to -Mr. Neatby’s blotting-pad, where it collapsed into -a dismal little heap, mewing louder than ever.</p> - -<p>“There must be some mistake,” muttered Mr. -Neatby, flushed and perturbed. “No one would -send <i>me</i> a kitten; that stupid woman must have -made some muddle or other,” and he arose hastily -and rang the bell.</p> - -<p>He so rarely rang his bell after his modest supper -had been cleared away that Mrs. Vyner, his -landlady, had given up expecting him to do so, -and had on this occasion “just stepped out,” as -she would have put it, to see a neighbor.</p> - -<p>Mr. Neatby rang, and rang in vain, finally so far -departing from his decorously distant demeanor -as to go to the top of the kitchen stairs and shout. -But the faint mewing of the kitten was the only -answer to his outcries, and baffled and annoyed he -returned to his sitting-room to find that the kitten -had upset the red ink over Tod’s chemistry notes, -which, in company with many others, lay open on -the table, and was feebly attempting to lap it up.</p> - -<p>“Poor little thing; it’s hungry,” he thought to<span class="pagenum" id="Page_18">[18]</span> -himself. And being, indeed, as Peter said, a very -humane man, he lifted it from the table, and went -to his sideboard to see if he could find any milk. -He did find some in the cupboard underneath -where it had no business to be, and pouring some -into a saucer, laid it on the floor beside the kitten, -who proceeded to refresh itself with commendable -promptitude.</p> - -<p>Then, as his landlady still made no appearance, -Mr. Neatby bethought him of looking at the parcel -to see whether the kitten had been left at the -wrong house. But no; attached to the string was -a label, clearly addressed in a flowing, clerkly -hand, “S. S. Neatby, Esq., M.A.,” followed by his -address, accurate as to number, street, and even -town.</p> - -<p>Once more he sat down in his chair, and leant -his head on his hand to think, when he perceived, -tucked into the hay at one side of the box, a card, -and drew it forth hastily; a plain glazed visiting -card on which was inscribed the words, “From a -grateful friend,” in the same excellent handwriting -as the label.</p> - -<p>Mr. Neatby blushed, and looked guiltily at the -happily supping kitten. In addition to being humane, -Mr. Neatby was also charitable, and there -were many poor who had reason to be grateful to -him. But as he always gave alms through a third -person, and was one of those modest people who -take care that their left hand knows not what the -right hand doeth, he felt quite upset.</p> - -<p>Presently he heard his landlady and her niece -come in, and rang again.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_19">[19]</span>“Who brought this box, Mrs. Vyner?” he asked, -holding it up toward her.</p> - -<p>“I can’t say, sir, I’m sure. It was dark when I -answered the door, and a young man—leastways, -I think ’e was young—simply give it into my ’ands -and ran down the steps again. I ’eld it under the -gas in the ’all, sir, and read the label, as it was for -you right enough, so I brings it in and lays it -down without never interruptin’ you, sir, like you -said.”</p> - -<p>“<i>There was a kitten in that box</i>,” Mr. Neatby -said solemnly, in such a tone as might have announced -some national calamity.</p> - -<p>“Sakes alive! you don’t say so, sir,” cried Mrs. -Vyner in great excitement; “shall you keep it, -sir?”</p> - -<p>“I don’t know yet,” Mr. Neatby said gravely; -“it must stay here for to-night anyway.”</p> - -<p>“It’s a pretty little thing, sir,” said the landlady, -stooping down to look at it where it lay basking -in the heat of the fire. “’Twould be company -for you, wouldn’t it, sir?”</p> - -<p>“Hadn’t it better go with you to the kitchen for -to-night, Mrs. Vyner?” Mr. Neatby asked persuasively, -and Mrs. Vyner, with many protestations -of wonder, gathered up the kitten into her apron -and departed to the lower regions, where she informed -the niece who lived with her that their -lodger “’adn’t spoken so many words to ’er never -before, no, not in a month of Sundays.”</p> - -<p>Mr. Neatby threw the box into his capacious -waste-paper basket, but he put the card and label<span class="pagenum" id="Page_20">[20]</span> -carefully away in one of the pigeon-holes of his -desk.</p> - -<p>Next day, on his return from morning school, he -found a white cardboard hat-box, big enough to -contain the most umbrageous matinée hat ever -worn, set right in the middle of his table, and he -felt distinctly annoyed. His landlady followed -him into the sitting-room to lay lunch, and he, -pointing to the offending box, said coldly: “I -must ask you not to leave your parcels in my -room, Mrs. Vyner.”</p> - -<p>Mrs. Vyner bridled, and seizing the box, held it -out toward him, remarking aggrievedly: “If so -be as you refers to this ’ere, sir, I must ast you -to look ’oo it’s addressed to. It’s put plain enough -for you, sir.”</p> - -<p>“But I assure you,” Mr. Neatby cried, recoiling -from the proffered hat-box, “that I haven’t ordered -a hat of any kind.”</p> - -<p>“Any’ow,” said Mrs. Vyner scornfully, “I don’t -suppose, sir, as you’d order your ’ats from -Madame Looeese, if you ’ad. I thought per’aps -you’d bought a present for your young lady.”</p> - -<p>“Mrs. Vyner,” replied Mr. Neatby, in a voice -glacial as liquid air itself, “you forget yourself.”</p> - -<p>Mrs. Vyner set down the box with an angry -thump, and proceeded to lay the cloth in injured -silence.</p> - -<p>When she had gone, Mr. Neatby approached the -mysterious package delicately, much as though it -had been an infernal machine of some sort, and -regarded it searchingly on all sides. It most certainly -emanated from the millinery establishment<span class="pagenum" id="Page_21">[21]</span> -of “Madame Louise,” but was none the less certainly -addressed in sprawly, feminine handwriting -to “S. S. Neatby, Esq., M.A.”</p> - -<p>Just then Mrs. Vyner opened the door, saying -waspishly, “’Ere’s your kitting, sir; it keeps getting -under my feet while I’m dishin’ up.”</p> - -<p>It seemed to have gained considerable vigor -during the night, for it rushed across the room -and up the curtain.</p> - -<p>But Mr. Neatby had screwed his courage to the -sticking-place, and even the tempestuous entry of -the kitten could not turn him from his purpose. -Penknife in hand, he cut the string of the bonnet-box, -and lifted the lid timidly, prepared no doubt -for some tissue-paper protected “confection” -within. When, lo! even as that of the shoe-box -on the previous night was this interior; hay, dry -and fragrant of stable, met his astonished gaze, -while seated in its midst was a tabby kitten, who -gathered herself together for a spring the instant -the lid was lifted, and sprang with such good-will -as to turn the box over on its side, when she immediately -dashed under the table.</p> - -<p>Mr. Neatby gazed, as if hypnotized, at the -tumbled box, till the rattling of dishes outside -warned him of the near approach of his landlady -with lunch, and roused him from his trance.</p> - -<p>He stooped hastily, thrust the scattered hay into -the band-box, clapped on the lid, and placed it -under the knee-hole of his writing-table.</p> - -<p>The door was opened rather suddenly to admit -Mrs. Vyner; kitten number one descended from -the curtain, and Mr. Neatby found himself almost<span class="pagenum" id="Page_22">[22]</span> -praying that kitten number two would stay under -the table while his landlady was in the room. Mrs. -Vyner glanced disdainfully in the direction of the -band-box, noted that the string had been cut, set -the dishes on the table with somewhat unnecessary -violence, and departed without having opened her -lips, just as the two kittens frisked out from beneath -the table.</p> - -<p>Mr. Neatby, harrassed and flushed “all over his -eminent forehead,” did not begin his lunch. He -went back to the band-box again, studied the label -anew, and finally rummaged in the hay inside.</p> - -<p>His search was rewarded by the discovery of a -rather dirty piece of paper, on which was written -“A Present from Framilode,” Framilode being a -village in the neighborhood, celebrated for the -manufacture of a certain kind of mug which always -bore that legend. He put it carefully beside -the other card and label in his desk, and returned -to his lunch with but small appetite, and a frown -of perplexity upon his brow. The kittens set up a -perfect chorus of mewing; Mr. Neatby braced -himself to explain the new arrival to Mrs. Vyner, -and rang for the pudding.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>“It’s my belief, sir,” said Mrs. Vyner that evening, -“that somebody’s a puttin’ a ’oaf upon you. -I sent my niece to that there Madame Looeese’s -with the box lid, an’ she see madame ’erself, and -<i>she</i> says as it’s a hold box, an’ that they certainly -never sent you no box, nor wouldn’t think of such -a liberty, and you one of the school gentlemen and -all. But my niece, she said as madame did laugh<span class="pagenum" id="Page_23">[23]</span> -when she ’eard about the kitten, and ’er young -ladies, too.”</p> - -<p>Mr. Neatby writhed.</p> - -<p>To a man of his reserved and sensitive temperament, -the reflection that his name could by any -possibility be bandied about by a milliner and her -assistants was little short of maddening. If he -could then and there have ordered Mrs. Vyner “to -take five hundred lines,” it might have given him -some relief. But in all things he was a just man, -and he knew that his landlady had at all events -meant kindly in trying to discover the perpetrator -of the outrage; for the fact remained that somebody -had most assuredly “put a ’oax” on him in -the shape of the liveliest of tabby kittens.</p> - -<p>It never occurred to him to suspect any of the -boys. For how could one of them come by either -band-box or kittens? To be sure there were some -day boys, but it happened that these were nearly -all “on the Classical,” and Mr. Neatby had but -little to do with them.</p> - -<p>Of course he reckoned without the ubiquitous -Figgins, who, unlike Mr. Neatby, <i>had</i> a young lady, -who was employed by Madame Louise, and for -whom it was an easy matter both to procure a -disused band-box and a new label.</p> - -<p>“You’re certain he got them all right?” whispered -Peter to Figgins at his next lesson, as that -worthy rushed forward officiously to settle the sack -on the horse’s back. “He gave me back my notes -simply smothered in red ink, and I thought I saw -a mark like a kitten’s paw, but I couldn’t be -sure.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_24">[24]</span>“Law bless you! yes, sir, <i>’e</i> got ’em right -enough. I took ’em myself, and wot’s more, both -of ’em’s there still, for I passed by this mornin’ -and ’appened to look down the airey, and there -they both was as peart as print. I s’pose we’d -better wait a day or so for the next ’un, ’adn’t -us?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, Figgins, wait two days till you see me -again,” and Peter dug his knees into his horse and -rode at the first jump.</p> - -<p>“It’s rather decent of him to <i>keep</i> them,” -thought Peter to himself, who was tender-hearted -where animals were concerned. “Perhaps, if he -doesn’t clap on any more lines for a bit, I’ll let -him off with two.”</p> - -<p>But, alas for good intentions. When Peter got -back to the house, he found Tod bursting with -indignation. For at “Practical Chemistry,” that -very morning, Tod, who was supposed to be engaged -in the manufacture of hydrogen, used so -many conflicting ingredients as to cause an explosion -and dense smoke, and a smell so appalling that -it drove the whole class into the corridor, and -caused several testy masters to send indignant -messages demanding where the infernal smell -came from.</p> - -<p>Mr. Neatby, exasperated to the last degree, not -only told Tod to take five hundred lines, but bade -him return the very next half-holiday and spend -the afternoon in doing similar experiments under -his master’s supervision.</p> - -<p>Tod confided his grievance to Peter at great -length, and concluded his recital with the injunction,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_25">[25]</span> -“Let him have all three, the <i>beast</i>! I wish -they were young gorillas.”</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>Mr. Neatby was very busy. He was taking extra -duty for a master who was ill, and for three -or four days after the arrival of the second kitten -really had not a moment to call his own, so, as -Mrs. Vyner seemed to take quite kindly to the -new arrivals—only taking care to charge her lodger -an extra quart of milk daily for their maintenance—he -almost forgot their existence.</p> - -<p>By Saturday evening he had accumulated a -mass of mid-term examination work to correct, -and directly after supper set himself down to it, -with four clear hours before him, for he often -worked till after midnight.</p> - -<p>His lamp was trimmed, his fire burned brightly, -and one kitten, the first, sat purring on the hearth. -That, and the scratching of Mr. Neatby’s pen as -he corrected the generally mistaken views of boys -as to the nature of an element, were the only -sounds till there came a thunderous rap outside, -and the door-bell pealed loudly.</p> - -<p>Mr. Neatby frowned, but never looked up from -his corrections. He had not been long at the -school, and was not upon intimate terms with any -of the masters, so that it was hardly likely to be a -caller for him. He heard somebody open the front -door, then some vehicle drive away. A moment -later there was a knock at his door, and Jemima, -Mrs. Vyner’s niece, came in, bearing a hamper.</p> - -<p>“Please, sir, this ’ave just come by rail; there -wasn’t nothing to pay.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_26">[26]</span>“Very well,” Mr. Neatby answered without -looking up; “put it down, please; I can’t attend -to it just now.”</p> - -<p>Jemima did as she was told, and once more -silence settled upon the room.</p> - -<p>But not for long. Kitten number one got restless; -it walked round and round the hamper, and -sniffed and mewed, and mewed and sniffed, with -irritating persistency. Moreover, a curious muffled -echo seemed to accompany its mewing. Mr. -Neatby bore it for five minutes, then pushed back -his chair, caught the disturbing kitten by the -scruff of its neck, and bore it to the top of the -kitchen stairs, calling to Jemima to take it down. -That young lady obeyed his summons, taking the -kitten tenderly into her arms with many endearments; -but all the same she remarked to her aunt, -“Well, I do think as ’e might manage to look after -<i>one</i> on ’em ’isself, that I do.”</p> - -<p>Mr. Neatby went back to his papers and corrected -with more vigor than before; but, in spite -of his haste, in spite of his absorption, the muffled -mewing continued.</p> - -<p>At last he laid down his pen and listened. -“Surely,” he thought, “it can’t sound like that -from downstairs. I must have got the sound on -my nerves; it’s really most annoying.” It <i>was</i> -annoying; it grew louder and louder till it seemed -at his very side.</p> - -<p>Mr. Neatby was endowed with great powers, -both of self-control and concentration. Having -decided that the sound was in his imagination, and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_27">[27]</span> -not actual, he went on with the paper that he was -correcting, but as he placed it on the top of the -growing pile he chanced to notice the hamper -which was placed on the hearth-rug close beside -him. “Apples, I suppose, from home,” he thought -to himself; “but all the same, I’d better see.” He -lifted it on to his knee. “Too light for apples,” -he thought again. “What can they have sent?”</p> - -<p>The lid was not very tightly fastened, and a -slash or two of the penknife at the string restraining -it brought it away.</p> - -<p>Hay, and again hay, in this case forming the -cosy nest of <i>two</i> kittens, one tortoiseshell and one -black. Both lively and vociferous beyond either -of their predecessors. Mr. Neatby ejaculated just -one word, and sat perfectly still with the open -hamper on his knee. The kittens climbed out and -made hay among his papers, but he took no notice. -“An angry man was he,” and when a man of his -temperament is angry, he usually sits tight. The -kittens got tired of the table, and jumped lightly -to the floor, carrying a few dozen papers with -them in their flight, but still Mr. Neatby sat on -staring into space.</p> - -<p>When at last he roused himself, he once more -sought some solution of the mystery in the address -label, but the yellow railway label on the -back had been torn away, and only “ton” remained. -The address itself was printed very -neatly by hand.</p> - -<p>Inside the hamper he found a little pink envelope -with nicked edges such as servants love. He<span class="pagenum" id="Page_28">[28]</span> -opened it, and printed by the same hand, on a piece -of paper to match, was the following verse:</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="verse">The kitten’s a persistent beast,</div> -<div class="verse">It comes when you expect it least,</div> -<div class="verse">It comes in ones, it comes in twos—</div> -<div class="verse">And when it comes it always mews.</div> -</div></div> - -<p>“Ah!” Mr. Neatby said softly to himself, -“some boy is at the bottom of this.”</p> - -<p>The clock struck twelve, and he remembered -with a start that both his landlady and Jemima -would certainly be in bed.</p> - -<p>What was to be done with the kittens?</p> - -<p>He was far too kind-hearted to turn them out of -doors on a cold November night. They were really -uncommonly pretty little beasts, and as he watched -their gambles he found himself quoting:</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="verse">Alas! regardless of their doom,</div> -<div class="verse">The little victims play,</div> -</div></div> - -<p>and then realized that they had no business to be -playing at all at that time of night, and that he -certainly wanted to go to bed.</p> - -<p>He really was a much tried man that night. -First, he had to catch the kittens and put them in -the hamper, and as fast as he put one in, the other -jumped out. This took some time. Then he carried -the hamper up to bed with him, the kittens -making frantic efforts to escape the while. And -when at last he did get to bed, he had to get up -again to let them out of the hamper, for they -made such a frightful din no mortal could sleep.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_29">[29]</span> -They finally elected to settle down on Mr. Neatby’s -bed, and in the morning one of them ungratefully -scratched his nose because he happened to move -when the kitten in question chose to walk over his -face.</p> - -<p>When at last he arose from very broken slumbers, -the black kitten upset the shaving water and -scalded its foot, and made a dreadful uproar, and -the tortoiseshell, while investigating the mantelpiece, -upset and threw into the grate a blue vase -belonging to Mrs. Vyner.</p> - -<p>In chapel on Sunday morning, Tod and Peter -noted gleefully the long scratch on “old Stinks’” -nose (“Stinks” being, I regret to say, the name -by which Mr. Neatby was known among his pupils). -And curiosity as to how he was getting on -with his rapidly increasing family of cats consumed -them. In the afternoon they walked up -and down the road outside his lodgings for nearly -an hour, but nothing did they discover; for Mrs. -Vyner’s windows were shrouded by white curtains, -no one went in or out of the house, and all -their loitering was not rewarded by so much as -hearing a distant mew.</p> - -<p>The fact was that Mr. Neatby had gone for a -long walk to try and work off his irritation. That -morning, while he was still at breakfast, Mrs. -Vyner had appeared in his sitting-room, and somewhat -stormily informed him that her “’ouse was -not a ’ome for lost cats, nor never ’ad been.” And -she concluded her harangue as follows:</p> - -<p>“I’ve ’ad gentlemen, masters at the school, for -twelve year come Michaelmas, and some ’ave bin<span class="pagenum" id="Page_30">[30]</span> -trouble enough, the Lard knows. With their football -and ’ockey, and ’ot baths in the middle of the -afternoon, and the mud on their flannings something -hawful; but a gentleman as surrounded ’imself -with cats in sech numbers I never ’ave ’ad -nor never won’t again, I ’opes and prays. And -although it do go again my conscience to do it of -a Sunday, I <i>must</i> ast you, sir, to take a week’s -notice from yesterday. For start a fresh week -with sech goin’s on, and cats a comin’ by every -post as it were, I can’t; no, not if the king ’imself -was to ast me on ’is bended knees.”</p> - -<p>In vain poor Mr. Neatby pointed out that, far -from “surrounding himself” with kittens, they -were thrust upon him he knew not by whom or -from whence. That he had no intention of keeping -any of them if Mrs. Vyner objected, and that -it would really be extremely inconvenient for him -to have to seek new rooms in the middle of the -term.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Vyner was implacable. “I’m very upset -about it, too, sir,” she answered, more in sorrow -than in anger; “for I did think as ’ow I’d got a -nice quiet gentleman, you not bein’ given to them -’orrid games as is so dirty, nor wantin’ an over -amount of cookin’. But a gentleman as ’eaven -appears to rain cats on like it do on you is not -for the likes of me nor shan’t be. And though I’m -truly sorry as you should be so afflicted, I must ast -you to leave my ’ouse, sir, next Saturday as ever -is, and that’s my last word.”</p> - -<p>It wasn’t, not by a long way; for although Mr. -Neatby reasoned, nay, even almost implored Mrs.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_31">[31]</span> -Vyner to reconsider her decision, she would hardly -let him get a word in edgeways, and remained unshaken -in her desire that he should vacate her -rooms. “’Ow do I know, sir,” she asked again -and again, “wot hanimals may be sent you next? -My ’eart would be in my mouth every time the -door-bell rang.”</p> - -<p>Truly, Tod and Peter had planned a fearful -vengeance had they only known it. But they did -not know it, and their unsatisfied curiosity was -their undoing. On Monday morning at the riding -school they arranged with Figgins that he was to -leave the fifth kitten at Mr. Neatby’s rooms that -afternoon, just before afternoon school finished. -The despatch of the hamper had been managed by -a railway man, a friend of Figgins, whose cart -started from a parcel-receiving office close to the -riding school, and he delivered the hamper on his -evening round.</p> - -<p>Directly school came out, the twins decided to -rush down to Mr. Neatby’s rooms before lock-up, -to ask some frivolous question about a paper he -had set, and perhaps by great good luck be present -at the unveiling of the end of the sending. All -fell out exactly as they had arranged. Figgins -took the parcel. Mrs. Vyner received it, addressed -as before to “S. S. Neatby, Esq., M.A.” -(his real name was “Stuart,” not “Stinks”), carried -it grimly into his sitting-room, and laid it on -the table. She removed all her own ornaments -from the chimneypiece and sideboard, and then -went downstairs and brought up all four kittens -(poor Mr. Neatby had not yet had time to arrange<span class="pagenum" id="Page_32">[32]</span> -for their painless destruction), and shut them up -in the room to await their owner’s return.</p> - -<p>At ten minutes past five he hastened in, trod on -one of the kittens as he entered the room, and -struck a match to light his lamp. The kitten noisily -proclaimed its injury, and the other three expressed -their sympathy in similar terms. When -he caught sight of the brown-paper parcel on the -table he turned pale. The very feel of it was -enough, and even before he had torn off the cover -he was sure of its contents. Yes, in a common -little bird cage was a fat, white kitten, and an uncommonly -tight fit she was.</p> - -<p>He did not attempt to let her out, though her -position was plainly one of extreme discomfort, -but stood with the cage in his hands, and the four -mewing kittens about his feet, in so universally -distrustful a frame of mind that he began to think -that Mrs. Vyner herself was in the plot to victimize -him.</p> - -<p>The door was opened, and his landlady’s voice -announced: “Two young gentlemen to see you, -sir.”</p> - -<p>Fresh colored and handsome, ruddy from their -run in the cold evening air, square-shouldered and -upstanding, Tod and Peter allowed their two pairs -of candid blue eyes to travel from their master’s -angry face to his hands, from his hands holding -the caged kitten to his feet, where congregated -the rest of the sending, and then exclaimed in a -chorus of genial astonishment: “Why, sir, what -a lot of kittens you keep!”</p> - -<p>Now, although he had been at the school three<span class="pagenum" id="Page_33">[33]</span> -terms, no boy had ever ventured to call upon Mr. -Neatby before. Other masters might occasionally -ask boys to tea or permit an occasional call out -of school hours to arrange about house matches, -etc. But he had ever discouraged any familiarity -whatsoever, and that Tod and Peter should dare -to intrude upon him at such a moment seemed to -him, as indeed it was, a piece of unparalleled impertinence.</p> - -<p>“What do you want here?” he asked angrily. -“It’s after lock-up.”</p> - -<p>“Mr. Ord gave us leave to come,” Peter said -eagerly. “We don’t understand this question, sir. -Could you explain? What a noise those kittens -do make, don’t they?”</p> - -<p>Now if Tod could only have refrained from -looking at Peter, Mr. Neatby might have remained -forever in the dark as to the mystery of the kittens. -But, even as Peter spoke, Tod, unaware -that the light from the master’s lamp shone full -on his face, winked delightedly at his brother, and -in a flash Mr. Neatby connected their unexpected -and unnecessary visit with those equally unwelcome -visitants whose advent during the past week -had entailed so much annoyance upon him.</p> - -<p>Taking no notice of the paper Peter held out -toward him, he laid the little cage on the table, -and said very quietly:</p> - -<p>“Now that you are here, you will perhaps kindly -explain what you mean by sending all these animals -to me.”</p> - -<p>“Us, sir!” the twins exclaimed breathlessly, -and as usual in chorus—“Us!”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_34">[34]</span>“Did you or did you not cause these five kittens -to be sent to me?” Mr. Neatby asked again.</p> - -<p>Dead silence.</p> - -<p>As Tod said afterward, “It was one of those -beastly yes or no questions that there’s no getting -out of.”</p> - -<p>“Did you or did you not?” Mr. Neatby asked -again, a little louder than before, though even the -kittens had ceased mewing and seemed to be listening. -“But I know you did, and I wish to know -further what you mean by a piece of such intolerable -impertinence, and such wanton defiance of -school rules.”</p> - -<p>“There’s no rule about sending kittens, sir,” -murmured Peter, with the least suspicion of a -giggle in his voice.</p> - -<p>That giggle broke down the last barrier of Mr. -Neatby’s self-control. For full five minutes he -permitted himself to thunder at those boys, finally -bidding them take all five kittens away with them -there and then.</p> - -<p>“But we can’t, sir; we <i>can’t</i> take them back to -the house,” pleaded Tod. “Whatever would Mrs. -Ord say?”</p> - -<p>“Well, you must take them away from here, -anyway, and what’s more, you must give up the -names of your confederates, that I may take proceedings -against them for their unwarrantable interference -with my privacy. Who were they, now? -At once!”</p> - -<p>“It’s absolutely impossible for us to do that, -sir,” Peter said firmly, and Tod might have been<span class="pagenum" id="Page_35">[35]</span> -heard to murmur something about “can’t and -won’t.”</p> - -<p>“Then,” said Mr. Neatby, “you will both come -with me to the principal now at once.”</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>The principal of that school is one of the youngest -headmasters in England, and he would not be -the success he is did he not possess a sense of -humor. He partially pacified Mr. Neatby; he vigorously -“tanned” Tod and Peter there and then, -and during the remainder of the evening he -laughed to himself more than once.</p> - -<p>For the remainder of the term Tod and Peter -found their comings and goings so perpetually -watched and suspected by the “young brusher” -aforesaid, that even the rapturous recollection of -the success of their sending was somewhat dimmed. -But it was not they who suffered most; to this day -Mr. Neatby suspects of sinister intention anyone -who so much as mentions kittens in his presence, -and new boys always wonder why their schoolfellows -are so anxious that they should mew in the -chemistry lectures. They only do it once.</p> - - -<h4>III<br /> - -THE BOY THAT DIDN’T COME</h4> - -<p>During the first part of the next, the Easter, -term the twins were so closely watched that their -genius for mischief had small scope. Whereupon -the authorities, finding them apparently absorbed -in games and the general routine, relaxed their -vigilance.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_36">[36]</span>At the beginning of February the weather was -mild and pleasant, with just enough rain to keep -the footer ground in good order. But at the end -of that fickle month there came a frost, the aggravating -sort of frost that makes a field too hard -for football and yet leads to no skating.</p> - -<p>The never long dormant spirit of mischief in -the twins awoke.</p> - -<p>As usual, it was Peter who began it, though Tod -was the innocent first cause.</p> - -<p>Just after first lesson, as Tod was hurrying from -one classroom to another, he met the principal in -the corridor, who bade him ask his form-master -to come and speak to him at a quarter past ten. -Further down the corridor Tod met his twin, who -instantly demanded what the “Pot” wanted, and -on being informed, went upon his way.</p> - -<p>Peter might have been seen to stop more than -one schoolfellow as he went—the corridor was full -of boys changing classrooms—and when he reached -his own he delivered a message to the effect that -the Head would like to see his form-master at ten-fifteen.</p> - -<p>Peter’s form-master, familiarly known as “Pig-Face,” -from a fancied resemblance to that animal -in the matter of nose, is a testy man, much given to -abusing his form and to the use of opprobrious -epithets seriously reflecting upon the veracity of -boys in general; so, on receipt of the Head’s message, -he knuckled Peter’s head, called him a -“shuffling little beast,” set a complicated sum in -discount for his form to wrestle with during his -absence, and hurried away, fuming inwardly at the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_37">[37]</span> -unreason of such a summons in the middle of -morning school. When he arrived at the principal’s -room he found six other masters also in waiting, -but the principal himself was not there.</p> - -<p>It happened that that gentleman had met Tod’s -form-master three minutes after he had seen Tod, -he said what he had to say there and then in the -corridor, and dismissed the matter from his mind.</p> - -<p>The seven masters waited in a grumpy group -for ten good minutes, when, just as they had decided -upon immediate departure, the principal -himself rushed in and gazed in somewhat indignant -astonishment at the assembled multitude.</p> - -<p>It took nearly five minutes more to explain the -situation, and the only boy whose conduct in delivering -the various messages seemed not wholly -inexplicable appeared to be Peter. For the principal -good-naturedly came to the conclusion that -it must have been Peter that he met, not Tod, and -that Peter had misunderstood him.</p> - -<p>Such a charitable view of Peter’s conduct, however, -could not last long, seeing that six angry -masters rushed back to their respective forms to -inflict lines upon six perfectly innocent boys, who -were not slow to protest that the message was -entrusted to them by another.</p> - -<p>During the morning three young gentlemen -from the Modern and four from the Classical received -a summons “to the principal at twelve,” -and of course Tod and Peter were of the number, -both looking so seraphically innocent that the -principal was perfectly sure that it was “a put-up -thing.” In this instance the innocent suffered<span class="pagenum" id="Page_38">[38]</span> -with the guilty, for Tod got five hundred lines as -well as Peter. But they both agreed that to have -so scored off seven “brushers” at one time was -well worth the lines.</p> - -<p>Three days afterward Tod’s nose bled toward -the end of morning school and he was dismissed to -his house to clean up. As he raced along the corridor -he noticed that the door of the little room -into which the rope of the school bell descended -was left open, and, peeping in, he discovered that -Hooper, the trusty porter, was not within.</p> - -<p>In far less time than it takes to write the words, -Tod had rushed in, and the great school bell that -dismisses morning school rang loud and clear over -the peaceful playing-fields surrounding the school -buildings, still humming with the busy life within.</p> - -<p>Every boy and every master stopped short in -what he was doing and looked at the clock. Those -possessed of watches consulted them, shook them, -listened to them, dubiously pressing them to unbelieving -ears. And as the clocks in that school -are by no means beyond reproach, being worked by -a system of electricity that is, to say the least of -it, capricious in its conduct, all came, not unwillingly, -to the conclusion that morning work had -indeed ended. Only the Head of the Modern, that -man of iron endurance, whose whole scheme of -creation seemed bounded by the exigencies of the -Civil Service Commissioners, refused to believe -that his watch was wrong, and continued to discuss -the “directrix and eccentric” of a certain -angle until it was really twelve o’clock; while one -of the French masters, hailing from Geneva, proclaimed<span class="pagenum" id="Page_39">[39]</span> -the unreliability of English clocks in general.</p> - -<p>Meanwhile Hooper, who had gone down to the -lodge to speak to his wife, could hardly believe his -ears when his own sacred bell clanged, somewhat -irresponsibly and gaily it is true, without his -agency.</p> - -<p>He rushed up the drive to discover the perpetrator -of this extraordinary outrage, only to meet -a throng of masters and boys streaming out into -the playground full twenty minutes before the appointed -hour.</p> - -<p>Tod was nearly at his house by this time, and -when he did arrive, hastened to the matron to -descant upon the terrific hemorrhage that had occurred -in his nose.</p> - -<p>But Nemesis was never very leaden-footed where -the twins were concerned.</p> - -<p>“Other chaps,” Tod remarked mournfully, “can -break all sorts of rules and do no end of mischief -and never get found out, but if we do the least little -thing someone’s certain to be down on us like a -hundred of bricks, or else we’re obliged to own up -to save somebody else.”</p> - -<p>In this case it was the latter course that Tod had -to pursue. The principal was exceedingly angry -at such a wanton curtailment of the last hour of -morning school, and gave it out in the afternoon -that if the amateur bellringer did not disclose himself -that very day, the whole school should stay in -on the next half-holiday; and the frost had broken -and football was in full swing once more.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_40">[40]</span>Of course Tod sought the principal at the earliest -opportunity and owned up.</p> - -<p>When he appeared in the principal’s room after -afternoon school he made, it is true, a valiant effort -to present himself with due solemnity, but his -round face was absurdly chubby and cheerful, and -when the principal looked up from the letter he -was writing to see who the intruder was, he sighed -deeply.</p> - -<p>“You again, Beaton!” he exclaimed wearily. -“So it was <i>you</i>, was it, who rang that bell? What -on earth did you do it for?”</p> - -<p>“My nose bled, sir....” Tod began eagerly.</p> - -<p>“What had your nose to do with it?”</p> - -<p>“Everything, sir. I was sent out of class....”</p> - -<p>“Sent out of class?” the principal repeated -sternly.</p> - -<p>“Because I made such a mess,” Tod hastened -to add; “and the little door was open—and so I -rang the bell.”</p> - -<p>“Beaton, when will you cease to play these -senseless and annoying tricks? Your folly caused -six hundred boys, to say nothing of the masters, -to lose twenty precious minutes. If I punished -you as you deserve, you ought to stay in for twenty -minutes each day for six hundred days....”</p> - -<p>Tod gasped.</p> - -<p>“But I won’t do that. Instead, you must do a -thousand lines, to be given up by the end of this -week. I shall not cane you, as I have no doubt -you would infinitely prefer it.”</p> - -<p>A good many boys assisted to write those lines, -and the impost was given up at its appointed time.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_41">[41]</span>Hockey leagues were on and Peter was playing -in his house team. On the morning of the last -practice before an important match, he acknowledged -so barely bowing an acquaintance with certain -French idioms beloved of the French master—for -was he not their author?—that Peter was -told to stay in after morning school and learn -them.</p> - -<p>Peter did nothing of the kind; on the contrary, -he went out at the usual hour and played hockey -with his accustomed vigor, with the result that the -French master sent for him that afternoon to know -why he had not done as he was told.</p> - -<p>Peter pleaded “a very important engagement,” -and, on being pressed to disclose the nature of that -same, as usual answered quite truthfully. The -French master, not unnaturally exasperated, forthwith -reported him to the Head of the Modern, with -the result that Peter was hauled up and bidden to -stay in on the next half-holiday; the very half-holiday -on which his house was to play its bitterest -rival.</p> - -<p>During the remainder of that term he got into -several rows with his form-master, and Tod was -equally unlucky, so that by the time the Easter -holidays arrived both boys were quite ready for -them and left school vowing vengeance on their -persecutors.</p> - -<p>Their parents were in India, so they went to -spend the holidays with a jolly young bachelor -uncle, who was an ardent fisherman and carried -both the boys off with him for three weeks’ peel-fishing -in a remote village in North Wales. He<span class="pagenum" id="Page_42">[42]</span> -was also of a literary turn, that uncle, and took -with him a box of books to enliven their evenings: -lots of Kipling and Stevenson, and amongst the -latter the “Life and Letters.” He read aloud the -“Thomas Libby” incident, where Stevenson and -certain kindred spirits roused a whole neighborhood -to excitement by constant inquiries as to the -whereabouts of one “Thomas Libby,” who existed -only in his creator’s vivid imagination. That of -the twins was immediately fired by an ambition to -go and do likewise.</p> - -<p>The incident, or rather series of incidents, to -which the non-appearance of Mr. Libby led up, enchanted -them. They chuckled over the mysterious -Thomas for a whole day, but it was not till evening, -at bedtime, that Tod whispered to Peter how, -like “Sentimental Tommy,” he had “found a -way.”</p> - -<p>Sitting on the side of his bed, he announced gleefully: -“Tell you what it is, Peter, we’ll be a parent! -A parent with a delicate kid! And we’ll -write long-winded letters in scratchy, small handwriting, -you know, like the masters write....”</p> - -<p>“But,” Peter interrupted excitedly, “how are -we to get the answers? It wouldn’t be any fun if -we didn’t.”</p> - -<p>“The answers,” Tod replied calmly, “will come -to the post office here, where we’re living, you -juggins! You bet there’ll be answers. They’re -awfully keen after the oof at the good old school. -Why, they scent a new boy a mile off. He shall go -into old Pig-Face’s house, just to pay him out for -all his beastliness to you, and I’ll pester the Head<span class="pagenum" id="Page_43">[43]</span> -about him and his delicate chest, and all that sort -of rot that parents <i>do</i> write, don’t you know.”</p> - -<p>Peter gasped. “But how can he ‘go’ into anybody’s -house if there isn’t a him to go?”</p> - -<p>“What an ass you are, Peter! <i>Was</i> there a -Thomas Libby? And how many people’s houses -was he going to, pray?”</p> - -<p>“Go on,” said Peter humbly, “go on.”</p> - -<p>“The parent’s name,” Tod announced proudly, -“is Theopompus Buggins.”</p> - -<p>“Theopompus!” Peter echoed dubiously. “It -doesn’t sound very real somehow—and is the kid -to be young Theopompus?”</p> - -<p>“No,” said Tod firmly, “<i>his</i> name is Archibald, -and Mr. Buggins is his uncle.”</p> - -<p>“I thought he was to be a parent,” Peter objected -in a dissatisfied voice.</p> - -<p>“Well, an uncle is a sort of parent; probably the -kid’s an orphan.”</p> - -<p>There was silence for a minute while Peter digested -this view of the matter. But still he was -not quite satisfied, for presently he said: “Tod, -would <i>you</i> believe in anyone called ‘Theopompus -Buggins’?”</p> - -<p>“Well, no, I’m not sure that I would,” Tod -admitted. “Why?”</p> - -<p>“D’you believe the Head will?”</p> - -<p>“I never thought of that.”</p> - -<p>“I think,” Peter suggested beguilingly, “that -we had better have a commoner name, don’t you?”</p> - -<p>“P’r’aps we had,” Tod sighed. “Let’s have -Jones—Theopompus Jones, now.”</p> - -<p>“Jones is all right,” Peter allowed graciously,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_44">[44]</span> -“but I don’t fancy Theopompus much, it’s such a -peculiar name.”</p> - -<p>“It’s a splendid name,” Tod exclaimed huffily, -“but of course if you think it’s too uncommon he -can be ‘T. Jones, Esq.,’ or ‘John Jones’ if you -insist upon it. How would you like ‘Peter -Jones’?”</p> - -<p>“T. Jones will do spiffingly,” Peter answered -with some haste. “<i>We’ll</i> know his name is Theopompus -right enough, and it don’t matter a hang -to them whether he’s Theobald or Theophilus or -anything; but I say, Tod, must he be an uncle?”</p> - -<p>“Yes,” Tod replied firmly, “he jolly well must, -and, what’s more, he’s got to be going to Injia -just as term begins. We’ll look out the sailings -in uncle’s paper and choose his ship. He’ll just -get there in the hot weather, but that can’t be -helped.”</p> - -<p>The twins were well acquainted with the whereabouts -of “sailings” in the papers, as most Anglo-Indian -children are.</p> - -<p>“Why, you’ve planned it all, Tod,” Peter said -admiringly. “How’ll you do about the writing?”</p> - -<p>“I shall write as like old Stinks as possible, that -niggly, scrabbly sort of writing, <i>you</i> know.”</p> - -<p>“By Jove! So you can—that’ll be all right. -Parents and people call that sort of writing -‘scholarly,’ but if we did it they’d say we were -beastly illiterate or something.”</p> - -<p>“What I like about a scholarly handwriting,” -said Tod thoughtfully, “is that no mortal can tell -whether the spelling’s right or not. When I’m -once through the Shop I shall always write a<span class="pagenum" id="Page_45">[45]</span> -scholarly hand and not bother about spelling and -that any more.”</p> - -<p>“Boys,” a voice called from the next room, -“you get to bed and don’t keep jawing all night.”</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>It would not be fair to disclose the exact spot in -Wales from which that anxious relative, Mr. T. -Jones, indited his first letter to the headmaster of -the Public School which reckoned Tod and Peter -among its pupils.</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="verse">“There are several L’s in the place where he dwells,</div> -<div class="indent5">And of W’s more than one.”</div> -</div></div> - -<p>but it is impossible to be more explicit than this.</p> - -<p>The Principal of Harchester School was at -breakfast in his hotel at the seaside when a letter -marked “urgent” and “if away please forward -immediately” reached him. He turned it over -thoughtfully before opening it, for he thought he -recognized the handwriting of one of his masters -(familiarly referred to by Tod and Peter as “old -Stinks”), a science master, much given to drawing -his attention to various details by means of lengthy -epistles.</p> - -<p>“What in the world can Neatby want now?” he -wondered, “and in the holidays, too; it really is -a little too bad!”</p> - -<p>On opening the letter, however, he found that it -was not from Mr. Neatby, and set himself forthwith -to decipher a missive in which the margins -were clear and spacious as the writing was small -and obscure. Yet it had the air, so the principal<span class="pagenum" id="Page_46">[46]</span> -remarked to himself, of being the letter of an educated -man. Tod had played the “scholarly” game -with entire success.</p> - -<p>The letter was as follows:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> -<p>“<span class="smcap">Dear Sir</span>,</p> - -<p>“I am desirous that my only nephew, Archibald -Jones, aged thirteen years and six months, -should be enrolled among the pupils of your famous -seminary at the commencement of the summer -session. But before placing him under your -benignant charge there are several points upon -which I am desirous of enlightenment. Certain -friends have recommended to me the house of one -Mr. Mannock, but from other sources I have gathered -that he is a man of somewhat violent temper, -sometimes almost abusive, in his intercourse with -the boys. Is this so? Because, if it is, I shall require -to seek some other house in which to place -my nephew, an orphan of extremely sensitive disposition, -with a weak chest. It is possible that the -accounts I have heard of Mr. Mannock’s violence -may be exaggerated, and I should like Archibald -to enter his house unless you especially warn me -against it. I wish my nephew to be entered upon -the Classical side, as I am given to understand -that boys are less overworked in that department -than in that where they prepare for the Army. -And as his delicate chest will prevent my nephew -joining in the rougher sports of his contemporaries, -I would suggest that one of the younger -masters should be told off to take Archibald for a -walk every fine day, as, of course, a certain amount -of fresh air and exercise is essential. He must -not be placed in too high a class, as owing to illness<span class="pagenum" id="Page_47">[47]</span> -he has not been able to make such rapid progress -in his studies as his robuster contemporaries.</p> - -<p>“Any information that you can afford me—and -as early an answer as possible, for I am leaving -England at the beginning of May and wish to see -my dear nephew comfortably settled before I sail—will -greatly oblige</p> - -<p class="right"><span class="indentright">“Yours truly,</span><br /> -“<span class="smcap">T. Jones</span>.”</p> -</div> - -<p>Tod had written “yours turly,” but was corrected -by Peter, who, if he had less sense of style, -was fairly dependable where spelling was concerned.</p> - -<p>Now the postmistress, their landlady, found her -household duties so much increased by the presence -of her lodgers that she was fain to depute her -official cares to her daughter, Katie, a damsel who -greatly admired the good-looking twins. And -when they confided to her that if a letter came -addressed to “T. Jones, Esq.” it really was for -one of them, she asked no questions, required no -further information, but, concluding that it was -only a part of their mysterious charm to receive -letters in a name other than their own, promised -to guard the same should it come, without pointing -out to anybody that just then no person of the -name of Jones was residing at the post office.</p> - -<p>The letter came in two days and ran as follows:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> -<p>“<span class="smcap">Dear Sir</span>,</p> - -<p>“I enclose the entrance form to be filled up by -any parent or guardian desirous of placing a boy<span class="pagenum" id="Page_48">[48]</span> -at Harchester School. With regard to the house -in which you wish your nephew to board, Mr. Mannock’s -is, as I hope are all our houses, entirely -satisfactory. But if your nephew is, as you imply, -a delicate boy, I would suggest that he should -be placed in one of the smaller boarding-houses, -as he would then receive more individual attention -than it is possible to bestow in a house where there -are some fifty boys. I have asked the bursar to -send you a prospectus, in which you will find the -names and addresses of all the masters in the -school who take boys; and lest the house you select -should be already full, I advise you to communicate -with the master at your earliest convenience.”</p> -</div> - -<p>When Mr. Theopompus Jones in the dual shape -of Tod and Peter received this missive they retired -to a distant bridge, whereon they sat to read it, -and they laughed so much that they nearly fell over -backward into the river. They gloated over the -very envelope. But later on, when their first glee -at getting an answer at all had somewhat abated, -they expressed disappointment that the Head had -omitted to answer so many of their questions.</p> - -<p>“You see,” Peter cried indignantly, “what a -shufflin’ old hypocrite he is. You can’t get a -straight answer from him about old Pig-Face, and -he knows what an old brute he is just as well as -we do.”</p> - -<p>“Shall we send dear Archibald into one of the -smaller houses?” Tod asked thoughtfully.</p> - -<p>“No,” Peter thundered. “He’s going to old -Pig-Face, and to no one else. Who knows but he -may save some decent chap from going there?<span class="pagenum" id="Page_49">[49]</span> -Let’s write again to the Pot, it’s such a lark, he -answers so nice and quick. Why, there’s over a -fortnight more of the holidays; we can get a whole -volume of his oily old letters by that time. I’ve -always wondered how humbugs like him manage -to grease up to one’s people so, and for the life -of me I can’t see why now.”</p> - -<p>That night the twins again engaged in literary -labors, much to their uncle’s surprise, but he was -an ardent bridge player, and, having found three -like-minded anglers at the village inn, he was glad -to leave his lively nephews so peacefully employed.</p> - -<p>“Are you chaps writing a story?” he asked that -evening as he departed to his bridge.</p> - -<p>“Yes,” “No,” the twins answered simultaneously, -then Tod answered with some decision: -“No, Uncle Frank, we’re writing letters, business -letters, that’s all.”</p> - -<p>“Dear me,” their uncle replied, much impressed, -and, having a peace-loving and incurious disposition, -he asked no further questions and was soon -contentedly playing a “no trumps” hand with conspicuous -success.</p> - -<p>A day or two later the headmaster of Harchester -sighed gently as he found beside his plate at breakfast -another bulky epistle from the anxious-minded -Mr. T. Jones. This time that gentleman did not -content himself with generalities; he made the -most searching inquiries as to the disposition of -the aforesaid Mr. Mannock.</p> - -<p>After thanking the headmaster of Harchester -for his “polite letter” (the headmaster raised his<span class="pagenum" id="Page_50">[50]</span> -eyebrows as he reached this phrase), Mr. Jones -continued:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>“I fear that I cannot fall in with your suggestion -of a private boarding-house for my dear -nephew. In the first place it is too expensive, and -in the second place I wish him to go into Mr. Mannock’s -house if you can satisfy me that he is of the -considerate and forbearing disposition that a man -placed in his responsible position ought to be. I -am pressed for time, as I sail on May 1st for -Bombay, and an early answer will greatly oblige.</p> - -<p class="right"> -<span class="indentright">“Yours truly,</span><br /> -“<span class="smcap">T. Jones</span>.”