diff options
| author | Roger Frank <rfrank@pglaf.org> | 2025-10-15 05:19:10 -0700 |
|---|---|---|
| committer | Roger Frank <rfrank@pglaf.org> | 2025-10-15 05:19:10 -0700 |
| commit | 9151e433387b93ea76ead9fb46dba313ae8b910c (patch) | |
| tree | 1fb0d37804be885c9d3d3964c3c300c23db085f1 /2437-0.txt | |
Diffstat (limited to '2437-0.txt')
| -rw-r--r-- | 2437-0.txt | 7525 |
1 files changed, 7525 insertions, 0 deletions
diff --git a/2437-0.txt b/2437-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..7662671 --- /dev/null +++ b/2437-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,7525 @@ +The Project Gutenberg eBook, They and I, by Jerome K. Jerome + + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere 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 + + + + + +Title: They and I + + +Author: Jerome K. Jerome + + + +Release Date: March 31, 2013 [eBook #2437] +[This file was first posted on February 11, 2000] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THEY AND I*** + + +Transcribed from the 1909 Bernhard Tauchnitz edition by David Price, +email ccx074@pglaf.org + + + + + + THEY AND I + + + * * * * * + + BY + + JEROME K. JEROME + + AUTHOR OF + “THE IDLE THOUGHTS OF AN IDLE FELLOW,” “THREE MEN ON + THE BUMMEL,” “PAUL KELVER,” ETC. + + * * * * * + + _COPYRIGHT EDITION_ + + * * * * * + + LEIPZIG + + BERNHARD TAUCHNITZ + + 1909. + + + + +CHAPTER I + + +“IT is not a large house,” I said. “We don’t want a large house. Two +spare bedrooms, and the little three-cornered place you see marked there +on the plan, next to the bathroom, and which will just do for a bachelor, +will be all we shall require—at all events, for the present. Later on, +if I ever get rich, we can throw out a wing. The kitchen I shall have to +break to your mother gently. Whatever the original architect could have +been thinking of—” + +“Never mind the kitchen,” said Dick: “what about the billiard-room?” + +The way children nowadays will interrupt a parent is nothing short of a +national disgrace. I also wish Dick would not sit on the table, swinging +his legs. It is not respectful. “Why, when I was a boy,” as I said to +him, “I should as soon have thought of sitting on a table, interrupting +my father—” + +“What’s this thing in the middle of the hall, that looks like a grating?” +demanded Robina. + +“She means the stairs,” explained Dick. + +“Then why don’t they look like stairs?” commented Robina. + +“They do,” replied Dick, “to people with sense.” + +“They don’t,” persisted Robina, “they look like a grating.” Robina, with +the plan spread out across her knee, was sitting balanced on the arm of +an easy-chair. Really, I hardly see the use of buying chairs for these +people. Nobody seems to know what they are for—except it be one or +another of the dogs. Perches are all they want. + +“If we threw the drawing-room into the hall and could do away with the +stairs,” thought Robina, “we should be able to give a dance now and +then.” + +“Perhaps,” I suggested, “you would like to clear out the house +altogether, leaving nothing but the four bare walls. That would give us +still more room, that would. For just living in, we could fix up a shed +in the garden; or—” + +“I’m talking seriously,” said Robina: “what’s the good of a drawing-room? +One only wants it to show the sort of people into that one wishes hadn’t +come. They’d sit about, looking miserable, just as well anywhere else. +If we could only get rid of the stairs—” + +“Oh, of course! we could get rid of the stairs,” I agreed. “It would be +a bit awkward at first, when we wanted to go to bed. But I daresay we +should get used to it. We could have a ladder and climb up to our rooms +through the windows. Or we might adopt the Norwegian method and have the +stairs outside.” + +“I wish you would be sensible,” said Robin. + +“I am trying to be,” I explained; “and I am also trying to put a little +sense into you. At present you are crazy about dancing. If you had your +way, you would turn the house into a dancing-saloon with primitive +sleeping-accommodation attached. It will last six months, your dancing +craze. Then you will want the house transformed into a swimming-bath, or +a skating-rink, or cleared out for hockey. My idea may be conventional. +I don’t expect you to sympathise with it. My notion is just an ordinary +Christian house, not a gymnasium. There are going to be bedrooms in this +house, and there’s going to be a staircase leading to them. It may +strike you as sordid, but there is also going to be a kitchen: though why +when building the house they should have put the kitchen— + +“Don’t forget the billiard-room,” said Dick. + +“If you thought more of your future career and less about billiards,” +Robin pointed out to him, “perhaps you’d get through your Little-go in +the course of the next few years. If Pa only had sense—I mean if he +wasn’t so absurdly indulgent wherever you are concerned, he would not +have a billiard-table in the house.” + +“You talk like that,” retorted Dick, “merely because you can’t play.” + +“I can beat you, anyhow,” retorted Robin. + +“Once,” admitted Dick—“once in six weeks.” + +“Twice,” corrected Robin. + +“You don’t play,” Dick explained to her; “you just whack round and trust +to Providence.” + +“I