</p> -</div> - -<p>Tod and Peter had the very greatest fun in filling -in the form of application. They had long ago decided -that the youthful Archibald was to enter on -the Classical side, that he was destined for the -Church, that his father was “deceased,” but as to -the late gentleman’s profession they squabbled. -Peter wanted Army or Indian Civil; Tod was in -favor of Navy or Church; when Peter suddenly -recollected that there were “lists and things” in -most of the recognized professions and that an -“inquisitive old buffer like the Pot would be certain -to look him up.”</p> - -<p>Finally they decided that the deceased one had -better be a “merchant.” Peter wanted to add -“prince,” but Tod, the far-seeing, pointed out -that such affluence would hardly coincide with an -objection to one of the smaller boarding-houses -on the score of expense.</p> - -<p>Finally they despatched their entrance form “to<span class="pagenum" id="Page_51">[51]</span> -the bursar,” elaborately filled up in the scholarly -handwriting of Mr. Theopompus Jones, the handwriting -that so puzzled the Principal of Harchester -by its haunting resemblance to that of one of his -masters.</p> - -<p>Again the Pot was prompt and courteous, and -by return the twins were gloating over another -letter, which, however, again disappointed them -by its brevity.</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> -<p>“<span class="smcap">Dear Sir</span> (it ran),</p> - -<p>“As your time in this country is indeed getting -short, I would advise you at once to confer personally -with Mr. Mannock as to whether he can -find room for your nephew or not; for, in the event -of his having no vacancy, you still may be enabled -to place the boy in one of the other houses.”</p> -</div> - -<p>“Oh, the shuffler!” Peter shouted indignantly. -“The quibbler! The sanctimonious humbug! <i>He</i> -thinks he’s diddled Theopompus Jones, does he? -He’ll find out his mistake before very long; it’ll be -Theopompus Jones has diddled <i>him</i>. I wouldn’t -trust that man with a bad halfpenny. He can’t -answer a straight question, that’s what he can’t do—and -yet to hear him talk....”</p> - -<p>“I say,” interrupted Tod, “suppose they send -in the bill, what’ll we do?”</p> - -<p>“You don’t propose we should pay it, do you, -you young ass?” Peter returned scornfully. -“They never send ’em in till just before term, -sometimes not till after. Don’t you remember -how the pater grumbled last autumn because it<span class="pagenum" id="Page_52">[52]</span> -<i>didn’t</i> come, and he wanted everything settled up -before he sailed?”</p> - -<p>“So does Mr. Jones want it all settled before he -sails,” Tod remarked gaily. “He ought to write -to old Pig-Face to-night.”</p> - -<p>This the dual Mr. Jones did, and, as before, -received an answer by return of post from Mr. -Mannock, who, strange to say, had just one vacancy, -and expressed his willingness that Archibald -Jones should fill that same. And Mr. T. Jones, -refraining from further researches into the character -of Mr. Mannock, wrote with his own scholarly -hand, or rather hands, a letter which announced -the pending arrival of Archibald.</p> - -<p>By this time the holidays were nearly over, and -the twins began to be somewhat anxious as to the -termination of Mr. Jones’ correspondence with -the authorities at Harchester School. But their -good genius did not desert them at the last moment, -for just the day before they left Wales, -when they were at their wits’ end for a satisfactory -ending to the episode, they came across the -“List of Members” of their uncle’s club; and, -idly turning over the leaves, Tod found that there -were no fewer than thirteen members of the same -surname as the anxious uncle of their creation and -three of them had “T” for their initial. Instantly -Tod’s resource was stimulated, and he despatched -three letters in the most scholarly of handwritings -to his headmaster, to Mr. Mannock, and to the -bursar respectively, announcing his immediate departure -for London and requesting that all future<span class="pagenum" id="Page_53">[53]</span> -communications might be addressed to him at the -club in question.</p> - -<p>In his letter to Mr. Mannock, he informed him -that Archibald would be sent one day earlier than -that given for the return of the other boys, as he, -Mr. Jones, would be so much occupied in arrangements -for his voyage that he would be unable to -give the boy the careful supervision his sensitive -disposition and delicate health demanded.</p> - -<p>“We shan’t see their pompous old letters and -bills and things,” sighed Peter, “but it will liven -up the Jones fraternity at uncle’s club—it’s a good -thing he’s not going back to town just yet, or he -might hear something—and Pig-Face will simply -raise Cain when that precious Archibald mysteriously -disappears. We’re sure to hear about that, -anyway; two of his chaps are in my form, jolly -decent chaps they are, too.”</p> - -<p>“Mind you never <i>ask</i> anything about it,” said -Tod warningly. “They might suspect something, -and if we were ever found to have had any hand -in this we’d be sacked, sure as a gun. We’ve had -our fun and now we must jolly well keep it dark. -By the time it’s all finished I should say both the -Head and old Pig-Face will have done their thousand -lines apiece, shouldn’t you?”</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>“Curious thing that fellow never turning up, -isn’t it?” one of the “decent chaps” in Mr. Mannock’s -house remarked to Peter, some three days -after term had begun. “Pig-Face is in an awful -stew about it—afraid the boy’s been murdered or -something.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_54">[54]</span>“What boy? What d’you mean?” Peter asked -innocently. “Who hasn’t come back?”</p> - -<p>“No one hasn’t come back; it’s a new chap -hasn’t turned up at all. Both he and his people -have mysteriously disappeared, vamoosed, vanished! -Awfully funny thing. There’s no end of -a fuss.”</p> - -<p>“P’r’aps he changed his mind at the last minute,” -Peter suggested. “P’r’aps he heard something -about old Pig-Face and funked it.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t know,” said the other. “Old Pig-Face -looks awfully worried. Shouldn’t wonder if we -had detectives down, and all sorts of games.”</p> - -<p>Peter looked thoughtful for a minute, and then, -to the astonishment of his friend, who was really -impressed by the enigma, doubled up with uncontrollable -laughter.</p> - -<p>The assistance of Scotland Yard, however, was -not called in; for, on writing to the Bishop and -Admiral given as references by Mr. T. Jones -(boldly lifted, address and all, from “Who’s -Who,” by the ingenious Tod), the headmaster of -Harchester received an emphatic disclaimer from -each of these gentlemen of any knowledge of any -such person. Moreover, an inquiry at the post -office of the Welsh village from which Mr. Jones’ -letters were dated only elicited the laconic response -of “Gone away—address not known.”</p> - -<p>Katie had received and faithfully followed her -instructions.</p> - -<p>Every Jones of the whole thirteen in that club -was approached in vain, and inquiry at the shipping -office only elicited the fact that, plentiful as<span class="pagenum" id="Page_55">[55]</span> -persons bearing that patronymic appeared to be, -no passenger of that name had sailed by that particular -boat.</p> - -<p>The authorities at Harchester came to the unwelcome -conclusion that they had been hoaxed; -and all that remained of the incident were certain -letters, treasured, on the one hand for purposes -of possible identification, on the other for more -frivolous reasons.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_56">[56]</span> - -<h3 class="nobreak">“TONY”</h3> -</div> - - -<p>Tony sat in the gutter, wondering what would -be the coolest thing to do. The front doors of all -the houses in the dull, quite respectable street, -wherein he dwelt, were close shut, as were also the -white-curtained windows, lest dust should blow in -and sully these hall-marks of houses that possess -a front “best room.” The neighboring children -were all away; some at the recreation ground, -some to paddle their feet in the nearest approach -to a river the town boasted—a little muddy stream -about a foot deep at the best of times; now a sort -of pea soup.</p> - -<p>But on this August afternoon Tony felt too slack -and too sticky to seek any amusement that necessitated -a walk; so, having been thrust out of the -back door by his mother, who was washing and -wanted no boys “clutterin’ round”—he strolled -lanquidly to the front, quite sure that here, at any -rate, he would be left in peace, as the dwellers in -Eva Terrace never used their front doors except -on Sundays.</p> - -<p>Just then a man carrying a bag came running -down the road, which was a short cut to the station.</p> - -<p>“Here, youngster!” he shouted, throwing the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_57">[57]</span> -bag to Tony. “Carry this for me, and I’ll just do -it! Run after me for all you’re worth!”</p> - -<p>Tony caught the bag dexterously and ran. He -could run faster than the man, and was soon jogging -on ahead of him. At the station Tony got -sixpence for his pains, thrust it deep into his right -trouser pocket, and walked soberly away.</p> - -<p>Infinite possibilities were opened up by this unexpected -windfall, and he had no intention of mentioning -it at home. His people were poor, but not -poorer than their neighbors; his brothers and sisters -were all older than he, and in his case Benjamin’s -lot was not accompanied by the advantages -with which it is generally accredited.</p> - -<p>A lonely child was Tony, gentle and biddable -enough, quick at his books, and happiest in his -school hours, when people let him alone, and he -succeeded in pleasing the clever, testy schoolmaster, -whose life was embittered by a constant -struggle with an overwhelming desire to whack -the young demons who tormented him. He had -been “summonsed” twice by irate parents; so now -he restrained himself at the expense of his teaching -powers and his nerves generally.</p> - -<p>Tony stopped in the middle of the road and -smacked his pocket.</p> - -<p>“I’ll go to the baths to-morrow morning,” he -said aloud, “and see them young nobs swim; it’s -only threepence before nine.”</p> - -<p>A great excitement—unshared, unmentioned—had -lately come into Tony’s life. Every morning -for the last week, about eight o’clock he had -watched for two boys who went by on bicycles with<span class="pagenum" id="Page_58">[58]</span> -towels strapped on to their handle-bars. One was -quite a little boy, far less than Tony himself; the -other bigger, and in his eyes less interesting; and -in a few minutes after them came one for whom -Tony had conceived the extravagant, unreasoning -admiration children will sometimes lavish on somebody -with whom they have never exchanged, or -hope to exchange, two words; someone unconscious -of their existence as they are the richer for that -other’s.</p> - -<p>Everybody in Tony’s locality knew the recruiting -sergeant by sight: “Sergeant” who taught -drill and gymnastics to all the “young gen’lemen” -in the neighborhood. But Tony adored him, not -only because he was so tall and good looking—and -Tony was strenuously certain that it is a -goodly thing to be upstanding and to have broad -shoulders, instead of the champagne-bottle variety -carried by his brothers and their like—but because -he knew that the sergeant wished him well; inasmuch -as that he, even he also, was one of the hundred -and fifty odd boys in the parish schools of -St. James’s. For now that the war fever was -somewhat abating, now that Sergeant himself had -come back from the front that he might send more -soldiers out there, he had offered to drill the boys -in St. James’s schools twice a week for love. And -it could not be arranged.</p> - -<p>The authorities, while granting the utility of -algebra and French to those in the seventh standard, -who were presently to form the bulk and bulwark -of the nation, saw no good reason why an -attempt should be made to give them straight<span class="pagenum" id="Page_59">[59]</span> -backs and broad chests. So Sergeant, who loved -his country, and was, in his way, something of a -philanthropist, sighed and swore, and “put the -question by.”</p> - -<p>But Tony, who had heard the subject canvassed, -and listened to the lamentations of the boys, was -filled with a passion of gratitude, which found no -expression save in a constant hanging round corners -to see his idol pass.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>Tony sat on his bed naked, in a patch of moonlight, -admiring his own legs.</p> - -<p>“My body be whiter nor theirn,” he said to himself, -and indeed, his limbs looked radiantly fair -in the mellow light. “But my arms beant so ’ard -as ’is’n for all ’e be such little chap,” he continued, -pinching the soft flesh of the upper arm in a dissatisfied -way.</p> - -<p>Tony was too excited to sleep just yet—such a -great deal had happened in the last two days. In -all his ten years he had never felt as he felt now—and -yet, from an outsider’s point of view, what a -little thing it was!</p> - -<p>The day before he had gone to the swimming -bath, intending just to watch. It was empty, save -for Sergeant and the two boys who went with him -every morning. The water looked so clear, and -there seemed so much room in the big bath, that -Tony undressed and went in.</p> - -<p>He paddled shyly about in the shallow end, admiring -the two boys, who dived off the spring-board -and the pulpit and swam under water, while -Sergeant roared directions at them, and flung them<span class="pagenum" id="Page_60">[60]</span> -head over heels in the deep end, in a fashion that -filled Tony with surprise.</p> - -<p>The big boy was practising side-stroke, when the -little one, whom Sergeant, for some reason or -other, called the “swashbuckler,” swam down the -bath toward Tony, remarking cheerfully:</p> - -<p>“You’ll get rheumatism if you paddle so. Shall -I show you the first exercise?”</p> - -<p>He was such a little boy, but he swam like a -frog. His square, freckled face was so friendly -that Tony forgot that he himself was an “oik,” -and therefore his sworn foe, and said, “Please, -sir!” in the meekest of tiny whispers.</p> - -<p>“You must kneel on the edge further down, and -let me chuck you in,” was the next command—and -Sergeant stopped in the very middle of a shout -to chuckle and whisper:</p> - -<p>“Blest if the swashbuckler isn’t giving a swimming -lesson on his own account!”</p> - -<p>And now Tony sat on the edge of his bed and -remembered two wonderful mornings, and pondered -what it could be that made that friendly -little boy so different from all the other boys he -knew. And through all his thinking, like the refrain -of a song, sounded a sentence he had once -heard at Sunday school. He could not remember -the whole of it; but five words seemed to batter -at his brain as though demanding instant comprehension -and attention—“<i>The temple of your -body.</i>”</p> - -<p>Tony nodded as though in answer to a spoken -word. He pictured Sergeant cleaving the water<span class="pagenum" id="Page_61">[61]</span> -with his long arms, the muscles standing out on -his white shoulders.</p> - -<p>“I s’pose,” said Tony softly, as if in answer -to that unseen, persistent voice, “some folks ’as -temples for bodies, and some folks ’as on’y tin -churches, or, so to speak, a public.... I’d like -a temple myself for ch’ice.”</p> - -<p>He was not very sure what a temple was, but in -a vague way he <i>was</i> assured that it was something -large and beautiful; and his conception was helped -out by hazy recollections of Sunday school and -Solomon, and thoughts of a building spacious and -white.</p> - -<p>“There used to be a free night,” he continued, -reverting again to the actual, “but the Corpeeration -stopped it—I wonder w’y? It’s tuppence -after six, that’s a shillin’ a week—’ow can pore -boys get that?—an’ I promised ’im as I’d learn -the others w’en I could get a chanst, when he’s -learned me....”</p> - -<p>Tony’s voice faltered, he was getting sleepy. -He gave his smooth white arms another stroke, -slipped into his nightshirt, and got into bed.</p> - -<p>“E’ve give oi a shillin’ to pay for four more -mornin’s, till ’e do go away,” he whispered ecstatically -as he laid his head on the pillow, and -Tony fell asleep.</p> - -<p>That evening Tony’s elder brother “Earny,” -who cleaned bicycles, and was ’prenticed to a -dealer in the neighborhood, wanted his Sunday -necktie, for he purposed to “walk out with his -young lady.” He ran upstairs to the room he -shared with Tony and another brother, to find the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_62">[62]</span> -little boy fast asleep, worn out by unusual exercise -and varied emotions.</p> - -<p>Earny could not find his tie, and on lifting -Tony’s trousers to see if by any chance it was -hidden beneath them, a shilling rolled out of the -pocket and finished spinning with a clang, just in -the very centre of the patch of moonlight where -a quarter of an hour earlier Tony had decided -that he, at all events, “would ’ave a temple for -ch’ice.”</p> - -<p>“’Ullo!” thought Earny to himself, “where did -that kid collar a bob? ’E bin a’ter no good, I’ll be -boun’, so secret-like and sayin’ nothin’ to nobody. -Serve ’im right if I buys some smokes with ’un;” -and Earny departed quietly, without having fulfilled -his original intention of waking Tony that -he might look for the missing necktie.</p> - -<p>At nine o’clock the following morning Tony -still lay upon his bed, wide-eyed, white-cheeked, -with blank despair writ large upon his face. -Breakfast was over long ago, his family had all -departed to their daily work; his mother was -ironing in the kitchen, he could hear the bump of -the iron as she slammed it on the table; the bedroom -could wait till one of the girls came in at -dinner-time, so no one interfered with Tony.</p> - -<p>He knew that it was his brother who must have -taken the shilling—the precious shilling that had -meant so much to him. He knew that he had no -redress, no one would believe him if he told them -how he came by it, and in his utter misery he was -too poor-spirited even to think of reprisals. His -whole imagination centred round the dreadful certainty<span class="pagenum" id="Page_63">[63]</span> -that Sergeant and the little gen’leman and -the little gen’leman’s brother would think him a -fraud. For a brief space the sun had shone out -on his drab life, discovering hitherto undreamt-of -colors in the landscape, but now....</p> - -<p>“I can never watch for ’em no more,” he said, -with a hard, tearless sob.</p> - -<p>Presently he stood out on the floor and shook his -nightshirt about his feet; he dressed quickly, and -did not even wash his face as he was wont to do.</p> - -<p>“’Tain’t no use for the likes of me to try,” he -said bitterly.</p> - -<p>Then he went to his brother’s drawer and stole -the bundle of cigarettes he found there, and went -out and smoked under the railway bridge till his -body was as sick as his heart.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_64">[64]</span> - -<h3 class="nobreak">A SQUARE PEG</h3> -</div> - - -<p>“I told him plainly beforehand that if he did not -get a scholarship this term he must go into business. -He has not won a scholarship, and, situated -as you are, any other course would be absurd.”</p> - -<p>Uncle Henry shut his mouth with a snap, while -he stared fixedly over his sister’s head that he -might not see the pleading in her eyes as she said -timidly:</p> - -<p>“But fourteen is so young, Henry, and Rodney -is so small for his age——”</p> - -<p>“I fail to see that his size has anything to do -with it; and you, Felicia, must learn to face things -as they are, not as you would have them. If you -defer for one moment the chance of Rodney’s -making his own living, you are doing an injustice -both to him and to his sisters. Pardon my plain -speaking, but he is the son of an exceedingly poor -widow and must be dealt with accordingly.”</p> - -<p>Through the open windows came the sound of a -boy’s laughter and the ring of a smartly struck -cricket ball. Uncle Henry waved his hand in the -direction of the sound, saying:</p> - -<p>“There, you see; that’s what his education at -present amounts to; he’s a pretty bat, and doubtless<span class="pagenum" id="Page_65">[65]</span> -looks forward to a life all flannels and cider-cup -and yells of admiration when he makes a few -runs; the sooner all that nonsense is knocked out -of him the better.”</p> - -<p>“But Rodney is not idle, Henry,” his mother -pleaded; “his form-master and the Head both -speak well of him and say that he has a very good -chance next year, although he has missed this; you -know the exam. came on just after his father’s -death, when the boy was dreadfully upset.”</p> - -<p>“I have made you an offer, you may take it or -leave it. You can put him into one of my businesses; -there will be no premium, and I’ll pay for -his board at a thoroughly good boarding-house I -know of in Mecklenburg Square, where he will be -well looked after. In the meantime you must try -to let this house, and then you can come up and -live in the suburbs, and he can live with you and -go to business every day by train; the little girls -can go to a High School. With the many claims I -have upon me, this is all that I can do, and I must -serve you in the way that seems best to me.”</p> - -<p>Uncle Henry sat down and took up the newspaper -in token that the subject was thoroughly -threshed out. He had gone into business at fourteen, -and now at little past thirty had a house in -Grosvenor Gardens and a “place down the river.” -He had married at six-and-twenty, “going where -money was.” The names of his two sons were -down for Harrow, while his wife already talked of -the time when she should “present” their baby -girl. He quite acknowledged that it was his duty -to help his sister now that the collapse of those<span class="pagenum" id="Page_66">[66]</span> -Australian banks had practically beggared her; -but there was at the back of his mind a lurking -satisfaction that the way he had chosen should be -one calculated to destroy those castles of tradition -her husband had been so fond of building. It -was a perpetual annoyance both to his wife and to -himself that Rodney and his sisters should be so -very different in appearance from their own children; -that, clean or dirty, these children without -a sixpence should so strongly resemble the old -family portraits that his brother-in-law’s ridiculous -will forbade to be sold; that they should in -speech and bearing so unmistakably be gentlefolk, -and yet be his own sister’s children seemed -to him a proof of nature’s ineptitude.</p> - -<p>To be sure he and Felcourt had been on friendly -enough terms, but he had always—though through -no fault of Felcourt’s—been conscious that his -brother-in-law and his ancestors for generations -belonged to a class which only of late, and that not -altogether with enthusiasm, has opened its doors -to successful men of Uncle Henry’s stamp.</p> - -<p>Rodney’s mother went and stood by the open -window. The active white figures flying between -the wickets on the wide lawn seemed all blurred -and indistinct, and she lifted her slim hand to her -throat to still its throbbing ache; she was not a -strong-minded woman. All she had asked of life -was the power to make folks happy, and to be -loved; and hitherto her desire had been generously -fulfilled. Married at eighteen to a man who, -taking her out of somewhat sordid and uncongenial -surroundings, made her queen of a household<span class="pagenum" id="Page_67">[67]</span> -where gaiety and good manners had been -vassals for generations, she readily adapted herself -to the new atmosphere, and became a sweet-voiced -echo of her husband, and for fourteen years -was absurdly happy. Then Rodney Felcourt died, -and six months afterward came the collapse of the -Australian banks.</p> - -<p>Uncle Henry had a way of carrying through any -course of action he had determined upon, and by -the beginning of October his nephew Rodney found -himself taking his exercise in the Gray’s Inn -Road instead of in the playing-fields at school. -The change of life was so radical and so sudden -that the child hardly understood what had happened. -Like the old woman in the nursery rhyme, -he was forever exclaiming, “This be never I!” in -melancholy astonishment. He was learning to tie -up parcels, he stuck on endless quantities of postage -stamps, and occasionally addressed a few envelopes -for one of the typists. He did what he -was told as well as he could, the day seemed endlessly -long, and by evening he was so tired that -he went to bed soon after the seven-o’clock dinner. -A young boy for his age, he was quite unprecocious -and unformed; hitherto his place in the -universe had been clearly defined and not difficult -to fill; to do well in his form, thus pleasing the -“mater” and his form-master, to be “decent” to -his little sisters at home, and “jolly” with the -chaps at school, to be good at games and get -into the “house” eleven, and to be absolutely -“straight” in word, deed, and across country—such -was Rodney’s conception of the whole duty<span class="pagenum" id="Page_68">[68]</span> -of boy, and he had acted up to it with considerable -success. Now, life was not only complicated -but unintelligible, and he was too bewildered even -to rebel against a fate that kept him tying up parcels -indifferently well when he felt that by all the -ordinary standards of conduct he ought to have -been writing Latin verses.</p> - -<p>Every Sunday he wrote neat, stilted little letters -to his mother, which informed her that he had -been to church at the Foundling, was going for a -walk in the afternoon, that he was well and hoped -that she was well, and that he was her very loving -son. Felicia crushed the paper against her cheek -in the vain attempt to extract from it something -real and Rodney-like. She thought of the school -letters last term, how full of life they had been, -how numerous the requests they contained! Rodney -never asked for anything now, and she knew -that the boy was holding himself well in hand lest -any part of the truth might hurt her.</p> - -<p>At the end of October, Cecil Connop came back -from Paris. His arrival was announced in all the -papers, for he was of some importance in literary -circles; his great ability was acknowledged on all -sides, the more freely that he was something of a -failure. Though his work was widely read and -appreciated by cultivated people, he was not popular. -His appearance was quite ordinary, and he -made no attempt to resemble any historical personage. -He abhorred advertisement, considering -that his published writings had no sort of connection -with his private life. His readers were -quite ignorant as to whether he had a mother or<span class="pagenum" id="Page_69">[69]</span> -not, and his personal friends suffered under no -apprehension that their loves or their bereavements -would figure, flimsily disguised, in his next -book. His rooms in Jermyn Street had never been -photographed, and only his servant knew whether -he liked his bath hot or cold. The fact was that -Cecil Connop kept one face for the world and -quite another for the old friends who loved him—a -proceeding so out of date among literary people -as to be almost medieval. But it has its advantages -for such as like curtains to their windows. -According to his own account he never had any -money, and was, when in England, in hourly danger -of Holloway Jail; but he paid his card debts -and never seemed to lack any of the things that -go toward making life pleasant.</p> - -<p>Felicia’s letter announcing little Rodney’s apprenticeship -was a great surprise to Cecil. He -had, of course, heard of her serious losses, but he -knew that her brother was a wealthy man and -“people always manage somehow”; that in this -case they hadn’t “managed” came upon him with -quite an unpleasant shock.</p> - -<p>For some reason which she would not define -even to herself, Felicia had not asked any of her -friends then in town to look up Rodney. She was -absolutely certain in her own mind that he had -no business there, but circumstances were too -strong for her, and she dared not offend Henry. -When she read in the paper that Cecil had returned -to town she felt distinctly relieved. Here was an -understanding person who would ask no questions<span class="pagenum" id="Page_70">[70]</span> -and could be depended upon to give a faithful account -of the child.</p> - -<p>Cecil wrote at once to Rodney asking him to -lunch at his club on the following Saturday, and -to Felicia, to say how pleased he would be to do -what he could for him while he was in town.</p> - -<p>Rodney sat on the edge of his bed, too tired to -undress. His flannels and “sweater” were spread -on the pillow, and from time to time the boy laid -his face down on them, inhaling the clean, woolly -smell. He had of course never worn them since -he came to London—Uncle Henry had not thought -it necessary to make any arrangement as to how -Rodney should spend his Saturdays—yet the sight -of them comforted him. He was beginning to -employ that saddest of all philosophies, that nothing -can take from us the good times we have had. -He had eaten hardly anything all day, and the -ache in his throat was well nigh intolerable. His -door opened, and the maid announced: “A gentleman -to see you, sir. Said he’d come up here.”</p> - -<p>Cecil had come before his letter. As the open -door betrayed the listless little figure with the -scattered flannels the whole situation was revealed -to him in a flash, and for the hundredth -time in a not over well-spent life he cursed the -folly which had rendered him so incapable of helping -his friends in any material way. When Rodney -realized who was his visitor, he simply flung -himself bodily upon him, and Cecil Connop, who -was tender-hearted and easily touched, kissed him -and had been rapturously kissed in return before -he had time to consider whether the boy would be<span class="pagenum" id="Page_71">[71]</span> -offended or not. Then they both sat on the bed -and for the first time for six weeks Rodney chattered. -One of the boarders, a girl who did typewriting -in Chancery Lane, passing his doorway, -stopped and smiled as she heard the ripple of -Rodney’s laughter; she waited for a full minute, -enjoying the unwonted sound, then passed on to -her own room unaccountably cheered. People in -that house were too busy and too tired to laugh!</p> - -<p>When Cecil Connop got back to his rooms he -sat and smoked for a long time before he wrote -the following letter to Felicia Felcourt:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>“To-night I have spent an hour with Rodney, -and find him apparently well and cheerful. I cannot -faithfully report upon his appearance, as it -was candle-light and I did not see him very distinctly. -He talked freely enough about you all at -home, about his old school, about myself; but, -when I come to think of it, said nothing about his -business. You will, I know, pardon me if I ask -you in all seriousness—is this necessary? The -whole time I was with him I had a curious sense -that he was playing truant and ought to be at -school; and there is one thing that an expression -in your letter impels me to say at the risk of being -impertinent: no amount of money in the world is -such a possession as the breeding you and his -dead father have given your boy. Forgive this -frankness and believe me that I feel with you the -more keenly that I am so conscious of my own -gross impotence to help.”</p> -</div> - -<p>On Saturdays Rodney left business at one, and -on this particular Saturday flew back to “Meck”<span class="pagenum" id="Page_72">[72]</span> -to change into his “Etons,” when he hied him on -the top of an omnibus to lunch with Cecil Connop -at his club. When he was seated opposite to his -host, that gentleman proceeded to examine him -critically. The boy was unmistakably a gentleman: -everything about him, from the long slender -hands of which he was so unconscious, to the -way he looked his companion straight in the eyes, -proclaimed him to come of a race who had spent -their days otherwise than in tying up parcels. -Men passing in and out looked pleasantly at the -pretty boy who was so plainly enjoying the unwonted -experience; but Cecil noted that he was -very thin, that after the first flush of greeting was -past the little high-bred face was pale, and that -there were black shadows under the long-lashed -grey eyes. Moreover, although there was everything -for lunch calculated to please a boy, he ate -hardly anything.</p> - -<p>“Are they decent to you at your place of business?” -asked Cecil, carefully pouring cognac into -his coffee.</p> - -<p>“You see,” said Rodney slowly, “I don’t seem -to know anybody....” Then, with a twinkle of -amusement, “They call me a fool when I make -mistakes, which is pretty often, and if I do things -right nobody says anything.”</p> - -<p>During the next week or two Cecil made a point -of seeing Rodney from time to time, and after each -meeting he felt more and more convinced that the -boy’s health was failing. He did not complain, -but the sedentary life was beginning to tell upon -a constitution that had never been so tried. He<span class="pagenum" id="Page_73">[73]</span> -began to stoop, and even with Cecil his laugh was -by no means so ready or so frequent as it had -been.</p> - -<p>Felicia, although at first much comforted by -Cecil’s account of Rodney, longed after him as -only widowed woman can long for her son; but -she had promised her brother that she would not -attempt to see the boy for three months lest it -should unsettle him, and it only wanted three -weeks of the stipulated time.</p> - -<p>Rodney had not seen Cecil for a fortnight; he -was out of town, but this Rodney did not know. -It was Saturday, and a smell of onion curry pervaded -the boarding-house, the Square garden -looked hopelessly uninviting, and he felt that he -could endure neither the one nor the other a moment -longer. So he hied him to Pall Mall to see -if he could catch a glimpse of his friend. A conspicuously -forlorn little figure, he strolled slowly -past the many clubs, when a man coming hastily -down some steps stared hard at Rodney, and, fixing -his eyeglasses more firmly on his nose, turned -and walked swiftly after him.</p> - -<p>“Felcourt! Felcourt! What are you doing -here?” asked a sharp, nervous voice, and Rodney -started violently as his house-master, “Fireworks -Fenton,” caught him by the shoulder and -shook him.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>“You young ass! Why didn’t you write and -tell me all about it?” said “Fireworks Fenton” -an hour later, as he angrily thumped a tea-table in -“Stewart’s” till the cups jumped off their saucers.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_74">[74]</span> -“We all thought you’d gone to another -school, and here have you missed a whole term, -and lost flesh and muscle, and forgotten everything -you ever knew. I’ve no patience with you; -it’s preposterous, and must be put an end to at -once! Give me your uncle’s address and your -mother’s——” and “Fireworks” glared at Rodney -through his eyeglasses, and Rodney sat swallowing -uncomfortable things in his throat, while -his heart felt lighter than it had been for many -a long week. It was so good to be bullied in that -particular fashion once more. Now he dared to -look forward. He didn’t in the least know how it -was to be managed, but his old master had told -him he was to come back to school next term, and -<i>he</i> always got his own way even with the Head -himself. “Fireworks” was not afraid of twenty -Uncle Henries—“Worthy but mistaken, worthy -but mistaken,” he had muttered more than once -during his late pupil’s explanations. Rodney -went with him to Paddington to see him off, and -it was only as the train steamed out of the station -that “Fireworks Fenton” recollected that he had -omitted the special business he had come up to -town to do. But he only frowned and muttered: -“That ridiculous little Felcourt put it out of my -head, but I’m glad I found him—glad I found him. -What fools these dear women are! What fools! -What fools!” and whenever he turned over a sheet -of newspaper (of which he didn’t read a line), he -frowned again, exclaiming: “What fools!”</p> - -<p>The particular fool Mr. Fenton had in his mind -found two letters beside her plate on the following<span class="pagenum" id="Page_75">[75]</span> -Tuesday morning. She knew both the handwritings, -and gave a little sigh as she opened that from -Rodney’s house-master: it would be to ask how -Rodney was getting on: he had always been fond -of the boy, and she had told him nothing.</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>“You will, I hope, acquit me of frivolous interference,” -ran the letter, “in matters that do not -concern me, when I tell you that I have seen Rodney -and heard from him of the very great change -it has been necessary to make in his life. I greatly -wish that I had known sooner your reasons for -taking him away from school, as I think one of the -chief obstacles could have been, and still can be, -easily removed. Dear Mrs. Felcourt, it is with -considerable diffidence that I venture to ask you -to do me a great favor, namely, to allow me to -undertake Rodney’s education; my one stipulation -being that he should come back to my house. You -know that where there are twenty to thirty boys, -one more or less makes but little difference, and -in becoming responsible for the school fees, I am -doing no more than my headmaster did for me. -My mother was left a widow with five children -and very little of this world’s gear. I am fully -aware how much I shall be the gainer if you allow -me to have Rodney, for, young as he is, he had a -distinct influence upon that mysterious and fluctuating -commodity, the ‘tone of the house,’ and I -have not the slightest doubt that he will be able -to make his own way by aid of scholarships, ultimately -earning his own living nearly as soon as if -he had remained in business.</p> - -<p>“Forgive me where I have expressed myself -clumsily, and believe me,</p> - -<p class="right"> -<span class="indentright">“Faithfully yours,</span><br /> -“<span class="smcap">Reginald Fenton</span>.”</p> -</div> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_76">[76]</span>It was a long time before Felicia took up the -other letter, which was from Cecil Connop, and of -this one sentence stood out in letters of fire to the -exclusion of everything else:</p> - -<p>“I don’t believe the boy’s health will stand it, -Felicia; come and see for yourself.”</p> - -<p>Felicia packed her smallest box and went.</p> - -<p>When Rodney came back from business that -evening Selina, the parlormaid, informed him that -a lady was waiting in the drawing-room to see -him. Selina, usually so grim, was all “nods and -becks and wreathed smiles”; she liked Rodney, -though he did “throw about his clothes something -shameful.”</p> - -<p>He was very tired and his head ached, as it always -did in the evening lately, but something in -the maid’s tone made him forget his weariness, -and he raced up the stairs certain that only one -lady could have produced such unwonted geniality -on Selina’s part. But he paused on the mat outside -the door; suppose it should only be his aunt! -She had never come yet, but she might, and how -was Selina to know that he did not care particularly -for his aunt?</p> - -<p>The door opened suddenly from the inside.</p> - -<p>“I <i>knew</i> nobody else would come upstairs like -that. What were you waiting for, you dear -goose?”—and Rodney’s mother inspected her boy -for herself.</p> - -<p>Next day she went to see her brother at his -office, and told him that she had decided to accept -Mr. Fenton’s offer. She rather surprised Uncle -Henry, she was so decided and so cool; he did not<span class="pagenum" id="Page_77">[77]</span> -know that Cecil Connop had got up two hours -earlier than usual, in order to have plenty of time -to fortify Felicia for the interview, only leaving -her at the office door.</p> - -<p>“Do you think he will refuse to have anything -more to do with us?” she had asked timidly.</p> - -<p>“He couldn’t be so absurdly unjust,” answered -Cecil stoutly; “but, even if he were, you have -Rodney to think of. It is a chance in a thousand; -it would be worse than madness to throw it away. -He’s a square little peg, is Rodney; you’ll never -fit him into that hole.”</p> - -<p>Uncle Henry gave in quite graciously, though -he was not best pleased. Had he but known it, he -revenged himself upon Mr. Fenton for his interference -by writing him a solemn letter of thanks, -in which he spoke of his “generous, nay munificent -offer.” “Fireworks Fenton,” very red and -uncomfortable, rolled the letter into a ball and -dropped it into his waste-paper basket, exclaiming:</p> - -<p>“Pompous idiot!”</p> - -<p>When Rodney went home his little sisters found -him more delightful than ever, but he was reticent -as regarded his experiences in London, describing -it briefly as “a beastly hole.”</p> - -<p>On his return to school “Fireworks Fenton” -sent for him the very first evening.</p> - -<p>“A row already, Felcourt!” exclaimed his best -friend in dismay.</p> - -<p>But Rodney ran along the passage and knocked -at the study door without any fears on that score. -As he closed the door behind him it was the master -who looked embarrassed, as he jerked out:</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_78">[78]</span>“I’m pleased to see you back, Felcourt. Remember -that if you are in any way perplexed, or -get into trouble ... or ... do you want any -pocket-money, by the way?” and “Fireworks” -bent anew over the letter he was writing.</p> - -<p>“No, sir, I have the usual pocket-money, thank -you; but please I would like to——”</p> - -<p>“Now, Felcourt, don’t you see that I’m busy? -Go away, go away!”</p> - -<p>“But please, sir——”</p> - -<p>“I know perfectly well all the absurd and ridiculous -things you would say, and I very much prefer -that you should not say them. One thing <i>I</i> -have to say, attend to your English prose! I have -a distinct recollection that your spelling of English -is revolting—positively revolting. Attend -to it!”</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_79">[79]</span> - -<h3 class="nobreak">A TWENTIETH-CENTURY MISOGYNIST</h3> -</div> - - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>What a place to be in is an old library! It seems as -though all the souls of all the writers that have bequeathed -their labors to these Bodleians were reposing -here, as in some dormitory, or middle state. I do not -want to handle or profane the leaves, their winding sheets. -I could as soon dislodge a shade. I seem to inhale learning -walking amid their foliage; and the odor of their old -moth-scented coverings is fragrant as the first bloom of -those sciential apples which grew amid the happy orchard.—<span class="smcap">Charles -Lamb</span>.</p> -</div> - - -<h4>I</h4> - -<p>Every Easter holidays the schoolmaster went -back to Oxford. Head of a flourishing preparatory -school in the north, a bachelor, absorbed in his -boys, strenuous, matter-of-fact, he yet retained -after some twenty years of monotonous grind a -romantic affection for the dear city of his youthful -dreams.</p> - -<p>He always put up at the King’s Arms, that ancient -hostel with the undulating floors, where the -ale is brown and strong, and the cold beef tender -and streaky. On his very first day he hied him -to a solitude he loved, paid his modest threepence, -and mounted to a favorite haunt of his—the picture-gallery -of the Bodleian Library.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_80">[80]</span>It was always empty; it almost always is empty. -Undergraduates know it not; artistic and intellectual -residents appear to scorn its prosaic portraits -of bygone poets and college benefactors, its -humble curiosities. Visitors seldom trouble themselves -to mount the few extra steps leading to it -from the world-famed library below. But the -schoolmaster loved to wander up and down the -second gallery. He loved the double archway with -the traceried roof, where the statue of William, -Earl of Pembroke, stands in the centre, and the -two wide bay windows are filled with pale stained -glass, and one has a deep, comfortable seat.</p> - -<p>As usual, the gallery seemed deserted, and the -schoolmaster let the peace of its solitude slide into -his soul, till his spirit was compassed about with a -great calm. He strolled slowly through the gallery, -his hands, holding his straw hat, clasped behind -him. He always uncovered the instant he -entered the little modest door in the corner of the -great quadrangle that leads to so many wonders. -Presently he reached the archway where he was -wont to sit and dream.</p> - -<p>With a start of surprise he discovered that it -was already tenanted.</p> - -<p>Under the portraits of Ben Jonson and Joseph -Trapp, curled up in a corner of the deep window-seat, -his muddy boots reposing on the sacred oak, -was a boy—a small, thin boy in Norfolk jacket and -knickerbockers, apparently about twelve years old, -who read absorbedly a popular illustrated magazine. -He never looked up as the schoolmaster approached. -Apparently he neither heard his footstep<span class="pagenum" id="Page_81">[81]</span> -nor realized that the newcomer had paused -to stare at him in speechless astonishment.</p> - -<p>Amazement, accompanied by extreme annoyance, -was the schoolmaster’s predominant emotion. -There seemed to him something incongruous -to the verge of irreverence in anyone daring -to read a modern magazine under the very roof of -the building that contained so much of venerable -scholarship.</p> - -<p>It is true that the boy was perfectly quiet. Beyond -the turning of his page, he made no sound -of any sort, and the schoolmaster found himself -watching this reader with a sort of dreadful fascination. -He longed that the child should reach the -bottom of his page and look up. He even gave a -little cough to attract his attention. But the boy -seemed absolutely unconscious of either the -stranger’s presence or his scrutiny, and read on -unmoved, smiling occasionally at what he read.</p> - -<p>The schoolmaster fussed to the end of the gallery, -pausing at every window to look out over -the roofs at the towers and spires of Oxford. Then -he fussed back again along the other side, where -the view consists of the grey-walled quadrangle, a -veritable “haunt of ancient peace.” The peace -that had enveloped him on his first entry spread -her wings and fled. Irritation and curiosity had -taken her place, and as he reached the archway -again he stopped and looked at the motionless -little figure in the window.</p> - -<p>The boy was no longer reading.</p> - -<p>The magazine lay on the window-seat beside -him. His knees were drawn up to his chin, his<span class="pagenum" id="Page_82">[82]</span> -arms clasped about them, and he stared unblinkingly -at the portrait of Abraham Cowley on the -wall that faced him.</p> - -<p>The schoolmaster walked round the statue of -William of Pembroke till he, too, faced the boy. -This time the child certainly glanced in his direction, -but the glance was of the most cursory order, -and wholly without interest. In an instant he had -returned to his grave contemplation of the poet, -and the schoolmaster might himself have been the -statue of William of Pembroke for any interest -he excited.</p> - -<p>The boy was pale and thin-faced, with large, -hollow eyes and a tall, wide forehead—a scholar’s -forehead, as the schoolmaster, accustomed for -years to the observation of boys, had already -noted. But what latent scholarship was displayed -in the reading of that obnoxious magazine? And -what business, the schoolmaster asked himself -angrily, had a boy of that age to be boxed up indoors -on a fine afternoon in the Easter holidays?</p> - -<p>The schoolmaster was a conscientious man in -the pursuit of his calling. From the very first he -had taught himself to look upon boys as individuals. -He loved them; he whole-heartedly wished -them well. They were to him of most absorbing -interest; but he liked to get away from them sometimes, -and nowhere had he been able to pass so -completely from his ordinary life of a hundred -petty duties and anxieties as in the high solitude -of that deserted gallery, set in the very centre of -the scenes he held most dear, now spoilt and desecrated -by this young interloper with his horrid<span class="pagenum" id="Page_83">[83]</span> -modern magazine. Why on earth did he choose -to come here?</p> - -<p>The schoolmaster could bear it no longer. -“Boy,” he exclaimed, “why do you come and read -here?”</p> - -<p>Slowly the boy turned his melancholy eyes upon -his questioner. “Because,” he answered, civilly -enough, but without any enthusiasm, “it is generally -perfectly quiet here.”</p> - -<p>There was the faintest perceptible emphasis on -the “generally,” not so much impertinent as -gently reproving. Having answered, he turned -his eyes again upon the chubby, smiling countenance -of Abraham Cowley, and silence fell upon -them like a pall.</p> - -<p>The schoolmaster was baffled, but more curious -than ever. He was quite conscious of the implied -reproach in the “generally,” and he noted the absence -of the courteous “sir” with which any properly -constituted boy would conclude a remark -made to an elder. But he could not feel that the -boy had been willfully rude. He would try again. -“May I ask,” he said pleasantly, “why you are -so fond of looking at the portrait of Abraham -Cowley?”</p> - -<p>Again the boy shifted his gaze from the smug -charms of the poet to the worn and somewhat -homely features of his questioner.</p> - -<p>“I like him cos he’s so good-tempered—in this -one,” was the brief reply.</p> - -<p>The schoolmaster came and stood beside the -boy, and looked at the portrait. Above it was another,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_84">[84]</span> -also by Kneller, but representing him as -thin and severe-looking.</p> - -<p>“They’re very different, aren’t they?” the -schoolmaster remarked. “You’d hardly think -they were the same man, would you?”</p> - -<p>“I expect,” the boy said solemnly, “in the top -one he’s been married.”</p> - -<p>This startling supposition fairly took away the -schoolmaster’s breath. He racked his brains to -remember all he had ever heard or read of Abraham -Cowley, and couldn’t for the life of him recollect -whether he was married or not. It is not in -the nature of a true schoolmaster to leave a youthful -mind in the darkness of ignorance if he can -be the bearer of a torch whose light may pierce -that gloom, so he said: “I expect it was his political -troubles that caused so marked a change in his -appearance. Do you know anything about him?”</p> - -<p>“No, but I like him.”</p> - -<p>“Shall I tell you about him?”</p> - -<p>“No, thank you,” the boy answered politely, -but with firm finality.</p> - -<p>He took up his magazine again, opened it, spread -it upon his knees, and in one instant was absorbed -in its pages.</p> - -<p>The schoolmaster sat down on the window-seat -and gazed alternately at the boy and at the portraits -of Ben Jonson and Joseph Trapp above his -head. Since he had been a little boy himself he -had never felt so snubbed. He was wholly unaccustomed -to be a cypher in the eyes of boys, and -suddenly with devastating force there was flung -upon him the conviction that he never saw a real<span class="pagenum" id="Page_85">[85]</span> -boy at all—that the boys he saw were all carefully -expurgated editions arranged to suit his sensibilities.</p> - -<p>A wild spirit of enterprise seduced the schoolmaster. -He felt himself as one who after long -sailing in smooth, familiar waters suddenly sights -an unknown and precipitous shore.</p> - -<p>He had come to Oxford to get away from the -boys he thought he knew. What if, at Oxford, he -received real enlightenment with regard to a boy -he did not know? The sunshine faded and the -gallery grew dark. Outside, he heard the soft -patter of a heavy April shower.</p> - -<p>“You ought not to read in this light,” he said -suddenly, “you will hurt your eyes.”</p> - -<p>The boy looked up surprised at this fresh interruption, -but he obediently closed his book: -there is something almost irresistible in the commands -of those accustomed to exert authority.</p> - -<p>“Do you come here often?” asked the schoolmaster.</p> - -<p>“Yes, whenever I’ve got threepence to get in.”</p> - -<p>“Has no one ever told you that when you are -talking to an older man it is considered polite to -say ‘sir’?”</p> - -<p>“No. I don’t know many old men, nor men at -all, for the matter of that.”</p> - -<p>“Why, Oxford is full of men.”</p> - -<p>“That may be. I don’t know ’em. I only wish -I did.”</p> - -<p>The boy spoke bitterly and his eyes were full -of gloom.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_86">[86]</span>“Don’t you go to school?” this “older man” -asked anxiously.</p> - -<p>“No, I’m too delicate, so they say.”</p> - -<p>“Who teaches you, then?”</p> - -<p>“A guv’ness. I say, do you think we <i>ought</i> to -talk here?”</p> - -<p>“I see no reason why not. This isn’t the library, -there is no notice enforcing silence.”</p> - -<p>The boy looked as if he wished there was. He -sat perfectly mute, with his eyes fixed on the -placid portrait over the schoolmaster’s head.</p> - -<p>“Wouldn’t you like to come downstairs with -me and see some of the curiosities in the library?” -the schoolmaster suggested beguilingly.</p> - -<p>“No, thank you.”</p> - -<p>Really it was most difficult to make any headway -with this boy. But the schoolmaster possessed -to the full the necessary perseverance of -his craft, so he continued his catechism:</p> - -<p>“Do your parents live in Oxford?”</p> - -<p>“I haven’t got any parents, they’re dead.”</p> - -<p>“Dear me, how sad! With whom do you live, -then?”</p> - -<p>“Aunts.”</p> - -<p>Written words can in nowise express the snappiness -with which the boy ejaculated this monosyllable. -The schoolmaster felt unaccountably -chilled and worsted, and silence fell upon them -once more.</p> - -<p>The black cloud had passed over the Bodleian, -the rain ceased, and the sun shone out again. The -boy swung his feet off the window-seat, put on -his cap and picked up his magazine, and without<span class="pagenum" id="Page_87">[87]</span> -a word of farewell, strolled nonchalantly out of -the gallery, leaving the schoolmaster to exclaim -when he had finally vanished, “Well, of all the -curmudgeony boys it has ever been my lot to -meet, there goes the most curmudgeony!”</p> - - -<h4>II</h4> - -<p>Yet he found it difficult to dismiss the ungracious -youngster from his thoughts. Next afternoon he -sought the gallery again, but there was no little -figure curled up in the deep window-seat. The -poet Cowley smiled serenely, the gallery was deserted, -dignified, reposeful as of yore: with all -its mellow charm of faded coloring, that even the -luminous stillness of that April afternoon could -not burnish into real brightness. But the usual -sense of pleasant well-being, and ordered peace, -failed to enwrap the soul of the schoolmaster. -Even as the day before he had found the presence -of the reading figure in the window irritating and -incongruous, so to-day he found its absence singularly -disturbing. He walked once round the gallery, -sat a few minutes looking at the portrait of -Cowley and wondering what mysterious charm it -held for the queer child who loved it, and so into -the dear familiar irregular streets, where he -scanned every boy who passed, in the hope of coming -across his small acquaintance of the day before. -He went every day to the gallery, but no -boy was there. He almost gave up hope of ever -seeing him again, but he did not forget; and when, -eight days after their first meeting, he mounted<span class="pagenum" id="Page_88">[88]</span> -to the gallery and saw the little figure crouched -in the window as before, with a gaily covered -magazine open on his knees, the schoolmaster’s -heart beat a little faster, and he hurried forward, -exclaiming: “Where have you been all these -days?”</p> - -<p>The boy started at his greeting, looked up, and -a smile of recognition changed his face so absolutely -that the schoolmaster felt a queer tightening -in the muscles of his throat.</p> - -<p>“I don’t get my pocket-money till a Friday,” -the boy explained. “I couldn’t come before.”</p> - -<p>“Well, now you are here, let’s have a chat together,” -the schoolmaster said genially. “We -both like this place, let’s tell each other the reasons -why, and see if they’re the same.”</p> - -<p>He sat down beside the boy, just out of reach -of the muddy boots. The boy, his magazine still -held open on his knees, surveyed his neighbor with -dark, mournful eyes. Now that the smile had -ceased to lighten his face, the schoolmaster was -shocked at the sharpness of the thin cheekbones, -the hollows and the blue shadows under the solemn -eyes.</p> - -<p>“I can’t tell you why I like it,” said the boy, -“’cept p’r’aps because it’s so quiet, no one ever -talks here, and there’s no women.”</p> - -<p>“But women can come here if they like,” the -schoolmaster objected.</p> - -<p>“They never <i>do</i> like, not when I’m here,” the -boy exclaimed eagerly. “I’ve been here every -week for months and months and I’ve never seen -one.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_89">[89]</span>“But why do you object to women?” the schoolmaster -persisted. “We should be in a poor case -without them, most of us.”</p> - -<p>“<i>I</i> don’t object to them,” the boy said wearily; -“it’s them objects to us, and they do talk so—talk -and talk and talk about their sufferings.”</p> - -<p>“Sufferings?” the schoolmaster repeated.</p> - -<p>“<i>You</i> know,” said the boy impatiently, -“women’s sufferings and votes and things, and -Parliament and injustice and that.”</p> - -<p>“Suffrage, suffrage, you mean suffrage!” cried -the schoolmaster.</p> - -<p>“It’s all the same, that’s what they talk about, -and inferiority and that. One can’t help being -born a boy, can one?”</p> - -<p>“<i>Help</i> it!” exclaimed the schoolmaster. “Why, -who’d be born anything else if they had their -choice?”</p> - -<p>The boy’s pale cheeks flushed. “Do you really -mean that?” he asked eagerly.</p> - -<p>“Of course I do. It’s a glorious thing to be a -boy who’s going to be a man.”</p> - -<p>“<i>They</i> don’t think so, they say it’s much better -to be a girl; they’re sorry I’m a boy.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, come,” the schoolmaster said chaffingly. -“You can’t expect me to believe that. They may -say so in a kind of joke, but they don’t really -mean it.”</p> - -<p>“Do you know my aunts?”</p> - -<p>“Well, no; but I expect they are very like other -ladies, who often say what they don’t mean.”</p> - -<p>The boy gave one scornful glance in the direction<span class="pagenum" id="Page_90">[90]</span> -of the schoolmaster, lowered his eyes to the -printed page, and was instantly absorbed.</p> - -<p>The schoolmaster felt that he was dismissed. -He had been weighed in the balance, and found -wanting in sympathy and insight, a mere stupid -looker-on at the outside of things. Five minutes -ago the boy had welcomed him. Now, it was as -though the child had risen with the royal prerogative, -and closed the interview. The schoolmaster -sighed deeply.</p> - -<p>The boy looked up. His eyes were the color -of a still pool in a Devonshire trout stream, brown, -with olive-green shadows, suggesting depths unfathomable. -The schoolmaster instantly seized -upon the small concession, exclaiming: “I came -here every day in the hope of seeing you again, -and now that you are here, you sit and read. -Don’t you think it’s rather unkind?”</p> - -<p>The boy flushed hotly, and once more the transforming -smile illumined his face as he said: “You -came here on purpose to see me? Why?”</p> - -<p>“Well, you see, I’ve known a good many boys -in my time, and I thought you seemed a bit -lonely....”</p> - -<p>The hungry eyes devoured him, and the schoolmaster -stopped in the middle of his sentence, for, -like all Englishmen, he dreaded any manifestation -of feeling, and the boy looked as if he were about -to cry. His fears were groundless, however, for -the child only said: “How many boys have you -known?”</p> - -<p>“Rather over a thousand, I fancy. You see, it<span class="pagenum" id="Page_91">[91]</span> -has been my business to have to do with boys for -over twenty years.”</p> - -<p>“Over a thousand boys—and I don’t know one! -How unfair things are, and beastly.”</p> - -<p>The boy looked enviously at the grizzled man -who had known so many boys; and the man looked -pityingly at this boy who seemed to have been -somehow cheated of all that makes youth joyous.</p> - -<p>“How is it you have no friends of your own -age?” he said presently. “Why don’t you beg -your aunts to send you to school? You’d probably -get stronger directly you got there, with the -regular games and busy life.”</p> - -<p>“My aunts don’t like schools. They say boys -learn to be tyrants and bullies at school.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, do they? You couldn’t have fifty tyrants -in one place, or they’d be the death of one another, -like the Kilkenny cats.”</p> - -<p>“My aunts say,” the boy continued, “that I’m -to be a result. I won’t be a result. It’s beastly to -be a result. I’ll be a policeman when I’m grown -up. Just you wait. I’ll stand outside Parliament, -and if a woman comes near I’ll carry her to jail. -You see if I don’t.”</p> - -<p>The boy spoke with such vindictive bitterness -that the schoolmaster was shocked.</p> - -<p>“I have no doubt,” he said soothingly, “that -your aunts have good reasons for many of their -views. You cannot possibly judge of such questions -for many years to come.”</p> - -<p>“You’d judge if you heard it all day long like I -do,” the boy retorted. “It’s only here I get away -from it. Here in this nice quiet with that fat,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_92">[92]</span> -contented chap smiling at me; and now you’ve -been and made me talk about it, so even <i>he</i> will -know. You’ve gone and spoilt my place—it’s too -bad.”</p> - -<p>The boy looked as if he was really going to cry -this time, and the schoolmaster felt dreadfully -guilty.</p> - -<p>“Tell me about your parents,” he said hastily. -“Do you remember them?”</p> - -<p>“My father died before I was born, and my -mother just after—she always was very unwise.”</p> - -<p>“My dear boy, you ought not to speak about -your mother like that. You shock me.”</p> - -<p>“Well, <i>they</i> say so.”</p> - -<p>“If anyone was to say to me that my mother was -unwise, I’d—I’d knock him down!” the schoolmaster -exclaimed.</p> - -<p>“P’r’aps you knew her?”</p> - -<p>“Thank God, yes!”</p> - -<p>“Ah, I didn’t, you see—and I don’t think I -could knock Aunt Amabel down—she’s very -strong.”</p> - -<p>“Of course not, of course not,” the schoolmaster -said hastily. “I never suggested such a -thing for a moment. I expect you misunderstand -your aunts, and it is possible that they don’t quite -understand you.”</p> - -<p>The boy said nothing. He no longer stared at -Cowley’s portrait. He stared at the schoolmaster, -and in his melancholy gaze was concentrated all -the bitterness and disappointment of his twelve -short years.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_93">[93]</span>“Let us come out and walk by the Cher,” said -the schoolmaster.</p> - -<p>The boy followed him obediently, and as they -turned into Catharine Street, slipped his hand into -that of his new acquaintance.</p> - -<p>“Twelve years old,” thought that worthy, “and -he takes a fellow’s hand. Poor little chap!” -Aloud he said: “Boys generally take each other -by the arm, you know.”</p> - -<p>Instantly his companion seized him by his, and -arm in arm they sought the sheltered walk loved -well by Joseph Addison.</p> - - -<h4>III</h4> - -<p>After that they met every day in the quadrangle -of the Bodleian by appointment, and together -mounted to their favorite seat in the picture-gallery. -The boy no longer read a magazine; instead, -he asked questions—endless, anxious, exhaustive -questions—as to the usual doings and -habits of boys who lived with each other and were -brought up by men. All his ideas on the subject -were gathered from school stories, and in consequence -were crude and chimerical in the extreme. -It was undoubtedly a shock to him when this -kindly friend of his frankly admitted that he had -frequently caned boys, and that he was supposed -to have “rather a heavy hand.” And the schoolmaster -was still more shocked at the bitterness of -soul he discovered in this queer, quiet boy. He -gathered that the aunts—generally spoken of as -“they”—were ladies wholly absorbed in politics<span class="pagenum" id="Page_94">[94]</span> -and every kind of movement for the emancipation -of women, and the schoolmaster pictured them as -members of the shrieking sisterhood, ill-favored -and ill-dressed, oblivious of the fact that feminine -political opinions do not necessarily march in -elastic-sided boots. When the boy did condescend -to mention one of his aunts by name it was always -of “Aunt Amabel” he spoke. She appeared to be -the guiding spirit of the trio, busy, strong, and -energetic, spending what time she could spare -from politics in the pursuit of all those games -from which the unfortunate boy was debarred by -lack of comrades, and the schoolmaster found himself -thinking with quite unusual enthusiasm of the -sister who kept house for him. At times he had -regretted her exclusively domestic talents. Now -he even began to share her serene conviction that -women were, on the whole, so much superior to -men that only the very foolish could wish to resemble -them.</p> - -<p>In the course of their long talks the schoolmaster -had enlightened his companion as to what -constituted, in his simple creed, the whole duty of -boy; and so far as his ideals related to honor and -courage and truthfulness, he found the child singularly -receptive and responsive; but when he -touched on the chivalry that should be shown to -women, when he tried to arouse the protective instinct -that is generally so deeply rooted and spontaneous -in even the most rough and tumble average -boy, he was met by blank incomprehension, -or a veiled hostility that puzzled and depressed -him. “If this,” thought he to himself, “is the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_95">[95]</span> -result of the feminist movement on the rising generation -of men, God help the next generation of -women!”</p> - -<p>The men had come up, and the schoolmaster’s -holiday was nearly ended. In two days more he -would need to return to his duties in the North, to -look after the cricket pitches in the playing-fields, -and to see that all was shipshape for the boys’ -next term. For the last time he met his sad-faced -little friend in Catharine Street. This time they -did not go up to the picture-gallery. It was a -sunny day in late April, when Oxford seems to -burgeon and blossom in a riotous ecstasy of youth -and gladness. River and playing-fields were gay -with lithe, flannelled figures, and everywhere the -air was sweet with the scent of opening lilacs.</p> - -<p>“We’ll go on the river this afternoon,” cried -the schoolmaster when he spied the little figure -waiting for him; “it’s far too fine to be boxed up -indoors. I’ll take you in a Canadian canoe. You -must sit very still, you know. You don’t think -your aunts would mind, do you?”</p> - -<p>“They’re in London. Aunt Amabel comes back -to-night, but she’ll be off again in a day or two; -she’s always going to meetings. I’m jolly glad -she’s been away this week; she might have wanted -to interfere——”</p> - -<p>“I don’t think she would mind your coming out -with me, or I wouldn’t take you. You must tell her -all about it this evening. I’ll give you my card to -show her, and you can explain how we met.”</p> - -<p>The boy’s dark eyes were mutinous as he took -the proffered card and put it in his pocket, but he<span class="pagenum" id="Page_96">[96]</span> -said nothing. On the river in the bright sunshine -the schoolmaster noticed how very ill he looked, -and a great desire possessed this kindly soul to -make things easier for the boy. The sight of the -black shadows encircling the sombre eyes that -should have been so bright with youth and hope -decided the schoolmaster to do what he most hated -doing—to interfere in another’s affairs, where he -had no possible excuse or even reason for so -doing.</p> - -<p>He walked back with the boy to his home, one of -the large, ugly, comfortable houses “standing in -its own grounds,” that have sprung up on the outskirts -of beautiful old Oxford: a house that looked -excessively well-to-do and trim and neat. “Nothing -of Mrs. Jellyby here,” thought the schoolmaster.</p> - -<p>“Shan’t I see you again?” asked the boy in a -husky whisper, as they reached his gate. “It’ll be -awful when you’re gone.”</p> - -<p>“We’ll see, we’ll see,” the schoolmaster said -hastily. “I can’t make an arrangement now. -Good-bye, my boy. God bless you!”</p> - -<p>The boy’s wistful eyes were more than he could -bear. The man turned hastily and walked away, -nor once looked back at the watching figure by the -gate.</p> - -<p>Next morning he called upon Aunt Amabel about -ten o’clock. The less conventional the hour, the -more possible did he feel it might be to explain his -errand. She was at home and would see him. The -boy had evidently done his bidding. As he followed -the maid from the drawing-room to the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_97">[97]</span> -study, he prayed that some Pentecostal gift of -tongues might be vouchsafed to him.</p> - -<p>Aunt Amabel was seated at a large knee-hole -table covered with papers. She rose as he came -into the room and held out her hand. The business-like -table, the litter of papers, was exactly -what the schoolmaster had expected, but the lady -was wholly unlike the lady of his dreams. Tall, -well-dressed, good-looking, and by no means old, -she made things harder for him by her welcome. -“You are the gentleman who has been so good to -Reginald? It is kind of you to call. I am most -pleased to meet you. He is a somewhat unusual -boy, is he not? We rather pride ourselves on his -taste for old buildings, and things that do not -generally appeal to boys.”</p> - -<p>The schoolmaster mumbled some vague politeness -and seated himself upon a chair which faced -the knee-hole table. Aunt Amabel’s eyes were -dark, like the boy’s, but they were bright and -lively, and she turned them now upon her visitor -with full inquiring gaze.</p> - -<p>“I came,” the schoolmaster said bluntly, “to -see you about your nephew. He is not well, and I -think his state of health arises largely from the -fact that he has no companions of his own age, -nor suitable interests. Why don’t you send him -to school?”</p> - -<p>As he spoke he was perfectly conscious that this -self-possessed young woman was misjudging him, -and the knowledge made him even less diplomatic -than usual.</p> - -<p>“We have never considered him strong enough<span class="pagenum" id="Page_98">[98]</span> -for school life. He is an unusual child of difficult -temperament. He would be extremely unhappy at -school.”</p> - -<p>There was a superior finality in the lady’s tone -that roused all the fighting element in the schoolmaster. -“He could hardly be more unhappy than -he is at present,” he said sharply. “I know that -this must appear, as indeed it is, a piece of unwarrantable -interference on my part, but, having become -really interested in the boy, I could not reconcile -it to my conscience to leave Oxford without -warning you that if you persist in keeping your -nephew away from the natural companionship, -amusements, and employments of his age, he will -wither away as surely as a plant withers when light -and air are withheld from it. That boy will die.”</p> - -<p>He shook a thick forefinger at her, and the scorn -died out of her eyes. The men who most countenance -the woman’s movement are seldom masterful. -Aunt Amabel began to like this dictatorial -man. It was a new, and not altogether disagreeable, -experience to be rated.</p> - -<p>“You have a school, haven’t you?” she asked, -sweetly.</p> - -<p>The schoolmaster’s dun-colored face crimsoned. -“My dear young lady,” he answered hotly, “if -you imagine that I came to see you because I was -touting for another pupil, pray dismiss the idea -from your mind.” This time it was Aunt Amabel -who blushed. “I came because, knowing a good -deal of boys, I feel sure that your nephew is delicate -because he is lonely and unoccupied; he is a -very boyish boy, a boy who needs the companionship<span class="pagenum" id="Page_99">[99]</span> -of his own kind. You have an excellent preparatory -school quite near here. Try for a term—see -what it does for Reginald.”</p> - -<p>“To be quite candid,” said Aunt Amabel, “we -do not care for the training, mental or moral, that -boys receive at the average preparatory school.”</p> - -<p>“Try one that’s not average,” he interrupted. -“There are plenty of them, all fads and flannel -shirts and girls thrown in. He won’t learn anything, -but what does that matter? It’s health and -youth and gladness that you want for him, and a -normal point of view; at present that child’s a -perfect misogynist.”</p> - -<p>The lady started at the word, and at this critical -moment her nephew came into the room. At -first he did not see his friend of the Bodleian; -when he did he stopped short, looking from his -aunt to her visitor with puzzled, timid eyes.</p> - -<p>“Reginald,” said Aunt Amabel, “this gentleman -says you are lonely and unhappy, and that -you would really like to go to school. Is this so?”</p> - -<p>“Yes.”</p> - -<p>The timid look faded from the boy’s eyes to be -replaced by one that was almost stern, so earnest -was it.</p> - -<p>“Why have you never said anything to me -about it? You have never complained.”</p> - -<p>“What was the use?”</p> - -<p>“But how could we know you were not happy -if you never said anything?”</p> - -<p>“He knew, without my never saying anything.” -The boy pointed at the schoolmaster, who sat with -downcast eyes.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_100">[100]</span>“So it appears,” the lady said somewhat tartly, -“although you seem to me to have said a good -deal. That will do, Reginald; you may go.”</p> - -<p>But Reginald did not go. He looked at the -schoolmaster, and he looked at his aunt. He took -a step forward, exclaiming earnestly: “If you -will let me be like other boys, Aunt Amabel, I -won’t be a policeman when I’m grown up; I’ll give -it up; I’ll truly be something else.” The boy spoke -as one who promises to part with some long-cherished -and imperishable ideal.</p> - -<p>“Oh, child!” exclaimed poor, puzzled Aunt -Amabel, “I can’t imagine what you are talking -about. <i>Do</i> run away.”</p> - -<p>“You see,” said the boy sadly to the schoolmaster, -“she never <i>can</i> understand,” and he -hastened from the room.</p> - -<p>The schoolmaster rose. “Believe me,” he said -gently, “I do not want your nephew for a pupil. -I’d far rather keep him as a friend—I don’t mean -to say that a master can’t be a friend to his boys, -but the relationship must necessarily be a little -different, and it has been a pleasant experience to -come across a boy under quite new circumstances. -I wouldn’t spoil it for the world.”</p> - -<p>Aunt Amabel looked down, and the schoolmaster -noticed that her eyelashes were long and very -black. “I am sure you mean kindly,” she said -gently, “and you may be sure I shall give every -consideration to what you have said.”</p> - -<p>When her strange visitor had gone she sat for a -long time quite still in front of her table, staring -with unseeing eyes at the many papers scattered<span class="pagenum" id="Page_101">[101]</span> -upon it. She knitted her black eyebrows and -thought and thought, but apparently to no purpose, -for presently she said to herself: “What -<i>could</i> he mean by calling that little boy a misogynist, -and what on earth could the child mean about -not being a policeman?”</p> - -<p>The boy was waiting for the schoolmaster at the -gate as he went out. “Well, was it any use?” he -cried eagerly.</p> - -<p>“My dear chap,” said that gentleman, “you are -a little noodle. That’s what you are.”</p> - -<p>And the boy, as he trotted by the schoolmaster’s -side, found something vaguely comforting in this -cryptic speech.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_102">[102]</span></p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_103">[103]</span> - -<h2 class="nobreak">PART II<br /> - - -<small>CHILDREN OF LAST CENTURY</small></h2> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_104">[104]</span></p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_105">[105]</span> - -<h3 class="nobreak">A SMALL EVENT</h3> -</div> - - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">All service ranks the same with God:</div> -<div class="verse">If now, as formerly He trod</div> -<div class="verse">Paradise, His presence fills</div> -<div class="verse">Our earth, each only as God wills</div> -<div class="verse">Can work—God’s puppets, best and worst,</div> -<div class="verse">Are we; there is no last nor first.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">Say not “a small event”! Why “small”?</div> -<div class="verse">Costs it more pain than this, ye call</div> -<div class="verse">A “great event” should come to pass,</div> -<div class="verse">Than that? Untwine me from the mass</div> -<div class="verse">Of deeds which make up life, one deed</div> -<div class="verse">Power shall fall short in or exceed!</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verseright"><i>Pippa Passes.</i></div> -</div></div></div> - -<p>Every night the Alfresco Entertainers gave their -performance on a little platform set right under -the shadow of the great cliff; while in front of -them, not a dozen yards away, the rhythmic wash -of the sea on a rocky shore seemed a sort of accompaniment -to their songs, much softer and more -tuneful than that of the poor, jingly, rheumatic -piano, which had nothing between it and every sort -of weather save an ancient mackintosh cover.</p> - -<p>The village itself was but a shelf of shore with -one long, straggling, lop-sided street: cottage and -shop and great hotel set down haphazard, cheek<span class="pagenum" id="Page_106">[106]</span> -by jowl, all apparently somewhat inept excrescences -on the side of the green-clad cliffs rising -behind them straight and steep, a sheer five hundred -feet, and just across the narrow line of red -road lies the Bristol Channel, with, on a clear day, -the Welsh coast plainly in view.</p> - -<p>At ten years old, people are generally found -more interesting than scenery, and Basil took a -great interest in the variety entertainers. They -looked so smart and debonair, he thought, in their -blue reefers, white duck trousers, and gold-laced -yachting caps—though they none of them ever put -out to sea. There were five of them altogether, -two ladies and three men. Basil did not care so -much about the ladies, in spite of the rows of -Chinese lanterns that outlined the little stage and -shone so pink in the darkness; there seemed no -glamor or mystery about them. They were not -transcendently beautiful like the gauzy good fairy -of pantomime, or the peerless, fearless circus lady -in pink and spangles: neither did they possess the -mirth-provoking qualities of the dauntless three -clad in yatching garb. One always sang sentimentally -of “daddies,” or “aunties,” or “chords,” -that had somehow gone amissing; and the other—Basil -almost disliked that other—sang about things -he could in nowise understand, in a hoarse voice, -and danced in between the verses, and she didn’t -dance at all prettily, for she had thick ankles and -high shoulders.</p> - -<p>But the three “naval gentlemen,” as Basil respectfully -called them, sang funny songs, and acted -and knocked each other about in such fashion as<span class="pagenum" id="Page_107">[107]</span> -caused him almost to roll off his chair in fits of -ecstatic mirth. Nearly every fine night after dinner, -if nobody wanted him, Harnet, the tall man-servant, -would take Basil, and they sat on two -chairs in the front row and listened to the entertainment. -Sometimes grandfather himself would -come, but he generally went to sleep in his chair -at home; for when a man goes peel-fishing all day, -walking half a dozen miles up the rocky bank of a -Devonshire trout stream to his favorite pool, he is -disinclined to move again, once he has changed -and dined.</p> - -<p>The bulk of the audience attending the Alfresco -Entertainment sat on the wall separating shore -from road, or on the curbstone, but there were -always a few chairs placed directly facing the -stage, which were charged for at sixpence each. -Harnet was far too grand and dignified to sit on -either wall or curbstone, and as grandfather always -gave Basil a shilling to put in the cardboard -plate, Harnet preferred to spend it in this wise.</p> - -<p>Now all that company had high-sounding, aristocratic -names, except one, who was called, as -Basil said, “just simply Mr. Smith.” There was -Mr. Montmorency, the manager, whose cheeks -were almost as blue as his reefer, and his wife, -the lady who danced in the evening, but in the -daytime affected flowing tea-gowney garments and -large flat hats; there was Mr. Neville Beauchamp, -who sang coster songs, to whom the particular -accent required for this sort of ditty really seemed -no effort, as all his songs were given in similarly -pronounced and singular fashion. The lady of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_108">[108]</span> -the melancholy ballads was called De Vere; she -looked thin and young and generally cold, as well -she might, for she played everyone’s accompaniments, -and never wore a coat, however cold the -night. But it was for Mr. Smith that Basil felt -most enthusiasm. In the first place, his speaking -voice was as the voices of “grandfather’s -friends.” In the second, he was, to Basil’s thinking, -an admirable actor—changing face and voice, -even his very body, to suit the part he happened -to be playing; and thirdly, he was funny—funny -in a way that Basil understood. Even grandfather -laughed at Mr. Smith and applauded him, -and when the cardboard plate went round, he sent -Basil with the first bit of gold they had had that -season.</p> - -<p>“Clever chap that,” he said as they strolled -homeward under the quiet stars. “Reminds me -of someone somehow—looks like a broken-down -gentleman; got nice voice, and nice hands—wonder -what he’s doing with that lot?”</p> - -<p>Basil, however, was quite content to admire Mr. -Smith without concerning himself as to his antecedents. -He forthwith christened him “the jokey -man,” and it rather puzzled him that, except at -night, the jokey man was hardly ever with the -others, but went wandering about by himself in an -aimless and somewhat dismal fashion. Could it -be that Mr. Montmorency and Mr. Neville Beauchamp -were proud, Basil wondered, because they -had such fine names.</p> - -<p>Basil’s face was as round as a full moon, and -fresh and fair as a monthly rose. Tall and well<span class="pagenum" id="Page_109">[109]</span> -set up, he was good at games, and keen on every -kind of sport. Long days did he spend up the -river with his grandfather fishing for trout—he -was to have a license for peel next summer, but -had to be content with trout during this. He went -sea-fishing, too, in charge of a nice fisherman called -Oxenham, and caught big pollock outside the bay, -and every morning Oxenham rowed Basil and -Harnet out from the shore that they might have -their morning swim, for the coast is so rocky and -dangerous that bathing from the land is no fun at -all—though the rocks are very nice to potter about -on at low tide, when energetic persons can find -prawns in the pools.</p> - -<p>One day as Basil was busily engaged in this -pursuit, who should come up behind him but the -jokey man, looking as melancholy as though there -was no sunshine, or blue water, or pleasant pools -full of strange sea beasts. Indeed, although he -was by profession such an amusing man, he had -by no means a cheerful face. Tired lines were -written all round his eyes, his shoulders were bent, -and his long slim hands hung loose and listless at -his sides, yet it was plain that he was by no means -old. Moreover, he had changed his smart yachting -suit for an old tweed coat and knickerbockers, -and a grey billycock dragged over his eyes bereft -his appearance of all traces of the jokey man. So -that for a minute or two Basil did not know him, -even although he sat down on a rock close by and -lit his pipe.</p> - -<p>Basil was standing bare-legged and knee-deep -in water in pursuit of a particularly active and artful<span class="pagenum" id="Page_110">[110]</span> -shrimp, so that it was only when he at last -lifted his head with an emphatic “bother,” that -he noticed the stranger; then he beamed, for -chance had tossed plump into his lap the opportunity -he had long been seeking.</p> - -<p>“How do you do?” the little boy inquired politely, -taking off his muffin cap with one wet hand -while he grasped his net with the other. “I am -so pleased to have met you; I’ve wanted to for -ever so long.”</p> - -<p>“That’s very nice of you,” said the man, and -when he smiled he looked quite young. “I am -sure the pleasure is mutual.”</p> - -<p>“I’ve something most pertickler to ask you,” -continued Basil eagerly, scrambling out of the pool -to sit on the rock beside him, “and it seemed as -if I was never to get a chance. It’s not for myself -either, it’s for Viola—you know Viola by -sight, I daresay?”</p> - -<p>Now it happened that the jokey man, like most -other people in that village, knew Viola by sight -very well indeed. In fact, Viola, and the General, -and Basil, were as speedily pointed out to every -stranger who arrived as though they had been bits -of scenery. For they came every summer and the -village was proud of them.</p> - -<p>“Is she your sister?” asked the jokey man, suddenly -taking his pipe out of his mouth.</p> - -<p>“Yes, and she’s two year older than me, but she -doesn’t go to school—I’ve been for a year—she has -a ma’mselle. I daresay you’ve seen us with her. -It’s been such a bore having her here, but she’s -going to-morrow, and then we shall do just what<span class="pagenum" id="Page_111">[111]</span> -we like, for there will be only Harnet and Polly, -and we like them. Grannie had to go off quite -suddenly to nurse Aunt Alice, and won’t be back -for a week, so there’ll be nobody but grandfather -and us; it’ll be simply ripping,” and Basil paused -breathless, beaming at the pleasant picture he had -conjured up.</p> - -<p>The jokey man put his pipe back into his mouth -and waited; but it had gone out, so he just laid it -on the rocks beside him, saying:</p> - -<p>“What was it you wanted to ask me?”</p> - -<p>“It’s rather difficult to explain,” Basil began, -turning very red and rumpling his hair. “It’s -Viola, you know; she wants so dreadfully to come -to your entertainment. I’ve told her about it, you -know, but grandfather says——” Here Basil -paused, and turned even redder than before: -“One has to be so particular over one’s girls, you -know,” he interpolated apologetically, “and she’s -the only girl in our family. Grandfather never -had any sisters or any daughters, so he thinks no -end of Viola, and father and mother are in India, -and he says——”</p> - -<p>“That some of the songs are vulgar,” said the -jokey man shortly. “So they are; he’s perfectly -right.”</p> - -<p>The jokey man looked at Basil, and Basil looked -at the jokey man for a full minute. Then the little -boy said very earnestly:</p> - -<p>“Do you think that you could persuade them—those -other gentlemen, I mean—to leave out one -or two songs one evening? There’s that one about -the ‘giddy little girl in the big black hat’ that Mr.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_112">[112]</span> -Montmorency sings. Grandfather doesn’t like that -one, and it’s not very amusing, is it? And Viola -<i>does</i> want to come so dreadfully.”</p> - -<p>The jokey man made no reply, but stared -straight out to sea with a very grave face. Perhaps -he was thinking of all those other Violas who -listened night after night to the songs the General -objected to, and were perhaps, unlike his Viola, -not “cared about, kept out of harm, and schemed -for, safe in love as with a charm.”</p> - -<p>Basil waited politely for some minutes, then, as -the jokey man didn’t speak, he continued earnestly:</p> - -<p>“You see she can just hear that there is music -and singing when the windows are open, and it’s -so tantalizing, and you see it would be rude to -walk away when we’d heard you, and come back -next time you sang, wouldn’t it? It doesn’t matter -for boys——”</p> - -<p>“I’m not at all sure of that,” said Mr. Smith -hastily; “it matters very much for boys, too, I -think—especially if they don’t happen to have -wise grandfathers with good taste. I’ll see what -can be done, and let you know.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, thank you so much!” cried Basil; “that -is kind of you. Viola will be so pleased; she’s up -the village now with Polly, or I’d fetch her to -thank you herself.”</p> - -<p>Now while Basil was talking he noticed that the -jokey man’s coat had got leather on the shoulders, -and that the leather looked as worn as the coat, so -he rightly deduced that at some time or another<span class="pagenum" id="Page_113">[113]</span> -his new friend must have been something of a -sportsman, and asked:</p> - -<p>“D’you fish at all?”</p> - -<p>“Not here,” said the jokey man, “but I’ve done -some fishing in my time. Have you had good -sport?”</p> - -<p>Then immediately ensued a long discussion on -the relative merits of flies, and Basil gave forth -his opinion, an opinion backed up by the experience -of numerous natives, that the “Coachman” -was the fly for that neighborhood, but that there -were occasions, especially early in July, when exceedingly -good results might be obtained by using -red ants. They told each other fishing stories. -Basil confided to the jokey man that he had just -got a beautiful new split cane rod from “Hardy -Brothers,” promised to show it to him at the earliest -possible opportunity, and they speedily became -the best of friends. For it is a curious fact -that although the actual sport itself is a somewhat -taciturn pursuit, there are no more conversational -sportsmen in the world than ardent followers of -the gentle craft.</p> - -<p>Another thing—they are always courteous listeners, -and generally full of good stories themselves, -yet have the most delicate appreciation of -other people’s anecdotes. You can nearly always -tell a member of a fishing family by this rare and -pleasing trait.</p> - -<p>Next morning the jokey man called at the hotel -and asked for Basil at the door. He wouldn’t -come in, and when Basil, greatly excited, appeared, -only waited to say hastily: “If you like to bring<span class="pagenum" id="Page_114">[114]</span> -your sister to-night, I think I can promise you -that it will be all right.” Then fled before Basil -could thank him, and was soon pounding up the -steep hill that ends abruptly at the hotel door, as -though he were training for a mountaineering -race.</p> - -<p>Basil tore back into their sitting-room to lay the -case before his grandfather, who, for once, was -lunching in the hotel.</p> - -<p>“He promised, you know,” he concluded jubilantly, -“so she <i>can</i> come, can’t she?”</p> - -<p>Grandfather pulled his moustache and laughed. -Then Viola came and laid her fresh soft cheek -against his, murmuring pleadingly: “Darling, it -would be so lovely,” till he pinched Viola’s cheek -and made stipulations about heavy cloaks, and the -children knew the day was won.</p> - -<p>And the end of it all was that, at half-past eight -that evening, grandfather, Basil and Viola were -seated on three chairs in the very middle of the -road that ran past the Alfresco Entertainers’ -stage; but as the road ends abruptly in a precipitous -rock some thirty yards further along, there -is no fear of being run over by traffic.</p> - -<p>What an evening of delight that was! How -Basil and Viola laughed, and how pleased was -grandfather! Another thing is quite certain—that -the Alfresco Entertainers in no way lost by -the alterations they had made in their programme; -the rest of the audience seemed as pleased as Basil -and Viola, and no one appeared to miss the “giddy -little girl in the big black hat” the least little bit -in the world.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_115">[115]</span>“Really, it’s vastly civil of Mr. Thingummy,” -said grandfather on their way home.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>Grandfather and Harnet had gone fishing for -the whole day. Mademoiselle had departed, only -Polly was left in charge, and she had so bad a -headache—she put it down to the close, cloudy -weather—that she was fain to go and lie down -directly she had waited upon Basil and Viola at -their lunch, having given the children permission -to go for a walk along the beach.</p> - -<p>It was a grey day, humid and still, and, being -low tide, there seemed no fresh wind blowing in -from the sea as usual. The children scrambled -over the rocks, very happy and important at being, -for once, left to their own devices, and they decided -to make an expedition to a little sandy bay -that can be reached from the shore at low tide, -and to come back by a steep winding path up the -cliffs which terminates in the coach road just -above the village. They had not considered it -necessary to confide their intention to Polly, who -would certainly have objected. They reached the -bay all right, paddled for a little time on the hard, -smooth sand, and then set out to climb the path -which winds in and out of the side of the cliff for -all the world like a spiral staircase up to some -nine hundred feet above the sea. This path is so -narrow that travelers can only walk in Indian file. -On the one side is the steep face of the heather-clad -rock, on the other a sheer drop on to the rocks -below.</p> - -<p>When the children had climbed about a third of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_116">[116]</span> -the way they found themselves enveloped in white -mist—a mist so thick, and fine, and clinging, that -you cannot see your own hand held before your -face. It was no use to go down again; the tide -had turned, and soon the sea would be lapping -gently at the foot of the pathway. There was -nothing for it but to go on slowly, carefully, step -by step, feeling all the time for the rocks on the -inner side; by and by the path would widen.</p> - -<p>“Don’t be frightened, Viola,” said Basil cheerfully. -“It’ll take us a goodish while, but a bit -higher up we can walk together.”</p> - -<p>“I’m not exactly frightened,” said Viola in a -tremulous voice, “but I rather wish we hadn’t -come.”</p> - -<p>“So do I,” Basil answered fervently. “If I -hadn’t been such a juggins I’d have looked up and -seen the mist on those cliffs long ago. Probably -you can’t see that there <i>are</i> any cliffs in the village -now.”</p> - -<p>On they toiled, slowly and painfully. It is really -a most unpleasant mode of progression, walking -sideways up a hill with your back against a very -nubbly sort of wall.</p> - -<p>“Hark!” cried Basil presently. “Didn’t you -hear a call?”</p> - -<p>The children paused, leant against the cliff, and -listened breathlessly. Sure enough someone was -calling. It sounded very muffled and far off; but -it was plainly a man’s voice, and he was calling -for help.</p> - -<p>“Do you think it’s above or below?” Basil<span class="pagenum" id="Page_117">[117]</span> -asked anxiously. “I can’t seem to tell in this -fog.”</p> - -<p>“It must be above, or we should have heard it -before. Call out that we’re coming.”</p> - -<p>Basil shouted with all the force of his young -lungs, and again the faint, muffled voice answered -with a cry for help.</p> - -<p>“Come on,” exclaimed Basil in great excitement; -“we’ll find him!” and sure enough in another -bend of the path Basil nearly fell over the -prostrate figure of a man lying right across it, -for here it suddenly grew wider. The man raised -himself on his elbow, exclaiming:</p> - -<p>“I say, do you think that when you get to the -village you could send help? I’m very much afraid -that I’ve broken my leg. I can’t stand, and moving -at all hurts it no end.”</p> - -<p>“Why, it’s the jokey man!” Basil cried out in -dismay. “However did you do it?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, dear! oh, dear!” added Viola. “This is -sad.”</p> - -<p>None of them could see the other, but nevertheless, -the jokey man knew in a minute who had -come to his rescue, and forgot his injuries in his -surprise, exclaiming:</p> - -<p>“Whatever are you two doing here? Is the -General with you?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, dear, no,” said Viola proudly; “we’re -<i>quite</i> alone, or we shouldn’t be here, but isn’t it a -good thing we <i>are</i> here? How did you fall?”</p> - -<p>“I was mooning along, not thinking where I -was going, when down came the mist. I made a -false step and went bang over the edge, but only<span class="pagenum" id="Page_118">[118]</span> -fell on to the path below, not right over, as I -might have done.... Perhaps it would have -been better if I had,” he added to himself.</p> - -<p>“You’d better go and get help, Basil,” said -Viola decidedly, “and I’ll stay and take care of -Mr. Smith till they come.”</p> - -<p>But Mr. Smith wouldn’t hear of this. The children -helped him to crawl as near the inner side -as possible, and when they left him he nearly -fainted with the pain of moving. It began to rain, -the cold, soft, wetting rain of a Devonshire summer, -and Mr. Smith groaned and shivered.</p> - -<p>“I am so sorry for you,” said a soft voice close -beside him. “Is there nothing I could do? -Wouldn’t you be more comfortable if you were -to rest your head in my lap? It would be a sort of -pillow. Daddie used to go to sleep like that sometimes -out on the moors last summer, when they -were home.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Viola, Viola!” exclaimed the jokey man, -with far more distress than he had yet shown, -“why did you stay? You will get cold. It’s raining -already, and they will be ages.”</p> - -<p>“There’s no use worrying about that,” said -Viola, edging herself nearer. “We couldn’t leave -you here all alone and hurt, and Basil wouldn’t let -me go on to the village ’cause of the fog, so of -course I stayed. I hope you won’t mind very -much; I won’t talk if you’d rather not, but I think -I’d like to hold your hand if you don’t mind. It -would be comforting.”</p> - -<p>The kind little hand was curiously comforting -to the jokey man: he insisted on taking off his<span class="pagenum" id="Page_119">[119]</span> -coat and wrapping Viola in it, in spite of all her -protests. Presently the white pall of mist lifted a -little and they could see one another, and it certainly -was a great pleasure to the man lying -against the cliff to watch the little high-bred face -with the kind blue eyes turned in such friendly -wise toward him. Viola was so like Basil, and yet -so entirely individual. Basil’s face was round, -hers was oval; Basil’s nose was broad and indefinite -as yet, Viola’s nose was small and straight -and decided, with the dearest little band of -freckles across the bridge. Basil’s manner was -extremely friendly, Viola’s was tender and protecting, -and it was such a long time since anyone -had taken care of the jokey man, that he almost -crooned to himself in the delight of being so -tended. She was very tender in her inquiries -after his aches and pains, expressed a pious hope -that he always wore “something woolly next him,” -and being reassured on that head, proceeded to -suggest that he should smoke if he found it comforting. -Then she told him a great deal in very -admirative terms about daddy, and grandfather, -and Basil, for Viola was of that old-fashioned portion -of femininity that looks upon her own mankind -as beings of stupendous strength and wisdom. -The man lay watching her very intently, -but it is not certain that he heard half of what -she was saying. He had the look of one who was -trying to make a difficult decision. The voices of -habit and tradition called very loudly to him just -then—dared he listen?</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_120">[120]</span>Presently Viola’s voice ceased. She was evidently -waiting for an answer, and none came.</p> - -<p>“Have you any sisters, Mr. Smith?” she repeated.</p> - -<p>Mr. Smith shook his head, then he raised himself -on his elbow, saying earnestly:</p> - -<p>“Look here, Viola! I want you to tell me exactly -what you think about something. Suppose -Basil—of course it’s utterly impossible, but still—suppose -that when he was grown up he did something -that annoyed you all very much, something -disappointing and entirely against his father’s -wishes”—he paused, for Viola looked very grave -and pained—“and then,” he continued, “if he -went right out of sight, and you, none of you, heard -anything more about him for nearly a year—supposing -<i>then</i> he was sorry, said he was sorry——”</p> - -<p>“We should never lose sight of Basil,” said -Viola decidedly, her eyes dark and tragic at the -mere thought. “At least, I’m sure I shouldn’t; -whatever he did I should love him just the same. -You don’t love people for their goodness—you -love them because they’re <i>they</i>.”</p> - -<p>“Are you sure?” asked the jokey man earnestly.</p> - -<p>Viola looked hard at him, turned very red, and -said shyly:</p> - -<p>“Do you think you could tell me just what you -did? I know it’s you.”</p> - -<p>The man leant back against the wall again.</p> - -<p>“It’s not an interesting story,” he said wearily, -“but it may pass the time. I was at the ’varsity, -Cambridge. I was always very fond of acting, -and I was extravagant and lazy, too. The very<span class="pagenum" id="Page_121">[121]</span> -term I went in for my degree I was acting in the -A.D.C., and—I was plucked. My father was furious. -Then came a whole sheaf of debts. He said -I must go back to a small college, live on next to -nothing, work, and take my degree. Instead of -taking my punishment like a man, I quarreled -with everybody, vowed I’d go on to the stage, and -came to this. I have kept body and soul together, -and I don’t think I’ve done anything to be -ashamed of since, but I’m sick and sorry at the -whole business. Yet now that I’m all smashed up -and useless, it seems somehow mean to go back. -My father’s a parson, you know, not over well -off, and there are a good many of us.”</p> - -<p>All the pauses in his story, and there were a -good many, had been punctuated by Viola with -reassuring little pats, and now that the pause was -so long that he seemed to have finished his story, -she turned a beaming face toward him.</p> - -<p>“How <i>glad</i> they will be!” she exclaimed. “You -must write to-night directly you get back. How -<i>glad</i> your mother will be!”</p> - -<p>A spasm of pain crossed his face. “My mother -died just before I left school,” he said.</p> - -<p>Viola’s eyes filled with tears, and she had just -exclaimed, “And you have no sisters either, you -poor dear?” when the rescue party, accompanied -by Basil and the nearly frantic Polly, appeared -just below them. They carried the jokey man to -the foot of the cliff and took him back to the village -in a boat, and as his ankle proved to be very -badly broken he elected to go into the cottage hospital -on the hill. The long wait in the wet, that<span class="pagenum" id="Page_122">[122]</span> -had not in the least hurt Viola, proved altogether -too much for the jokey man. That night he became -feverish and delirious, and when the children -and the General went to ask for him next -day, they were told that he was very ill indeed, -and that the broken ankle was quite a small matter -in comparison with the pneumonia. That evening -the doctor called on the General, and directly -the performance was over, the General went to -see the Alfresco Players at their lodgings.</p> - -<p>“Do you happen to know who his people are?” -the General asked Mrs. Montmorency.