don’t whack round,” said Robin; “I always aim at something. When you +try and it doesn’t come off, you say it’s ‘hard luck;’ and when I try and +it does come off, you say it’s fluking. So like a man.” + +“You both of you,” I said, “attach too much importance to the score. +When you try for a cannon off the white and hit it on the wrong side and +send it into a pocket, and your own ball travels on and makes a losing +hazard off the red, instead of being vexed with yourselves—” + +“If you get a really good table, governor,” said Dick, “I’ll teach you +billiards.” + +I do believe Dick really thinks he can play. It is the same with golf. +Beginners are invariably lucky. “I think I shall like it,” they tell +you; “I seem to have the game in me, if you understand.” + +‘There is a friend of mine, an old sea-captain. He is the sort of man +that when the three balls are lying in a straight line, tucked up under +the cushion, looks pleased; because then he knows he can make a cannon +and leave the red just where he wants it. An Irish youngster named +Malooney, a college chum of Dick’s, was staying with us; and the +afternoon being wet, the Captain said he would explain it to Malooney, +how a young man might practise billiards without any danger of cutting +the cloth. He taught him how to hold the cue, and he told him how to +make a bridge. Malooney was grateful, and worked for about an hour. He +did not show much promise. He is a powerfully built young man, and he +didn’t seem able to get it into his head that he wasn’t playing cricket. +Whenever he hit a little low the result was generally lost ball. To save +time—and damage to furniture—Dick and I fielded for him. Dick stood at +long-stop, and I was short slip. It was dangerous work, however, and +when Dick had caught him out twice running, we agreed that we had won, +and took him in to tea. In the evening—none of the rest of us being keen +to try our luck a second time—the Captain said, that just for the joke of +the thing he would give Malooney eighty-five and play him a hundred up. +To confess the truth, I find no particular fun myself in playing +billiards with the Captain. The game consists, as far as I am concerned, +in walking round the table, throwing him back the balls, and saying +“Good!” By the time my turn comes I don’t seem to care what happens: +everything seems against me. He is a kind old gentleman and he means +well, but the tone in which he says “Hard lines!” whenever I miss an easy +stroke irritates me. I feel I’d like to throw the balls at his head and +fling the table out of window. I suppose it is that I am in a fretful +state of mind, but the mere way in which he chalks his cue aggravates me. +He carries his own chalk in his waistcoat pocket—as if our chalk wasn’t +good enough for him—and when he has finished chalking, he smooths the tip +round with his finger and thumb and taps the cue against the table. “Oh! +go on with the game,” I want to say to him; “don’t be so full of tricks.” + + * * * * * + +The Captain led off with a miss in baulk. Malooney gripped his cue, drew +in a deep breath, and let fly. The result was ten: a cannon and all +three balls in the same pocket. As a matter of fact he made the cannon +twice; but the second time, as we explained to him, of course did not +count. + +“Good beginning!” said the Captain. + +Malooney seemed pleased with himself, and took off his coat. + +Malooney’s ball missed the red on its first journey up the table by about +a foot, but found it later on and sent it into a pocket. + +“Ninety-nine plays nothing,” said Dick, who was marking. “Better make it +a hundred and fifty, hadn’t we, Captain?” + +“Well, I’d like to get in a shot,” said the Captain, “before the game is +over. Perhaps we had better make it a hundred and fifty, if Mr. Malooney +has no objection.” + +“Whatever you think right, sir,” said Rory Malooney. + +Malooney finished his break for twenty-two, leaving himself hanging over +the middle pocket and the red tucked up in baulk. + +“Nothing plays a hundred and eight,” said Dick. + +“When I want the score,” said the Captain, “I’ll ask for it.” + +“Beg pardon, sir,” said Dick. + +“I hate a noisy game,” said the Captain. + +The Captain, making up his mind without much waste of time, sent his ball +under the cushion, six inches outside baulk. + +“What will I do here?” asked Malooney. + +“I don’t know what you will do,” said the Captain; “I’m waiting to see.” + +Owing to the position of the ball, Malooney was unable to employ his +whole strength. All he did that turn was to pocket the Captain’s ball +and leave himself under the bottom cushion, four inches from the red. +The Captain said a nautical word, and gave another miss. Malooney +squared up to the balls for the third time. They flew before him, +panic-stricken. They banged against one another, came back and hit one +another again for no reason whatever. The red, in particular, Malooney +had succeeded apparently in frightening out of its wits. It is a stupid +ball, generally speaking, our red—its one idea to get under a cushion and +watch the game. With Malooney it soon found it was safe nowhere on the +table. Its only hope was pockets. I may have been mistaken, my eye may +have been deceived by