</p> - -<p>“He never let on that he’d got any folks, poor -fellah,” she answered with a sob. She had a kind -heart if her ankles were thick. “He was never -one to talk about himself, and he’s never had so -much as a postcard by post since he’s been here, -that I do know. His real name’s not Smith at all; -all his linen—beautiful and fine his shirts are too—is -all marked ‘Selsley.’”</p> - -<p>“Have you no idea what part of the country he -came from?” the General asked. “Then we could -look in a directory. It would be a horrible thing -if——”</p> - -<p>“He joined us in London,” Mrs. Montmorency -gasped between her sobs, while her tears made -little pathways on her painted cheeks. “He hadn’t -any references, but I persuaded my husband to -take him. He carried his references in his face, I -said, and so I’m sure we’ve found it, for a nicer, -more obliging, gentlemanly——”</p> - -<p>“Do you think, sir,” Mr. Montmorency interrupted, -“that he told the little lady anything<span class="pagenum" id="Page_123">[123]</span> -about himself when they were up on the cliff together?”</p> - -<p>“God bless my soul!” exclaimed the General in -great excitement. “Of course he did; I have it. -Who has got a clergy list?”</p> - -<p>Naturally none of the Alfresco Players possessed -such a work, and it was already too late to -knock up the vicar of the parish. But next morning -the General called on the vicar very early, and -then despatched an exceedingly long telegram to -the post office and several bottles of champagne -to the cottage hospital, where Polly, Basil and -Viola hung about the doors all the morning hoping -for better news. The Alfresco Players got out a -green leaflet to the effect that there would be that -night a benefit performance for that talented -artist, Mr. Smith, who had been suddenly stricken -down by serious illness. The General seemed to -send and receive a great many telegrams, and did -not go fishing all that day. At sundown there was -no better news at the hospital, and it seemed exceedingly -probable that the jokey man would joke -no more. The General met the last train, and -drove away from the station accompanied by an -elderly, severe-looking clergyman. They stopped -at the hospital and the clergyman went in.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>The jokey man was so noisy and talked so continuously -that the hospital authorities had him -moved from the men’s surgical ward into a little -room by himself. As the matron showed the -strange clergyman into this room, a nurse rose -from the chair at the bedside. The jokey man’s<span class="pagenum" id="Page_124">[124]</span> -voice was no longer loud, but he kept saying the -same thing over and over again.</p> - -<p>“All day long he keeps repeating it,” she whispered. -“I’m so thankful you’ve come, for he can’t -possibly last if this restlessness continues.”</p> - -<p>“I’m sure he’ll come if you send,” the weak, -irritable voice went on. “Why don’t you send? -I want my father—‘father, I have sinned’—that’s -it—‘father, I have sinned’—but I know he’ll come -if you send. I want my father, I tell you—why -won’t you send? I want my father.”</p> - -<p>The whispering voice persisted in its plaint, the -hot hands plucked at the sheet when other hands -closed over them, holding them firmly, and the -voice he was waiting for said quietly:</p> - -<p>“My dear son, I am here.”</p> - -<p>As the sick man raised his tired eyes to the -grave grey face bent over him, his troubled mind -was flooded with an immense content, his poignant -restlessness was calmed.</p> - -<p>“Good old father!” he said softly, and lay quite -still.</p> - -<p>The jokey man thought better of it, and didn’t -die after all. In another week Basil and Viola -were allowed to go and see him. They stood very -hushed and solemn on either side of his bed, for -he looked very thin and white, and was still lying -right on his back, which made him seem more ill -somehow. For quite a minute nobody said anything -at all, till Basil, who held a large folded -bracken leaf in his hand, laid it down on the jokey -man’s chest and spread it out. A fish speckled -with brown reposed in solemn glory in the midst.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_125">[125]</span>“It’s for your dinner,” whispered Basil. “It’s -only four ounces off the pound. I caught it myself -two hours ago. Viola saw me do it. I think -a ‘Coachman’s’ the best fly after all.”</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_126">[126]</span> - -<h3 class="nobreak">IN DURANCE VILE</h3> -</div> - - -<p>Gabrielle always remembered the day that the -ringmaster of the circus came to see her pony -jump. She was proud of her pony, who was -dapple grey and Welsh, and could jump nine inches -higher than himself.</p> - -<p>Gabrielle was five, and had ridden without a -leading rein for two years, but her father never -let her jump Roland, the pony. So the pony -jumped by himself, greatly to the edification of -the ringmaster who had been bidden to see the -feat.</p> - -<p>While all this was going on, Nana called her to -nursery tea, and as she trotted down the long -yard, past the stables, and towards the drive, the -ringmaster turned to Jack Ainslie, Gabrielle’s -father, and said: “Has the little Missie hurt her -foot? She’s a thought lame.”</p> - -<p>Jack Ainslie looked hastily after the idolized -little figure, and noted that the ringmaster was -right. She <i>was</i> a thought lame.</p> - -<p>Hastily excusing himself, he ran after the child. -“Have you hurt your foot, darling?” he asked -anxiously. “You’re limping a little. Did you -twist your ankle?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, no, Daddy dear, I’m not hurt. I’m going<span class="pagenum" id="Page_127">[127]</span> -to tea.” Gabrielle put up her face for the ever-expected -kiss and ran after her nurse. Jack Ainslie -dismissed the subject from his mind and -showed the ringmaster the rest of the horses.</p> - -<p>From that day, however, things changed for -Gabrielle. Other people noticed the little limp, -and her parents, terrified and distressed, sent for -the family doctor. He discovered that in some -way, probably at birth, her hip had been dislocated, -and had formed a new socket for itself, and -that henceforth she would limp—unless—and here -all the mischief began—something could be done. -Her father was frantic. Of course something -must be done. That his Gabrielle, his dainty little -lady with her pretty face, her quick intelligence, -and her gracious ways, should be lame—oh, it -was intolerable! He was broken-hearted and rebellious, -and even his wife’s steadfast patience -and unchanging tenderness could not make him -resigned. Then began for Gabrielle a series of -visits to London. She was taken from one great -doctor to another till she grew quite used to marching -about on thick piled carpets, clad in nothing -but her sunny hair, while they discussed her interesting -“case.”</p> - -<p>“Doctors are chilly men,” said Gabrielle; “their -hands are always cold to my body.”</p> - -<p>An operation was arranged, but at the last moment -Jack Ainslie drew back, for the surgeons -would not guarantee success, and the family doctor -said grave things about Gabrielle’s constitutional -delicacy. So it was decided that more -gradual means must be tried to bring about the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_128">[128]</span> -desired result. The “gradual means” assumed -the shape of an instrument, hideous to behold and -painful to wear. It broke Jack Ainslie’s heart to -see his little lady cabined and confined in such a -cruel cage, and for the little lady herself it blotted -out the sunshine and made life very grey and -terrible. One thing was quite plain to Gabrielle, -and that was that evidently Nature was very much -to blame in having provided a new “socket” for -the poor little dislocated bone. This impertinence -must be interfered with at all costs—the doctors -seemed to agree upon that. And Gabrielle wondered -why it was so wrong to have no pain, to be -perfectly unconscious of her “affliction,” as her -nurse called it, and so interesting (to the doctors) -and right, to be uncomfortable and to wear a hideous -high-soled boot and an iron cage, with crutches -under the arms that pushed her shoulders up to -her ears.</p> - -<p>As for the instrument, it was designed and ordered -by three famous surgeons, and it cost the -price of many ponies. Gabrielle tried to be brave. -She was curiously conscious that the pain her parents -suffered was far greater than her own. The -instrument was adjusted in London, and on the -way home in the train her mother asked her many -times, “Does it hurt you, my darling?” And -Gabrielle always answered bravely, “I can bear -it, mother dear; I can bear it!”</p> - -<p>When she got home that night, the poor little -leg was black from the cruel pressure, and Mary -Ainslie broke down and cried till she could cry no -longer. Gabrielle tried to walk bravely in her<span class="pagenum" id="Page_129">[129]</span> -cramping irons, and to smile at her parents when -she met their troubled eyes. At first she broke -the thing continually, for she was an active child, -much given to jumping off chairs and playing at -circus on the big old sofa. But by and by all desire -to jump and run left her. She grew high-shouldered, -and would sit very still for hours, -while her daddy told her stories or drove her behind -Roland in a little basket-carriage he had -bought for her. Truly the iron entered into her -soul, the cruel iron that cramped the child’s soft -body; and Gabrielle’s eyes grew larger and larger, -and her chin more pointed, while the once plump -little hands were white as the petals of the pear-blossom -outside the nursery window.</p> - -<p>“I wish people wouldn’t ask me about it; they -are kind, but I wish they wouldn’t,” Gabrielle -would say. “I’m tired of telling them about the -socket, and I’m not ‘a poor little soul’—I’m -daddy’s little lady!”</p> - -<p>There came to Jack Ainslie a very old college -friend, a doctor, Gabrielle’s godfather, and devoted -to her, and he was supremely dissatisfied -with her treatment and implored them to take her -to see a young surgeon, a friend of his own, who -was making a great name, and doing wonders for -everyone who came under his care. Jack Ainslie -and his wife needed but small persuasion, and it -was decided that Gabrielle should go to London -as soon as possible.</p> - -<p>What hastened the visit was this: Gabrielle -was devoted to fairy lore, and a favorite play of -hers was to be the beautiful princess who is freed<span class="pagenum" id="Page_130">[130]</span> -from giants and dragons and lions by the gallant -“Boots” of the Norse tales. Her father always -enacted the part of that redoubtable third son, -and was wont to kneel before her, making extravagant -protestations of his devotion, which she accepted -with gracious condescension. On this particular -afternoon, just after tea, her father proposed -to play the favorite game, but Gabrielle -would have none of it. “I can’t be a princess any -more, Daddy; I’m sure no princess ever wore an -instrument!” she said. “I don’t feel like a princess -any more at all.” Her father caught her up -in his arms, with a great hard sob, which frightened -her, and she stroked his face, saying tenderly: -“Don’t be sorry, dear, dear Dad! I -didn’t mean to hurt you. I’ll be a princess, I will, -indeed! I <i>will</i> feel like a princess really!” The -next day Jack Ainslie and his wife took Gabrielle -up to town. They did not even take the faithful -Nana, for Gabrielle’s mother could hardly bear to -let any hands but hers touch her darling, ever -since the day that the ringmaster had made his -sad discovery.</p> - -<p>Mary Ainslie took Gabrielle to the new doctor -the following morning, while Jack sat in the smoking-room -of the hotel, lighting innumerable cigars -which he did not smoke, and turning over illustrated -papers which he did not see. Then he -turned out of the hotel and walked down Piccadilly, -blundering into the passers-by, and when he -crossed the road, was nearly ridden over by an -omnibus, so blind and stupid was he in his heavy -sorrow. Poor Jack! his honest heart was very<span class="pagenum" id="Page_131">[131]</span> -full of grief, for he loved his little lady dearly, -and he felt that unless something were done -quickly, he would soon have nothing but a tender -memory to love.</p> - -<p>Gabrielle and her mother were shown into the -new doctor’s consulting-room at once. He was a -tall young man, with red hair and keen green eyes. -Her mother undressed Gabrielle, all but the “instrument,” -which clasped the tender little body, -and seemed so cruelly unnecessary. The young -doctor frowned when he saw it, then he took it off -himself, and Gabrielle noticed that his touch was -as gentle as her mother’s, and that his hands were -warm. She gave a happy little shake when she -was free of it, a little wriggle and jump of relief. -Then the doctor made her walk, and felt her all -over, after which he rolled her up in a big fur -rug, to sit in front of the fire, while he went into -the next room with her mother. They were not -long away, and on their return Gabrielle looked -up at the doctor with bright, curious eyes.</p> - -<p>“Does the instrument hurt you?” he asked. -Gabrielle looked at it, as it leaned feebly against -a chair, and said: “It does, rather; but it does its -best not to. I think...!”</p> - -<p>“Well, any way, you’re not going to wear it -any more. Are you glad?”</p> - -<p>“But what will the socket do?”</p> - -<p>“Bless me, child; they’ve talked about you far -too much. The socket will do beautifully—much -better without it than with it!”</p> - -<p>“May I wear shoes like other little girls?”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_132">[132]</span>“Certainly; the prettiest shoes that can be -got!”</p> - -<p>“Not compensatum shoes?”</p> - -<p>“No; ordinary shoes, exactly alike!”</p> - -<p>By this time Gabrielle had been arrayed in some -clothes. She noticed that her mother’s hands -trembled, but that her eyes were glad. The child -looked up at the tall young doctor, who was watching -her with his keen green eyes, and said: “My -Daddy will be so glad. He will look at me, and not -look so sorry, and there will be no hard things to -stick into him when he cuddles me! He will be so -glad!”</p> - -<p>The doctor made a queer little sound in his -throat; then he lifted Gabrielle in his arms and -carried her to the window.</p> - -<p>“Do you see the end of this street,” he asked, -“where the roar and the rumbling sound comes -from? That’s Oxford Street. Well, in that street -is a beautiful shop full of shoes—shoes for little -girls—and you are going there directly, to get the -prettiest pair that mother can find for you!”</p> - -<p>“May they have silver buckles?” Gabrielle -asked eagerly.</p> - -<p>“I think it extremely advisable they should have -big silver buckles. You will walk both fast and -far in buckles shoes, and you must learn to dance -the <i>tarantella</i>, and all the dolls will sit in a row -to watch you!”</p> - -<p>Gabrielle gave a delighted laugh. “Will the leg -that wore the irons get fat again, like the other?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, dear, yes! You mustn’t think about that -leg any more, but you must do all the exercises<span class="pagenum" id="Page_133">[133]</span> -mother is going to show you, and when you can -hang on a trapeze for twenty minutes, without -falling off, you must write and tell me.”</p> - -<p>Then Gabrielle’s mother finished dressing her, -all but her boots. The boot with the “compensatum” -sole lay near the instrument. Gabrielle -looked at it with great aversion. “It’s a very dry -day,” said she. “May I go to the cab in my stockings, -and not put on no shoes till I have my new -ones?”</p> - -<p>The doctor pushed the little boot out of sight, -under the chair, with his foot, and said: “I’ll -carry you to the cab, and mother or the cabman -will carry you to the shop across the pavement, -and you shall never see that iron horror or that -boot again!”</p> - -<p>As the doctor carried her across the hall, Gabrielle -put her arms round his neck, and kissed him -on both his eyes.</p> - -<p>“Your eyes taste very salt!” she said, “But -you are the best doctor in the world!”</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_134">[134]</span> - -<h3 class="nobreak">THE SURRENDER OF LADY GRIZELL</h3> -</div> - - -<p>Geordie had found the world a rather draughty -place since that March morning when his mother -went out hunting and was brought back in a -strange secret fashion, and he saw her face no -more.</p> - -<p>“Your poor Ma’s met with a haccident, Master -Geordie—poor lady she’ve broke her back and -now she’s gone to ’Eaven.”</p> - -<p>So Nana explained things to him. New black -clothes came from the tailor’s, and Geordie went -with Nana to lay flowers upon his mother’s grave.</p> - -<p>At five years old discomfort is felt, rather than -defined; Geordie was conscious of a difference, an -uncomfortable difference in his surroundings, but -by no means directly traced its cause to the loss -of his mother. Nor was he actively miserable. It -is true that he sometimes wondered why Nana so -often omitted his bath in the morning, and why he -was never dressed to go down in the evening; but -in some respects he had quite a dissipated time. -So many people asked him out to tea, and amusement -of which Nana distinctly approved, for she -went too.</p> - -<p>Geordie regarded his father with immense admiration, -he was so tall, and handsome, and jolly.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_135">[135]</span> -But since that day when everything was altered, -the Hon. Donald Cochran found less time than ever -to devote to Geordie. It is true he did not go out -hunting any more, but he seemed always to be -shut up in that hitherto almost unused room—called -the “study,” sorting papers and interviewing -stout gentlemen, who wore aggressive watch-chains, -and whose footsteps were much lighter -than those of the hunting friends who used to come -about the house.</p> - -<p>After a month of vague loneliness and discomfort -there came a change in Geordie’s fortunes. -His aunt, Lady Grizell Fane, who had been abroad -at the time of Mrs. Cochran’s death, appeared -upon the scene.</p> - -<p>A tall woman, with keen grey eyes, a woman -who observed much and said little—Lady Grizell -after three days realized the exact position of -affairs. On the fourth day she went back to the -Towers, taking Geordie with her.</p> - -<p>Lady Grizell was one of those women, so often -childless, in whom the maternal instinct is passionately -alive. The love of children was a religion -with her, and all the love she would have -lavished on her own child had the fates bestowed -one on her, she lavished upon Geordie.</p> - -<p>The world suddenly became a sunny, sheltered -place for the lonely little boy. Baths were plentiful -and nursery tableclothes were clean, as meals -were regular. Above all, somebody wanted him, -somebody took an interest in his doings, and a -great warm human love “enwheeled him round.” -A new experience this for Geordie—no one had<span class="pagenum" id="Page_136">[136]</span> -ever been actively unkind to him, his mother had -looked after his creature comforts thoroughly. -He was always well dressed and well tended, but -she had never found his society particularly interesting, -nor did she manifest any desire to see -him often during the day. Though a fine strong -child, he was too like the Cochrans to be pretty. -Big nose, grey eyes, thin face, high cheekbones, -and dogged mouth, may be well enough in a man, -but in a child are apt to be all indefinite and out -of proportion. No, Geordie was not a pretty child. -Neither was he very clever; but he was honest -and kind-hearted, and he worshipped those who -were kind to him, Aunt Grizell most of all.</p> - -<p>Uncle Fane was a philanthropist, absorbed in -blue books and statistics. When Parliament was -sitting he went to London, while Aunt Grizell not -infrequently preferred to remain with Geordie at -the Towers.</p> - -<p>Geordie learned to ride with his aunt (his -father had never been able to afford a pony for -him, it takes such a lot of money to keep hunters), -he did gardening with her, and with her he learned -to read indifferently well. But he learned many -things more important than these.</p> - -<p>He learned to be immensely proud of “the -family,” to hold the reigning house in due respect -certainly, but with reservations in favor of one -Charles Edward, and his descendants, for whose -sake “the family” had greatly dared and suffered. -He learned that he must be courteous and deferent -in his manners, true and just in all his dealings, -and that he must control his temper, which, like<span class="pagenum" id="Page_137">[137]</span> -that of the rest of the family, was inclined to be -hasty. Moreover, he quickly discovered that his -aunt <i>was</i> herself all she would have him be. To -know that a thing grieved her was enough with -Geordie to prevent its happening again, so they -were very happy.</p> - -<p>His father came from time to time to spend a -few days at the Towers, praised his improved appearance, -and his seat in the saddle, took him out -shooting on occasions, and was always profuse in -his thanks to his sister for her care of the boy.</p> - -<p>But this happy and peaceful state of things was -not to last. A cloud came over the horizon. Lady -Grizell went about with red eyes and a harrassed -look, and Geordie found Uncle Fane regarding -him with an expression, kindlier than of yore certainly, -but in which he discovered so large a proportion -of pity that he resented it, without knowing -why.</p> - -<p>Then Lord Lochmaben, his father’s eldest -brother, came to the Towers. During his visit, the -child was always hearing scraps of conversation -in which the words “madness,” “that woman,” -and “social suicide” occurred with bewildering -frequency. He felt that in some mysterious way -these irrelevant remarks had some bearing on his -own fortunes. Lord Lochmaben also regarded -him with that strange pitying expression, and during -his lordship’s visit, Aunt Grizell’s eyes were -redder, and her manner more perturbed than ever.</p> - -<p>At last, one morning at the end of May—Geordie -will always hate the scent of the lilacs—Lady<span class="pagenum" id="Page_138">[138]</span> -Grizell called him from his play to come to her in -the morning room.</p> - -<p>He came, running through the open French -window, and when he reached his aunt’s chair she -put her arm round him, saying huskily: “Geordie -dear! your father wants you at home, until September—and -then you are to go to school!”</p> - -<p>Lady Grizell made the announcement abruptly. -To her surprise it was received in absolute silence. -Geordie was, as his aunt herself would have said, -“utterly dumbfoundered.” To go to school some -day was natural and proper—but to go home.... -“Why does father want me now?” asked Geordie -in a shaky voice. The Hon. Donald never betrayed -any distress at parting from him when he left the -Towers—what could it mean?</p> - -<p>The child was very like “the family,” he was -not at all demonstrative, and he “thought shame” -to cry.</p> - -<p>He flung his arms round his aunt, holding her so -tight that the buttons of his Norfolk jacket made -deep dents on her cheek, and Lady Grizell could -hear how painfully the little heart was thumping.</p> - -<p>There was silence for a minute between these -two who understood each other so well; then -Geordie asked: “When am I to go, Aunt Grizy?”</p> - -<p>“In a week—oh, what shall I do without you, -my bonnie man?”</p> - -<p>“But I shall come to see you often, shan’t I? -Papa won’t want me all the time, and you will ask -him to let me come often, won’t you, Aunty?”</p> - -<p>Lady Grizell stroked his hair tenderly, but she<span class="pagenum" id="Page_139">[139]</span> -could not deceive even a child, and she shook her -head.</p> - -<p>“I’ll ask him, my dear, you may be sure. But -I fear he may not be able to grant my request. -Unfortunately, there is a subject upon which your -father and I cannot agree, and he is vexed with me, -and naturally wants his son for himself.”</p> - -<p>“Is it that ‘suicide woman’ that is the subject?” -asked Geordie breathlessly.</p> - -<p>Lady Grizell gazed at him in thunderstruck -amazement. “What <i>do</i> you mean, child?”</p> - -<p>“Well, whenever I was out walking with Uncle -Lochmaben and Uncle Fane, I kept hearing little -bits about ‘that woman’ and ‘suicide’ and papa, -so I thought it might be that. I didn’t listen, truly—I -couldn’t help hearing, and I didn’t understand.”</p> - -<p>Lady Grizell put back the hair from the boy’s -square forehead and looked into his honest grey -eyes, then she spoke:</p> - -<p>“Geordie dear, there are always things in life -that we cannot understand, and things we cannot -help; what we must do is to be as brave and honest -as we can, and leave the rest to God. Your dear -father is very lonely and he has recently married -a lady who will be your new mamma. You must -try to be as good and courteous and obedient to -her as you are to me—and Geordie, son! don’t -forget me!”</p> - -<p>Here Lady Grizell broke down, and Geordie -thought it no shame to cry too.</p> - -<p>That week was terribly short. At the end of it -Geordie went out into the draughty world again,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_140">[140]</span> -while Lady Grizell went about saying like her -more famous namesake: “Oh, werena my heart -lecht I wad dee!”</p> - -<p>Geordie could never be induced to speak much -about the three months that followed. During -those three months Lady Grizell grew thin and -pale.</p> - -<p>One morning she received a letter from the -Hon. Donald in which he informed her that he and -his wife had made arrangements for Geordie to -go in September to an excellent school in the Forest -of Dean where boys received board and education -for the modest sum of twenty guineas a year.</p> - -<p>Lady Grizell gave a little cry, and stared at the -letter in her hand as though it had been some -horrible phantom. Then she flew downstairs and -into her husband’s study, where he sat writing a -report for the Society of Agriculture.</p> - -<p>“Augustus, read this! I am going to see Donald -to-day, and tell him that I will receive his wife—I -can’t let my pride stand in the way of that -child any longer—read this!” and she thrust the -letter under her husband’s aristocratic nose.</p> - -<p>Mr. Fane put on his glasses, read the letter, took -them off, folded them up and put them in the case—a -methodical, deliberate man, Mr. Fane—then -he said slowly:</p> - -<p>“Have you considered what people will say? -Have you forgotten that everybody knows her -most unpleasant story?”</p> - -<p>“I cannot help it. People must say what they -please. I will not have Geordie go to such a school, -even if I have to receive half the fallen women in<span class="pagenum" id="Page_141">[141]</span> -London to prevent it. If Lochmaben never marries, -Geordie will be head of our house.”</p> - -<p>Lady Grizell spoke with passionate excitement. -Mr. Fane felt that he hardly knew his wife, always -so gentle and dignified, in this woman with the pale -face and blazing eyes. He expostulated forcibly -and at his usual length. If he was somewhat less -conscious of the dignity of the House of Cochran -than was Lady Grizell, he was keenly alive to the -dignity of the House of Fane. But all his exhortation, -all his arguments were of no avail. He -could not shake Lady Grizell’s determination; and -the afternoon saw her speeding in the express -toward the interview with her brother.</p> - -<p>The journey was not long, but the August day -was hot. Lady Grizell felt faint and shaken when -the omnibus (she had been too excited to wire for -a cab) deposited her at her brother’s door.</p> - -<p>The parlormaid looked curiously at the tall lady -who asked so pointedly for <i>Mr.</i> Cochran, and -showed her into the study. No ladies ever called, -and here was an undoubted lady—“my lady” to -boot—as the sharp girl discovered on reading the -card.</p> - -<p>She carried the card to her master in the garden, -where he was sitting with his wife. He flushed -as he read it, and tossed it to the woman beside -him, exclaiming: “Grizie, by Jove!—can she be -coming round?”</p> - -<p>The woman caught the card, reading the name -aloud in an eager, excited voice, then said, a little -bitterly: “She only asks for <i>you</i>.”</p> - -<p>“She wouldn’t come here to insult you. I know<span class="pagenum" id="Page_142">[142]</span> -Grizie. It’s something about the boy, and she -wants to be friends. You wait here till I send for -you.”</p> - -<p>He strode across the lawn, and entered the -study by the open French window.</p> - -<p>“Now this is really good of you, Grizie; Geordie -will be in raptures—it’s kind and friendly!”</p> - -<p>Lady Grizell was pale, and the cheek she turned -to his kiss was very cold. She clasped her hands -to stay their trembling and began in a low voice:</p> - -<p>“Donald! you said that if I would receive Mrs. -Cochran——”</p> - -<p>“Nelly, you mean!” interrupted the Hon. -Donald.</p> - -<p>“If I would receive your wife—you would let -me keep Geordie. If I promise to ask you both to -the Towers—twice every year—will you let me -have him, instead of sending him to that horrible -school—will you, Donald? I’ll educate him, he -shall cost you nothing—I have a little money, you -know, and Augustus is very generous to me—will -you let him come to me?”</p> - -<p>Donald looked rather shamefaced as he muttered: -“Isn’t it rather like selling the little chap?”</p> - -<p>“But it’s selling him into happiness, Donald: -he is such a dear lad, and he loves me, and ... -it isn’t very easy for me!”</p> - -<p>There was silence for two minutes. Lady -Grizell’s heart thumped in her ears.</p> - -<p>Overhead there was a sudden patter of little -feet, and Lady Grizell sank upon her knees, sobbing: -“Oh, give him to me, Donald, for God’s -sake, give him to me! I cannot bear it!”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_143">[143]</span>Donald’s eyes were red as he raised his sister -and gently put her in an easy chair. He patted -her shoulder soothingly, and his voice trembled as -he said: “Look here, Grizie! you shall have the -boy. There shall be no bargain between us; I -never meant to send him to that beastly school. I -tried it on to fetch you—as it has—but I can’t -play the game so low down as that—I don’t set up -for a model parent. I know you’ll bring him up -better than we should. You can leave this house -without meeting my wife if you prefer it, and I’ll -send Geordie to you to-morrow. But, if you like -to do a kind and generous thing to a woman who -has known little but unkindness, and shame, and -sorrow all her life, and who is a good and loyal -wife to me, then I say, God bless you, Grizell -Cochran, for you are a good woman!”</p> - -<p>Donald was not given to the making of long -speeches. His voice broke many times in the -course of this, and the tears were running down -Lady Grizell’s pale cheeks. She held out her -hands to him, saying simply, “Take me to her!” -and the two tall figures went out across the grass -together.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_144">[144]</span> - -<h3 class="nobreak">A CLEAN PACK</h3> -</div> - - -<p>Basil sat alone in the schoolroom, although it -was past bedtime. Nurse, like everybody else, had -apparently forgotten him, but Basil, absorbed in -his own thoughts, sat on by the dying fire. There -were always fires in his grandfather’s house whenever -it was in the least cold, and that August it -was very cold, so cold that grandfather, getting -wet through out shooting, somehow got a chill, -was ill only three days, and now was lying dead -in the big bedroom over Basil’s head. So Basil -had a good deal to think about. It was not that -death was new to him—from his earliest infancy -it had been impressed upon him that his father -was dead—but that he could not by any stretch -of fancy imagine what life would be without -grandfather—grandfather who was lying with his -beautiful hands crossed on his breast in that long, -light-colored wooden box upstairs.</p> - -<p>Basil resented the fact that grandfather’s coffin -should be made of light wood. It seemed incongruous -and impertinent, somehow, that anything -used by grandfather should be otherwise than old—old -and rich-colored and seemly; and the child -found himself wondering whether grandfather was -annoyed. There were many things in that bedroom<span class="pagenum" id="Page_145">[145]</span> -calculated to annoy him, Basil reflected. In -the first place, when mother took him in that -afternoon that he might lay the asters gathered -in his own garden at his grandfather’s feet, he remarked -that all the blinds were down, and grandfather -would have hated that, and the windows -were shut, and there was a heavy scent of hot-house -flowers. “I fear he’s very uncomfortable,” -whispered Basil to himself. “He’ll be glad to get -to heaven out of that stuffy room.” For grandfather -had loved air as much as he liked fires.</p> - -<p>The horizon of Basil’s experience was somewhat -limited. It consisted of mother and grandfather, -and of “other grandfather,” who lived at Altringham -in Cheshire, and was mother’s father.</p> - -<p>Every year Basil and mother went to Altringham -for six weeks, and life there was so utterly -different from what it was with grandfather that -Basil never ceased to puzzle over it and to wonder -why mother always cried when she came away, -and why “other grandfather” always said: “You -moost bear with the old heathen, Sophia; he’s been -generous enough as regards mooney, and, remember, -you can be <i>in</i> the world but not of it.”</p> - -<p>There were aunts, too, at Altringham, who made -a great fuss of Basil for about three days, and then -seemed to find him greatly in the way; while “other -grandfather” had a most embarrassing way of -suddenly demanding: “Well, yoong mon, and -how’s the ciphering?”</p> - -<p>Basil loved his mother very dearly, but he could -have wished that she took life a little less sadly. -A gentle melancholy characterized her every<span class="pagenum" id="Page_146">[146]</span> -thought, and the child felt rather than understood -that her mental attitude toward her father-in-law -was that of a deprecating disapproval. Grandfather -felt it too, for only a week before Basil had -heard him say to one of the gentlemen who were -tramping the stubble with him: “We shall never -understand each other, my poor little daughter -and I, though we’ve lived together seven years. -She’s as good as gold, and I don’t think I’m particularly -<i>difficile</i>, but there it is—we can never get -the same focus for anything.” Basil was walking -just behind with the keeper, who blushed up to the -roots of his hair as he called out: “I’m here, you -know, grandfather.”</p> - -<p>Grandfather pulled up short and turned to look -at Basil. Then he gave a queer little laugh. -“There’s not much Manchester about the boy,” he -said, and tramped on.</p> - -<p>They all went to London from November till the -end of March, and there grandfather generally -dined at his club and played whist afterward, -while Basil’s mother had supper with him or had -friends of her own to dinner, just as she liked. -Grandfather could not get on without his rubber. -Even in the country, three times a week three -broughams drove solemnly up the drive, and three -old gentlemen descended therefrom to dine with -grandfather and play whist afterwards.</p> - -<p>In London on fine nights he walked to his club, -and Basil used to watch him go from the nursery -window just as he was going to bed; and at the -lamp grandfather always stopped and looked up -at the curly head pressed against the pane, then<span class="pagenum" id="Page_147">[147]</span> -he would lift his hat with a grand sweep and walk -on, while Basil hugged himself with the delighted -conviction that <i>his</i> grandfather was the very handsomest -old gentleman in the whole world. And -sometimes grandfather would crush his hat over -his eyes, while a spasm of pain crossed his clean-shaven, -stately old face, and he’d whisper to himself: -“My God! how like he is to my poor boy.”</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>Among the very first things that Basil ever -learned were the different “suits” in cards. -Grandfather taught him and gave him a shilling -for every suit as he knew them and the values of -the cards, as in whist. Then he taught Basil -whist, playing double-dummy, and explaining as -they went along: “I wish you, Basil, to play whist -as a gentleman should, carefully and with due -consideration, with the intelligence and respect -that the game deserves, not like a counter jumper -for penny points.”</p> - -<p>It must be confessed that Basil took to this instruction -much more kindly than to that included -under the heading of “ciphering,” or even of -reading and spelling. At six he could play a “fair -hand,” at which he was somewhat puffed up, the -only drawback being that mother did not seem to -take any interest in his achievements. She never -played herself, though grandfather impressed -upon her that she was preparing for herself an -unhappy old age; in fact, she did not seem to like -cards at all.</p> - -<p>One very wet Sunday grandfather had arranged -four “hands” on the library table, and was proceeding<span class="pagenum" id="Page_148">[148]</span> -to play a game out of “Cavendish” for -Basil’s instruction, when his mother suddenly -came into the room. She gave one quick glance at -the table with the cards, and came forward and -stood beside it, saying very quietly: “I do not -wish Basil to play cards on Sunday.”</p> - -<p>Grandfather had risen to his feet as Basil’s -mother entered the room. It would never have -occurred to him to sit down while his daughter-in-law -was standing; he swept the cards into a little -heap with one swift movement of his beautiful -white old hands, and said, with a grave little bow:</p> - -<p>“I apologize, my dear. I had for the moment -forgotten your—er—convictions on this question. -What <i>may</i> we play at?—for I’ve made a bet with -myself to keep Basil amused till teatime, and I -don’t want to lose it.” Then, turning to Basil—who, -conscious of the thunder in the air, felt very -unhappy indeed: “It’s not your fault, my boy. -You’ve not been naughty. It’s I who was forgetful.”</p> - -<p>Basil’s mother looked from one to the other a -little piteously. She had no weapons wherewith to -meet her father-in-law’s smiling courtesy. She -might have liked him better had he sometimes -been rude. “Other grandfather” was not uniformly -courteous.</p> - -<p>On Sunday mornings they all three went to -church together, and grandfather sat under the -big carved tablet which set forth how Basil’s -father had died at Ulundi, “aged twenty-nine.” -Grandfather always carried his daughter-in-law’s -prayer book for her up to the house, discussed the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_149">[149]</span> -sermon with her, and was, as he himself would -have put it, “vastly agreeable.”</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>A piece of coal fell out on the hearth and startled -Basil out of his reverie. He had evidently come -to some decision, for he nodded his head emphatically, -muttering: “I’d better do it. I’m sure he’ll -be bored if I don’t, and I mayn’t get another -chance.”</p> - -<p>The room was quite dark but for the flickering -firelight, which had brightened since that big piece -of coal fell apart. Basil went to his own special -cupboard and took from it a pack of cards, which -his grandfather had given him only last week. -Grandfather never used the same pack on two -consecutive evenings, and gave one to Basil nearly -every week with the instruction: “Never use dirty -cards, even to build castles with.” The child had -never played with the ones he held in his hands, -and his big grey eyes filled with tears as he -wrapped them up in a leaf torn out of his copy-book. -Then, laboriously, for Basil was no scribe, -he wrote on the packet, a proceeding which took -a considerable time. He gave a sob as he kissed -his message, but there was no time to be lost. -Slipping off his shoes, he opened the door very -softly, raced across the hall and up the stairs. -The staircase was quite dark, for Chapman had -forgotten to light the lamps.</p> - -<p>When he reached his grandfather’s bedroom -door he paused with his hand on the handle. His -heart was pounding in his ears, and for a full -minute he could not hear whether all was quiet in<span class="pagenum" id="Page_150">[150]</span> -the room or not. Opening the door very softly, -and as softly shutting it after him, he ran across -the room and pulled up the blind of the big window -that faced the bed. The moon came out from -behind a bank of cloud, as if to aid him in his -task, and shone full on that strange last couch at -the foot of the bed in which grandfather lay so -still under his coverlet of flowers. Basil pushed -at the heavy window, but it was fastened far out -of his reach, and he could not let in the fresh night -air that grandfather loved. As his eyes grew accustomed -to the lighter room, he came and stood -by that light-colored box that he hated so, lifted -the white cloth covering his grandfather’s face, -and looked at him long and earnestly.</p> - -<p>Basil had very vague notions as to what heaven -was like; but, on reviewing all that he had heard -of it, he came to the conclusion that if there was -no whist there grandfather would be dull, and he -had often heard him say: “There’s only one thing -that I dread, and that’s boredom.” So Basil had -decided that at all costs such a contingency must -be avoided, and grandfather must teach the angels -to play whist. “They can p’obably make more -cards when they’ve seen them,” said Basil to himself, -and pushed his little packet underneath the -folded hands, kissed them, and turned to go as -softly as he had come.</p> - -<p>But the door opened at that moment, and his -mother, candle in hand, stood on the threshold -gazing at the little figure standing full in the -strand of moonlight thrown across the carpet.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_151">[151]</span>“What are you doing here, Basil?” she asked -breathlessly.</p> - -<p>“I came to give something to grandfather. Oh, -don’t take it away from him!”</p> - -<p>The passionate distress in the child’s voice -moved her.</p> - -<p>“I will take nothing away from him that you -wish to give him. But what is it? Is it flowers?”</p> - -<p>“No, mother, it is not flowers.”</p> - -<p>She came into the room, closing the door after -her.</p> - -<p>“I must see what it is,” she said very gently.</p> - -<p>Basil stood where he was as though turned to -stone. Would she take it away—or would she put -it back? He could not see her, for he stood with -his back to her, and seemed incapable of turning -round. His mother, noting the disarrangement of -the flowers, drew out the little packet, and, holding -her candle close, read the inscription in the large -uncertain writing:</p> - -<div class="blockquot2"> -<p>“<span class="smcap">Dear Grandfather</span>,</p> - -<p>“I’m sory it’s not a cleane pak, but I don’t know -where they are.</p> - -<p class="right"><span class="indentright2">“Your loving boy,</span><br /> -“<span class="smcap">Basil</span>.”</p> -</div> - - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_152">[152]</span> - -<h3 class="nobreak">AN IRON SEAT</h3> -</div> - - -<p>He sat at one end of the seat, she at the other, -and the seat was on the cliffs overlooking the sea -at Wolsuth on the Suffolk coast. They say that if -your eyes were strong enough you could see the -coast of Holland; but even with telescopes no one -has yet succeeded in doing that.</p> - -<p>At first he hardly noticed her—she was so small -and still and read her book so assiduously; but she -could have passed a searching examination as to -his appearance, for she had studied it carefully. -She would have told you that he was tall, and thin, -and dark, and “rather old”; that his beard was -grey, though his hair was black and decidedly thin -on the top; that his spectacles had gold rims and -the eyes behind them were very kind; that his -manner struck you as extremely grave and decorous: -what impressed her most, however, was that -big, dull, paper-covered book he was always reading. -She was sure it was dull, for <i>she</i> couldn’t -read a word of it; it was in German—she knew -that much, and she had tried to pronounce the -title to herself in bed at night, but never came -near it at all, for it looked like this: “Mendelejeef -Chemie,” and it would take a very sharp little girl -of ten to make much out of that.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_153">[153]</span>No one ever came to sit between them on that -iron seat; it was far from the esplanade, and overlooked -a lonely part of the beach where there were -no “entertainments.” When they had sat there -for several days, the man who read “Mendelejeef -Chemie” looked up suddenly to find that his companion -at the other end of the seat was wiping her -eyes with the absurdest little red-bordered handkerchief. -She held her book in one hand—a somewhat -large and heavy book for such a little hand—and -wiped her eyes with the other, and yet the man -was sure that she was not unhappy, for her thin -brown cheeks were flushed, and though her mouth -was tremulous it wore a proud and happy smile. -He was devoured by curiosity. What book could -it be that had the power to move a little girl in so -complex a fashion?</p> - -<p>He shifted down the seat toward her; but she -was so absorbed in what she was reading that she -never looked his way, and he found that the book -she held in her hand was “From London to Ladysmith -via Pretoria.”</p> - -<p>Suddenly she looked round and saw him. Quite -simply and naturally she offered him a share of -her book, saying enthusiastically:</p> - -<p>“Isn’t it splendid? And my daddie was there -through it all.”</p> - -<p>“Are you ready?” she said presently.</p> - -<p>The man nodded, and she turned the page. -Then, with tears still shining on her cheeks, she -began to read aloud:</p> - - - -<div class="blockquot"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_154">[154]</span> -<p>“It was a procession of lions. And presently, when -the two battalions of Devons met—both full of honors—and -old friends breaking from the ranks gripped each -other’s hands and shouted, everyone was carried away, -and I waved my feathered hat and cheered and cheered -until I could cheer no longer for joy that I had lived to -see the day....”</p> -</div> - -<p>Here she stopped, and, turning her radiant face -to the man beside her, cried:</p> - -<p>“Aren’t you glad you weren’t born in any other -century? Isn’t it a good thing to be in the world -when there are such splendid things happening?”</p> - -<p>The man smiled down at her, saying heartily: -“It is, indeed!” And straightway they were -friends.</p> - -<p>Ever afterward they sat in the middle of the -seat quite close together, and although Winny—that -was her name—continued to read “From -London to Ladysmith,” she read it aloud, and -“Mendelejeef” lay neglected on the far end of -the seat.</p> - -<p>They talked a great deal about the war, and the -man found that this little girl knew all about it, -from the battle of Glencoe to the relief of Ladybrand, -the name and whereabouts of every regiment, -the result of every single engagement big -or little.</p> - -<p>He learned that last year her father had been -home on long leave and had brought them all to -Wolsuth, “and oh! we did have a lovely time!” -but that this year mother couldn’t afford it, “War -risks are so expensive, you know,” that she—Winny—had -been silly enough to get influenza in<span class="pagenum" id="Page_155">[155]</span> -July, and an aunt had consented to let her come -with her own family.</p> - -<p>“Mother and the boys—there’s three boys -younger than me: I’m the eldest—have got to stay -at home this year. I’m so sorry, though I’d far -rather be with them, only I’ve <i>got</i> to get strong. -Daddie said so in his last letter.”</p> - -<p>The man gathered that her aunt and cousins -were not altogether <i>simpatica</i>, though Winny -never said so; still, every day she came and sat on -the iron seat after her bath and talked of her book, -for which she had unbounded admiration, and of -her own small affairs. Being an excellent listener, -the man found himself well amused, for he was -one of those people who keep the best part of -themselves for old friends and little children, and -are always quite misunderstood and unappreciated -by casual acquaintances, which lack of appreciation -doesn’t trouble them in the least.</p> - -<p>He learned that one of the “boys” was going -into the Royal Engineers, “because there you can -live on your pay from the first if you’re careful,” -another into the Artillery, “and we may spare one -for the Navy.”</p> - -<p>“And what are you going to be?” he asked one -day, after they had exhaustively discussed the -futures of the three boys.</p> - -<p>“Oh, I’m going to be a mother,” she replied, -with immense decision. “You see, you have such -a lot of people to take care of you and love you, -if you’re a mother.”</p> - -<p>“But you have to take care of them first, haven’t -you?” he asked.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_156">[156]</span>“Oh, yes, just at first—but afterwards—— You -should just see the care we take of mother, daddie -and all.”</p> - -<p>The man looked out to sea and tried to picture -the eager little figure at his side as a large comfortable -mother of many children. He tried so -hard that he forgot to answer her last remark, -and she asked anxiously:</p> - -<p>“Don’t you think it’s a good thing to be?”</p> - -<p>“Excellent!” he answered heartily. “It is one -of the oldest and most honorable professions; -mothers are people we can in nowise ever do without.”</p> - -<p>“That’s what I thought,” said Winny, in a satisfied -voice, “and that’s what I’m going to be; I -made up my mind years ago.”</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>One day as he arrived at their trysting place he -discovered that Winny was crying in right down -earnest, and not for joy that Ladysmith had been -relieved. The little red-bordered handkerchief -was screwed up into a tight, wet ball, and the -small figure in blue serge looked very woebegone -indeed. She had taken off her fisherman’s cowl, -and cast it on the ground beside her; and when -she saw her friend, instead of waving him a gay -welcome as he came up, she shook her curly brown -hair round her cheeks to hide her face.</p> - -<p>All this was so unlike Winny that the man immediately -reflected with dismay that he had not -read the morning paper at all carefully. It was -possible that some disaster had happened to her<span class="pagenum" id="Page_157">[157]</span> -father. In those days we were apt to trace all -sorrows to South Africa.</p> - -<p>“No bad news, I hope?” he said in rather a -hesitating way as he came up.</p> - -<p>Winny shook her head till her face was entirely -hidden by her hair; but she did not answer otherwise.</p> - -<p>“You may as well tell me what’s the matter,” -said the man; “it may not be past mending.”</p> - -<p>Now there was something about this man that -inspired confidence; moreover, he offered Winny -his own handkerchief, which was large and clean -and comforting. So she accepted it, mopped her -wet face, shook back her hair, and began: “I -don’t bathe with the others, you know.” Here she -paused so long that the man said, “Well?” though -it was against his principles to interrupt anybody’s -narrative.</p> - -<p>“I bathe at Herrington’s machines,” she continued, -“where we always bathed last year—daddie -too—right far away at the end of the beach. -My aunt and cousins bathe where the niggers are, -and the concert, and such crowds of people you -have to wait ever so long for a machine. So I -asked if I might bathe with Herrington like last -year, for he’s such a nice man, and he takes such -care of me, and daddie liked him awfully. There’s -been Herringtons in Wolsuth since 1400!”</p> - -<p>Winny paused after this announcement, evidently -expecting comment of some sort.</p> - -<p>“That’s a long record,” said the man, rising to -the occasion. “And what was Mr. Herrington -before he took to keeping bathing-machines?”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_158">[158]</span>“He was mate on a schooner, and one of his -sons is a captain of a merchantman; he’s raised -himself tremendously. Then there’s two sons who -help Herrington, and are fishermen in winter; -and Mrs. Herrington does washing. Oh, they’re -such a nice family!” she exclaimed ecstatically.</p> - -<p>The man looked out to sea, wondering what on -earth all this had to do with her tears. But he -was a patient person; so he waited.</p> - -<p>“I go home to-morrow,” she continued, “and -I’ve had one of Herrington’s bathing-machines -ever since I came—going on for three weeks now—and -he’s taken me out in the boat and let me dive -and swim, and been so kind and jolly, and to-day, -when I asked my aunt for the money to pay him—it’s -fourpence each time—she wouldn’t give it me, -and laughed and said that it wouldn’t hurt him -to take me for nothing this year, he made such a -lot out of us last. Think of it!” she exclaimed, -clasping and unclasping her hands. “It’s his living! -It’s like taking a leg of mutton from a -butcher for nothing. I told auntie that mother -would send it to her if she’d let me have it, but -she only laughed and said it was nonsense. Of -course mother will send it to <i>him</i>, but that’s not -the same. He’ll have to think me shabby and ungrateful -for nearly three days, for I can’t go and -say good-bye to him when I’ve nothing to give -him. I’ve only sixpence. Isn’t it dreadful?”</p> - -<p>The man reflected that there were people who -had no objection to accepting legs of mutton from -their butchers, who rather resented the fact that -these same butchers ventured on occasion to send<span class="pagenum" id="Page_159">[159]</span> -in a bill; but evidently the soldier who had been -shut up in Ladysmith brought up his children with -a different view of their obligations. He was very -sorry for Winny, but he didn’t dare to offer her -the money. There are people to whom one cannot -offer money.</p> - -<p>“Can’t you tell Herrington how you are -placed?” he feebly suggested.</p> - -<p>“Of course not,” the child answered scornfully. -“He’d say I was ‘more’n welcome’ to my baths, -and that it didn’t matter a pin. It’s just because -I know he’d gladly give me my baths that it hurts -so. It’s his <i>living</i>,” she repeated. As she spoke -she stood up and stuffed the little wet handkerchief -into her pocket.</p> - -<p>The man was sitting with his hands thrust deep -into his own, as men will when perplexed or -troubled. Winny stood with her back to him, -gazing sorrowfully at Herrington’s bathing-machines -on the distant beach.</p> - -<p>The little pocket gaped, and the man succumbed -to temptation. Very gingerly he dropped a crown -piece into the opening which displayed the -drenched handkerchief. Then he stood up. “I’m -going by the afternoon train,” he said, “so I fear -I must say good-bye. But I hope we shall meet -again some day.”</p> - -<p>“I hope so,” sighed Winny, as she held up her -face to be kissed, and wondered why he seemed in -such a hurry and never even asked her to walk -back with him.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_160">[160]</span> - -<h3 class="nobreak">LÉON</h3> -</div> - -<div class="blockquot2"> - -<p>I would have our children taught, so far as teaching can -go, to love and admire France, that glorious nation which -has done so much and suffered so much for humanity.—<span class="smcap">William -Archer</span>, 1898.</p> -</div> - - -<p>We did not believe it possible that a boy of nine -could wear high-buttoned boots, a pale blue sash, -and long hair like a girl’s, and yet possess a character -unaffected by these deplorable externals. -That, in addition to this, he should be French, -speaking that “<i>nimini pimini</i>” language with perfect -ease; and, in further proof of his mental -slipperiness, speak English almost equally well—but -for a curious roll and rumble of the letter “r” -in the back of the throat—was another serious -stumbling-block in the way of our liking. It was -not natural. Had he been puny, or sallow, or in -any way physically “Frenchy” as we supposed it, -we should have found him less bewildering. But -he was sturdy, ruddy, and fair-haired; tall for his -age, and of a frank cheerfulness that was rather -engaging. Absolutely unashamed of his inferior -nationality, unconscious, seemingly, of those elongated -buttoned boots, he would shake back his -tawny hair and look you squarely in the face with -big blue eyes that smiled. He didn’t look a<span class="pagenum" id="Page_161">[161]</span> -“Molly,” somehow, in spite of his hair; but we -children were convinced that he “must be one, -really,” and that what the twins called his “false -French smile” was a sort of cloak for the innate -cowardice of his disposition.</p> - -<p>What induced Aunt Alice to marry a French -officer, we could not think! That she and her -husband were what mother called “devoted to one -another” seemed to us an insufficient explanation. -Not only did she marry this foreigner and desert -her native land, but she became a Roman Catholic—nurse -minded this most and called her a Papist—and -she seemed perfectly happy in her exile. She -was supposed to be a very beautiful person, but -what most impressed us during her rare and brief -visits was the quality and quantity of the sweets -she brought us; sweets in gorgeous boxes which -bore the mystic device <i>Gouache</i>. France was, we -were convinced, a poor sort of place, but exception -must be made in favor of her sweets.</p> - -<p>In reflecting upon our general attitude toward -France and the French at this time, I am reminded -of the man who scornfully held up to ridicule -a country so far left to itself as to speak of -bread as “Pain.”</p> - -<p>“But,” suggested a more tolerant friend, “we -call it bread.”</p> - -<p>“Ah! it <i>is</i> bread, you see.”</p> - -<p>But to return to Léon. His father’s regiment -had been ordered to some place in Africa, where -they could not take Léon, and as Aunt Alice was<span class="pagenum" id="Page_162">[162]</span> -going with her husband for at least six months, -Léon was sent to us.</p> - -<p>Eric and I decided that it was a bore. Jennie, -who is queer and contradictory at times, said -nothing. She adores Aunt Alice. The twins, who -had just been doing the Battle of Waterloo in history, -and were rampantly patriotic, expressed -grave doubts as to whether it was quite loyal to -Queen Victoria to receive Léon at all.</p> - -<p>“No one likes to go about all day with a mountebank!” -grumbled Eric.</p> - -<p>“If only he’d had fewer clothes!” I sighed.</p> - -<p>But even the most sanguine destroyer of garments -could hardly hope that Léon would wear out -the quantity of which he was possessed in less than -six months.</p> - -<p>The twins and Léon came toward us from the -tennis lawn; the twins red and triumphant, Léon -red and evidently perturbed. Jennie followed, -lingering in the rear; she is lame, not a cripple, -you know, but noticeably lame.</p> - -<p>“England won!” shouted the twins. They always -seemed to speak in a sort of chorus.</p> - -<p>Léon sat down on the bank beside us and shook -his hair back from his face. He evidently intended -to appeal to Eric about something; but just as he -opened his mouth to speak, he noticed Jennie.</p> - -<p>“Come, my cousin,” he called, patting the bank -beside him; “we shall have good fortune another -time!”</p> - -<p>“England won!” chanted the twins again. “We -always do!”</p> - -<p>“That is not so!” cried Léon angrily. “Why<span class="pagenum" id="Page_163">[163]</span> -do you speak to despise my country? If you were -in France, my guest, we speak not forever of -Hastings?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, that was ages ago,” said Eric judicially; -“but you were not fairly matched.”</p> - -<p>“Léon had me, you see,” put in Jennie.</p> - -<p>“Not so, my cousin, your play was beautiful,” -said Léon, and he took her hand and patted it. -He had queer affectionate ways, and never seemed -to mind showing that he liked people. “We beat -them next time.”</p> - -<p>“I wonder what makes Léon so chummy with -Jennie?” I asked Eric half an hour later, as we -rested after a hot “single.” “Do you think it’s -because she’s the only one of us that couldn’t lick -him?”</p> - -<p>Eric raised himself on his elbows and stared -at me.</p> - -<p>“Well, of all the chuckle-headed ideas I ever -heard! Really, for downright wrong-headedness, -give me the average girl. Can’t you see, you -silly, that it’s because she’s lame, and the little -beggar’s sorry for her? He’s a good-hearted kid -if he is Frenchy, and as to licking, just you -wait——”</p> - -<p>I felt very much snubbed and rather aggrieved, -for only that afternoon Eric had grumbled about -Léon’s clothes and called him a “mountebank.” -Boys seem to keep things separate somehow, in a -curious way.</p> - -<p>One day Jennie and Léon had been sent to the -Home Farm to fetch eggs. It was really the twins’<span class="pagenum" id="Page_164">[164]</span> -turn, but they hid so that they shouldn’t have to -go, for it was a very hot afternoon. Eric and I -went for a stroll through the fields in the same -direction to look at a nest of young yellow-hammers -in the big paddock. There’s a sort of hill in -the big paddock, and we saw Jennie and Léon -coming down the cart road from the farm; they -went by the road because Jennie hates climbing -gates—it hurts her. Léon was carrying the eggs -and they came very slowly, because Jennie was -tired. Toward them came one, Fred Oram, a village -boy, not a nice boy at all. He hates us because -the head groom gave him a thrashing when -he caught him throwing stones at the thoroughbreds.</p> - -<p>Fred Oram began to limp like Jennie, and called -out:</p> - -<p>“’Ullo, Frenchy! Shall I plait your ’air for -ya?”</p> - -<p>Eric, who happened to be at home because two-thirds -of his school got measles and mother was -nervous, began to run, and I ran after him; but -we were a good way from the gate, and the hedge -is too thick to get through. We ran alongside of -it, and heard Léon say in his funny, stilted English:</p> - -<p>“Please hold the eggs, my cousin!” Then, evidently -to Fred: “How dare you to mock at my -cousin and insult me?”</p> - -<p>As we reached the gate Eric pulled me back.</p> - -<p>“Let the kid alone!” he whispered. “He’s not -afraid.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_165">[165]</span>It reminded me of old King Edward, and “Let -the boy win his spurs.”</p> - -<p>None of the three saw us. Jennie was standing -on the grass at the side, looking very red and -excited; Fred Oram was pulling Léon’s hair and -dancing round him, making derisive remarks. -Léon wrenched his head away, and with a bound -stood in the middle of the road, facing his enemy. -In spite of his buttony boots—in spite of his blue -sash and his long hair—Fred seemed rather afraid -of him, for Léon looked, and was, furious.</p> - -<p>For about half a minute they stood looking at -each other. Léon shouted, “Lâche! Lâche!”—he -forgot to speak English, he was so excited—then, -“En garde!”—and there seemed a thousand <i>r</i>s -in that <i>garde</i>—and he sprang on Fred, who went -down like a ninepin.</p> - -<p>Eric vaulted the gate, yelling excitedly, “By -Jove! the kid can box.”</p> - -<p>Jennie laid down the eggs on the grass, and hid -her face in her hands. But she looked through her -fingers. I saw her.</p> - -<p>In another minute Fred was upon his feet. He -was bigger than any of us—even Eric. Léon went -at him again, calling out what we supposed to be -battle-cries in French, and I do believe that the -French alarmed Fred as much as the pommelling. -Anyway, down he went again, with Léon on the -top of him.</p> - -<p>“Time!” shouted Eric, picking upon Léon and -wiping his face, which was hard to see, for his nose -was bleeding and one eye was swollen.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_166">[166]</span>But Fred got up and began to walk away, remarking -with surly dignity:</p> - -<p>“I don’t care for to fight with no French tiger-cats.”</p> - -<p>Léon broke away from Eric, and ran after his -late foe. Fred stopped and took up a defensive -attitude, but Léon went up with his grubby right -hand held out.</p> - -<p>“Shake!” he cried. “We have foughten; it is -over. Shake with me?” And Fred shook. “That -was quite English?” asked Léon anxiously, as he -came back to be cleaned.</p> - -<p>Eric looked at him very kindly. “It was all -right,” he said; and Léon squared his shoulders -with modest pride.</p> - -<p>“I never saw such a nose to bleed!” exclaimed -Eric, ten minutes later, as the last available handkerchief -had been reduced to a crimson, pulpy ball. -“There’s one sash done for, anyway. I suppose -the suit’ll wash, which is a pity.”</p> - -<p>On the way home Eric carried the eggs, and -Jennie walked hand in hand with Léon. They -rather lagged behind, and presently I heard Jennie -whisper—I have very sharp ears:</p> - -<p>“Léon, am I so very lame?”</p> - -<p>“My little cousin, I do not see you lame at all, -except when you are fatigued; and we all of us -walk badly when we are fatigued;” and he stopped -and kissed Jennie on both cheeks.</p> - -<p>I had often heard that the French say what is -pleasant at the expense of what is true; but just -then I wondered if it was always such a bad thing, -for when I turned and looked at my little sister<span class="pagenum" id="Page_167">[167]</span> -her face was perfectly radiant, and she was hardly -limping at all.</p> - -<p>“I’ll tell you what it is,” said Eric, when Léon -had been carried off by the authorities to have -keys put down his back, his eye bathed, and to be -generally cleaned up; and we were all five sitting -in solemn conclave on the largest wheelbarrow—the -twins had joined us, much excited by recent -events—“I’ll tell you what it is: you kids must -drop that Waterloo business, and we must none -of us mind his queer clothes any more. He’s a -ripping good sort, and, after all, he can’t help -being French!”</p> - -<p>“And he wouldn’t help it if he could!” cried -Jennie. “France is a great country.”</p> - -<p>For a wonder nobody contradicted her. We -were all busy readjusting preconceived ideas.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_168">[168]</span> - -<h3 class="nobreak">THE OLD RELIGION</h3> -</div> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">God is above the sphere of our esteem,</div> -<div class="verse">And is the best known, not defining Him.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verseright"><span class="smcap">Robert Herrick</span>.</div> -</div></div></div> - - -<p>It’s a far cry from a busy street in Leith to a -village in the loveliest part of wooded Gloucestershire; -but, at eight years old, vicissitude is borne -with a calm philosophy seemingly unattainable in -later years, and Maggie McClachlan expressed no -great wonder at her new environment, rather to -the disappointment of her worthy aunt, who was -fully aware of her own extreme good nature and -condescension in “taking the lassie for the whole -summer, and paying her fare <i>both</i> ways.”</p> - -<p>Measles followed by an obstinate “hoast,” was -the commonplace cause that transported Maggie -to this strange new country. The long, roaring, -whirring, bewildering journey—in which she was -passed by a kindly official into the varied guardianship -of such passengers as were going her -way—left her dazed and puzzled, but not unhappy. -Her childless uncle and aunt were kind, and there -were the woods.</p> - -<p>The first thing that struck Maggie about these -woods was the singular absence of bits of paper;<span class="pagenum" id="Page_169">[169]</span> -neither did she come upon any broken bottles in -the course of her wanderings. This lack seemed -even more wonderful to her than the presence of -innumerable foxgloves. She had spent an occasional -afternoon in the woods at Aberdour, but -always in a crowd. Here the spaciousness and -peace attracted her, even as it filled her little soul -with an awe that was a thing apart from fear. If -in after years Maggie should read what Mr. Henry -James has written of “a great, good Place,” she -will understand it better than most people.</p> - -<p>For the first week she met with no adventures. -Her aunt, a bustling, busy, thrifty Scotswoman, -worked a great deal up at the big house; her uncle -assisted in the manufacture of the “superfine -broadcloth” for which the little village used to be -famous, and Maggie was left to do much as she -pleased. Her cough left her, and the color came -into her pale cheeks, and the sun set his mark -upon the bridge of her nose in the shape of a band -of the dearest little brown freckles.</p> - -<p>Hitherto she had not gone far into the woods, -but with returning health came a spirit of adventure. -One afternoon she wandered on and on, -singing softly to herself a ditty relating that -“Kitty Bairdie had a coo,” going on to describe -minutely, and at length, the various animals owned -by this worthy lady, and concluding each verse -with the cheerful injunction, “Dance, Kitty -Bairdie!”</p> - -<p>Everything seemed to want to sing that afternoon, -and did sing, too, lustily and long. Unconsciously -Maggie raised her voice till the final<span class="pagenum" id="Page_170">[170]</span> -“Dance, Kitty Bairdie!” had quite a rollicking -sound, and she found herself doing a sort of double -shuffle among the ground ivy and foxgloves.</p> - -<p>It is not easy to dance in and out of ground ivy -and brambles, and Maggie paused for breath, only -to catch it again in a perfect agony of fear, as, not -five yards from her, she beheld a big white figure, -apparently just risen out of the ground.</p> - -<p>Paralyzed with terror, she stood staring at the -vision. A tall man it was—she was sure it was a -man, and no ghost—clad in curious flowing robes -of soft whitey flannel, falling to his feet in innumerable -folds, while in his hand he held what -Maggie took to be some instrument of torture. It -was a butterfly net; but Maggie did not know this, -for people did not catch many butterflies in Commercial -Street, Leith.</p> - -<p>The whole dreadful truth flashed upon her. This -was one of the monks! Had she not read in a -guide to the neighborhood that “The Dominican -Priory of the Annunciation is a large and handsome -building; here candidates for the priesthood -pursue a course of study in divinity and philosophy. -It is under the government of a Prior.” -This, then, must be one of the priests, and having -been very well brought up in the strictest sect of -the Free Kirk, she was sure that if only he succeeded -in “catching her,” she would be put to unspeakable -tortures, or forced to recant her faith.</p> - -<p>Had she not with her own eyes seen her mother -hastily slam the door of their flat in the face of a -woman wearing a queer head-dress and long cloak, -who had come to beg for money?</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_171">[171]</span>“I’ll ha’e none o’ they Papishes here!” her -mother exclaimed angrily, and then—for it was -just before Maggie came south—“and you, Maggie, -if you see ony o’ them when you’re wi’ your -aunty, just turn and flee. I’m told there’s a whole -clamjamfray o’ them there, an’ ye can never tell -what they Jesuits will be at.”</p> - -<p>So, having found her breath sufficiently to give -a wild cry, Maggie turned and fled.</p> - -<p>The queer white man, who, as she afterward remembered, -looked astonished, called something -after her. But Maggie’s heart was thumping in -her ears to the exclusion of every other sound, and -she ran blindly on till one treacherous little foot, -more used to pavements than rough forest ground, -gave under her with a horrid wrench, and she fell -forward in a terrified little heap just as she -reached a footpath leading she knew not whither.</p> - -<p>There she lay shivering with pain and fear, with -her eyes shut, for she heard the soft swish of long -garments through the undergrowth. Then a -shadow fell upon her, and she was lifted up into -a pair of strong arms, while a voice that even her -excited imagination could not construe as unkindly -exclaimed:</p> - -<p>“I do believe I frightened you, and I’m awfully -sorry. I don’t suppose you ever saw such a funny -frock before!”</p> - -<p>There was something human and disarming -about the “awfully” and “funny frock”; moreover, -the owner of the voice did not hold her as -though she were a captive. He sat down at the -foot of the big tree whose gnarled roots had<span class="pagenum" id="Page_172">[172]</span> -tripped Maggie up, and set her on his knee. Besides, -the voluminous flannel garment had a most -reassuring and workaday smell of soap. But she -could not bring herself to open her eyes just yet. -She screwed them and her courage up very tight, -and whispered:</p> - -<p>“I’ll no recant! Ye may burn me, but I’ll no -recant!”</p> - -<p>The big, queer man threw back his head and -laughed, and his laugh was even more inspiring of -confidence than his speaking voice. But he pulled -himself up short in the very middle of his laugh -to ask:</p> - -<p>“I say, though, did you hurt yourself when you -fell?”</p> - -<p>Maggie opened her eyes the tiniest little bit, and -for the first time saw this queer man’s face. It -was a kind face, a handsome face, with large merry -brown eyes and an exceedingly straight nose. His -mouth was well cut and firm, and when he smiled -as he did then, he showed two rows of admirably -white and even teeth. And the good smell of -soap was in no way deceptive, for there was about -this queer man’s appearance a radiant cleanliness -that was by no means merely physical. All this -did Maggie gravely take in through half-shut eyes, -and though the pain in her ankle was horrible, -and her heart still danced a sort of breakdown -against her ribs, she was no longer afraid—only -very, very curious.</p> - -<p>The queer tall man, looking down at the face -resting against his arm, noticed that it was small -and white, with long-lashed closed eyes set rather<span class="pagenum" id="Page_173">[173]</span> -far apart, and that the little freckles looked pathetically -prominent across the thin small nose; -and even as Maggie was comforted by the good -smell of clean flannel, so he recognized approvingly -that he held in his arms a very clean little -girl, even though her pinafore was patched and -her shoes worn at the toes.</p> - -<p>“Are you hurt, you poor mite?” he asked -again.</p> - -<p>For answer Maggie stuck out the painful foot, -and behold! there was a big lump on the ankle, -and it looked twice as big as the other one.</p> - -<p>“Here’s a pretty kettle of fish!” cried the queer -man. “You’ve sprained your ankle.”</p> - -<p>As he spoke he set Maggie on the ground beside -him very gently, and diving into the folds of his -habit produced a large handkerchief, which he -proceeded to tear into strips. Then, very gently -and deftly, he bandaged up the poor swollen foot. -By this time Maggie’s blue eyes were wide open, -and as he stooped over her foot she found time to -wonder why he wore such “a wee, wee roond cappie” -on the back of his head. The pain was bad, -but she tried hard not to flinch, and when it was -all done and the bandage fastened with a little -pebble brooch that she had worn at her neck, he -said gaily:</p> - -<p>“And now to carry you home, for that foot must -have hot fomentations as soon as possible.”</p> - -<p>Here, however, Maggie demurred. “I can walk -fine,” she announced with great dignity, and tried; -but it was no use—she couldn’t even stand, the -pain was so bad.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_174">[174]</span>So the “papist man” picked her up in his arms -and set off toward the village.</p> - -<p>Now, Maggie was just a little anxious at this, -for she had wandered a good way into the park, -and the path he took seemed quite unfamiliar.</p> - -<p>With unprecedented courage she took hold of -his chin with her hand and turned his face that -she could see it.</p> - -<p>“You’re sure you’re no takin’ me to your convent?” -she asked gravely, as one who begs to know -the worst at once. She still had fleeting visions of -a dungeon followed by stake and faggots if she -proved leal to the faith of her fathers.</p> - -<p>“My dear child, they wouldn’t have you there. -We don’t allow any women to come in—not even -little girls—where I live.”</p> - -<p>Maggie was silent for a minute; then, because -every Scotsman, woman, or child loves an argument, -and a theological argument best of all, she -said slowly:</p> - -<p>“But you worship a woman—images of a -woman.”</p> - -<p>“Ah, that’s rather different. I don’t think we’ll -discuss that, because, you see, we look at everything -from rather different points of view. How’s -that poor foot of yours? You’re a regular Spartan -to bear pain. Am I carrying you comfortably?”</p> - -<p>Here was another facer for Maggie; he did not -want “to discuss that.”</p> - -<p>“I thought,” she said, “that you liked to burn -everybody wha’ didna ’gree wi’ you—when ye got -the chance,” she added.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_175">[175]</span>“Oh, we’re not quite so black as we’re painted, -and the world is big enough for us all nowadays, -even though there are so many more people in it. -Isn’t that a good thing?”</p> - -<p>Maggie’s honest little heart yearned over this -mistaken man, who carried little girls so tenderly, -who seemed so kind and gay.</p> - -<p>“I wish that you were no a papish,” she said -softly, “for I’m sorely afraid that ye’ll no win -Heaven if you worship graven images.”</p> - -<p>The papist in question stopped short in the -middle of the woodland path. The sunlight shining -through the leaves painted fantastic patterns -on his white draperies, and his eyes were very -kind as he said gently:</p> - -<p>“Don’t you think there will be even more room -in Heaven than there is here for all sorts of -people, provided they are kind, and brave, and -honest, and do their best?”</p> - -<p>And Maggie agreed that it might be possible, -and was something comforted. By and by he -asked her what the nice song was that she had -been singing when he first met her, and she sang -it again for him all through, till he, too, learned -the tune; then she taught him the words, and although -his Scotch left much to be desired, they -made a very considerable noise between them, and -the woods resounded to the strains of “Dance, -Kitty Bairdie.”</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>“They monks seem different to the ordinary -sort,” said Maggie that night, when, after much<span class="pagenum" id="Page_176">[176]</span> -fomentation of the injured ankle, her aunt tucked -her into bed.</p> - -<p>“They’re just harmless haverals,” said her -aunt indulgently; but Maggie “added a wee thing” -onto her prayers, and whispered under the bed-clothes:</p> - -<p>“Please make room for yon clean man at—any—rate.”</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_177">[177]</span> - -<h3 class="nobreak">COMRADES</h3> -</div> - - -<p>He was called Bunchy because, when a very little -boy, his clothes <i>would</i> bunch; the tiny petticoats -were short for their width, and everything stuck -out all round him like a frill.</p> - -<p>Now that he was five, and wore breeches with -four little buttons at the knee, the name still stuck -to him, though it was no longer appropriate.</p> - -<p>Bunchy was lonely.</p> - -<p>If Pussy had been there it would have been very -different; but she had been sent for quite suddenly -to go and nurse dad, who had incontinently -fallen ill with influenza just three days after -mother (Bunchy always called her Pussy), Nana, -and he had settled down for a fortnight’s holiday -in a Cotteswold village.</p> - -<p>It was a delightful village! It had a green with -noisy geese upon it, a stream that gurgled and -splashed and told fairy tales on sleepy September -afternoons, and real woods surrounded it.</p> - -<p>The cottage where Pussy had taken rooms was -ever so pretty, and had a garden full of currant-bushes -and celery.</p> - -<p>For three days they had a lovely time. They -sought giants in the woods, finding squirrels instead—which -were prettier and only less exciting;<span class="pagenum" id="Page_178">[178]</span> -they paddled their feet in the stream and caught -minnows in a bottle; they pretended that the geese -on the green were “Trolls,” and routed them with -great slaughter; and they had found mushrooms -before breakfast in a neighboring field.</p> - -<p>Then Pussy had to go away, and for Bunchy -the face of Nature was changed and clouded. -Only Nana was left, and, although very kind, -she was not an exciting companion. She knew -nothing of giants, and seemed to care very little -about Trolls. Moreover, on this particular morning -she sat indoors making a cotton dress, and -told Bunchy to “run and play in the garden like -a good little boy, and not worry.” How can -people, he thought, sit in a room and sew when all -the beautiful out-of-doors seems clamoring for -them to come and admire it?</p> - -<p>However, he played in the garden for a while; -but it was rather a small garden, and he grew tired -of being a “third son” all by himself, with no one -to admire him, so he came in again and climbed -the steep little staircase. Finding the door of his -mother’s room open, he went in. The dressing-table -faced the door, and the first thing he saw -was a pair of Pussy’s slippers standing in front -of it. They had tall curly heels and buckles, such -as she loved, and he remembered how, even with -the tall heels, she did not reach to daddy’s shoulder. -Somehow the sight of those slippers made -him want her so dreadfully that he couldn’t stay -in the room or in the garden. He went out into -the road to walk and walk until he should come to -Yorkshire, where daddy was laid up in the house<span class="pagenum" id="Page_179">[179]</span> -of a bachelor friend with whom he had gone to -shoot.</p> - -<p>It was a very straight road, with a trim path by -the side. By and by he came to some big gates. -There was a little house inside them, all covered -with purple clematis. The gate stood open, and -as Bunchy was rather tired of the neat, straight -road, he turned in, and went down a very broad -gravel path. A little way inside the gate stood -two little churches, one on each side of the path; -beyond them, as far as Bunchy could see, it was -all garden. There were flowering shrubs, and -trees, and lots of grass, but it was unlike any garden -he had ever seen before, for it was full of little -mounds, and there were crosses, and slabs of -stone, and marble angels dotted about among the -mounds.</p> - -<p>He turned down a side-path to investigate further -in this strange garden. Nobody was in sight, -and he wandered on by himself till, turning a -corner suddenly, he came upon a man.</p> - -<p>The man was dressed in black, and was sitting -on a big stone slab—a very grew old slab; but -close at his feet there was one of those curious -mounds that puzzled Bunchy, and although this -one had no grass upon it, you could hardly see the -brown earth, for it was almost covered with scattered -flowers—all of one kind.</p> - -<p>Bunchy knew the flower by sight, for Pussy -always wore a bit in her tam-o’-shanter when she -came back from Scotland. The man did not move -as Bunchy came up to him. The little boy regarded -him with grave brown eyes, and something<span class="pagenum" id="Page_180">[180]</span> -in his expression made Bunchy sure that the man -was sorry.</p> - -<p>Now, in Bunchy’s house, when people are sorry, -Pussy talks about something else, and she does it -so beautifully that they straightway forget their -sorrow in the interest of her remarks. Bunchy -felt that he ought to talk about something else to -this man who looked so sorry; but how can you -change a subject when no subject has been -broached?</p> - -<p>So the child went up to the sorry man and lifted -his tam-o’-shanter, saying politely:</p> - -<p>“Can you, please, tell me whose garden this is?”</p> - -<p>Now it is an easy thing to take off a tam-o’-shanter, -but when you try to put it on again it has -a shabby way of curling up and sitting on the top -of your head so insecurely that it topples off again -directly. Pussy generally put Bunchy’s on again -for him, and as she wasn’t there he left the matter -alone and held it in his hand. The man started a -little as Bunchy spoke, then he said slowly:</p> - -<p>“I think it is God’s garden.”</p> - -<p>Bunchy was not surprised. He felt that he knew -God very well indeed. When you say prayers -morning and evening, and know that there is a -benevolent Somebody somewhere, who gives you -your home, and your parents, and your little white -bed, who likes you to be truthful and courteous, -and to have clean hands at meals, it is quite natural -to hear that this benevolent Person has a garden. -All nice people ought to have gardens, so -Bunchy said:</p> - -<p>“Why does God have so many little rockeries<span class="pagenum" id="Page_181">[181]</span> -in His garden? Why are there all these stones, -and figures, and little mounds?”</p> - -<p>“When people die they are buried in this garden, -and their friends put up the crosses and -stones——”</p> - -<p>“And angels?” interrupted Bunchy admiringly; -and as he looked up in the man’s face he noticed -that his eyes were very kind, but that there were -big black shadows round them, and their lids -looked red and heavy.</p> - -<p>“They put up the crosses, and stones, and -angels to show where their friends are sleeping,” -continued the tall man.</p> - -<p>“Then it’s a funeral,” said Bunchy solemnly, -and there was silence.</p> - -<p>The man looked sorrier than ever, and Bunchy -felt that now was the time to talk of something -else, so he said:</p> - -<p>“Can you tell me the nearest way to Yorkshire?”</p> - -<p>The man seemed to give himself a shake, as -though he were trying to wake up. He held out -his hand to Bunchy, who placed his own in it confidingly; -then he drew the child toward him and -set him on his knee, asking:</p> - -<p>“Why do you want to go to Yorkshire, old -chap?”</p> - -<p>“Because Pussy is there and I am so lonely,” -Bunchy’s voice broke. “I went into her room, -and I saw her shoes—the ones with the curly heels—and -they made me want her so bad. They’re -such tall heels.”</p> - -<p>“She had such little feet,” murmured the man.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_182">[182]</span>And Bunchy saw that he had gone to sleep again, -so he sat very still for a minute or two, then he -said mournfully:</p> - -<p>“I’m so lonely!”</p> - -<p>“So am I,” said the man. “My Pussy has gone -to sleep. She is not coming back any more. She -is sleeping under the heather here.”</p> - -<p>Bunchy felt the man’s shoulder heave as he -leant against him, but he said nothing. He felt -that this was not a time to talk of something else; -this sorryness was something beyond him; so he -stroked the man’s face with a soft, sticky little -hand, and the corners of his mouth drooped, but -he did not feel quite so lonely.</p> - -<p>The man seemed to like the feel of the little -hand, for he bent his head, and, laying his cheek -against Bunchy’s, said in a queer broken voice:</p> - -<p>“How is it that you understand, you quaint little -boy?”</p> - -<p>“Sorry people always understand, and I feel to -love you! Will you come to Yorkshire too? We -should be such nice company.”</p> - -<p>The man seemed to consider; then he said:</p> - -<p>“It’s a long way. I’m afraid we shouldn’t get -there by candle-light. You’d be very tired, and -your shoes would be quite worn out.”</p> - -<p>“Couldn’t you carry me a bit sometimes? -Daddy does when I’m very tired.”</p> - -<p>“Well, I might do that; but even then we -shouldn’t get there to-day. How is it you are here -all alone?”</p> - -<p>The man seemed waking up, and waited quite -anxiously for Bunchy’s answer.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_183">[183]</span>“Well, you see, Nana was busy sewing, and I -was lonely wivout Pussy, so I thought I’d walk to -Yorkshire just to see her.”</p> - -<p>“Suppose you come to lunch with me instead. -It’s not so far as Yorkshire; still, it’s a good way, -and we’ll go and tell Nana you’re coming, then -she won’t be anxious. I don’t think Pussy would -like you to walk all that way to-day. She’ll come -back as soon as she can, you may be quite sure. -Will you come? We’d be nice company, as you -say.”</p> - -<p>Bunchy looked up into the man’s eyes; then he -slid off his knee, saying:</p> - -<p>“I’ll come, thank you.”</p> - -<p>The man got up off the big flat stone and held -out his hand to Bunchy; but the little boy had -knelt down by the mound all covered with heather. -He stooped his curly head and kissed the flowers, -saying in his sweet child’s voice:</p> - -<p>“Good-bye, man’s Pussy! I hope you are happy -in God’s garden.”</p> - -<p>Then he took the man’s hand and they walked -away together.</p> - -<p>But the man had gone to sleep again, for he -said:</p> - -<p>“Nay! And though all men, seeing, had pity -on me, she would not see.”</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_184">[184]</span> - -<h3 class="nobreak">LITTLE SHOES</h3> -</div> - - -<p>The Vicarage stands at the bottom of the market -place, inside high walls and entered by wooden -gates which generally stand open. Thus the passer-by -can, for a moment, feast his eyes upon the -perfect garden within.</p> - -<p>The Vicaress was dead-heading her roses. She -does this carefully every summer afternoon just -after lunch. She had reached the bush of cabbage -roses close to the gate, and her long lath basket -lay on the drive beside her.</p> - -<p>The market place was empty and still; nobody -was shopping, for all the world rested preparatory -to attending the Earl’s garden-party later on. -Road and houses alike glared white in the hot June -sunshine, while in contrast the Vicarage garden -seemed doubly cool and shady. The yew hedge -just inside the gates threw long green shadows on -drive and lawn. Such a lawn it was! Plantains -or dandelions were a thing unknown. Other lawns -might get brown or worn in a drought, but the -Vicarage lawn was watered every night by a -specially constructed hose, that the beauty of its -velvet turf might never vary. The Vicar was wont -to excuse his exceeding pride in his lawn by quoting: -“The green hath two pleasures: the one,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_185">[185]</span> -because nothing is more pleasant to the eye than -green grass finely shorn; the other, because it will -give you a fair alley in the midst.” It was a -sunken lawn surrounded by smoothly shaven banks -and reached by broad stone steps.</p> - -<p>The Vicar and like-minded clerics occasionally -played bowls upon it; but to think of lawn tennis -or croquet in connection with such grass were -little short of sacrilege.</p> - -<p>Presently the Vicaress became aware that a -woman stood in the doorway, a woman carrying a -baby, while a little girl of some three years clung -to her skirts.</p> - -<p>They stood gazing wistfully into the garden. -As both mother and child wore red kerchiefs instead -of hats, the Vicaress looked for the inevitable -organ, but could not see it.</p> - -<p>As she strongly disapproved of indiscriminate -charity she shook her head at them, saying: “We -never give at the door!”</p> - -<p>Wearily shifting the baby to her other arm, the -woman answered, with a touch of gentle dignity: -“I have not ask the senora for money, but if she -permit that we rest on the seat in the shade; we -do no harm.”</p> - -<p>Her voice was soft, and her English refined by -its foreign accent. The Vicaress pointed to a -rustic seat under the yews, saying: “You may -certainly come in and rest.” Then she continued -to deadhead the cabbage rose—it was an untidy -bush that cabbage rose.</p> - -<p>As the child toddled past her to climb into the -seat the Vicaress noticed that the little feet made<span class="pagenum" id="Page_186">[186]</span> -red marks on the gravel. The woman pointed to -them with an apologetic shrug: “The little Zita -she wear out her shoes, her feet bleed. The senora -has a pair of old shoes of her children? Yes?”</p> - -<p>The Vicaress shook her head, and a spasm of -pain crossed her face. There were no children at -the Vicarage now. But shoes? Yes! there were -shoes. She bent down to look at the ragged little -feet, and very gently took off Zita’s shoes. “Her -feet must be washed,” she announced. “Will she -come with me?”</p> - -<p>Zita shook her curls out of her eyes, but on -further inspection of the senora declined to budge. -“Then I must bring the water here,” said the -Vicaress, marching away to fetch it.</p> - -<p>She was a tall, thin woman, with keen grey eyes -and a lined, hard face, framed in hair that Nature -had intended to break into fluffy rings of sunlight -round her brow. But the Vicaress coerced her -hair with some abomination that kept it flat and -close to her head. It was only when a shaft of -sunlight struck the tight braid at the back that -one realized it was of the true Titian color. She -went up the wide oak staircase into her cool, sweet-scented -bedroom, where the <i>Gloire de Dijon</i> roses -nodded into the windows. Stopping in front of a -big Chippendale wardrobe, she pulled out one of -the deep drawers.</p> - -<p>“I can’t bear to do it!” she murmured, “but I -never give money, and her little feet were cut and -bleeding.”</p> - -<p>In that drawer lay many pairs of half-worn little -shoes—shoes that had pattered gaily down the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_187">[187]</span> -Vicarage stairs and danced across the sacred lawn. -Her eyes were very soft as she chose out a pair of -little strap shoes and some woollen socks. Had -the Murillo cherub, chattering in her sweet jargon -of Pyrenean Spanish under the shade of the yew -trees, seen the face of the Vicaress just then, she -would not have refused to go with her. But the -Vicaress kept what Mr. Barrie tenderly calls her -“soft face” for solitary places. The best that -people could say of her was, that if her manner -was hard her deeds were often kindly. She filled -a basin with warm water and went through the -silent house into the garden again. Zita laughed -and showed her white teeth as she dabbled her feet -in the water, becoming quite friendly; then the -Vicaress dried her brown legs and arrayed her in -the new shoes and socks. On the party being regaled -with Vicarage cake and milk, the mother -informed her hostess that they purposed to go on -to Gloucester that day—a fifteen-mile walk.</p> - -<p>“Have you no money to go by train?” asked -the Vicaress.</p> - -<p>“Oh, no, senora! My ’usban’ sell ze ice cream -there, he cannot send me large money.”</p> - -<p>“But you can’t get there to-night; where will -you sleep?”</p> - -<p>The woman shrugged her shoulders, turning her -unoccupied hand outward with an expressive gesture. -“In the hedge, senora, it is cool and dry.”</p> - -<p>“But the children?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, zay sleep—and Zita, she walk well till her -foots come to ze ground.” Then turning to the -child she said something rapidly in Spanish, adding:<span class="pagenum" id="Page_188">[188]</span> -“She sing for you, senora, you so kind for -her.”</p> - -<p>“<i>A la puerta del cielos, venden zapatos</i>,” -crooned Zita in her funny little nasal chant, and -sang the lullaby right through.</p> - -<p>“What is it all about?” demanded her hostess -with a queer little catch in her voice.</p> - -<p>“Senora! it is that zay sell shoes at ze doorway -of heaven, to ze ragged little angels who have -none!”</p> - -<p>The woman rose, and shouldering the brown -baby, prepared to depart. But the baby, who approved -of Vicarage cake, choked alarmingly, and -delayed matters for a while.</p> - -<p>The baby’s equanimity restored, they bade their -hostess farewell. They had not gone very far, -however, when hearing hasty footsteps behind -them, they turned. It was the Vicaress. She -thrust something into little Zita’s hand, exclaiming -breathlessly: “I wish you to go by train; it -is not safe for such babies to be out all night!” -Then she turned and fairly ran home.</p> - -<p>An hour later, as she stood in front of her looking-glass, -smoothing her hair till it looked like a -yellow skull-cap, she said to herself: “To pay for -a person’s railway journey is not indiscriminate -charity!” and her eyes grew tender as she thought -of the little shoes.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_189">[189]</span> - -<h3 class="nobreak">“PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN”</h3> -</div> - - -<p>“You sent for me, mother?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, child; I sent for you to say good-bye. I -am going away for some time.” The woman spoke -deliberately in the monotonous voice of one giving -a piece of information tedious to give.</p> - -<p>Angus did not express any surprise, or regret. -The nine years he had spent with his mother had -not helped him to know her. Without in the least -understanding wherein lay her strange aloofness, -he was conscious that he was supremely uninteresting -to her. He wondered why it should be so, -and his honest boyish soul was sometimes troubled. -But children submit readily to the inevitable, and -Angus had his compensations.</p> - -<p>Vera Warden looked at her son with more interest -than was usual with her. He was certainly -a handsome lad, tall and well built, with blue eyes -that were both kind and honest. She had been long -in making her decision. Now that it was made she -did not regret: she only wondered if, somehow, -she had missed something that more commonplace -women find easily.</p> - -<p>“Angus, dear, you must take care of father. -You and your father are so much alike—understand -each other so well—that it will be easy for<span class="pagenum" id="Page_190">[190]</span> -you. You must be especially good to him, now.”</p> - -<p>There was a curious little catch in Vera’s voice -as she said the “now.”</p> - -<p>“Why are you going, mother?” questioned Angus, -feeling that here was something even more -puzzling than usual in his mother’s manner. -“When are you coming back? Father will miss -you.”</p> - -<p>“Will he?” asked Vera wistfully. “And you, -Angus, will you miss me at all?”</p> - -<p>Angus was profoundly astonished. He would -like to have kissed his mother just as he kissed -dad, but he did not dare. He only grew red, and -fidgeted awkwardly, as he answered: “Of course -I shall miss you, mother—at meals.”</p> - -<p>It was not greed that prompted the child’s definition, -but the fact that he seldom saw his mother, -except at breakfast and lunch.</p> - -<p>Vera Warden did not care for children, and said -so—frequently.</p> - -<p>The carriage came to the door, good-bye being -said without much emotion on either side. As she -was driven out of the big stone gates, Vera gave -herself a little shake, saying: “And now for life!”</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>An hour later Thomas Warden returned from a -fishing expedition on the other side of the Dale. -The oak trees in the avenue had burst into gold-green -leaf. The big chestnut on the lawn—the -only chestnut on the estate—was covered with -cones of pinky blossom. The May sunset touched -the grim grey house with rosy light, and Thomas -Warden felt a welcome in it all.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_191">[191]</span>Laying down his rods and fishing-baskets in the -hall, he went straight to his study. There on his -blotting-book lay the letter he had both dreaded -and expected.</p> - -<p>His sunburnt face looked grey as he took it up. -He sat down heavily; then, with shaking hands, -opened the letter and read:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>“I have burnt my boats; there is no going back. -I warned you that it would come to this: that I -would bear the monotony no longer. I have given -you ten years of my life—the ten best years. Now -I owe it to myself to live—it may be ten years -more—but anyway, to <i>live</i>. Marriage and maternity -have, for me, proved uninteresting; but I have -endured them for your sake, and for the sake of -the boy—while he was quite young. Had he been -in any way an unusual boy I might have found -life more tolerable. To develop his mind would -have been an interest for me; he might have -shared, in some degree, my aspirations after a -fuller intellectual life. But he is a healthy, handsome, -quite commonplace boy, who will grow into -what you would call ‘an honest, God-fearing man’ -without my help. He has an excellent governess, -and your good mother will doubtless come frequently -to worship you both. I wish I could free -you of me altogether, and that you could marry -again and be happy. But you are not the sort of -man to bear with equanimity any sort of scandal -or publicity, and you have my promise that the -life I lead shall be such as can give you no -cause for offence other than the fact that I lead -it away from you. For your never-failing courtesy -and kindness I thank you. Believe me, I shall -always have the sincerest affection and respect for<span class="pagenum" id="Page_192">[192]</span> -you. The fact remains, however, that I cannot -lead your life, and you can lead no other. Let us -then separate, and go our different ways in peace.</p> - -<p>“In every conventional and actual sense, I am -and will be your faithful wife,</p> - -<p class="right">“<span class="smcap">Vera Warden</span>.”</p> -</div> - -<p>There was nothing in the letter that she had not -said to him, many times, during the last six -months.</p> - -<p>Now, she had actually carried out her so often -announced intention, and was gone; and the realization -stunned him. He felt cold and numbed. -The roar of the beck, in which he had stood all -morning, was in his ears, and he gazed out into the -gathering twilight, seeing nothing—only conscious -that it was dark and chill everywhere.</p> - -<p>There was a knock at the door, and a servant -came in, saying: “Please, sir, Master Angus is -ready, and would like you to come to him, if you -are not too tired.”</p> - -<p>Dragging himself out of his chair, he passed his -hand across his dazed, strained eyes. Then he -went out of the room and up the wide old staircase -to his dressing-room, where Angus slept.</p> - -<p>“I’ve got a new nightsuit, dad, just like yours. -Look—pocket and trowsies, and all!” exclaimed -the child, displaying the latter garments with -great pride. “Miss Taylor had them made for -me in York. Aren’t they nice?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, my boy, yes—very!” but the voice was -absent, and Angus felt that there was a something -lacking, something that he generally found there.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_193">[193]</span>The child felt frightened. Was dad, too, going -to hold himself “aloof”? Would he, too, take to -looking over people’s heads, and answering in a -far-away voice? The thought was one full of -omen.</p> - -<p>Angus gazed into his father’s face, as he sat -wearily on the edge of the little bed. The child, -if commonplace, was quick to understand those -who loved him. In a moment he acquitted his -father, and came and knelt beside him, rubbing -his curly head against his knees. He said his -prayer with devoutly folded hands, as Grannie had -taught him. Then, climbing into Warden’s arms, -put his own round his neck.</p> - -<p>“Shall I sing my psalm, dad? Or are you too -tired?”</p> - -<p>His father held him very close. “Sing it, laddie. -Sing Grannie’s psalm.”</p> - -<p>Grannie was Scotch. When she came she taught -Angus the psalms in metre. She taught him other -things that he learned more easily than the -psalms; chief among them a great love and trust -in her, and through her, for everything Scotch.</p> - -<p>Shortbread was Scotch, and it was good. Scones -were Scotch, and they were good, especially with -currants. Edinburgh rock was excellent; therefore -the psalms, too, were probably superior in -the Scotch version. Angus learned all Grannie’s -favorites, the first of which was the twenty-third:</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="verse">My table thou hast furnished,</div> -<div class="verse">In presence of my foes.