the rapidity of the play, but it seemed to me that +the red never waited to be hit. When it saw Malooney’s ball coming for +it at the rate of forty miles an hour, it just made for the nearest +pocket. It rushed round the table looking for pockets. If in its +excitement, it passed an empty pocket, it turned back and crawled in. +There were times when in its terror it jumped the table and took shelter +under the sofa or behind the sideboard. One began to feel sorry for the +red. + +The Captain had scored a legitimate thirty-eight, and Malooney had given +him twenty-four, when it really seemed as if the Captain’s chance had +come. I could have scored myself as the balls were then. + +“Sixty-two plays one hundred and twenty-eight. Now then, Captain, game +in your hands,” said Dick. + +We gathered round. The children left their play. It was a pretty +picture: the bright young faces, eager with expectation, the old worn +veteran squinting down his cue, as if afraid that watching Malooney’s +play might have given it the squirms. + +“Now follow this,” I whispered to Malooney. “Don’t notice merely what he +does, but try and understand why he does it. Any fool—after a little +practice, that is—can hit a ball. But why do you hit it? What happens +after you’ve hit it? What—” + +“Hush,” said Dick. + +The Captain drew his cue back and gently pushed it forward. + +“Pretty stroke,” I whispered to Malooney; “now, that’s the sort—” + +I offer, by way of explanation, that the Captain by this time was +probably too full of bottled-up language to be master of his nerves. The +ball travelled slowly past the red. Dick said afterwards that you +couldn’t have put so much as a sheet of paper between them. It comforts +a man, sometimes, when you tell him this; and at other times it only +makes him madder. It travelled on and passed the white—you could have +put quite a lot of paper between it and the white—and dropped with a +contented thud into the top left-hand pocket. + +“Why does he do that?” Malooney whispered. Malooney has a singularly +hearty whisper. + +Dick and I got the women and children out of the room as quickly as we +could, but of course Veronica managed to tumble over something on the +way—Veronica would find something to tumble over in the desert of Sahara; +and a few days later I overheard expressions, scorching their way through +the nursery door, that made my hair rise up. I entered, and found +Veronica standing on the table. Jumbo was sitting upon the music-stool. +The poor dog himself was looking scared, though he must have heard a bit +of language in his time, one way and another. + +“Veronica,” I said, “are you not ashamed of yourself? You wicked child, +how dare you—” + +“It’s all right,” said Veronica. “I don’t really mean any harm. He’s a +sailor, and I have to talk to him like that, else he don’t know he’s +being talked to.” + +I pay hard-working, conscientious ladies to teach this child things right +and proper for her to know. They tell her clever things that Julius +Cæsar said; observations made by Marcus Aurelius that, pondered over, +might help her to become a beautiful character. She complains that it +produces a strange buzzy feeling in her head; and her mother argues that +perhaps her brain is of the creative order, not intended to remember +much—thinks that perhaps she is going to be something. A good +round-dozen oaths the Captain must have let fly before Dick and I +succeeded in rolling her out of the room. She had only heard them once, +yet, so far as I could judge, she had got them letter perfect. + +The Captain, now no longer under the necessity of employing all his +energies to suppress his natural instincts, gradually recovered form, and +eventually the game stood at one hundred and forty-nine all, Malooney to +play. The Captain had left the balls in a position that would have +disheartened any other opponent than Malooney. To any other opponent +than Malooney the Captain would have offered irritating sympathy. +“Afraid the balls are not rolling well for you to-night,” the Captain +would have said; or, “Sorry, sir, I don’t seem to have left you very +much.” To-night the Captain wasn’t feeling playful. + +“Well, if he scores off that!” said Dick. + +“Short of locking up the balls and turning out the lights, I don’t myself +see how one is going to stop him,” sighed the Captain. + +The Captain’s ball was in hand. Malooney went for the red and +hit—perhaps it would be more correct to say, frightened—it into a pocket. +Malooney’s ball, with the table to itself, then gave a solo performance, +and ended up by breaking a window. It was what the lawyers call a nice +point. What was the effect upon the score? + +Malooney argued that, seeing he had pocketed the red before his own ball +left the table, his three should be counted first, and that therefore he +had won. Dick maintained that a ball that had ended up in a flower-bed +couldn’t be deemed to have scored anything. The Captain declined to +assist. He said that, although he had been playing billiards for upwards +of forty years, the incident was new to him. My own feeling was that of +thankfulness that we had got through the game without anybody being +really injured. We agreed that the person to decide the