</div> -</div></div> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_194">[194]</span>The child always pictured a long table, covered -with a fair white cloth, and plentifully plenished -with plates piled high with scones and shortbread. -He wondered what “foes” were, for he hadn’t -any; he thought they must be the servants who -handed round the plates.</p> - -<p>“Goodness and mercy all my life shall surely -follow me.” The sad, patient tune Grannie had -taught him sounded almost triumphant, as the -child’s strong treble voice rang out. When he had -finished, his father leant his head against the little -rounded shoulder, and there was silence save for -the man’s quick breathing.</p> - -<p>“Good-night, dad!” said Angus at last, turning -himself to see his father’s face.</p> - -<p>Thomas Warden rose hastily; he laid the boy in -his little white bed, kissed him, and blessed him, -and went down and sat in the study again. But a -man cannot dine in his fishing boots; so he went -upstairs, had a bath, and while he dressed, Angus -discoursed cheerfully to him through the half-open -door.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>The silence was unbearable; it was so lonely. -Thomas Warden could not sleep. He got up and -walked about his room. Only one o’clock! The -night had hardly begun.</p> - -<p>The moon shone brilliantly, but the wind blew -shrewdly through the open casement. May nights -are cold in the North country.</p> - -<p>He went into the dressing-room and looked at -Angus. “If she had only loved the boy—if she -had only loved the boy.” He could have forgiven<span class="pagenum" id="Page_195">[195]</span> -her all the rest. A just and tolerant man, he knew -his own limitations. He granted to the full his -wife’s intellectual superiority; but she might have -loved the boy.</p> - -<p>“Goodness and mercy all my life shall surely -follow me.” Why did those lines ring in his head? -and then, there always followed the sentence in his -wife’s letter: “I cannot live your life, and you can -live no other.”</p> - -<p>It was true: <i>he</i> could live no other. But the boy—why -did she not love the boy?</p> - -<p>He drew up the blind, and the mellow moonlight -fell on the sleeping child. Surely he was a goodly -child, so comely, and kindly, and honest. As he -looked at the boy his heart went out to him. He -did not stoop and kiss him as a woman would have -done; he reverenced too much this fair sleep which -wrapped him round. He went back to his own -room and got a pillow. Then, laying his long -length on the floor beside the little bed, and with -the child’s psalm still sounding in his ears, he too -slept.</p> - -<p>The room was flooded with moonlight when Angus -awoke. There was a sound of regular and -heavy breathing. Angus felt puzzled; puzzled, but -not in the least afraid. Such breathing must come -from a man, or a dog; from men and dogs the -child had experienced nothing but kindness.</p> - -<p>He sat up, and listening, looked about to see -where the sound came from. He shook his hair -back from his forehead, and rubbed his eyes. Yes! -he was not mistaken, it <i>was</i> his father who lay -there on the floor beside his bed.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_196">[196]</span>Angus rose softly, and touched his father’s bare -feet; they were very cold. “Poor dad,” he said -to himself—“and him so tired!”</p> - -<p>Then suddenly he remembered his mother’s -words: “You must take care of father.” It was -bad to sleep without a covering, Grannie had told -him that. He pulled his little quilt off his bed, and -laid it lightly on his father. To his delight the -sleeping figure never stirred, but the quilt was -short, and Thomas Warden was long—by no -amount of stretching would it cover both his shoulders -and his feet—poor cold feet! Then Angus -was seized by an inspiration, which even his mother -could not have called quite commonplace. He lay -down at his father’s feet, and unbuttoning the -jacket of the new sleeping suit, he cuddled up so -that the cold feet rested on his own warm breast. -Then he, too, fell asleep.</p> - -<p>The kindly moon shone in upon them, and it was -very still.</p> - -<p>When Thomas Warden awoke the moonlight had -changed to pearly dawn. He was no longer cold, -and when he realized why, he was no longer lonely.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_197">[197]</span> - -<h3 class="nobreak">A THROW BACK</h3> -</div> - - -<p>Nana had at last gone out and left the coast -clear. Kit seized her little brother’s hand, and -they sped down the long passage to the red baize -door which swung heavily but did not latch, shutting -off the nursery quarters from the house.</p> - -<p>Kit was a person of dramatic instincts, and as -they ran down the passage she quoted in a deep -and awful voice, “The tiger is a fearful beast, He -comes when you expect him least.” Addison -gazed fearfully over his shoulder, and ran at the -top of his speed.</p> - -<p>At last by a mighty effort they pushed open the -heavy red door, and the staircase and the house -lay before them for exploration. It was a very -wide staircase, black and shiny and slippery, and -as they went down their little feet made a pattering -noise which seemed to echo and multiply in the -silent house. Kit turned and said, “Hush!” in a -reproving voice to Addison, who was, like Agag, -walking delicately, on the banister side. “I can’t -hush any more than I’m doing!” he replied in an -injured tone. “I must put my feet down firm or -I’d skate!”</p> - -<p>“Come on!” said Kit. “Let’s go and see if<span class="pagenum" id="Page_198">[198]</span> -Jakes is in the dining-room, and he’ll tell us what’s -for lunch.”</p> - -<p>They crossed the stone-flagged hall, and Kit -opened the dining-room door and marched boldly -in. There was no one there; the big room was -wrapped in silence, and Addison felt very small -and timid as he stood on the threshold. Not so -Kit; she walked boldly up to the table, which was -laid. There was a great deal of old silver on the -table, and many flowers; but its appearance was -evidently most displeasing to Kit, for she exclaimed -angrily:</p> - -<p>“Look here, Addison, just look here! Jakes has -only laid lunch for <i>one</i>!”</p> - -<p>Even the mild and gentle Addison was roused to -something like indignation at this tremendous intelligence. -To have breakfast and tea in the nursery -is an understood thing; but lunch—whoever -heard of a well-conducted child having lunch anywhere -but in the dining-room, once he or she could -hold a spoon and fork? It was abominable; it -had to be seen into at once.</p> - -<p>Kit gave an indignant sniff, saying: “I know it -isn’t Jakes; it’s Nana. She’d go and say we could -have lunch with her till Miss Mercer came; but -I’ll go and speak to grandpapa at once; it’s a -shame; I won’t stand it. Come on!”</p> - -<p>The obedient Addison trotted after Kit across -the hall with some alacrity. He hadn’t seen much -of grandpapa; but what he had seen he liked. How -still the old house was, no sound to be heard but -the drip, drip of the rain on the ivy outside the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_199">[199]</span> -windows and the sizzle and fiz of the big logs in -the great stone fireplace.</p> - -<p>The children looked upon “Nanas” and their -like as necessary evils. They divided mankind -into two classes, which they called respectively -“the dears” and “the deafs.” To the “dears” -belonged father and mother, all father’s friends -and most of mother’s; Gaffer and all Gaffer’s -servants; orderlies—particularly orderlies—and -grooms. To the “deafs” belonged nurses, governesses, -cross gardeners, and a great many young -ladies who wore smart frocks and were affectionate -in public. These latter were called “deafs” -not because of any defect in their aural arrangements, -but simply because the children considered -them incapable of discussing anything interesting. -“Stupid people!” Kit was wont to observe, “who -ask you how old you are, and who fetch stale -cake out of tin boxes, and one’s got to eat it for -politeness’ sake. Oh, I hate deafs!”</p> - -<p>When Kit reached the study door she knocked, -but there was no answer. “Mother says he never -hears if he’s writing,” she whispered. “Let’s go -in—come on!” So she turned the handle of the -door and went in. Grandfather was writing. His -great knee-hole table was piled with open books, -and he had on his gold-rimmed spectacles. He -never looked up as Kit shut the door softly behind -her. For one thing, doors never creaked in grandfather’s -house.</p> - -<p>The children stood inside the door and waited, -but he never looked up. “Come on,” said Kit, -as, holding Addison by the hand, they walked leisurely<span class="pagenum" id="Page_200">[200]</span> -across the room, till she stood close by their -grandfather; then she said in a loud and cheerful -voice:</p> - -<p>“Good-morning, Gaffer; we’ve come to see -you!”</p> - -<p>“We’ve come to see you!” echoed the ever-obedient -Addison. Grandfather was fond of old-fashioned -things, and the name “Gaffer” was so -delightfully inappropriate that he encouraged the -children to use it when they spoke to him.</p> - -<p>“Oh, you’ve come, have you?” he said, taking -off his spectacles and turning himself in his heavy -revolving chair toward the children. “And how -are you, my dears? Did you sleep well after your -long journey?”</p> - -<p>It did not take long to install a child on each -knee. Addison gazed at him in adoring silence, -but Kit hastened to unbosom herself of her wrongs. -“I’ve come to complain!” she began with dignity. -“They’ve only laid lunch for you in the dining-room. -Now I know you’d like our company. -Mother said we were to keep you company—will -you give orders about it?”</p> - -<p>Gaffer seemed duly impressed, as he said: “I -will give orders at once. Of course you are to -have lunch with me while you are here. It’s a pity -it’s so wet for your first day, but it’s nice to think -that those dear people are going further and -further away from the fogs and damp. It will do -mother so much good to be in a warm climate, and -you must try not to feel dull without them.”</p> - -<p>“I wish they’d taken me!” said Kit. “I love -hotels!” Gaffer looked at her and laughed:<span class="pagenum" id="Page_201">[201]</span> -“What a traveled little person you are! I never -slept in a hotel till I was seventeen.”</p> - -<p>“Ah, but that’s long ago. People go about more -now, and, you see, we have to go with the regiment.”</p> - -<p>“To go with the regiment,” echoed Addison.</p> - -<p>Kit conversed affably with her grandfather for -some time; she told him who were her favorite -officers, and which her favorite puddings. She -carefully explained that, as she was four years -older than Addison, she went to bed an hour later, -and that she intended to spend that hour in her -grandfather’s society. She expressed her approval -of the study as a room, but thought it was a -pity that, owing to the large number of books, -there was no space for any pictures on the walls. -Addison stared about him in solemn silence, till -at last Gaffer suggested that, as he had got to -write to mother, they had better go back to the -nursery till lunchtime. Then they trotted across -the room together, but when they reached the -door and Kit had gone out, Addison raced back -and stood by his grandfather’s chair, whispering -breathlessly: “Will you let me see some of the -books some day—wivout Kit?” There was a passionate -eagerness in the question which startled -Gaffer. He looked down at the imploring, upturned -face.</p> - -<p>And then “a strange thing happened.” It was -no longer Addison, his namesake, that he saw; it -was himself. Himself of sixty years ago. There -he stood, the quaint, serious-eyed boy, whose portrait -hung in his dead wife’s dressing-room. The<span class="pagenum" id="Page_202">[202]</span> -boy who longed for books, and who had asked the -same question of a scholar in an Oxford library, -on a long-forgotten morning all those years ago. -With a sudden rush of gratitude he remembered -how the question had been answered, and though -his smile was very pleasant, his voice was a trifle -husky as he said:</p> - -<p>“Assuredly!”</p> - -<p>“Wivout Kit?” persistently questioned the little -boy.</p> - -<p>“Without Kit, I promise,” repeated Gaffer. -Then he and Addison shook hands, and Addison -followed Kit.</p> - -<p>She was waiting in the hall. “What did you -say to Gaffer?” she asked inquisitively, but Addison -shook his head. He could keep his own -counsel even when coerced by pinches.</p> - -<p>At lunch Gaffer inquired: “Addison, can you -read?”</p> - -<p>“Not well!” answered Kit. “He can’t read -well; he’s only doing ‘sequel,’ and he’s six. He’s -very backward!”</p> - -<p>“I asked Addison, my dear,” said Gaffer, in -gently reproving tones.</p> - -<p>Addison blushed and held down his head; then -he said: “I don’t like what I read; it’s so uninteresting. -They ask such silly questions, over -and over again.”</p> - -<p>“He knows heaps of poetry!” said Kit magnanimously. -“He can learn anything when he’s -heard it once, and he knows pages of verses, and -psalms, and that, but he’s no good on horseback. -He’s got no nerve. Dad says he’ll never be any<span class="pagenum" id="Page_203">[203]</span> -good across country! And he’s afraid of the -dark!”</p> - -<p>“Are you not nervous?” asked Gaffer.</p> - -<p>“Me nervous!” said Kit with great scorn. “I -can ride dad’s chargers!”</p> - -<p>“Ah, you’re like your mother,” said Gaffer, -smiling at her. “Now I, I was never any good -across country; but yet I haven’t found that it has -alienated my friends, or done me any great damage -in life. Has Addison begun Latin?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, no; Miss Mercer doesn’t teach Latin, and -he’s far too backward in other things to begin.”</p> - -<p>“I began Greek when I was his age,” said Gaffer -dreamily; “but there’s no reason why Addison -should not begin Latin. He shall begin it with -me.”</p> - -<p>Addison flushed up to the roots of his hair; then -he scrambled off his seat—a most unheard-of proceeding -in the middle of lunch—and ran round to -his grandfather. He threw himself upon him, exclaiming: -“I love you; oh, how I love you!”</p> - -<p>Kit regarded him with astonished eyes. That -Addison, who never kissed anybody but mother, -who was so undemonstrative, so slow to show feeling, -should behave in this extraordinary manner, -because he was told he might have Latin lessons, -was to her incomprehensible; and Gaffer seemed -to approve, for he lifted Addison on to his knee, -and said in such a queer voice: “I think we’re -rather of a kidney, you and I; we’re going to understand -each other uncommonly well,” and Addison -sat enthroned on Gaffer’s knee all the rest<span class="pagenum" id="Page_204">[204]</span> -of lunch, and shared his cheese. Kit felt injured.</p> - -<p>When Gaffer went back to his study he sat down -before the fire, and he pondered for a long time -over his queer little grandson. Then he gave his -shoulders a shake and sighed: “I was a disappointment -to my father, and he’ll be a disappointment—he -is a disappointment—poor little chap, to -his. He is unaccountably like me.”</p> - -<p>A lonely child was Addison. The fact that he -was always called Addison from the time he -ceased to be baby was proof enough. A child who -is understood gets a nickname. Kit had fifty. -Addison was always called by his baptismal name. -It was Gaffer’s name, and Gaffer’s grandfather -had been called after a gentleman who wrote -poetry and things. Little Addison knew that much, -and he wondered if the writings of that far-away -Mr. Addison were more interesting than “Step -by Step.” Addison was called an “old-fashioned -child”; he was not very sure precisely what that -was, but that it was something a child ought not -to be, he was convinced. Kit was pretty, very -pretty; so the officers said, not infrequently to -Kit herself. Kit was never afraid of anything by -day or by night. Kit always spoke the truth; Addison -had been known to prevaricate when he was -frightened, and he was often frightened—at nothing -at all, Kit said.</p> - -<p>But the worst and most unforgivable thing -about Addison was this: he had no wish to be a -soldier—and said so. The sound of a pop-gun -caused his heart to thump against his breast in an<span class="pagenum" id="Page_205">[205]</span> -unpleasantly violent manner, and a review was to -him a prolonged agony that made him ill for days.</p> - -<p>His mother—whom he worshipped—and who -loved him tenderly, was quite unconscious of his -many sufferings. She was absolutely devoid of -nerves herself, and thought that Addison would -grow out of his “delicacy,” as she called it. She -was proud of his remarkable resemblance to her -father, whom she admired above all mortal men—but -she was disappointed; and poor Addison, with -the quick intuition of childhood, was perfectly -aware of it—at his being what her husband called -“such a Molly.”</p> - -<p>So it came about that Kit was always brought -forward, and Addison kept in the background—to -his own satisfaction certainly, but very much -to the detriment of Kit.</p> - -<p>Edinburgh, where the regiment was stationed, -was too cold for mother, and dad obtained leave -to take her to the Riviera for the worst months; -so Kit and Addison were sent to Gaffer, and for -Addison it was the turning-point of his life.</p> - -<p>To most people, their initiation into the accidence -of the Latin language is not a very happy -recollection. To Addison it is a recollection little -short of rapturous.</p> - -<p>To him the first pages of a Latin grammar call -up the picture of a large, old-fashioned room, -flooded with a mellow light like that of the sun -through a veil of yellowing beeches. There is a -goodly smell in the room, the smell of dressed and -well-kept leather. The walls are lined with books, -books bound in calf and russet-colored Russia, and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_206">[206]</span> -in the middle of the room stands a knee-hole table -both deep and wide. It, too, is covered with books; -but here they lie open, one upon the other, a crowd -of witnesses to the tastes of the owner of the -room. That gracious owner! Addison’s eyes -grow dim as he thinks of the spare upright figure -seated in the revolving chair; the keen scholarly -face and noble white head. He hears again the -kind, cultivated voice ever ready to answer questions, -to answer them so fully and so beautifully, -with such a tender sympathy for the eager childish -questioner. And then Addison goes down on -his mental knees and thanks his God that as yet -he had brought no look of sorrow into those kind -eyes, but many a look of pride and joy.</p> - -<p>Is there not one shelf in that library devoted to -Addison’s prizes? And the row is lengthening by -leaps and bounds. Yet they wonder at Winchester -why he should be so fond of classics.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_207">[207]</span> - -<h3 class="nobreak">THE INTERVENTION OF THE DUKE</h3> -</div> - - -<h4>I<br /> - -ENTER WIGGINS</h4> - -<p>The Reverend Andrew Methven stood at his -study window gazing out to sea. The sea was very -blue, the sands yellow and smooth, but it was not -the sea that the Reverend Andrew saw.</p> - -<p>Elgo, on the Fife coast, is growing fashionable. -In summer every house is let, and there are sometimes -as many as fifty bathers at once in the bay. -At Elgo the bathers usually wear blue serge, -adorned it may be by red or white braid. Pale -blue silk with white facings and short sleeves is -not the usual uniform. It impressed the Reverend -Andrew, and consequently he stood and stared. -Moreover, the wearer of this wonderful creation—he -felt it was a “creation,” though he had never -heard the word so used—came out of the house -next door to the Manse, the house being that of -his most worthy parishioner, Mrs. Urquhart, -Baker and Confectioner, who let her rooms during -the summer months.</p> - -<p>Elgo streets are somewhat one-sided, the town -being built upon the cliff with a railing near the -outer edge for the protection of the unwary.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_208">[208]</span>The vision in pale blue silk tripped down the -steep steps cut in the rocks, and ran across the -sands. She was followed by a small thin boy, -whose freckled face was broad and good-natured. -On the sands they took hands and danced into the -water together.</p> - -<p>The vision was tall and slim, with wonderful -arms that flashed white in the June sunshine, and -the minister remarked that she could swim magnificently. -The little naked boy splashed after her, -looking like a terrier as he shook the water from -his crop of curly hair.</p> - -<p>The minister’s window was open, and across the -sunlit sands came the sound of a woman’s voice, -crying: “Come on, Wiggins, get on my back, and -I’ll swim with you to the Cock’s-tail Rocks!”</p> - -<p>The Reverend Andrew swung his telescope into -position; he had the grace to blush as he did so, -but none the less did he eagerly follow that swimmer -by its aid. She did it, there and back; then -she and the small boy ran dripping over the sands -and vanished through Mrs. Urquhart’s side door.</p> - -<p>An hour later the minister (he was the Free -Kirk minister really; there is an Established -Church in Elgo, but as its pews are empty and its -incumbent of small account, he was “the minister” -to Elgo) strolled into Mrs. Urquhart’s shop -to buy cookies. Mrs. Urquhart herself bustled -forward to serve him.</p> - -<p>“You’ve let your rooms, I see, Mrs. Urquhart! -And early in the season, too!”</p> - -<p>“Yes, sir! I’ve let my rooms, and to my own<span class="pagenum" id="Page_209">[209]</span> -young lady that I was nurse to; you’ll mind my -telling you of Sir John Penberthy and his bonny -family. Well, Mrs. Burton is just my Miss Mary, -married and widowed too, poor lamb, and she and -Master Wiggins have come all the way from London -to be with me, and it’s proud I am to have -them!” Mrs. Urquhart paused breathless.</p> - -<p>The minister murmured something sympathetic, -and taking up his bag of cookies strode back to -the Manse. “Mary, mother of names,” he thought, -as he turned over the information he had received. -“Widowed! She doesn’t wear much mourning -anyway!” as he thought of the blue silk bathing-dress. -Then he said with a sigh, “She is very -beautiful!” and sat him down to write his Sunday -sermon.</p> - -<p>In the afternoon he met Wiggins on the beach: -that gentleman was digging while a French <i>bonne</i> -kept guard in the rear.</p> - -<p>“Do you like Elgo?” asked the minister. He -had a kindly way with children; he was rather -childlike himself, and they knew it.</p> - -<p>“Awfully,” answered Wiggins, patting his -castle walls, and barely looking up.</p> - -<p>“Have you ever been to the sea before?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, dear, yes; haven’t you?”</p> - -<p>“I live here,” said the minister, rather discomposed -by this exceedingly cool child.</p> - -<p>“I wish I did!” sighed Wiggins. “I hate Kensington.”</p> - -<p>“Ah, that’s London! I’ve never been there,” -said the minister simply. “I wish I had.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_210">[210]</span>“It’s not a very nice place. There’s gardens -and busses, and sometimes we ride in a hansom, -and you always have to wear your shoes and generally -gloves, it’s beastly.” Wiggins spoke bitterly, -as one who had tasted the hollow shams of -Kensington.</p> - -<p>The minister sat down on the sand.</p> - -<p>“Isn’t there a museum there, and an Art Gallery?” -he asked.</p> - -<p>“Oh, yes, but you mayn’t touch anything, and -you have to wear your hat!”</p> - -<p>“You seem to object to clothing,” remarked the -minister.</p> - -<p>“Don’t you?” responded this discomposing -child.</p> - -<p>“Well, no, I can’t say I do. It’s warm, -and——”</p> - -<p>“Oh, it’s warm enough in Kensington, if that’s -what you want!” and Wiggins turned to dig a -fresh channel from his castle to the sea.</p> - -<p>“M’sieu Wiggins, il faut aller à la maison pour -le thé. Faites vos adieux à M’sieu le Curé!” and -Madeleine, the pretty French <i>bonne</i>, folded up her -crochet, and rose.</p> - -<p>But Wiggins was smitten with deafness, and -waded deeper into the water, with a seraphically -unconscious look.</p> - -<p>Madeleine went down to the water’s edge, where -she discoursed volubly for about five minutes. The -minister sat watching; he wondered why French -people speak so fast, and whether Wiggins understood. -He evidently did, for he answered derisively, -and sat down suddenly in the water. Then<span class="pagenum" id="Page_211">[211]</span> -he came out, and grinning at the minister, remarked -gleefully as he took his dripping way -homeward:</p> - -<p>“That’s the third pair to-day, soon shan’t have -any left to wear. What a rux!”</p> - -<p>“So that’s a London child!” mused the minister. -“He’s a fine frank lad; I must call upon his -mother.”</p> - - -<h4>II<br /> - -A NEW ATMOSPHERE</h4> - -<p>But the days went on, and the minister did not -call. He was a sociable fellow, much beloved by -his fisher folk, and by such summer visitors as -knew him. Elgo was his first “charge.” Had he -been small, instead of six-foot-three, he would -doubtless long ago have been dubbed “The Little -Minister,” after Mr. Barrie’s immortal hero, for -he was young as a minister can be.</p> - -<p>He did not call on Mrs. Burton because he had -conceived for her an extravagant admiration, or -rather adoration. He met her constantly on the -beach and in the village street, and on these occasions -gravely lifted his hat. Had he followed his -impulse, he would have gone down on his knees -and begged leave to kiss her feet. We do not follow -our impulses in these matters nowadays, and -Mary Burton never wondered why he did not call, -for she thought about him not at all.</p> - -<p>She did not go to church that first Sunday, but -played with Wiggins on the beach all the morning.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_212">[212]</span> -Mrs. Urquhart was scandalized and suggested -the Episcopalian church at Pittenweem; -but Mary only put her arms round her old nurse -and laughingly promised to come and sit in her -pew next Sunday.</p> - -<p>The minister progressed in his friendship with -Wiggins; while Mary was scouring the country on -her bicycle, Wiggins and his new friend played on -the beach or fished for poddlies from the rocks.</p> - -<p>Madeleine with the inevitable crochet sat on the -beach and beamed at them.</p> - -<p>“You’re a Presbyterian, aren’t you?” asked -Wiggins abruptly of the minister one afternoon.</p> - -<p>“Yes, I’m a member of the Free Kirk.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, you’re Free Kirk, and Madeleine’s a Roman -Catholic, and mother and me is Pagans!”</p> - -<p>“Pagans?” echoed the minister in astonished -tones.</p> - -<p>“Well, mother says so. It means that you love -the sun, and the sea, and bare feet and meringues -and music-halls and things!”</p> - -<p>“Pagans, music-halls!” The minister gazed in -horror at the unconscious but breathless Wiggins. -“Do you mean to say,” he asked solemnly, “that -you do not know anything about our Saviour who -died for us?”</p> - -<p>Wiggins turned and looked at him with something -of reproachful scorn on his broad freckled -face; then he said slowly: “Of course, I know, -but we never talk about <i>that</i> to strangers, mother -and me. It is bad form, like the people who give -you tracts in busses.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_213">[213]</span>“I beg your pardon, I misunderstood,” said -the minister.</p> - -<p>They were silent for a few minutes, during -which the minister digested this, to him, new view -of confessing your faith before men.</p> - -<p>Although he himself never gave tracts either in -busses or anywhere else, he had certainly in a sort -of hazy fashion considered that to do so was -praiseworthy, if mistaken.</p> - -<p>“There’s mother!” announced Wiggins suddenly. -“Let’s come and talk to her.”</p> - -<p>The minister scrambled to his feet, and in another -moment he had shaken hands with Mrs. Burton, -and they all sat down on the beach together.</p> - -<p>Wiggins did most of the talking, and then it -began to rain.</p> - -<p>“Will you come in and have a cup of tea with -Wiggins and me?” asked Mrs. Burton.</p> - -<p>The minister felt that no words at all expressed -the rapture with which this proposal filled him.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Urquhart’s parlor looked so different that -afternoon. Many photographs stood on the mantelpiece, -books other than albums or Family -Bibles were scattered on the table, papers and -magazines strewed the horsehair sofa, while on -the mantelpiece among the photographs and the -little vases full of roses were the ends of many -half-smoked cigarettes. Another shock was in -store for the minister.</p> - -<p>They had tea; he drank three cups and ate endless -scones in order to prolong the meal. To sit -opposite to Mary and watch her white, heavily -ringed hands flit in and out among the cups as she<span class="pagenum" id="Page_214">[214]</span> -made tea was a wonderful thing. To listen to her -as she praised Elgo, and Scotland generally, in her -soft Southern voice was wonderful; but most wonderful -of all was to gaze at her unrebuked, to -drink in the beauty of her face, to note the gracious -line of cheek and chin as she turned her head, -and lose himself in the depths of her eyes, brown -as the trout stream beyond Glen Dynoch. When -at last some small consciousness of material things -awoke in him and he rose to go, Mary reached to -the chimneypiece for a slim tin box.</p> - -<p>“Will you have a cigarette?” she asked. “Dear -Mrs. Urquhart forgives my evil habits, and pretends -she thinks that I smoke for asthma. I don’t -look asthmatical, do I?”</p> - -<p>“Thank you,” faltered the minister. “I do not -smoke now—I gave it up after my student days, -just as I gave up drinking anything, for the sake -of my people. I daresay it was useless, but I -thought it was right—then.”</p> - -<p>He spoke diffidently, humbly, half expecting a -flash of amused scorn in her, such as he not infrequently -encountered in Wiggins. But Mary held -out her hand, saying softly:</p> - -<p>“I am sure it was right then, and is now; but -don’t judge me hardly, for I have no flock to influence. -My boys will smoke, anyhow, when they -are big.”</p> - -<p>“It is kind of you not to laugh at me,” he said, -and with that took his leave.</p> - -<p>Mary lit her cigarette and smoked thoughtfully -for some time. Wiggins was once more searching -for treasure on his beloved beach. She sat at the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_215">[215]</span> -open window and watched the boats come in. Presently -she rang the bell for Mrs. Urquhart. When -that good lady appeared, breathless from her -ascent of the steep little stairs, Mary pushed her -into an armchair and sat down at her feet, with -her head against the old woman’s knees.</p> - -<p>“Amuse me, nursey; tell me about your minister. -Where does he come from? How is it that, -without having been anywhere or seen anything, -he is such a perfect gentleman, and why—oh, why -is he a Free Church minister?”</p> - -<p>“And what for no, my dearie? He’s an excellent, -well-doing young man. You should hear him -preach; it’s just wonderfu’. His father’s a doctor -near Aberdeen; bein’ douce people they are—a -large young family, and all doing well. He was at -the college in Edinburgh, and passed very high. -But it’s no his learning that we care about, it’s his -kind, friendly ways. He’d take his turn nursing -a body that’s sick just like one of the family; and -he’s just a wonderful way with young men. To -be sure, he’s young himself—only just twenty-six—but -he’s not a bit bumptious or puffed up, like -many young men. He’s greatly set up with Master -Wiggins; they’re grand friends.”</p> - -<p>“He has been very kind to Wiggins. I’ll ask -him to dinner. Will you cook me a very nice dinner, -nursey dear, on Thursday evening?”</p> - -<p>“He’ll no come then, my dearie, for it’s prayer-meeting -night. I just wish you’d go yourself.”</p> - -<p>“I’ve never been to a prayer-meeting. What’s -it like? What happens?”</p> - -<p>“It’s just beautiful, my dearie; and the gentry<span class="pagenum" id="Page_216">[216]</span> -go too. Mrs. Braid, of Elgo House, she always -goes.”</p> - -<p>Mary made a little face. “She called upon me -yesterday. I didn’t find her very exciting. I’ve -got to dine there to-night, so I suppose I must -dress. You might send Madeleine to do my hair. -Dear nursey, I’d far rather stay with you than -go to Elgo House.”</p> - - -<h4>III<br /> - -“ALL SECRET SHADOWS AND MYSTIC SIGHTS”</h4> - -<p>Dinner parties at Elgo House were not, as a -rule, exciting. The conversation generally vibrated -between the harvest prospects and the -game prospects, with somewhat numerous flashes -of silence, during which each guest madly racked -his brain for a fresh topic of conversation, only to -fall back finally upon the weather.</p> - -<p>Andrew Methven did not expect to enjoy himself -much on that particular evening. His presence -at Elgo House was something of an anomaly, -for the family were “established” by conviction, -yet Mrs. Braid attended the Free Kirk because -she liked Andrew’s sermons.</p> - -<p>He felt rather as though he were poaching on -his neighbor’s preserves when he went there. He -liked his brother cleric (as he liked most people), -who, if old and somewhat dull, was kindly and -human. So long as his evening pipe and toddy -were forthcoming with regularity the “established” -minister recked little if he preached to<span class="pagenum" id="Page_217">[217]</span> -empty benches. Andrew Methven felt the blood -rush to his face as on entering the Braids’ drawing-room -he heard that voice which had been ringing -in his ears ever since his parting with Mary -that afternoon.</p> - -<p>Daylight lasts long in the North Country, and -there were no candles needed at Elgo House for -dinner. Mary sat opposite the minister, and had -he been given to cursing he would have cursed the -tall epergne of fruit that hid her from his sight, -especially as the majority of her remarks were -addressed to him.</p> - -<p>The only other guests were an elderly colonel -and his wife, who were staying at the hotel. The -colonel, whenever he looked at or spoke to Mary, -seemed by his very atmosphere to ejaculate “Monstrous -fine woman,” and Andrew felt an insane -desire to choke him there and then in his own -high white collar.</p> - -<p>Dinner over, they all strolled into the garden, -and then that happened which made an epoch in -Andrew Methven’s life.</p> - -<p>When they had all duly admired the roses and -the goodly promise of peaches on the south wall, -someone brought a guitar out of the house and -Mary sat down to sing.</p> - -<p>Her dress, some soft transparent blackness over -white, faded into the shadows among which she -sat. Somehow it reminded Andrew of the silver -birch trees in the copse beyond. She bent her -head as she tuned the guitar, and the throb of the -strings seemed an appropriate background to the -sweetness of her profile. Vision and sound became<span class="pagenum" id="Page_218">[218]</span> -indissolubly mixed. Andrew could never -afterward separate Mary’s face from her voice, -and both were irresistibly a part of the beech -copse seen dimly in the evening light. The whole -making a picture, subtle, detached, vivid; an experience -in which all the senses bore an equal part -and were indistinguishable.</p> - -<p>Mary’s voice was a big, soft contralto, as unlike -the usual “drawing-room voice” as it is possible -to be, and she sang seriously. She gave her message -to the four winds to be carried where they -listed. She sang to the scented night, to the distant -sea, to the flowers and the moonlight: not to -the little handful of human beings, whose chairs -creaked as they sat, and who, saving one, only -realized that she was a beautiful woman who had -a fine voice.</p> - -<p>They thanked her when she had finished, all but -Andrew, who, white-faced and dumb, gazed into -the deepening shadows as he stood by Mary’s -chair.</p> - -<p>“It’s really most extraordinary to be able to sit -out at night in June in Scotland, is it not?” said -the colonel’s wife in his ear. He started, looking -at her stupidly. “A very absent young man!” she -said to herself.</p> - -<p>Truly he was absent, for he had been in heaven.</p> - -<p>Mary, too, was silent, softly beating out a faint -melody on her guitar as it lay across her knees.</p> - -<p>Suddenly she looked up at Andrew, saying under -her breath: “The rest may reason and welcome, -’tis we musicians know!”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_219">[219]</span>“The rest” did not hear, or hearing did not -understand; but Andrew said: “Thank God!”</p> - -<p>The colonel’s voice was heard declaring that it -was “deucedly chilly,” and everybody made a -move to go indoors, except Andrew, who, pleading -work, fled down the drive, only to walk for miles -aimlessly in a direction leading further and further -from the Manse.</p> - -<p>Had he but known it, that walk was symbolical -of the rest of his life. When he did get home his -rather ancient “evening shoes” were quit worn -out.</p> - - -<h4>IV<br /> - -THE EDUCATION OF THE MINISTER</h4> - -<p>“The Duke is coming at the end of the month,” -announced Wiggins to the minister, as they anchored -and fished for poddlies in the bay.</p> - -<p>“What Duke?”</p> - -<p>“My brother; he’s at school at Leamington; he’s -going to Eton in three years. He’s ten, four years -older nor me.” Wiggins was a model of conciseness -in the way he imparted information.</p> - -<p>“Why do you call him the Duke?” asked the -minister in rather an abstracted voice; he was -watching a tall lady on the distant links.</p> - -<p>“’Cause he is one; his name’s Marmaduke, and -he is a tremenjous Duke; they all say so.”</p> - -<p>“Who are <i>they</i>?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, mother, and uncles, and boys, and people.”</p> - -<p>“Is he like you?”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_220">[220]</span>“Not a bit; he’s handsome; he’s exactly like -mother.”</p> - -<p>The minister smiled. Was Mary handsome? he -wondered. For many days now he had forgotten -to take her beauty into account. He never compared -her with other women. She was not to him -more beautiful, not more clever, not more kind -than other women; she was simply what that -Frenchman said of his lady—she was <i>mieux -femme</i>. There was no one else.</p> - -<p>“Are you very fond of your brother?” asked -the minister, forcing himself to attend to Wiggins.</p> - -<p>“I’m glad he goes to school,” replied that gentleman -guardedly. “He rather bangs me about.”</p> - -<p>“Is Wiggins a family name?” abruptly demanded -the minister.</p> - -<p>“You <i>are</i> a jokey man,” said Wiggins admiringly. -“Why, it’s because of my hair they call me -that; my name’s Tregenna—‘Tre, Pol, and Pen,’ -you know. Mother’s Cornish.”</p> - -<p>At this moment Wiggins had a bite, therefore -excitement reigned for the next five minutes, and -even the advent of the Duke was forgotten.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>Did Mary Burton know what she was doing -when she admitted this obscure Free Kirk minister -to friendship and intimacy? Did she realize -how contact with her kindness, her simplicity, her -gentlehood, was making him every day more hopelessly -her slave? In after years, when he walked -in darkness, with a hunger that nothing appeased, -Andrew would ask himself this question, and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_221">[221]</span> -whichever way he answered it he blessed her. He -no more thought of blaming her than the sailor -thinks of tracing the storm to the evening star.</p> - -<p>“She shall have worship of me,” he said in those -early days of wonder and happiness. “She still -has worship of me,” he said after years of unsatisfied -longing and ceaseless pain.</p> - -<p>There was a song that Mary used to sing, a -song he loved, written by a man for whom and for -whose writings in those youthful opinionated days -Andrew felt a hatred that was almost fear. Yet -the song dominated him, and in after years he -would repeat it to himself with a curious fierce -sense of possession.</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="verse">O brother, the Gods were good to you.</div> -<div class="verse">Sleep, and be glad while the world endures.</div> -<div class="verse">Be well content as the years wear through;</div> -<div class="verse">Give thanks for life, and the loves and lures;</div> -<div class="verse">Give thanks for life, O brother, and death,</div> -<div class="verse">For the sweet last sound of her feet, her breath,</div> -<div class="verse">For gifts she gave you, gracious and few,</div> -<div class="verse">Tears and kisses, that lady of yours.</div> -</div></div> - -<p>Again across the silence he would hear Mary’s -voice; again would he see against the evening sky -her delicate pale profile and the little head -weighted with its coils of shadowy hair; accompanying -it all, the soft plash of the waves as they -rolled over the sands beneath her window and the -sharp salt wind which sighed foreboding things.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>“No! I won’t sing any more to-night; let us -talk,” said Mary.</p> - -<p>The weather had turned unkindly, a bright fire<span class="pagenum" id="Page_222">[222]</span> -flickered on the hearth, while the rain outside -drove and pattered against the rattling windows. -The minister had come in “for some music” as -had become his habit during the last weeks, but, -Mary was in no mood to sing, so she laid the guitar -aside.</p> - -<p>“You told me that you intended to criticize my -sermon of yesterday,” said Andrew deferentially. -“I gather that you altogether disagree with me.”</p> - -<p>Mary lit a cigarette and smiled at him, her own -indulgent smile, which always softened the severity -of her remarks. “Yes, I think your view is narrow, -and in some respects unjust. Of course, I -know it is the kind of sermon that is popular; -and it is certainly kind to the novelists to abuse -them from the pulpit—it increases the sale of their -books so enormously. But that was hardly your -object, was it?”</p> - -<p>“I do not know what was my object, unless it -were to deliver a message that I felt had been entrusted -to me. I do feel strongly on this question. -It seems to me so pitiful that people should waste -their time in reading injurious trash, when all the -time there waits in silent patience the great company -of the Immortals.”</p> - -<p>“I like Schumann’s view best. He says, ‘Reverence -what is old, but have a warm heart also for -what is new.’ Much that is new is true, and beautiful, -and helpful.”</p> - -<p>Mary leant forward, looking eagerly through a -little cloud of smoke at the minister.</p> - -<p>He shook his head. “A great deal is hopelessly -false, and ugly and lowering.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_223">[223]</span>“I think you overrate the influence of bad -books,” said Mary. “It is only the great books -that live; a meretricious book may have a few -months’ popularity, and then no one reads it any -more, it is forgotten as absolutely as we forget -the smell of decaying cabbage when we have passed -the rubbish heaps.”</p> - -<p>“But surely you will allow that there is a great -badness as well as a great goodness. Look at -those Frenchmen; you cannot say their work is -good, but it certainly will live, because it is great.”</p> - -<p>The minister spoke earnestly. He hated that -she should think him narrow; but he had the courage -of his opinions.</p> - -<p>Mary was silent for a minute, then she looked at -him and smiled, saying frankly:</p> - -<p>“That is true; but I believe that in all genius -there must be something of goodness. We are all -going to heaven, and De Maupassant is going too.”</p> - -<p>“I would like to think they are all going, but it -seems to me some of them have much to answer -for. Influence is an awful responsibility. I believe -it is the one thing for which we shall have -to give the strictest account.”</p> - -<p>Mary looked grave. “Do you think that people -always realize when they have influence?”</p> - -<p>“No, not always; they do not certainly realize -the extent of their influence. You, for instance, -were you less noble-minded, might do incalculable -harm, for you never think about the effect you -produce at all.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, please don’t be so seriously complimentary,” -she exclaimed. “To pose as ‘a good influence’<span class="pagenum" id="Page_224">[224]</span> -would be too dreadful! I should feel like -seven curates rolled into one. Confess now, -though, that you always thought a liking for cigarettes -was the sign in a woman of moral obliquity, -now, didn’t you?”</p> - -<p>Andrew blushed. “I have seen very little, and -known few interesting people,” he said modestly; -“none from your world.”</p> - -<p>“How far we are getting from your sermon on -modern literature; that is what we were going to -talk about.”</p> - -<p>“I spoke as I felt; I daresay I am wrong, but I -can’t feel wrong yet. It may be that I overestimate -the influence of books; but you see, in my -case, books have been the only great influences I -have known—until lately,” he added softly.</p> - -<p>Mary looked into the fire in silence for a few -minutes, then she said: “Never judge a man by -one book any more than you would judge him by -one single act, but be grateful when you come -across any piece of work that you like. It always -seems to me that we render so little gratitude to -the people who give us so much pleasure, and it -must be sad for them.”</p> - -<p>She threw the end of her cigarette into the fire, -and stood up, holding out her hand.</p> - -<p>“I must send you away, for it’s half-past ten, -and we are early folk here.”</p> - -<p>Andrew bowed over the fair kind hand, and -went back to his study at the Manse. Here there -was no fire, no genial smell of smoke, everything -was orderly, cold, and dull. Andrew sat down by -his writing-table, and laid his head down on his<span class="pagenum" id="Page_225">[225]</span> -arms. Truly the thoughts of youth are long, long -thoughts.</p> - -<p>A sleepless night is interminable at six-and-twenty. -At forty, one takes it as something that -has to be got through, probably with the aid of -chloral.</p> - - -<h4>V<br /> - -MARY</h4> - -<p>There are people who can stir up the worst that -is in us; that strange, inherent moral obliquity, -which few are so happy as to be without, but -which most of us bury under our strivings after -things lovely and of good report. When success -crowns the efforts of these moral dredgers, and -they are generally as successful as they are persevering, -they stand aside, apparently aghast, and -proceed to cry “shame” noisily upon our depravity. -These are they who “compound for sins they -are inclined to” by damning, not “those they have -no mind to,” but such sins as at the time they -happen to be tired of.</p> - -<p>There are others, thank God for it, with whom -intercourse is a sort of festival, not merely because -their own outlook is so generous and kindly, -but because they rouse what is best in one’s self. -One leaves such friends—they are friends if you -have met them once—strong and gay and full of -belief in the infinite possibilities of life.</p> - -<p>Mary Burton was of this latter class. She made -no great sacrifices, she enjoyed her life thoroughly,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_226">[226]</span> -taking eagerly all pleasure that came in her way; -but her temper was generous, her mind broad, and -because she herself could not understand meanness, -she never suspected others. She was seldom -disappointed. It is the narrow little soul who so -constantly encounters other narrow souls. The -simple, kindly people meet with simplicity and -kindness.</p> - -<p>Perhaps the fact that their outlook was so similar -proved the great bond between Mary and the -minister of Elgo. Their upbringing and environment -were so absolutely dissimilar, their views of -life so unlike, yet beyond it all and through it all -sounded the same note, dominating the discords -and making harmony.</p> - -<p>“He’s such a lovable good fellow,” Mary would -say to herself. “One forgives him for always -using shall and will in the wrong places, and for -denying himself everything that some people think -makes life endurable.”</p> - -<p>“She is so kind and gracious, so dignified without -being haughty, so absolute an aristocrat in all -her beautiful ways; she is a princess. What does -it matter if she does smoke and read French -novels? If she does it, it must be right for her.” -So argued the minister, though he kept his own -sturdy Scottish opinion with regard to the unwholesomeness -for ordinary digestions of some of -the literature which Mary affected.</p> - -<p>So the days went on and these two lovable good -people saw more and more of one another, worshipper -and worshipped, and although the parties -mainly concerned preserved the ostrich-like blindness<span class="pagenum" id="Page_227">[227]</span> -of people in their condition, the “summer -visitors” of Elgo and the parish itself took a lively -interest in their doings and waited with a somewhat -impatient expectation of the climax.</p> - -<p>One thing struck Andrew Methven as curious: -in all their many conversations Mary had never -mentioned her husband. She talked frankly of her -father and her brothers, of the people she had met -in India, and of those she was in the habit of meeting -in London, but of her husband, never. Andrew -found himself wondering what manner of -man Captain Burton had been; but it never occurred -to him to try to find out anything about -Mary or her surroundings. He never spoke of her -to anyone, and winced if anyone spoke of her to -him. About his own family and his own “past,” -if so uneventful life can be said to have a past, he -was most frank.</p> - -<p>“My people are what you would call ‘nice -middle-class’ people, perhaps a little fonder of -books than their sort are in England, but you have -never met anybody of that kind except me, and -you would not find them congenial.”</p> - -<p>Mary made a little face. “I’m sure I never -spoke of anybody as a ‘nice middle-class person,’ -I shouldn’t be such a snob, and I have met all sorts -of people—people you would think Bohemian and -terrible!”</p> - -<p>“I should like to meet literary people,” said -Andrew wistfully, “but I suppose I never shall.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, yes, you will, and you won’t find them any -more interesting than your Fifeshire fisher folk. -Epigrams pall upon you when they form the staple<span class="pagenum" id="Page_228">[228]</span> -commodity of conversation. The somewhat dingy -journalist, who has a trick of smart talking and -who poses to himself as everything he is not, is -just as great a bore as the respectable city clerk -who lives at Hornsey and expatiates upon its advantages. -You must not mistake cleverness for -genius. The one is often merely the result of environment -and atmosphere. The other nearly -always appears in unlikely and seemingly impossible -places. You know what Swinburne says: -‘There is only one thing we may reverence, and -that is genius. There is only one thing we may -worship, and that is goodness.’”</p> - -<p>“It seems to me,” said Andrew thoughtfully, -“that you reverse it. You reverence goodness -and worship genius!”</p> - -<p>“Perhaps I do, certainly and perhaps fortunately, -the one is much rarer than the other. The -best things in life are the commonest. There are -flowers, and children, and love, and friendship -for everybody, if they will have them.”</p> - -<p>“And death and disillusion.”</p> - -<p>“You, turning pessimist, <i>Padre mio</i>! This will -never do. You are too serious—far too serious. -I prescribe a course of Anthony Hope immediately. -I have the ‘Dolly Dialogues’ with me, and -you must force yourself to appreciate them. It’s -plain you have met with little real tragedy in your -life, or you would be more cheerful.”</p> - -<p>“Have you a tragic past, that you are always -gay?”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_229">[229]</span>Mary shivered, but she did not answer. She -called to Wiggins to come out of the water, for it -was growing cold.</p> - -<p>The minister scourged himself for four hours -afterward, for he noticed that she was pale, and -that there were shadows under her brown eyes. -What had he said?</p> - - -<h4>VI<br /> - -MARY’S HUSBAND</h4> - -<p>Mary had gone to play golf at St. Andrews. The -minister called on Mrs. Urquhart anent some -parish matters and she detained him, rather -against his will, to talk of Mary and her perfections. -She never spoke of her except as “My Miss -Mary,” and it was apt to bewilder the uninitiated. -Suddenly she asked the minister:</p> - -<p>“Does she ever talk to you of the wee girlie -who was killed?”</p> - -<p>“What wee girlie? Never!”</p> - -<p>“Eh, it was just an awful thing. Sit down, Mr. -Methven, and I’ll tell you.”</p> - -<p>“But, Mrs. Urquhart, do you think if it is so -sad, and if she—Mrs. Burton never told me herself—that -she would like——”</p> - -<p>“Tuts, sir! It’s nothing disgraceful; it’s just -fearfully sad. Ye can only admire her the more -for her courage. Well, as I was saying, she had a -wee girlie just three years old when they all came<span class="pagenum" id="Page_230">[230]</span> -home from India on long leave. Master Wiggins -was the baby, and Miss Molly was the bonniest -creature you ever saw. The Captain—a fine, free-handed -gentleman he was, if a wee thing wild—was -just wrapped up in her, the boys were nowhere; -and he would aye go and fetch her out o’ -her cot every evening after dinner and play, and -nothing Miss Mary could say would stop him. -Well, that August they had taken a house down in -Cornwall to be near Miss Mary’s father. And one -evening Miss Mary had gone to dine with an old -aunt some miles off, and the Captain and a gentleman -staying dined alone. It is thought that the -Captain may have taken rather much champagne—he -did whiles—but anyway he went and got Miss -Molly out of bed and wrapped her in a blanket -and carried her out-of-doors. It was no use for -the nurse to say anything—he was a masterful -gentleman, and brooked no interference. The -other gentleman had gone to write letters in the -study. Well, Miss Mary came home about ten, and -of course went straight up to the night nursery. -The little boys were both in bed asleep, but Miss -Molly’s cot was empty, and the nurse told her the -Captain had not brought her up to bed yet. Miss -Mary was rather indignant, for she thought it so -bad for the child, and went down to fetch her. -But the Captain was not in the study, and the -other gentleman had not seen him since dinner. -He seemed rather alarmed when he heard that -Miss Molly was missing, and everybody went out -to search the garden, for they were nowhere in<span class="pagenum" id="Page_231">[231]</span> -the house. They sought and sought, and nothing -could they find. Then Miss Mary sent the grooms -out with lanterns, and she and the gentleman took -the carriage lamps and went down to the foot of -the garden where the cliff went sharp down to -the sea. There was a steep path cut in the cliff, -and down this they went. At the bottom, lying on -the hard rock, they found the Captain, with Miss -Molly in his arms quite dead, and his back was -broken. He lived for three days, and he died -with his hand in my dear lady’s. She never spoke -one word of reproach; but he didn’t need it, poor -man; his grief was terrible to see, they say. He -must have stumbled and fallen sheer over. It’s -six years ago now; my young lady was only three-and-twenty. -Eh, it was a heavy sorrow for a -young thing like that!”</p> - -<p>Mrs. Urquhart’s voice broke, and she stopped. -The minister was very white, he held out his hand -to her, but did not speak. The Scotch understand -each other. They have realized this great truth—that -some things are unsayable. The minister -held good Mrs. Urquhart’s hand in both his for -two silent minutes, then he took his hat and went -his way.</p> - -<p>“He’s a grand young man yon!” said Mrs. -Urquhart to herself, “he’ll make it up till her.”</p> - -<p>But the young man in question felt that he was -further off than ever from his divinity. The wall -of unshared experience is high and impassable; -we may break it down in places, but it stretches its -gaunt length along life’s highway and we each of -us must keep to our own side.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_232">[232]</span></p> - - -<h4>VII<br /> - -“BESIDE THE IDLE SUMMER SEA”</h4> - -<p>“I rather like that minister person,” said the -Duke to Wiggins in his most patronizing voice, -“he seems a decent chap.”</p> - -<p>“He is,” ejaculated Wiggins with immense conviction; -“he’s a splendid chap—a bit Scotchy, you -know, but he’s awfully kind.”</p> - -<p>“The mater likes him too, doesn’t she?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, yes. He’s always with us, you see, living -next door and that. He knows all the best places -to fish, and he can build the most splendid castles -with moats and secret passages and no end!”</p> - -<p>The Duke turned his handsome head and smiled -indulgently at Wiggins. “I bet he can’t shoot or -play cricket much, or ride anything but a bike. -You can’t remember father, Wiggins; he was a -soldier, you know, and he used to say: ‘Ride -straight, shoot straight, and speak the truth, and -you’ll be a gentleman, sonny.’ An officer and a -gentleman. I remember though it’s so long ago.”</p> - -<p>The Duke’s eyes grew soft. He had loved that -big handsome father of his with the uncomprehending, -admiring love of a little-noticed child. -The little daughter had been everything to Captain -Burton, yet the Duke cherished his memory and -rendered him a devotion greater than that he gave -to the mother who understood him; a devotion -which Mary took care should never be disturbed -by any word of hers.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_233">[233]</span>As Captain Burton lay dying he had lifted his -weak arms and dragged her head down close to his -face.</p> - -<p>“Don’t tell the boys,” he whispered. “Let -them think the best of me. Duke is a fine chap; -he’ll make it up to you. I’ve been a beast and a -fool, but I always loved you, Mary. Promise you -won’t tell the boys.”</p> - -<p>And Mary promised.</p> - -<p>The Duke was a singularly handsome boy, with -grave, beautiful manners. He never looked untidy -or slovenly. Like his mother, he wore his clothes -in such a way that he always seemed better and -more suitably dressed than other people. He was -rather a silent person, but gave one the impression -that he was silent from choice, not because he had -nothing to say.</p> - -<p>He was very unmistakably a member of the -“classes,” and though exceedingly urbane and -gracious to what he was pleased to call mentally -his “inferiors,” he was so because it would be ungentlemanly -to be otherwise.</p> - -<p>He would gravely assist a fishwife to raise her -heavy creel to her shoulders, and lift his cap to -her with a Hyde Park flourish when she started on -her way. But he did so because he considered it -the duty of a gentleman to assist women—not as -Wiggins would have done, from a friendly interest -in that particular fishwife. Slim, tall, and aristocratic, -with oval face, straight nose, and big brown -eyes, the Duke was a noticeable boy anywhere, and -Mary was immensely proud of him.</p> - -<p>He was good at most games, and quick to learn.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_234">[234]</span> -He ferreted out a pony in the next village and -rode about the country, to the admiration of the -natives. He golfed on the gentlemen’s links and -played a very good game for his age. He went -fishing with the minister and Wiggins, and he -bicycled with his mother.</p> - -<p>Since the advent of her eldest boy, it seemed to -the minister that there was a certain remoteness -about Mary. Certainly her time was very much -taken up. The Duke required other amusements -than those afforded by the beach, a bucket, and a -wooden spade. He expected and received the constant -companionship of his mother. On several -occasions the minister was allowed to join their -bicycling expeditions. To watch Mary bicycle was -a never-ending wonder to him. She never seemed -to go fast; it was only when you rode after her -that you found she was hard to catch. The minister -always wondered why her skirts never seemed -to bunch and blow as did those of other women. -He knew nothing of tailors as a great artistic -power, but he was keenly alive to the result of -their labors in the grace and symmetry of her -appearance.</p> - -<p>The Duke also was a constant surprise, but for -him the minister’s frank admiration was tempered -by a subtle but searching discomfort in his society.</p> - -<p>“Do you know,” he said ruefully one day to -Mary, “that the Duke makes me conscious of my -boots, and the lack of trees to keep them on? I -never thought of it before, but I am sure now that -it has been a serious omission.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_235">[235]</span>“The Duke is the descendant of generations of -dandies, and has all the faults and the good qualities -that belong to the class. In many respects the -dandy is a limited person both for good and evil; -certain social solecisms are, of course, impossible -to him, but he generally is lacking in imagination. -The Duke, for instance, is less sympathetic than -Wiggins, but he is harder on himself also.”</p> - -<p>“Can a woman be a dandy?” inquired the minister -in a tone of grave interest.</p> - -<p>Mary laughed. “Every woman of the world is -more or less a dandy, but she takes the position -less seriously than does a man. If in some directions -our sense of proportion is undeveloped, it -has arrived at perfection in matters of clothes.”</p> - -<p>“I’m glad I can only wear one sort of clothes; -it saves so much trouble, and I should be certain -to get the wrong ones.”</p> - -<p>“I think you would. Be thankful for your uniform; -it is becoming!”</p> - -<p>“It’s very hot and uncomfortable in summer. -I almost feel I could echo Wiggins in his abuse of -clothing.”</p> - -<p>“Why don’t you wear flannels?”</p> - -<p>“I do for tennis, but one can’t call on one’s -parishioners in flannels; they’d think it casual -and disrespectful.”</p> - -<p>“So they would. Well, you must dree your -weird!” Mary spoke lightly, but for the minister -her last words had an ominous sound.</p> - -<p>Presently they all halted “to give the bicycles -a feed” as the Duke put it—the fact being that -they had arrived at the foot of what was for Fife<span class="pagenum" id="Page_236">[236]</span> -a very steep hill. The day was hot, and they had -six more miles to do before they reached the East -Neuk, whither they were escorting the Duke. -Grass and the shade of trees looked inviting. -Mary and the minister decided to rest, but the -energetic Duke went off on an exploring expedition -in an adjacent wood.</p> - -<p>The minister and Mary sat quite silent for some -minutes; then Mary said slowly:</p> - -<p>“Mrs. Urquhart told you of my great trouble -six years ago. I am glad. I wanted you to know, -and I wanted you to know that I am glad.” Her -voice was very soft, her eyes were bent on the -grass.</p> - -<p>Andrew Methven looked at her but he did not -speak.</p> - -<p>She looked up a little surprised, and saw his -face working strangely. She understood.</p> - -<p>“Don’t try to say anything,” she said, laying -her hand on his arm. “You are sorry. You are -a good friend of mine.”</p> - -<p>Somehow the touch of the little gloved hand on -his arm made the minister lose his head. He did -not attempt to hold it in his own—his reverence -for her was too great for that—but he told her -simply and forcibly what he felt for her. She did -not try to stop him. The sunshine and the summer -had got into her blood, and this worship that was -offered to her was sweet and precious. There was -nothing ridiculous in it, nothing impossible. He -did not ask her to be his wife; in his wildest dreams -of happiness he had never reckoned on the possibility<span class="pagenum" id="Page_237">[237]</span> -of that. He did not ask to be anything to -her; all he told her was what she was to him.</p> - -<p>And in the very middle of it all the Duke came -back, saying:</p> - -<p>“If we are to get to the East Neuk by teatime, -we’d better be off; it’s four already.”</p> - -<p>So they rode off, and very silent companions the -Duke found them.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>Seven years before in Simla, Mary had had a -great success. She had been made much of, and -had enjoyed it. Many men had made love to her, -and she had enjoyed it. A beautiful, healthy girl -accepts admiration as her natural right.</p> - -<p>But the men who made love to her did not enjoy -it, for many of them had the misfortune to be -serious, and although Mary accepted their flowers -and their compliments and their devotion in her -own gay, gracious fashion, she gave nothing in -return but that gay graciousness and the privilege -of her society.</p> - -<p>“If she were in love with that card-playing, -drinking fool, her husband, I could understand it,” -said Major Molyneux of the 42nd; “but she isn’t -in love with him, not a bit; and yet she’s an icicle -to every other chap. It’s not as if she were one of -those cold, saint-in-a-shrine sort of women; she’s -as human as she can be. She’s no fool, either. -What, in heaven’s name, made her marry her husband?”</p> - -<p>“Calm yourself, my dear Molly! Calm yourself,” -answered the elderly civilian to whom he -was unburdening himself. “You have yet to learn<span class="pagenum" id="Page_238">[238]</span> -that the selective faculty is latest of development -in women. Most women, especially if they are -pretty, marry before it has developed at all. If -they are good as well as pretty, they take care it -shan’t develop afterwards.”</p> - -<p>“Burton hasn’t even the grace to be jealous; he -lets her do just what she pleases. He’s so mighty -conceited that he never seems to think she may -come across a man capable of understanding her.”</p> - -<p>The commissioner smiled. “I don’t think much -of Burton’s intellectual capacity, but I do give -him credit for this—he understands his wife, and -because he understands her, he trusts her absolutely. -It’s no use, my dear boy, Simla will never -have the pleasure of discussing Mrs. Burton in -connection with any sort of scandal; she’s not that -kind!”</p> - -<p>The commissioner was right. Her husband -never had reason to find fault with Mary, and since -his death she had devoted herself to her boys and -to the cultivation of her mind. She took it as a -matter of course that men should fall in love with -her; they always did. But her experience did not -make her eager to investigate further the realms -of marriage.</p> - -<p>Men made love to her because they wanted to -possess her. She was so tired of hearing, “Don’t -you understand? I want you for myself, for my -very own.”</p> - -<p>Mary understood, but as yet she had felt no -desire to belong to anybody in that exclusive -fashion.</p> - -<p>Andrew Methven touched her. Here at last was<span class="pagenum" id="Page_239">[239]</span> -the Princely Giver she had dreamed of, as women -will dream, the man ready to give everything, asking -only for leave to lay his homage at her feet, -nothing more.</p> - -<p>When she had first met him, she set him down -as one of those who are destined “to do something.” -It was not his fate to remain an obscure -Free Kirk minister, of that she was sure. The -more she saw of him the more she felt the reality -of the strange power that lay behind his apparently -commonplace views of men and things. “It -is there,” she said to herself exultingly, and now -that he had made love to her in this strange, unusual -way, she was seized with a passionate desire -to take this man into her life, and help him to -give form and substance to that latent force of -his.</p> - -<p>So Mary dreamed dreams while she listened to -the minister as he discoursed upon the historical -interests of the East Neuk; as they rode home -swiftly and for the most part silently; as, the -Duke having gone to bed, she sat at the open window -and watched the moonlight on the sea.</p> - -<p>Then she went and looked at the boys in their -two little straight beds side by side. As she bent -over the Duke he smiled, and threw his arm round -her neck, murmuring sleepily, “Dear mater.”</p> - -<p>Shading the candle with her hand, she looked -long and greedily at the sleeping children, and, like -all women at such moments, the triumphant sense -of possession swamped every other feeling.</p> - -<p>As she reached her own room and stood before -her glass, she looked into the reflected eyes, saying:<span class="pagenum" id="Page_240">[240]</span> -“Take ship, for happiness is somewhere to -be had!”</p> - - -<h4>VIII<br /> - -THE COLONEL INTERFERES</h4> - -<p>“There’s little Burton. I’ll ask him if it’s true,” -ejaculated Colonel Colquhoun, as he noticed three -or four small red-coated figures coming down the -long slope at the far end of the gentlemen’s links.</p> - -<p>“No, not the child; I would not ask the child if -I were you, Colquhoun.” Mr. Braid spoke earnestly, -laying his hand on the colonel’s arm to detain -him. “He may know nothing about it, you know, -there may be nothing to know. In any case I -wouldn’t ask the boy.”</p> - -<p>But Colonel Colquhoun had just made an inferior -drive, he was in a bad temper as are many -people during the royal and ancient game, so he -bustled off, ignoring his friend’s remonstrance, -toward the putting-green where the Duke was triumphantly -holing in after a specially brilliant -placing of his ball.</p> - -<p>The caddie shouldered the colonel’s clubs, and -Mr. Braid followed more slowly. He felt a curious -disinclination to join the little group on the -putting-green. His own lad—just home from -Fettes—was one of the players; he had said kind -things of the pluck and perseverance of little Burton. -Mr. Braid’s heart was tender, and he himself -had not forgotten the moment when he first<span class="pagenum" id="Page_241">[241]</span> -heard of a possible stepfather. He walked more -and more slowly.</p> - -<p>The hole that the Duke and his friends were -playing was the last on the links; the boyish figures -were outlined sharply against the sky. Mr. Braid -saw the Duke lift his cap as the colonel came up. -He could not hear what passed, but he saw the -four boys turn, and one after another tee their -balls and drive. The colonel was left alone on the -putting-green, where his ball was not. The caddie -stood grinning, and the colonel cuffed his ears, -declaring that the young ruffian had stolen his -ball.</p> - -<p>Mr. Braid waited in patience till the ball was -discovered in some distant bents, but the colonel -did not again mention little Burton or his mother.</p> - -<p>The Duke was playing abominably. Halfway -home he said: “Braid, would you think me an -awful cad if I break up the foursome? I can’t play -a hang.” The child’s lips were quivering, and his -sunburnt cheeks looked white under the tan.</p> - -<p>Braid put his arm round his shoulders affectionately. -“You go home, old chap. You’re hipped, -but never mind that old beast Colquhoun, he’s -always making mischief. Don’t you notice him.”</p> - -<p>“I didn’t—much, did I?” the Duke asked anxiously. -“I hope I didn’t—show.”</p> - -<p>“Not you—not a bit. Here, scoot! I’ll bring -your clubs.”</p> - -<p>The Duke broke into a run, and regardless of -the enraged “fores” which sounded on every side, -made straight across the links to the rocky shore. -There he would be alone—alone with this terrible<span class="pagenum" id="Page_242">[242]</span> -possibility that flashed its lurid light across his -path.</p> - -<p>Once behind the rocks he sat down and sobbed, -even as he did so wondering when he had cried -before. The Duke did not “blub”—never—he -considered tears unworthy of a man, “of an officer -and a gentleman,” had not the father whose -memory he adored once said to him: “Curse if -you like, old man, but never cry.” So the Duke -never cried, though his language on occasions -would have surprised his mother by its forcible -variety. Before ladies, though, “gentlemen do -not swear,” so Mary remained in blissful ignorance -of her son’s proficiency in certain forms of -objurgation.</p> - -<p>Now, however, the Duke sobbed, great tearing, -dreadful sobs that racked his slender body with a -pain that was almost physical.</p> - -<p>The colonel had done his work. As he walked -across the green to enlighten Duke, he had said to -himself: “I’ll make it hot for Mrs. Burton, -haughty minx; the boy’s a tartar.”</p> - -<p>Mary had found it necessary to snub the colonel -on more than one occasion; so he no longer called -her “a monstrous fine woman.” A fancied slight -rankles in the mean and narrow soul; revenge is -doubly sweet if one near and dear to the offender -can be made the instrument of punishment.</p> - -<p>The Duke sat behind the rocks and sobbed until -he felt sick and stupid. Had he not heard of that -horrible institution called a stepfather? Had he -not read only last holidays a book called “David<span class="pagenum" id="Page_243">[243]</span> -Copperfield,” wherein the iniquities of such an one -were set forth with terrible distinctness.</p> - -<p>He was not a religious child. Mary was not -dogmatic in her teaching, she influenced more by -her example and her mental attitude than by conscious -effort. Yet here and now the boy felt that -circumstances were too strong for him, and he -prayed in a hopeless, muddled fashion that if his -mother did this thing, God would take him to join -the father she seemed to have forgotten.</p> - -<p>It is a mistake to think that children never come -face to face with despair. They do, more often -than the superior, omniscient grown-ups themselves. -There is a finality about every sorrow for -children, they cannot realize that such pain as -they feel <i>can</i> pass; they do not believe it. That -saddest of all poets must have thought of sorrowing -children when he wrote:</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="verse">We are most hopeless, who had once most hope,</div> -<div class="verse">And most beliefless, who had most believed.</div> -</div></div> - -<p>What matter if the grief be short, its poignancy -while it lasts is none the less acute.</p> - -<p>The Duke stopped crying, and looked at the bare -wall of rock before him with hopeless, unseeing -eyes. Then as he prayed, a great wave of tenderness, -of longing for his mother, broke over his -child soul, and he got up. Scrambling over the -great boulder he had hidden behind, he set off to -run home. If this amazing, this shameful news -were true, he would set a seal on his misery, and -uncertainty would be at an end. If it were false,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_244">[244]</span> -the Duke set his teeth as he thought of the colonel, -then he squared his shoulders and dropped into -the swinging run which made him such an admirable -hare at “hare and hounds.”</p> - -<p>He ran by the beach, a good three miles, and -burst into their little sitting-room, tear-stained -and breathless, just as Mary had arranged her -writing-board on her knee.</p> - -<p>She looked up in astonishment at his somewhat -noisy entrance. He still wore his cap in the room, -before her, and his face was dirty. Who had seen -the Duke with a dirty face since he arrived at -years of discretion?</p> - -<p>“My darling boy, what has happened? Is it -Wiggins? Is he hurt?” Mary stood up in her -excitement, and the paper and envelopes were -scattered about the floor.</p> - -<p>The Duke only looked at her, his lips trembling.</p> - -<p>“Speak, Duke, what is it? Don’t keep me in -suspense.”</p> - -<p>“No one is hurt, mother, except me, and I’m -only hurt in my heart.” The tears ran down his -cheeks as he spoke. “Mother, is it true—are you -going to marry Mr. Methven? Oh, say it isn’t -true. It’s so dreadful!”</p> - -<p>Mary drew the boy to her, and sitting down she -took him on her knee. He buried his dirty face in -her neck and sobbed.</p> - -<p>“My dearest, who has said that I am going to -marry Mr. Methven? Surely you do not suspect -me of telling people—other people—before I -would tell you such a thing as that! Oh, Duke, I -thought you trusted me.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_245">[245]</span>“But, mother, you might not have <i>told</i> them, -they might have guessed, and it’s not the not knowing -that I mind, it’s—it’s—Mr. Methven!”</p> - -<p>“Dear Duke, did it never strike you as possible -that I might marry again?”</p> - -<p>“Never! Never! You belong to Wiggins and -me—and father. Have you forgotten father?”</p> - -<p>“No, sonny, no. I have not forgotten.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, mother, say it isn’t true, say it isn’t true, -or I shall die!”</p> - -<p>Mary folded the boy closer in her arms. “It is -not true, dear. Mr. Methven has not even asked -me to marry him.”</p> - -<p>As she spoke she remembered her own words as -she looked into the glass the night before. Her -face grew very sad.</p> - -<p>“But if he did ask you, mother, you would say -no? You would say no?”</p> - -<p>The Duke’s voice, husky with long crying, was -very pathetic.</p> - -<p>Mary leaned back in her chair and closed her -eyes. She held her boy very close, and her breath -came quickly.</p> - -<p>“I don’t think he will ask me, dear, but if he -does, I must say no, for his sake!”</p> - -<p>The Duke sat up and gazed at his mother in -absolute amazement.</p> - -<p>“For his sake,” he repeated in a hushed, almost -frightened voice. “Do you want to marry him, -mother?”</p> - -<p>“It does not matter much what I want to do, my -little son; it’s what I must <i>not</i> do that we have to -do with. I shall not marry Mr. Methven. Some<span class="pagenum" id="Page_246">[246]</span> -day when you are a man you will realize what I -have given up for you—and for him!” And Mary -fell a-weeping with her boy clasped in her arms.</p> - -<p>The Duke felt her hot tears on his short-cropped -hair, and he trembled; then, releasing himself from -his mother’s arms, got off her knee and stood beside -her, very pale and grave.</p> - -<p>“Dear!” he said solemnly, “if you want to -marry this—gentleman—if it will make you happier, -you shall. Do you hear, darling? You -shall.” And throwing himself into his mother’s -arms, they cried together. When it came to the -point, he found that he loved his mother better—than -himself.</p> - -<p>Presently Mary began to laugh. “Oh, Duke, -Duke, how funny you are! You talk as if I were -a little girl, as if—but it doesn’t matter—some -day you will understand.... It’s not going to -happen, Duke dear. It’s been a storm in a teacup. -You must never listen to what ignorant -people say.”</p> - -<p>“May I contradict them, politely?” asked the -Duke eagerly, with an immense relief shining in -his eyes.</p> - -<p>“Certainly, if anyone has the impertinence to -speak of such a thing again. It is an insult to Mr. -Methven and to me. Oh, Duke, there’s somebody -coming upstairs. Quick, go and say I’ve got a -headache and can’t see people.”</p> - -<p>It flashed across the boy’s mind that he was -not very presentable either. However, the staircase -was dark, and he shut the sitting-room door<span class="pagenum" id="Page_247">[247]</span> -behind him. A tall, black-coated figure was ascending -the stairs.</p> - -<p>“Mother can’t see anyone to-day, Mr. Methven; -she’s got a headache.”</p> - -<p>But even as he spoke the door at the top of the -stairs opened, and Mary said:</p> - -<p>“I’ll see Mr. Methven, sonny, but ask Mrs. -Urquhart to say I am engaged if anyone else -calls.”</p> - -<p>The sitting-room door closed behind the minister -and Mary. The Duke went to his own room -to wash his face, and to ponder over his mother’s -words.</p> - - -<h4>IX<br /> - -VALE</h4> - -<p>Somebody has said that women have no sense -of humor. It is one of those knock-me-down assertions -that provoke argument. The sense of humor -is so blessed a gift, it were unjust indeed to -deny its benefits to the larger half of humanity. -The gods had bestowed it with no niggardly hand -upon Mary. It had stood her in good stead during -many a crisis; its divine attribute did not desert -her now.</p> - -<p>There was a poetic justice in the appearance of -Andrew Methven at that particular moment that -appealed to her sense of artistic inevitability; and -as Andrew shut the door behind him, though the -tears shone wet upon her cheeks, she laughed.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_248">[248]</span>“I am sorry you have a headache,” began Andrew -lamely. “Shall I go away?”</p> - -<p>“No, sit down; I want to talk to you. I’ve just -been through a somewhat trying scene with the -Duke, and I long that somebody should horsewhip -Colonel Colquhoun.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t possess a horsewhip, but I have a good -stout stick.” The minister’s manner was most unclerical -as his grasp tightened on the weapon in -question.</p> - -<p>“You do not even ask what he has done.”</p> - -<p>“He has annoyed you—that is quite enough; -but I wish he was a younger man.”</p> - -<p>“He is not young enough to thrash, and he is -not quite old enough to ignore; all the same, we -shall have to ignore him. But, you Quixotic person, -would you really thrash a man because I asked -you to?”</p> - -<p>“If you asked me to thrash a man, I should know -he well deserved thrashing, and I—should enjoy -it.”</p> - -<p>“You’re more man than minister, after all,” -said Mary, more to herself than to him.</p> - -<p>“Better man, better minister. Do you think I -could have had any sort of influence over my colliers -at Cowdenbeath if I couldn’t fight? I can’t -fence, but I can box. I’ll teach the Duke, if you -like.”</p> - -<p>“Why don’t you ask me what Colonel Colquhoun -has done?”</p> - -<p>“Because if you want to tell me, you will tell -me; and if it is unpleasant to you to tell me, why -should you?”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_249">[249]</span>“It’s as unpleasant as it is necessary I should -tell you, because we must both publicly contradict -a foolish report that has got spread abroad in -Elgo to the effect that we are to be married.”</p> - -<p>Mary did not blush as she spoke, but the minister -crimsoned to the roots of his hair. “I am -too sorry you should have been subjected to this -annoyance. You know what my feeling for you -is; you also know that I have not the right to ask -a fisher lass to marry me. I am nothing, and have -nothing; but you have let me lay my great love at -your feet.”</p> - -<p>Mary made a little sound, half sob, half laugh, -and held out her hands to him in a helpless, unseeing -way that went to his heart. He caught them -in his own, and looking into the dear face with -purple shadows painted by tears under the eyes, -he knew that she, too, cared.</p> - -<p>What does it avail to tell in words how these -two plighted their troth, that was to be ever unfulfilled? -The tenderest and truest of lovers have -generally small literary value.</p> - -<p>For half an hour they went to heaven together.</p> - -<p>Then they faced realities, and Andrew asked: -“Will you write to me?”</p> - -<p>Mary shook her head. “No; if we write we -shall simply waste our lives in everlasting watching -for the postman. We are very human, you and -I, and how can we hope to be better and wiser than -other people?”</p> - -<p>“You are hard,” murmured Andrew. “I can -find no comfort in virtuous soliloquy. A letter -would be something tangible.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_250">[250]</span>“No, I am not hard; but I am old who once was -young, and I know. As it is we shall have a perfect -and unspoiled memory, full of tenderness and -grace and poetry; but if we write we shall be -miserable, ever unsatisfied, hanging, like Mahomet’s -coffin, between heaven and earth. No; let -us keep this sweet experience untarnished by impotent -tears and regrets.”</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>Three days after, Mary and her boys had joined -some of the numerous uncles at a shooting-box -near Kingussie. The Duke was very happy; but -Wiggins missed his beloved sea. “I think my minister -must miss me,” he said. “I miss him so -very much; he’s such a kind man.”</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_251">[251]</span> - -<h2 class="nobreak">PART III<br /> - - -<small>CHILDREN OF THIS</small></h2> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_252">[252]</span></p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_253">[253]</span> - -<h3 class="nobreak">JEAN, A PORTRAIT</h3> -</div> - - -<p>She was remarkable in the first place because -she never rode in a perambulator like other children; -either she walked—on bare, shapely, pink -feet—or her own personal attendant, Elspeth (a -very tall woman indeed), carried her in a plaid -slung over one of her broad shoulders. Elspeth -despised the “bit barrows” of the other nurses, -and was quite strong enough to have carried Jean’s -mother as well as Jean. “She will go barefoot,” -Elspeth would say, “till she iss seven, and when -she iss a woman she will walk like a queen, and -not like a hen!”</p> - -<p>Jean, if possible, went bareheaded as well as -“barefoot,” and perhaps that is the reason why -her hair is so abundant, so curly, so full of golden -light that in the sunshine it almost makes you -blink. Moreover, her eyes are big and blue. Sunshine -and rain, and kind fresh winds have tinted -her face with the loveliest warm browns and -pinks; she is not yet five years old, and she can -dance the sword dance! It is really a great sight -to see Jean’s pink feet twinkling in and out between -two unsheathed swords of her father’s, and -he is a proud man.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_254">[254]</span>Yet there never was such a “girly” girl as Jean.</p> - -<p>She has an enormous family of dolls—for her -adorers all bring dolls, and <i>they</i> are as the sands -of the sea in number—she takes a motherly interest -in them all, both dolls and adorers, but her -inseparable companion is one “Tammy,” an ancient -and dirty-faced rag soldier; with arms and -legs resembling elongated sausages, a square -body, no feet, and a head shaped like a breakfast -“bap.” Not an attractive personality to the uninitiated, -but he and Jean were as Ruth and Naomi. -It is something of a sorrow to her that the exigencies -of Tammy’s figure do not admit of a kilt, -just as she puzzled all last summer in sorrowful -surprise that her father never once donned the -uniform she so admires.</p> - -<p>Jean’s people live at a house on the Terrace, -which has at the back a shady old-fashioned garden -with a big square lawn in the centre. There -Jean’s brothers, Colin and Andrew, played cricket, -while Jean fielded or drilled her dolls under the -trees. In the evening, after dinner, there would -be a sound of men’s voices and an occasional -thrum of the banjo under those same trees, and a -cheerful clink of glasses, while men with brown -faces and trim, well-set heads laughed and rejoiced -in a coolness that concealed no malaria.</p> - -<p>Jean’s father had a reprehensible habit of bringing -her, wrapped in a blanket, out into the garden -at ten o’clock at night, when she would be handed -about from knee to knee like a superior sort of -refreshment. To be fetched out of bed in this<span class="pagenum" id="Page_255">[255]</span> -fashion would have been upsetting to some children, -but Jean, with an adorable sleepy smile, -would make herself agreeable for half an hour or -so, and when carried back and tucked into bed—always -by her father—fell asleep again directly, -and never seemed a scrap the worse. On such -occasions she was always expected to sing. She -never sang anything but Scottish songs—mournful -or martial, mostly Jacobite, and her repertory -was enormous. While other children were learning -“Little Jack Horner,” or “Hey diddle diddle!” -Jean, thanks to Elspeth, learned “Hey -Johnny Cope,” or “Cam’ ye by Athol,” and her -voice was as the voice of Katherine of France, -“broken music,” for her voice was music, and her -English broken. Sometimes a belated passer-by -would wait outside to listen in wonder to someone -singing in the clearest baby voice:</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="verse">Sing Hey, my bra’ John Hielandman,</div> -<div class="verse">Sing Ho, my bra’ John Hielandman,</div> -</div></div> - -<p>and at the end of each refrain she always kissed -her father, for there was no one in the world to -match with him in Jean’s eyes. She absolutely -declined to sing the last verse after that day upon -which she discovered what “hanging” meant, -Colin and Andrew having suspended Tammy from -the apple tree. At times, Jean could raise her -voice otherwise than in song, and on that occasion -the whole Terrace resounded with her shrieks.</p> - -<p>Next door there dwelt a very grumpy gentleman. -With that easy confidence in a neighbor’s<span class="pagenum" id="Page_256">[256]</span> -neighborliness generally manifested by people -who have lived much abroad, Jean’s father, on -taking up his quarters, had written asking permission -to put some wire-netting on the top of the -party wall to prevent cricket balls going over. To -his immense surprise he received a curt and discourteous -refusal, which terminated in a warning -to the effect that, if balls did come over, there -they would have to stay, as the writer would in no -circumstances have boys running in and out of his -house, and there was no back entrance. Of course -balls went over; but Colin and Andrew found an -unexpected ally in Mr. Knagg’s housekeeper, who -threw the balls back again without consulting him; -and Mr. Knagg felt rather aggrieved that, as yet, -he had found no cause for complaint. Complaint -in some form or other was as the breath of life -to him; he had gone to law with so many of his -fellow-townsmen that his society was no longer -sought after, and his exceedingly clean steps were -untrodden by strangers. He intended at first to -complain that the banjo-playing in the garden disturbed -him at his studies, when he happened to -hear Jean sing “This iss no my plaid,” and somehow -he gave up the idea.</p> - -<p>Colin and Andrew possessed a “mashie” each, -and a game of “putting golf.” It was reserved -for Sunday afternoons as being of a quiet and -decorous nature.</p> - -<p>But one Sunday afternoon Andrew forgot to -“putt,” and gave his ball a drive that lifted it -high over the wall into the next garden. Now, the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_257">[257]</span> -wall was too high to climb; besides, the fear of -Mr. Knagg was upon them, and the housekeeper -was out—they had seen her go. They had only -two balls, and it was yet a long two hours off teatime. -Father and mother were both out. They -retired to consult Jean under the trees.</p> - -<p>“If he wasn’t such an old beast, I’d go and ask -for it myself,” growled Andrew.</p> - -<p>“You wouldn’t get it if you did,” said Colin the -practical.</p> - -<p>“Why shouldn’t Jean go? He’d give it to her,” -suggested Andrew, who had noted the weakness -of his sex where Jean was concerned.</p> - -<p>“Of course he would. You must go, Jean. -Hurry up!”</p> - -<p>“What, all on my lonely?” exclaimed Jean in -pained astonishment.</p> - -<p>“Oh, we’ll come with you to the door and ring -the bell for you, and then cut away before he can -open it. Then you ask him nicely. Come on, -Jean!”</p> - -<p>She seldom long opposed her brothers. She had -what Elspeth called a “tender head,” and strongly -objected to having her hair pulled. Between them -they marched her up the flagged path to Mr. -Knagg’s front door, rang loudly, and departed -precipitately.</p> - -<p>Maighda, the great deerhound who shared with -Elspeth the guardianship of Jean, rose from -amidst the company of dolls, where she had been -reposing, and walking gravely into the front garden, -jumped the iron fence, and joined Jean at the -top of the steps.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_258">[258]</span>Jean clasped Tammy firmly with one arm and -coiled the other round Maighda’s neck as the door -opened rather noisily to disclose an irate-looking -little gentleman in gold-rimmed <i>pince-nez</i>.</p> - -<p>“If you please,” began Jean, in a still, small -voice, “there iss a wee ball-y wass putted into -your garden—will I get it?”</p> - -<p>Mr. Knagg stood staring at his strange visitors, -while Jean rubbed one pink foot over the other -and Maighda sniffed at him dubiously. Tammy, -with his customary reserve, betrayed no emotion -whatever.</p> - -<p>“Come!” said Mr. Knagg shortly, holding out -his hand. As Jean disappeared Colin and Andrew -flew into the back garden and swarmed up an -apple tree, whence they surveyed their sister’s -proceedings with interest.</p> - -<p>“Wonder why men are so much decenter to girls -than to us?” mused Andrew.</p> - -<p>“Oh, well; his housekeeper likes us best, anyway. -Everyone’s got their cranks.”</p> - -<p>“Fore,” cried a clear little voice, and the ball -fell with a soft “plop” at the foot of the apple -tree.</p> - -<p>“She throws very well for a girl,” said Colin -as he dropped onto the grass. “Let’s finish the -game.”</p> - -<p>“What do you mean by ‘fore’?” asked Mr. -Knagg.</p> - -<p>“Heads, you know,” said Jean; but her host -was more puzzled than ever, for he had not even -a bowing acquaintance with the royal and ancient<span class="pagenum" id="Page_259">[259]</span> -game. They stared at each other in silence for a -minute, then Jean, remembering that one of the -most important precepts of her clan was to accept -no service without rendering some return, said -shyly: “Will I sing you a song?”</p> - -<p>“Pray do!” exclaimed Mr. Knagg; and his eyeglasses -flew off his nose, he frowned so hard.</p> - -<p>“My love’s in Germanie—send him hame! send -him hame! My love’s in Germanie—send him -hame!” Jean only sang three verses. Elspeth -never taught her the last two, and when the last -notes full of longing had died away, she added -cheerfully: “But he iss at home just now.”</p> - -<p>“Who is?”</p> - -<p>“My father. Nearly all my songs iss about -father.”</p> - -<p>“Really!” ejaculated Mr. Knagg, and blew his -nose noisily. “So that’s Scotch?”</p> - -<p>“All my songs iss Scottish. I promised Elspeth, -and I will know them all some day. Goot-bye!” -and Jean, settling Tammy more comfortably on -her arm, prepared to depart. As she spoke she -had lifted her face to be kissed, and Mr. Knagg -kissed her.</p> - -<p>“He iss a dull man,” said Jean confidentially -to Colin; “but he was douce enough to me.”</p> - -<p>The man in question sat in his favorite chair -and read his Sunday newspaper upside down. It -was thirty-five years since he had kissed a child!</p> - -<p>Colin and Andrew were at school, father and -mother had gone out in the dog-cart, taking -Maighda with them for the run, Elspeth was ironing<span class="pagenum" id="Page_260">[260]</span> -frocks, and Jean entertaining Tammy and all -the dolls at tea on the lawn. Suddenly she threw -back her head and listened—no one had such quick -ears as Jean—the color rushed to her face, and -she scampered across the grass, round by the side -of the house, and out at the garden gate; bareheaded, -with flying rosy feet, she raced to the end -of the terrace, and as she ran the sound which so -excited her grew louder. It was the pipes!</p> - -<p>Would she find “the regiment,” she wondered? -Had it come to show what Elspeth called “this -wee stuck-up bit towney” what real John Hielandman -were like? Jean pictured the frowning castle -and windy Esplanade, the steep, stony street, -flanked by tall grey houses, down which “the regiment” -“in tartan plaid and philabeg” swept with -swinging steps. That was the setting in which -she knew her father’s men. How would they look -in this trim Southern town? And would she dare -to stop them to ask after her friends?</p> - -<p>No, it was not a march the piper was playing, -and very soon she discovered that there was no -regiment—only a solitary piper playing the “Keel -Row,” with a crowd of unkempt children following -him.</p> - -<p>Jean pushed in among the children, who made -way for this hatless, shoeless person in some astonishment.</p> - -<p>“He iss not the ‘Forty-second,’ nor the ‘Gordons,’ -nor the ‘Seaforth,’” said Jean to herself, -“and why will he wear two tartans?” Then, pulling -at the piper’s kilt, she cried shrilly, above the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_261">[261]</span> -skirl of the pipes: “Can you play ‘Oran an -Aoig’?”</p> - -<p>The piper took the chanter out of his mouth, -and smiled down at the eager, upturned face, asking: -“<i>Wot</i>, my dear?”</p> - -<p>“‘Oran an Aoig,’” repeated Jean eagerly.</p> - -<p>“Sorry I cawn’t oblige you, but I never ’eard -tell of that toon,” and the “Keel Row” sounded -with renewed and aggressive vigor.</p> - -<p>Jean loosed her hold of the kilt and turned to -go. There was something uncanny in the speech -of this piper, and as she looked more closely, a -certain incongruity in his uniform which chilled -and disappointed her. The children, however, -having recovered from their surprise at her sudden -appearance in their midst, decided to have -some fun with Jean, and she speedily discovered -that to be the only shoeless person in a heavily -shod crowd is to be in a most unpleasant minority. -Also, she had never been alone in the street before.</p> - -<p>Mr. Knagg heard the pipes on his way home to -lunch, and having the greatest abhorrence of all -street noises, holding that they were, every one, -“disturbing to the peace of His Majesty’s lieges,” -was hurrying across the road to expostulate with -the perpetrator of this new outrage upon his ears, -when he caught sight of a familiar shining in the -very middle of that rabble of children. He laid -about him with his white cotton umbrella, presently -emerged from the crowd, bearing a very -tearful Jean in his arms, and hailed a cab. The -cab and the dog-cart drove up to Jean’s door at<span class="pagenum" id="Page_262">[262]</span> -the same moment. Mr. Knagg left Jean on the -pavement and stalked into his house.</p> - -<p>“I said he was a douce man,” sobbed Jean, in -the safe shelter of her father’s arms; “but it wass -a pittence piper, not one of ours at all.” They -say that she felt the deception even more than -the bruises on her toes. Her father never managed -to thank Mr. Knagg though he called three -times.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>“Of course the master’s gone to the war with -the regiment. He only got six months’ leave, after -all, and Miss Jean talks and sings about him all -day long, and the mistress just listens. But she -says if Master Colin and Master Andrew were -older, she’d send them, too; for there’s aye been -some of our family for the men to follow.” Elspeth -left Mr. Knagg’s housekeeper standing at the wire -fence, for she “never encouraged clash.”</p> - -<p>In the wintry days her neighbors saw less of -Jean, as play in the garden was impossible. But -even then the pink feet splashed bravely through -the puddles and over the wet stones.</p> - -<p>One evening about six, just as Mr. Knagg was -turning into the Terrace, a newspaper boy, shouting -with raucous voice, proclaimed: “Serious -British Reverse!” “’Ighland regiment trapped -and cut to pieces!” The old gentleman darted -across the road, crying: “Stop that infernal din, -and I’ll buy every rag you’ve got! Don’t come -down here again, mind!”</p> - -<p>He hurried down the Terrace with a great -bundle of pink papers under his arm. Just outside<span class="pagenum" id="Page_263">[263]</span> -his own house he paused and looked up. -Jean’s nursery window was open at the top, the -curtains were not drawn, and the room was full -of rosy light. Suddenly a child’s voice soared -into the stillness:</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="verse">He’s as brave as brave can be;</div> -<div class="indent">Send him hame, send him hame!</div> -<div class="verse">He’s as brave as brave can be;</div> -<div class="indent4">Send him hame!</div> -</div></div> - -<p>Mr. Knagg took off his hat and bent his head.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_264">[264]</span> - -<h3 class="nobreak">THE DOLL’S-HOUSE FLAGS (1917)</h3> -</div> - - -<p>To begin with the youngest.</p> - -<p>“Me an’ the war’s the same age,” said Jasper, -for Jasper was born on August 4th, 1914.</p> - -<p>Perhaps that was why he manifested such a -decided and independent disposition almost from -his earliest months.</p> - -<p>It may have been that everybody was so busy -he was more thrown upon his own resources than -are babies in more leisurely times. But whatever -the reason, he ran about when he was one, talked -fluently—if in somewhat impressionistic fashion—when -he was eighteen months old, and by the -time he was two he had attained very definite characteristics.</p> - -<p>Barbara came next, four long years older than -Jasper. She had a round, rosy face and kind -brown eyes that readily filled with tears, and her -little heart overflowed with love and pity for the -wounded.</p> - -<p>Alison was quite old when war broke out. She -could remember times when sweets “were nothing -so very much—everybody eat them,” when “gentlemen -often had <i>two</i> eggs for breakfast and lots -of other things as well,” when “Mummy could -buy anything she liked in shops, and nearly everybody -had motors.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_265">[265]</span>Alison was six when Jasper was born.</p> - -<p>Tall and pale was Alison, with straight black -hair that reached her waist. She took the war -very seriously indeed, and was implacable in her -conviction that nothing else mattered. She was -even rather shocked that mummy could take comfort -in the thought that it would probably be over -before Jasper was old enough to join up.</p> - -<p>Then there was George.</p> - -<p>He was an American and the same age as Alison -and lived quite near, though after the unfriendly -fashion of London, they might never have known -him but that it happened his mummy and theirs -worked at the same hospital.</p> - -<p>He was an “only,” and when they first knew -him went as a day boy to a preparatory school -quite a long way off; but as time went on and -transport of every kind became more crowded and -difficult, he came to do lessons with Alison and -Barbara.</p> - -<p>Nothing made Barbara so happy as to be allowed -to visit the “dear poor ones” in the hospital -where mummy worked; but when she first -saw the blind soldiers from St. Dunstan’s and -they were explained to her, it seemed as though -she really could not bear the knowledge. The children -lived on the south side of Regent’s Park, and -Nannie always took them there for their walks.</p> - -<p>“Will they never be able to see?” she would ask -piteously.</p> - -<p>“I fear not in this life,” was Nannie’s invariable -answer.</p> - -<p>“Not anything? Ever?”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_266">[266]</span>“Nothing at all. But they are very brave, Miss -Barbara; <i>they</i> don’t cry.”</p> - -<p>For days after when Barbara met them in Regent’s -Park, her mouth would go down at the -corners, and though she did not actually cry she -was, as nurse said, “queer and quiet” for a long -time afterward. Their inexorable doom weighed -on her little soul, and even her serene faith in a -kind God and protecting angels and the “tender -Shepherd” of her prayers was somewhat shaken -that such a cruel thing could be. Ah! if they could -only have met <i>Him</i>! He would have “touched -their eyes” and all would have been well. Perhaps -some day—— In the meantime the fairies—and -she believed in them as firmly as in the heavenly -hierarchy itself—came to her aid, and by -some process of reasoning she decided that the -blinded soldiers were under an enchantment. -That a wicked ogre, a German ogre, had taken -away their sight (even as trolls and cruel step-mothers -and evilly disposed fairies blinded her -favorite heroes in the “Tales from the Norse”), -but that some day a kind fairy or wise, friendly -beast would put them in the way of getting their -eyes back again. Surely among all the animals in -the Zoo there would be one who knew exactly under -what tree in the Park the healing dew might -be found.</p> - -<p>She never spoke of the St. Dunstan’s men as -blind, but as the “poor enchanted ones,” to distinguish -them from the “dear poor ones” of the -hospital, and she would never speak of “Blindman’s -Buff,” but always of “Enchanted Buff.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_267">[267]</span>Jasper had learned to salute and was immensely -proud of himself. Every man in khaki or hospital -blue that came in his way, from brass-hats to the -most newly joined recruits, received his respectful -and ecstatic salutation. Two-foot-six in a -white Persian lamb coat and white gaiters would -stand rigidly to attention and bring up a diminutive -hand clad in a white glove smartly to his forehead. -If the man he desired to honor happened -to be in hospital blue, he then kissed his hand to -express affection as well as respect. When the -warrior in question perceived Jasper he invariably -returned the courtesy with <i>empressement</i>. Generals -were most punctilious in this matter, and -when Jasper saw one coming he would trot forward, -plant himself firmly in the line of vision of -the eyes under the brass hat, and, rosy and triumphant, -wait till Nannie came up, announcing -proudly: “I t’luted ’im <i>and</i> he t’luted me.”</p> - -<p>Everyone smiled upon Jasper. He was so small -and round and earnest, and his absurd hair curled -around the edge of his cap in the most entrancing -fashion. He knew he was popular and enjoyed it -amazingly.</p> - -<p>Therefore was he surprised and chilled when -one day, having as usual trotted ahead of Nannie, -he stopped opposite two blue soldiers resting on a -seat in the park and they took not the slightest -notice of him.</p> - -<p>They seemed to be looking right at him as he -stood at salute, but they neither “t’luted,” nor -did they smile or speak.</p> - -<p>Jasper kissed his hand.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_268">[268]</span>Still no response.</p> - -<p>He kissed his hand, and blew the kiss right at -them.</p> - -<p>Puzzled, he looked from one to the other. They -weren’t asleep. Their eyes were wide open, and -their faces kind and patient, but they didn’t seem -a bit glad to see him.</p> - -<p>They just took no notice—no notice at all. And -Nannie came up with the pram.</p> - -<p>“I t’luted ’em,” he said in rather trembling -tones, quite unlike his usual strong treble, “but -they don’t seem to like me.”</p> - -<p>“Eh, what?” said one of the men suddenly. -“What’s that?”</p> - -<p>Nannie said something hurriedly in a low voice. -“He’s only two and a bit,” she added. Then, “It’s -too cold for you to be sitting there. Have you lost -your bearings?”</p> - -<p>“That’s about it,” said the man who had first -spoken. “Perhaps you’ll put us on our way. It’s -time we were getting back.”</p> - -<p>“We’ll go with you. Give him your hand, dear, -and bring him along.”</p> - -<p>“I <i>did</i> t’lute ’em,” Jasper said again, feeling -that an important ceremony had somehow been -scamped.</p> - -<p>Both the men stood up, and the one who had -spoken to Nannie jogged his friend with his elbow, -saying: “And so do we salute you, young -man,” and they both did.</p> - -<p>The man put down his hand and touched the -top of Jasper’s Persian lamb cap, and laughed:</p> - -<p>“What a big man!” he said.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_269">[269]</span>And hand in hand they followed Nannie to St. -Dunstan’s.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>“Now you know what it’s like for the poor enchanted -ones,” Barbara said, taking her hands -from Jasper’s eyes.</p> - -<p>Jasper looked very solemn. “Poor ’chanted -ones,” he echoed; “I’ll t’lute ’em and kiss my -hand <i>and</i> kirtsey ne’st time I meet ’em.”</p> - -<p>“You talk to them, my dear,” said sensible -Nannie; “they’ll like that better than all your -salutin’s.”</p> - -<p>This Jasper was most ready to do at great length -in his little high voice that the poor enchanted -ones came to recognize a long way off. But all -the same he never failed to “t’lute and kiss his -hand <i>and</i> kirtsey.” No signs of respect and affection -could be too much, Barbara said.</p> - -<p>“It’s the worst thing of all, so we must love -them most.”</p> - -<p>Fairies and angels were inextricably mixed up -in Barbara’s mind, and when her mother came to -kiss her good-night on Christmas Eve, she murmured -sleepily: “I simply can’t ’astinguish between -God and Father Christmas, so I mus’ just -let it alone.”</p> - -<p>Even the toys were much affected by the war. -Jasper’s Teddy Bear wore an expression not unlike -the pathetic puzzled look of his brethren in -the Mappin Circle, now that nobody threw them -buns, sat they on their tails never so pleadingly. -Alison had made him the brassard of a special -constable, and he always wore it when he went out<span class="pagenum" id="Page_270">[270]</span> -with Jasper in the pram. The lady dolls had all -become V.A.D.’s or bus conductors or window-cleaners, -and one quite recent acquisition was a -land girl.</p> - -<p>As for the doll’s house, it wore a martial yet -festive air, for the flags of all the allies were -stuck in a tight band of string with which Alison -had bound it thrice just under the roof.</p> - -<p>It was not a new doll’s house. In fact as doll’s -houses go it was almost venerable. It had belonged -to grannie’s mother, and was built in the -early part of Queen Victoria’s reign. Unlike -modern doll’s houses, it did not open in front. -In front it was square and solid, with two large -windows on either side of the door, which had -glass panels, and actually opened and shut, and -there were three oblong windows on the next floor. -The roof was made of real little slates, with chimneys -at either end of it. The ground floor was a -shop, with two black counters that could be taken -out and dusted, and the walls were fitted with innumerable -shelves and cupboards. It was a silversmith’s -shop, and on the brass plates under the -windows were, on one, “David Strachan, Silversmith -and Jeweler,” on the other, “By Appointment -to Her Majesty Queen Victoria.” By which -it could be seen that it was a Scottish jeweler’s -shop, for nobody called “Strachan” could be of -any other nationality. Moreover, there were tiny -toddy-ladles of various sizes among the stock-in-trade.</p> - -<p>Daddy used to tell the children an entrancing -serial story about the inhabitants of this wonderful<span class="pagenum" id="Page_271">[271]</span> -house, whereof most of the plenishings remained -in their original form, though Mr. and -Mrs. Strachan, the two shop assistants, and the -baby, had been renewed from time to time, but -always as nearly as possible resembling their predecessors. -Thus it came about that Mr. Strachan -had side-whiskers—daddy painted them himself—a -stock and peg-top trousers, and Mrs. Strachan -a crinoline and an amazingly slender waist; while -Jenny, the maid, who slept in a box-bed in the -kitchen, had a mob-cap and always wore her -sleeves rolled up. The bedroom of Mr. and Mrs. -Strachan was much bemuslined, and the parlor -had green rep chairs and a round table.</p> - -<p>“It’s all of our doll’s house,” Barbara used to -say. “It doesn’t belong to anyone partickler. -Grannie said so.”</p> - -<p>“George’s, too,” Jasper always added. He -couldn’t bear George to be left out of anything.</p> - -<p>And perhaps because George was an American -he was a little less on his dignity than an English -boy of the same age. He didn’t despise girls, he -treated them in a comradely fashion that Alison -and Barbara greatly appreciated. And Jasper -adored him, for George realized that a person -might be not quite three, with nether garments -so abbreviated as to be almost indistinguishable -from petticoats, with woolly gaiters and shoes so -small they refused to make a martial tramp, however -much one tried—and yet the said person -might possess the most boyish soul in the world.</p> - -<p>Therefore was George made free of the doll’s -house, and assisted Alison with the serial story<span class="pagenum" id="Page_272">[272]</span> -which she had taken over since that day, early in -the war, when daddy went with his Territorial -battalion to France.</p> - -<p>It was on New Year’s Day in 1917 that George -brought Alison the American flag for the doll’s -house. It was a beautiful little silk one, and he -had selected it himself at Selfridge’s.</p> - -<p>“I’d like Mr. Strachan should have it,” he said. -“We want the allies to win. You bet we do.”</p> - -<p>But Alison shook her head. “I’m sorry,” she -said. “I hate not to take it—I’ll have it myself -if you like, but it can’t go on the house. Not yet it -can’t. America’s not in, you see.”</p> - -<p>“After all,” said George, “we’ve done a good -bit, haven’t we? Look at my dad—he’s been driving -an ambulance—he gave it himself—ever since -the beginning of the war, and he’s been wounded.”</p> - -<p>“I know,” Alison answered, “I know all that, -but”—and her grave little face was set like a -flint—“you’re not in it yet, you’re not <i>fighting</i>, -and only countries that are fighting <i>with</i> us can -have their flags on the doll’s house. Mr. Strachan’s -most partickler about that. My daddy’s been -wounded twice.”</p> - -<p>“Wouldn’t he have it at the back?” Barbara -suggested. She couldn’t bear people to be hurt, -and George looked very much hurt.</p> - -<p>“No, thank you,” he said haughtily. “If it -can’t be put with the others, you needn’t have it -at all. It’s a great flag.”</p> - -<p>“I know,” said Alison, “and I’m awfully -sorry. Mr. Strachan would love it the minute -you’re really in ... but till you are——”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_273">[273]</span>“We’re in right enough,” George said bitterly, -“in up to the neck. Mother says so. It’s only the -President hasn’t said ‘Go’ yet—you know what -Governments are, ‘waiting and seeing,’ and all -that rot. Look at your own! And everybody getting -killed all the time.”</p> - -<p>“I know,” Alison said. “But that’s what makes -the difference. We <i>are</i> getting killed, all the time, -even here in London.”</p> - -<p>George put the little flag in his pocket. “I came -to wish you a happy New Year, Alison,” he said -with an effort to speak pleasantly. “I’ll have to -get you something else. There’s some little silver -things for the shop for you, Barbara, and a machine-gun -for Jasper. Perhaps the partickler Mr. -Strachan wouldn’t mind having that on his roof -to fire at the Huns when they come over.”</p> - -<p>“Won’t you let me keep the flag?” Alison asked. -“Then if ever America....”</p> - -<p>“If ever,” George interrupted scornfully. -“That’s all you know about it. If you’ll wait -you’ll jolly well see this time. And you won’t -wait long!”</p> - -<p>But he kept the flag in his pocket; and that -night he put it in an envelope to keep it clean.</p> - -<p>George was right. She didn’t have to wait so -very much longer, for on April 6th, America declared -war on Germany, and he appeared directly -after breakfast waving a Stars and Stripes large -enough to have covered the doll’s house like a -tablecloth, so they hung it out of the nursery window -instead, and Jasper “t’luted” it when he -went out in his pram. And Alison got the little<span class="pagenum" id="Page_274">[274]</span> -flag from George and put it between that of England -and France on the doll’s house, and he -further presented the Strachans with two little -khaki gunners to man the gun on the roof, for -there were rumors to the effect that London would -get it particularly hot that summer. The Huns -were so angry about America.</p> - -<p>That very morning great-uncle Jasper came to -see the children, and gave each of them, including -George, a bright new half-crown.</p> - -<p>Jasper was much pleased with his, and refused -to be parted from it even after Nannie had dressed -him to go out. He declared he would hold it exceedingly -tight and not “jop” it. Nannie had -taken him with her down to the kitchen to get the -list of wanted groceries from cook, and before you -could say “knife” he had raced into the scullery, -mounted a chair, and thrust the new half-crown -down into one of the divisions of the knife-machine, -proclaiming triumphantly that it was “a -bid money-box.” And there the half-crown remains -to this day unless somebody has been -demobilized who understands Kent’s knife-machines.</p> - -<p>Nannie hated to take Jasper to shops instead -of the Park, but she had to do it sometimes because -things had to be got and there was no one else to -fetch them; besides, the “pram was handy for -parcels.” He thoroughly enjoyed these expeditions -and certainly cheered up the shopping of -other people.</p> - -<p>That morning when they arrived at the grocer’s -there was the usual tired, cross-looking throng of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_275">[275]</span> -housewives bearing string bags, irascible old gentlemen -with leather ones, and the inevitable slate -with the restrictive announcement: “No Matches. -No Jam. No Bacon. No Tea. No Cheese. No -Lard.”</p> - -<p>“Tut, tut,” muttered Nannie. “No cheese -again!”</p> - -<p>“No tzeeze adain,” Jasper instantly repeated, -but in ringing tones that might have indicated -glorious news, and everybody laughed.</p> - -<p>“Bless his heart,” said Nannie when she got -home, “he does his bit as well as anybody.”</p> - -<p>Alison was always ready enough to take care of -Jasper, and was thoroughly trustworthy as regards -letting no harm befall him; but she looked -upon such “minding” in the light of “war work,” -and her methods were somewhat austere.</p> - -<p>She was annoyed that he should constantly interrupt -mummy when she read aloud the latest -war news from <i>The Times</i> by frivolous calls for -admiration of his clock-work rabbit, and that -mummy never failed to respond. And Alison was -positively shocked that he could go on playing -absorbedly with the said rabbit even when mummy -read to them a letter from daddy in France.</p> - -<p>She forgot that, for Jasper, daddy was chiefly -known as a picture in a frame that stood on a -table by mummy’s bed, whereof he kissed the -glass, making a smudge on it, every night when -he had said his prayers; whereas the familiar rabbit -was furry and comforting to carry, and went -across the floor in a succession of exciting hops -when it was wound up.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_276">[276]</span>After all, Jasper was but a very little boy.</p> - -<p>As for Barbara, she followed where Jasper led. -Barbara was no sort of use for minding. Yet she -could devise most delightful games, and gave -dolls’ tea-parties when all the vanished delicacies -that used to grace such festivities before the war -appeared again. So lavish was she with chocolate -éclaires and cream buns and “white and pink -sugar cakes” that Alison, the conscientious, was -moved to expostulate, exclaiming: “What about -the rationing, Barbara?”</p> - -<p>“There’s no war in fairyland,” Barbara answered -serenely, “and this is a fairy tea, so you -can have as many lumps of sugar as ever you -like.”</p> - -<p>Jasper was a cause of anxiety at these functions, -because he <i>would</i> put a whole plate in his -mouth at once. The V.A.D. doll fell over backward, -she was so shocked. Such voluptuous gastronomic -joys as chocolate éclaires and cream buns -woke no responsive thrill in Jasper’s breast, for -he had never either seen nor tasted one or the -other, so when called upon to pretend to eat something, -he seized the nearest thing of handy size.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>The children’s house had a basement, but -George’s mother lived in a beautiful Willet house -that had none, so that autumn he and his mother -and their maids used to run over “to spend the -raid” with Jasper’s household when the first -maroons sounded.</p> - -<p>After the Zeppelin raids the doll’s house had -been brought down from the nursery to a room in<span class="pagenum" id="Page_277">[277]</span> -the basement where there was a gas fire, and the -children used to play with it and enact many thrilling -dramas while the raids were going on. As -George had prophesied, London got it particularly -hot during the harvest moon of 1917, with five -raids in eight nights.</p> - -<p>They had all just got back from a holiday in -the country and, with the exception of Barbara, -who was gun-shy and hated the noise, they really -felt the strain far less than the grown-ups.</p> - -<p>Jasper usually slept most of the time in his -mother’s arms, but after a particularly loud crash -would rouse himself to murmur with sleepy complacency: -“That was a good one. We got ’em -that time.”</p> - -<p>But Barbara, when the barrage was unusually -deafening and prolonged, remarked rather piteously: -“How it must ’asturb the poor angels!”</p> - -<p>It was during the very last raid of all, in May -of the following year, that something happened -to the doll’s house. It was on a Sunday night, -and the maroons didn’t start till eleven o’clock. -George and his household hurried over as soon as -he had got some clothes on, and Jasper woke up -and was very talkative and cheerful. Arrayed in -a blue dressing-gown and bed-shoes, he ran about -the room, interfering with George and his sisters -in their arrangement of the Strachan family, and -shouting lustily in concert with the louder -crashes.</p> - -<p>He wasn’t often allowed to touch the interior of -the doll’s house, for his methods were too Bolshevist, -and he was inclined to instigate conduct<span class="pagenum" id="Page_278">[278]</span> -wholly opposed to the characters of so <i>douce</i> and -respectable a family.</p> - -<p>That night Barbara insisted that Jeannie, the -maid, and the baby should take refuge under one -of the counters, while Mr. and Mrs. Strachan and -the shop assistants crouched behind the other.</p> - -<p>It happened that just then Jasper had developed -a mania for collecting smooth, round stones, and -Alison had suggested he should form an ammunition -dump to supply the Strachans’ machine-gun. -This dump he was allowed to build near the -stumpy little low oak table on casters that had -supported the doll’s house from the time it was -first built. Mummy had carefully explained to -him that he must on no account throw the stones <i>at</i> -anything, because Jasper came of three generations -of left-hand bowlers, and had already shown -that he could throw a ball in the direction he -wanted it to go. So far he had never thrown a -stone either at things or people, for he was a kind -little soul and no more disobedient than the generality -of small boys of three. But he carried a -stone in his hand all day long unless Nannie discovered -it and took it from him. He liked the -feel of it, its smoothness, its roundness, its vast -potentialities.</p> - -<p>That night he had been shooed away from the -doll’s house half a dozen times, for Alison and -George were absorbed in a thrilling play in which -the Strachans captured a German spy who was -guiding enemy air-craft by means of forbidden -lights.</p> - -<p>Just as the “Archies” were barking their<span class="pagenum" id="Page_279">[279]</span> -loudest, and an unmistakable bomb dropped somewhere, -Jasper, on the other side of the room, gave -a whoop and let fly the stone he had in his left -hand straight at the doll’s-house roof. It took one -of the wooden chimneys broadside on and broke -it clean off, narrowly missing the massed heads -of his two sisters and George, which were luckily -almost inside the house absorbed in the spy drama.</p> - -<p>It also cracked some of the neat little slates on -the roof.</p> - -<p>There was a general consternation and excitement, -and Jasper scurried across the room to secure -another stone from the dump, when he would -have undoubtedly had a shot at the other chimney -had not Nannie caught him and held him tight.</p> - -<p>Then it was that Alison astonished her family, -for instead of demanding instant and condign punishment -for her destructive little brother, she -danced about the room and burst into poetry, -shouting at the top of her voice:</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="verse">The Strachans are in the War Zone, their house has been hit,</div> -<div class="verse">They’ve caught a bad spy and they’re all done their bit.</div> -</div></div> - -<p>“She’s a most onaccountable child, Miss Alison,” -said Nannie to cook next day; “she was -actually sorry that the stone didn’t go right -through the roof, an’ you’d have thought she’d -have gone on ever so ... anyway, it kept them -from caring much about the raid.”</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_280">[280]</span> - -<h3 class="nobreak">CONCERNING CHRIS AND EASTER (1916)</h3> -</div> - - -<p>Easter is the only girl, a sort of happy afterthought -at the end of a long family of five boys, -with six years between her and her next brother.</p> - -<p>Chris is the only precious child, born after a -good many years of marriage to devoted and -adoring parents.</p> - -<p>Easter doesn’t think much of boys. They are -common as blackberries in her family and she is -keenly sensible of her own distinction in having, -as she puts it, “chosen to come as a girl.”</p> - -<p>Thus it came about that her mental attitude -struck Chris with something of a shock; not -wholly unpleasant; stimulating; the tingle of resentment -tempered by a thrill of amused surprise. -It was so odd and new to meet anyone who felt -like that.</p> - -<p>Besides, till he came to live in Easter’s village -he had been rather lonely, and she supplied a felt -want. Especially had this been so in the last two -bewildering years, for his parents had seemed less -absorbed in him than was quite dutiful. And for -the last year his father had vanished altogether -to that mysterious place that swallowed up so -many pleasant and familiar folk; that overshadowing, -omnipotent, vastly extending region -known as “the front.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_281">[281]</span>Easter, on her part, welcomed the society of -Chris. She, too, was lonely by reason of the very -same cause as Chris. Little girls were scarce in -that village and Easter’s mother was busy all day -long with war work of one sort and another, and -owing to the same cause Chris’s governess, Miss -Radley, only gave him her society during the bare -hours of lessons, which lessons had for some time -been shared by Easter.</p> - -<p>Now Easter was much better at lessons than -Chris; much quicker, in most things far more intelligent -and receptive. Only in arithmetic did -Chris shine, and in this subject he had soared -away from Easter and did abstruse calculations -in the end of the book all by himself with Miss -Radley.</p> - -<p>Easter was born on an Easter Day, and this -year she was eight years old. Chris was born on -Christmas Day, and last Christmas he was eight. -Therefore, in spite of his prowess in arithmetic, -he maintains that he is a year older than Easter.</p> - -<p>“Weren’t you born in 1908?” he demands -sternly.</p> - -<p>“Ye-es,” answers Easter, “on an Easter Sunday. -They <i>were</i> so pleased.”</p> - -<p>“And I,” says Chris, “was born in 1907. Take -seven from eight and what remains?”</p> - -<p>“One, but it isn’t a real, whole one,” Easter -objects.</p> - -<p>No one knows this better than Chris, but he -stoutly maintains: “A year’s a year, and you’re -either born in it or you’re not—so there.”</p> - -<p>However, in spite of this and many other differences<span class="pagenum" id="Page_282">[282]</span> -of opinion, they had decided to get married -when they came to what Easter’s nurse calls -“a suitable age.”</p> - -<p>As a rule Chris follows blindly where Easter -leads, giving in to her stronger will and considerably -stronger body, though not always without -protest.</p> - -<p>Easter is tall for her age and very muscular. -She has a gentle, early-Victorian, regularly featured, -delicately tinted face, with a high forehead, -abundant curly, fair hair, and large pathetic -blue eyes that are entirely misleading. In fact, -her appearance is as unlike her real character as -it is possible for such an extremely agreeable exterior -to be. She looks all softness and gravity -and gentle melancholy. Whereas she is a ruthless -and determined young person who cares nothing -for “moral suasion” and less for punishments -and penalties, provided she gets her own -way.</p> - -<p>Chris, on the contrary, is soft-hearted and easily -ruled through his affections. He would rather not -be disobedient and troublesome unless such breakings -of the law are expressly commanded by -Easter.</p> - -<p>But to be called a “muff” is more than he can -bear, and rather than Easter should think this of -him he will offend his whole dynasty of friends.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>Chris and Easter were sitting under a hedge -brilliant with scarlet hips and cloudy with “traveler’s -joy.” The hedge topped a fairly steep<span class="pagenum" id="Page_283">[283]</span> -bank, with a ditch full of muddy water at the -bottom of the bank.</p> - -<p>A heated argument was in progress as to the -names of their eight daughters. Easter had already -chosen the names, and they ran as follows: -Irene, Semolina, Rosalind, Majorca, Minorca, -Vinolia, Larola, and Salonica. Chris objected to -Semolina and Vinolia.</p> - -<p>“I hate semolina,” he observed gloomily, “almost -as bad as I hate rice.”</p> - -<p>“But it sounds so much nicer.”</p> - -<p>“And Vinolia, too—greasy stuff you smear on -chapped legs.”</p> - -<p>“It’s got a lovely smell,” said Easter.</p> - -<p>“And why,” demanded Chris, who was in a -bold and captious mood, “should there be eight of -’em? Why can’t there be some boys?”</p> - -<p>“I won’t have boys, I tell you,” Easter declared -firmly. “Girls are far prettier.”</p> - -<p>“<i>Are</i> they?” asked Chris incredulously. “I’ve -never seen any pretty ones.”</p> - -<p>Instead of asking “Where are your eyes?” -Easter said huffily, in life-like imitation of nurse: -“That’s as it may be. Anyway they wear far -prettier clothes.”</p> - -<p>“You don’t,” Chris pointed out.</p> - -<p>Easter looked down at her extremely short and -faded navy-blue skirt, at her long legs stuck out -in front of her, at her muddy boots, at the large -hole in the knee of her stocking. Save for the -said skirt she was dressed almost exactly like -Chris, in muffin cap, reefer and brass buttons.</p> - -<p>“Sometimes I do,” she maintained; “but anyway,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_284">[284]</span> -Irene, Semolina, and Rosalind, and Majorca, -and Minorca, and Vinolia, and Larola, and Salonica -will all have lovely frocks, silk ninon, with -sashes. Chris, they’ll be perfectly sweet, and we’ll -make them walk two and two in front of us to -church.”</p> - -<p>“I tell you,” Chris declared, unmoved by this -entrancing vision, “that I don’t <i>want</i> so many -daughters. I don’t like them, I don’t want ’em -and I won’t have ’em.”</p> - -<p>“Then,” Easter ejaculated in breathless tones -that should have warned him, “I shan’t marry -you.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t care,” the callous Chris announced. -“The country wants men. I heard my daddy say -so the last time he was home. There’s far too -many women as it is. They can’t fight.”</p> - -<p>“Can’t they?” the indignant Easter exclaimed -ironically, and giving Chris a vigorous and wholly -unexpected push, rolled him down the steep bank -and into the ditch with a mighty splash; and then, -adding insult to injury, she dug her heels into the -wet grass, and taking off with skill and surety, -jumped over his prostrate body on to the road, -whereupon she ran away, laughing derisively.</p> - -<p>Chris got most uncommonly wet, for the bottom -of the ditch was slimy and soft. Even after he -had struggled to his feet they slipped about and -sank in far over the tops of his boots. And when -he did manage to scramble up the bank to the road, -he certainly looked a deplorable object, covered -with mud and green slime and with water oozing -from every bit of him. He stamped his feet and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_285">[285]</span> -rubbed them on the wet grass that bordered the -road without much visible betterment.</p> - -<p>There was no going back through the village in -such a plight, so he climbed the first five-barred -gate he saw and started on a long cross-country -journey that was to bring him home by unfrequented -ways. He found the unfrequented ways, -for he didn’t meet a soul, but he lost his bearings -altogether. The wind got up and there followed -cold, gusty showers of rain and hail. He felt -chilled and miserable and dreadfully tired. Field -after field he traversed and yet found no familiar -landmarks, till, having toiled uphill over a heavy -ploughed field, he reached a road that stood fairly -high, and below him on the far horizon he recognized -the square tower of his own church. He -plodded on and on till at last he trotted wearily -up his own drive, and there he saw that not only -Miss Radley but the three maids were all gathered -on the steps of the front door. The moment Miss -Radley saw him she ran toward him, exclaiming:</p> - -<p>“Oh, Chris! Where <i>have</i> you been? We were -getting so anxious. Do you know it’s half-past -five? My dear boy, how wet you are! Come in -and get changed at once.”</p> - -<p>The maids went back into the house when they -saw Chris, and Miss Radley hurried him in and -upstairs, not even waiting to make him wipe his -feet.</p> - -<p>“We’ve been so anxious,” she repeated. “I -went to Easter’s, and she said you’d parted ever -so long ago. Why did you go off by yourself like -that?”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_286">[286]</span>Chris was half in, half out of his sailor blouse -by this time, and mumbled something about having -got tired of Easter.</p> - -<p>Miss Radley didn’t worry him much with questions, -nor did she comment severely upon his dirty -state. She was extraordinarily kind and got her -hands all over mud in helping him to take off his -boots; and it was not until he was lying luxuriously -in a hot bath that it struck him as odd that his -mother didn’t come to him. All the time, too, he -had the feeling that Miss Radley wanted to tell -him something and yet she couldn’t seem to begin.</p> - -<p>“Where’s mummy?” he asked at last. “Isn’t -she back yet? I wish she’d come and talk to me.”</p> - -<p>Miss Radley looked queerly at him, almost as -though she were going to cry. “Chris dear,” she -said, and waited for quite a long time, “mummy -has had to go away....”</p> - -<p>“Away! For the night? Where to? Why?”</p> - -<p>“Chris dear”—again Miss Radley seemed to -find it difficult to go on—“she had a telegram, just -after you went out, from the War Office, asking -her to go at once. Your father is in a hospital at -Boulogne, very ill ... wounded.”</p> - -<p>“Dangerously wounded?” asked Chris, who was -familiar with war terms.</p> - -<p>Miss Radley nodded, and two tears ran down -her cheeks. “That’s what it said.”</p> - -<p>“I think,” said Chris, “I’d like to get out of -this bath now.”</p> - -<p>When he was dressed he didn’t seem to want -the long-delayed tea, even though there was a -beautiful brown egg and lovely buttered toast. In<span class="pagenum" id="Page_287">[287]</span> -spite of the hot bath and a bright fire in the schoolroom -he felt horrid, cold trickles running down -his back all the time. He was extremely tired, too, -yet only conscious of one overwhelming want—to -be taken on his mother’s knee and comforted. -Miss Radley took him on hers and sat with him -right in front of the fire. She was very kind and -told him how sorry mummy had been to go off in -such a hurry without saying good-bye, but there -was just one train that would reach London that -night if she caught it at the junction; and the -squire, Easter’s father, had driven her himself -in his motor, and they just managed; and she was -crossing to France that night in charge of a -brother officer of dad’s—she had her passport -long ago.</p> - -<p>Every now and then Miss Radley lightly touched -his face, which was very hot, and then she would -hold his hand, which was very cold. Half-asleep, -Chris would murmur from time to time, “dangerously -wounded,” but somehow he couldn’t feel -about it as he knew he ought to feel. Though he -adored his daddy, all he felt was this overpowering -ache of longing for his mother.</p> - -<p>Easter’s scornful refusal to have any boys in -her family had hurt him very much. He felt lonely -and pushed out, somehow; and he badly wanted -the one person who never failed in her appreciation -of little boys, even if they were thin and -small and not particularly good looking, and could -not run so fast as ... certain little girls. He -was conscious of being all these undesirable things, -and yet he was convinced it was a great and glorious<span class="pagenum" id="Page_288">[288]</span> -thing to be a boy, even if Easter didn’t think -so. Once, after a long and acrimonious discussion -with her on this very subject, he had said to -his mother: “I choosed to come as a boy, didn’t -I?”</p> - -<p>“God chose,” said his mother gravely.</p> - -<p>“Me and God settled it together,” Chris announced -complacently, and his mother got up suddenly -and looked in a cupboard for something she -never found.</p> - -<p>In Chris’s mind God and Father Christmas -were inextricably mixed up. He had no fear of -either one or the other. Both were beneficent and -considerate and ready to give people their choice -both as to presents or other things.</p> - -<p>Yet when he was put to bed that night he -couldn’t dream of pleasant, soothing things, but -was pursued by eight strong daughters in embroidered -ninon frocks and pink sashes, who -formed themselves into a solid phalanx and drove -him to the edge of an awful precipice, and were -just pushing him over ... when he would wake -to find Miss Radley standing beside his bed, looking -anxious and troubled, shading a candle with -her hand.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>The war had not touched Easter very nearly. -Her mother had forbidden nurse to talk about it -to her; and her father (judging her sensitiveness -wholly from her gentle, Early-Victorian appearance) -was careful to keep all frightening or depressing -news from her as far as was possible. -All her life she had been sheltered and adored<span class="pagenum" id="Page_289">[289]</span> -and spared and spoiled. Her brothers, being so -much older, had “given in” to her from the very -first, and although the two eldest were fighting—one -in the navy, the other in the army—their doings -did not seem to affect her particularly. And -of the three still at school she had, of late, seen -very little, for in the holidays they were always -doing O.T.C. training, or making munitions somewhere.</p> - -<p>Yet one thing had impressed her during the last -two years. She was always hearing that some of -their acquaintances had “lost” a son, a brother, -or a husband. They did not talk of “killed” or -“missing” to Easter; but they did speak of this -continual and mysterious “loss,” and with the -queer secretive puzzledom of childhood she never -asked people outright what they meant by the -phrase.</p> - -<p>It worried her, this continual losing. She -never heard that these lost ones got found again. -Suppose she herself got lost in this irretrievable -way? How dreadful it would be. What would -her family do? In justice to Easter one must -allow that the thought of her people’s consternation -quite overshadowed any possibly unpleasant -consequences to herself.</p> - -<p>She had never discussed the question with Chris, -who knew a lot about the war and wanted to talk -about it to the exclusion of more interesting topics—such -as daughters. But this was easily overruled. -Moreover, Easter’s mother had decided -that far too much was said about the war in Chris’s -hearing, and she had asked Miss Radley to warn<span class="pagenum" id="Page_290">[290]</span> -him not to talk about it to Easter lest it should -upset her.</p> - -<p>Miss Radley had her own opinion of Easter’s -sensibility. She had not taught the children for -six months without discovering which was the -more susceptible and imaginative. But she did as -she was bid, and Chris had done his best to obey -in his turn. Perhaps in a lofty masculine way he -was rather proud that he should be allowed to -know things closely hidden from the domineering -Easter, and was therefore the less anxious to -share his knowledge with her.</p> - -<p>He whole-heartedly admired Easter. She was -so strong, so good at things, so invariably cheerful -and well, with a never-failing fund of good -spirits and energy. It is very possible that one -of her chief attractions for him lay in the fact that -she seemed so entirely outside those great and -grave anxieties that obsessed everybody else.</p> - -<p>Easter was brought up to understand that any -“career” that she chose was open to her. She -should have an equal chance with any of her -brothers; she might be a doctor for a factory inspector, -or a police-woman, or go in for any art or -craft she fancied. Literature, art, music, even the -stage, were to be open to her, should she so wish. -But, so far, her sole ambition was centred in the -possession of a husband, a meek husband, and -eight meek daughters to move and have their -being at her decree.</p> - -<p>It was the swing of the pendulum with a vengeance.</p> - -<p>No one told Easter about Chris’s daddy that<span class="pagenum" id="Page_291">[291]</span> -afternoon. In the evening she prepared her lessons -with her customary energy and intelligence, -and giggled cheerfully from time to time at the -recollection of Chris’s comical appearance as he -lay floundering in the ditch.</p> - -<p>“That’ll teach him,” said Easter to herself, -“whether it’s to be daughters or not!”</p> - -<p>Next morning at breakfast her mother said: -“Miss Radley can’t take you to-day, Easter dear, -so it’s no use your going over. They had very bad -news yesterday, and Mrs. Denver has had to go to -France. The major is very ill.”</p> - -<p>“Has Chris gone?” Easter asked.</p> - -<p>“No, dear; but Miss Radley sent over a note -quite early to say he has got a bad, feverish cold -(he got so wet yesterday—it’s a pity he didn’t -come back with you), and we don’t know what it -may turn to. So you must just take a holiday, for -I’m due at the hospital supplies at ten, and shall -be away all day.”</p> - -<p>“What’s the matter with Major Denver?”</p> - -<p>“I fear,” said her mother, anxiously watching -the earnest, delicately tinted face upturned to -hers, “I fear he is very badly wounded.”</p> - -<p>“Oh!” said Easter, and she looked very grave.</p> - -<p>“Be as happy as you can, my precious,” her -mother called to her as she drove away. “I’ll get -home as early as possible.”</p> - -<p>That was a very long day for Easter.</p> - -<p>For one thing, it rained all the morning; for -another, her father had to go a long way off on -business connected with special constables, and -couldn’t take her; and Amelia, the usually cheerful<span class="pagenum" id="Page_292">[292]</span> -housemaid, went about the house with red eyes -and a perpetual sniff, because she had heard that -morning she’d lost a cousin in the “big push on -the Somme.”</p> - -<p>Amelia was distinctly depressing.</p> - -<p>Easter knitted a few rows of her scarf—the -scarf that was always begun by her and finished -by somebody else because she got tired of it. She -found she was missing Chris far more poignantly -than was at all pleasant.</p> - -<p>After all, even if he didn’t always quite give in -to her, he was good company; and Easter found -herself remembering many kind things he had -done. The chocolates he had always shared so -generously, the apples so unequally divided always -in her favor. Once when she fell off a wall and -scratched her hands and tore her frock so badly, -he hadn’t laughed, and he was so seldom rough -in play, only when unbearably provoked. Easter -was too honest not to admit that even at the time.</p> - -<p>It cleared up in the afternoon and she ran over -to the Denvers’ house to see if Chris was up yet -and could play.</p> - -<p>Emma, the parlormaid, was firm in her refusal -to admit Easter.</p> - -<p>“Master Chris is that bad, so feverish it might -turn to anything, the doctor says. Miss Radley -said no one was to come in, and she haven’t left -Master Chris a single minute herself. It’s dreadful, -and us all in such trouble about the major, -too.”</p> - -<p>“You haven’t lost him, have you?” Easter -asked.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_293">[293]</span>“Good gracious! no, not yet, so far as we -knows. But he’s as bad as bad, and,” she added, -“if anything was to happen to Master Chris and -his ma away an’ all—but, there! I can’t bear to -think of it. You run along home, Miss Easter. -I’ll tell Miss Radley you came to ask.”</p> - -<p>And the door was shut in Easter’s face.</p> - -<p>Next day the news was no better. Even Easter’s -mother could not keep from her the universal -anxiety as to Major Denver. He had been their -doctor for a year before the war, and in that time -had managed to endear himself to everybody.</p> - -<p>It was said he had taken a country practice because -he thought the bracing air would be good -for Chris. Every soul in the village felt a special -right to know the latest news of the major, and -Miss Radley had the telegrams pinned on the -front door as soon as she got them.</p> - -<p>All day long people came up the drive to read -these telegrams, and presently there was a bit of -white paper as well, concerning Chris, for the -doctor’s little son lay grievously sick at home, -while his father, they feared, was dying of his -wounds in France. A white-capped hospital nurse -had come to help Miss Radley.</p> - -<p>Easter was a very lonely little girl. She felt, -too, that in some inexplicable fashion she was shut -out from things, that more was happening than -she was allowed to know; and, worst of all, Chris -had so entirely disappeared that she began to fear -that he, too, was lost, and they were afraid to tell -her.</p> - -<p>At the end of nearly a week she felt she could<span class="pagenum" id="Page_294">[294]</span> -not bear this furtiveness and suspense a minute -longer, and she determined to go to Chris’s house -and find out for herself just what had happened -and was happening. She would not ring the bell. -She would go round to the side of the house and -see if the schoolroom window was open, and get -in and find Miss Radley and force her to tell the -truth. If Chris was lost, then she, Easter, must -herself set forth to find him without more delay.</p> - -<p>All fell out as she had planned.</p> - -<p>The schoolroom window, which opened like a -door divided down the middle, was open, and Miss -Radley, with her back to it, sat at the table, -writing.</p> - -<p>Easter could move quietly as a cat when it -suited her. She came in without making a sound, -and stood just behind Miss Radley, who was so -absorbed she noticed nothing.</p> - -<p>“Have you lost Chris, Miss Radley?” Easter -asked loudly.</p> - -<p>Miss Radley started violently, and Easter came -round to her side, and she noticed that Miss Radley’s -usually round, rosy face was pale and much -less round than it used to be.</p> - -<p>“Oh, Easter dear, how you startled me! Don’t -suggest such a dreadful thing! We’re awfully -anxious, with his mother away and all this other -trouble, but ... we must hope always, always -hope—for if anything happened to Chris....”</p> - -<p>“What <i>has</i> happened to Chris?” Easter asked, -searching the very soul of Miss Radley with her -large clear gaze.</p> - -<p>“He got so wet after he left you that day last<span class="pagenum" id="Page_295">[295]</span> -week—I can’t think how—and he got a real bad -chill, and now there are all sorts of complications—and -his temperature keeps up so.”</p> - -<p>“What are complications?” Easter interrupted.</p> - -<p>“You wouldn’t understand.... Oh, Easter, -child, don’t stare at me like that! Aren’t you -sorry?”</p> - -<p>“I know how Chris got so wet,” Easter said -slowly. “I pushed him into the ditch.”</p> - -<p>Miss Radley drew back a little from Easter; -then she put out her hand and laid it on the child’s -arm.</p> - -<p>“I expect it was only in fun ... you couldn’t -know....”</p> - -<p>“Can’t I play with him a bit? Is it catching?” -Easter’s voice was still quite loud and matter-of-fact. -“It’s rather dull and lonely for me.”</p> - -<p>“For <i>you</i>!” Miss Radley echoed indignantly. -“Don’t you understand? Don’t you care, you -hard child? But you never did care for anybody -but yourself.”</p> - -<p>“Does Chris?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, indeed he does. He’s always been a dear, -kind boy. Easter, you must go home. I can’t stop -to talk to you now. Try to think about other people -a little....”</p> - -<p>Miss Radley did not finish her sentence, for -Easter had gone from her as silently as she had -come. For a minute the governess sat quite still. -Then she sighed and shivered, and went on with -her letter.</p> - -<p>Easter fled down the Denvers’ drive and out into<span class="pagenum" id="Page_296">[296]</span> -the road, but she didn’t go home. She ran and -ran till she could run no more, and dropping into -a walk, turned downhill along a winding lane -thickly bordered by trees so high that they almost -met overhead, forming an arch. The light in this -avenue was curiously lurid, for the trees were -beeches, and though rapidly thinning, were still -gorgeous in reds and yellows. The avenue led to -a church in the next parish (Easter had run such -a long way), and she had been there quite lately -with Chris to a fruit and flower service in aid of -the local hospital. Miss Radley had taken them -both, and now Easter remembered there were very -large vegetable marrows at the base of one of the -pillars, and wondered if they were still there. -She and Chris had sat next each other at that -service, and during the sermon he had let her hold -his knife. It had a corkscrew and a thing for -taking stones out of horses’ hoofs, as well as -blades, and all were very difficult to open. Chris -was good about lending his things. And he never -told of people. What did old Raddles mean when -she called her hard? She did care for Chris, -but she wasn’t going to say so to Raddles. Yet -Raddles looked awfully sad. Supposing they <i>had</i> -lost Chris, after all, and were afraid to say? Supposing -she, Easter, got lost, now, to-day? This -was a long, lonely, unfamiliar road, with such a -queer light in it. Supposing it were enchanted -and she couldn’t find her way back? Then she -would be like all those sons she had heard about -lately. Her heart began to beat very fast. Ah!<span class="pagenum" id="Page_297">[297]</span> -somebody was coming up the road. She would -ask her way. It would be dreadful to be lost.</p> - -<p>A very tall lady came toward her walking -slowly up the hill. She was dressed in black, with -a long thin veil turned back from her face. She -looked restlessly from side to side, as though trying -to find somebody in the shadows. This -seemed quite natural to Easter. Timidity or shyness -with strangers was unknown to her. She -was glad to see somebody, and the tall lady’s face -was very gentle.</p> - -<p>“Have <i>you</i> lost anybody?” Easter asked as they -met.</p> - -<p>The tall lady stopped, and though she looked -straight down at Easter, the child was uncomfortably -conscious that she didn’t really see her.</p> - -<p>“I have lost my only son,” said the lady.</p> - -<p>“You, too!” cried Easter, and what she could -not say to Miss Radley she found it easy to say -now to this pale lady who looked at her so -strangely. “Oh, I <i>am</i> sorry!”</p> - -<p>And she took one of the lady’s hands in both -her own.</p> - -<p>The lady did not draw her hand away; with her -eyes still fixed on Easter’s face with that queer, -unseeing look, she said: “Dear child! And you?”</p> - -<p>“Not yet,” said Easter. “Not yet—at least, -they say so, but I’m dreadfully afraid.”</p> - -<p>“Don’t be afraid,” said the lady. “Don’t be -afraid. That’s what he always said.”</p> - -<p>“Everyone,” said Easter, and her hard little -voice grew soft, “everyone seems losing sons and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_298">[298]</span> -people. Won’t you never, never find him again?”</p> - -<p>Into that lady’s face there leapt a sudden radiance -as when a clearly burning lamp is carried into -a dark room. Her eyes were luminous and bright, -and Easter felt that she was really seeing her at -last.</p> - -<p>“We shall all find them again,” she said almost -joyously. “Everyone of us.”</p> - -<p>“Are you sure?” Easter questioned.</p> - -<p>“In sure and certain hope,” said the lady.</p> - -<p>“In sure and certain hope,” Easter repeated. -“I like that. You <i>are</i> sure?”</p> - -<p>“Absolutely. Tell me, dear, who is it you are -anxious about?”</p> - -<p>Hand in hand they had started slowly to mount -the hill.</p> - -<p>“It’s Chris,” she said. “He plays with me a -lot and we do lessons together ... and they -won’t let me see him, and I want to tell him I’m -sorry.”</p> - -<p>“But why won’t they let you see him?”</p> - -<p>“Because they’re afraid they’ll lose him—I -heard <i>that</i>, though Raddles denied it when I asked -her.”</p> - -<p>“Then he’s ill?”</p> - -<p>“I suppose so.”</p> - -<p>The lady looked curiously at Easter. There was -no doubt whatever that she was troubled, and yet -... how oddly the child spoke.</p> - -<p>As they walked on, hand in hand, the lady said, -more to herself than to Easter: “Does the road -wind uphill all the way?”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_299">[299]</span>“No,” said Easter; “when we get to the end -of this it’s quite flat.”</p> - -<p>When they came to the main road Easter took -her hand out of the lady’s. “I know my way -now,” she said. “Good-bye.”</p> - -<p>The lady stooped and kissed her. “I should -write to Chris if I were you,” she said. “He’ll -probably like a letter very much when he’s a little -better.”</p> - -<p>Easter nodded and started to run, with that -swift, long-distance, steady running that had so -often worn out Chris; that was his admiration and -his despair. And as she ran she repeated over -and over again: “In sure and certain hope” all -the way.</p> - -<p>She would write to Chris directly she got in. -Her copies were always neater than his.</p> - -<p>But she couldn’t do it the minute she got in, -for tea was ready, and her mother there to have -it with her. Her mother looked pleased, too. Better -news had come from France. There was hope -that Major Denver might pull through, after all; -and she had seen Miss Radley, and Chris’s temperature -was nearly down to normal.</p> - -<p>It was a lovely tea; and directly after it Easter -sat down at her mother’s desk and wrote to Chris. -Very large, with beautiful up-and-down strokes:</p> - -<div class="blockquot2"> -<p>“<span class="smcap">Dear Chris</span>,</p> - -<p>“I’m sory I pushed you. Sum of them shall -be boys. The ones with the names you don’t like. -Please don’t get lost.</p> - -<p class="right"><span class="indentright">“Your loving</span><br /> -“<span class="smcap">Easter</span>.”</p> -</div> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_300">[300]</span>She licked the flap of the envelope with copious -completeness, and in one corner of the address, -very thick and black, in inch-long printed letters -was the word “<span class="smcap">Eargunt.</span>”</p> - - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="transnote"> -<div class="chapter"> -<p class="ph2">TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:</p> - - - -<p>Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.</p> - -<p>Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.</p> -</div></div> - -<div style='display:block; margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE VAGARIES OF TOD AND PETER ***</div> -<div style='text-align:left'> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will -be renamed. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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