point would be +the editor of _The Field_. + +It remains still undecided. The Captain came into my study the next +morning. He said: “If you haven’t written that letter to _The Field_, +don’t mention my name. They know me on _The Field_. I would rather it +did not get about that I have been playing with a man who cannot keep his +ball within the four walls of a billiard-room.” + +“Well,” I answered, “I know most of the fellows on _The Field_ myself. +They don’t often get hold of anything novel in the way of a story. When +they do, they are apt to harp upon it. My idea was to keep my own name +out of it altogether.” + +“It is not a point likely to crop up often,” said the Captain. “I’d let +it rest if I were you.” + +I should like to have had it settled. In the end, I wrote the editor a +careful letter, in a disguised hand, giving a false name and address. +But if any answer ever appeared I must have missed it. + +Myself I have a sort of consciousness that somewhere inside me there is +quite a good player, if only I could persuade him to come out. He is +shy, that is all. He does not seem able to play when people are looking +on. The shots he misses when people are looking on would give you a +wrong idea of him. When nobody is about, a prettier game you do not +often see. If some folks who fancy themselves could see me when there is +nobody about, it might take the conceit out of them. Only once I played +up to what I feel is my real form, and then it led to argument. I was +staying at an hotel in Switzerland, and the second evening a +pleasant-spoken young fellow, who said he had read all my books—later, he +appeared surprised on learning I had written more than two—asked me if I +would care to play a hundred up. We played even, and I paid for the +table. The next evening he said he thought it would make a better game +if he gave me forty and I broke. It was a fairly close finish, and +afterwards he suggested that I should put down my name for the handicap +they were arranging. + +“I am afraid,” I answered, “that I hardly play well enough. Just a quiet +game with you is one thing; but in a handicap with a crowd looking on—” + +“I should not let that trouble you,” he said; “there are some here who +play worse than you—just one or two. It passes the evening.” + +It was merely a friendly affair. I paid my twenty marks, and was given +plus a hundred. I drew for my first game a chatty type of man, who +started minus twenty. We neither of us did much for the first five +minutes, and then I made a break of forty-four. + +There was not a fluke in it from beginning to end. I was never more +astonished in my life. It seemed to me it was the cue was doing it. + +Minus Twenty was even more astonished. I heard him as I passed: + +“Who handicapped this man?” he asked. + +“I did,” said the pleasant-spoken youngster. + +“Oh,” said Minus Twenty—“friend of yours, I presume?” + +There are evenings that seem to belong to you. We finished that two +hundred and fifty under the three-quarters of an hour. I explained to +Minus Twenty—he was plus sixty-three at the end—that my play that night +had been exceptional. He said that he had heard of cases similar. I +left him talking volubly to the committee. He was not a nice man at all. + +After that I did not care to win; and that of course was fatal. The less +I tried, the more impossible it seemed for me to do wrong. I was left in +at the last with a man from another hotel. But for that I am convinced I +should have carried off the handicap. Our hotel didn’t, anyhow, want the +other hotel to win. So they gathered round me, and offered me sound +advice, and begged me to be careful; with the natural result that I went +back to my usual form quite suddenly. + +Never before or since have I played as I played that week. But it showed +me what I could do. I shall get a new table, with proper pockets this +time. There is something wrong about our pockets. The balls go into +them and then come out again. You would think they had seen something +there to frighten them. They come out trembling and hold on to the +cushion. + +I shall also get a new red ball. I fancy it must be a very old ball, our +red. It seems to me to be always tired. + +“The billiard-room,” I said to Dick, “I see my way to easily enough. +Adding another ten feet to what is now the dairy will give us +twenty-eight by twenty. I am hopeful that will be sufficient even for +your friend Malooney. The drawing-room is too small to be of any use. I +may decide—as Robina has suggested—to ‘throw it into the hall.’ But the +stairs will remain. For dancing, private theatricals—things to keep you +children out of mischief—I have an idea I will explain to you later on. +The kitchen—” + +“Can I have a room to myself?” asked Veronica. + +Veronica was sitting on the floor, staring into the fire, her chin +supported by her hand. Veronica, in those rare moments when she is +resting from her troubles, wears a holy, far-away expression apt to +mislead the stranger. Governesses, new to her, have their doubts whether +on these occasions they are justified in dragging her back to discuss +mere dates and tables. Poets who are friends of mine, coming +unexpectedly upon Veronica standing by the window, gazing upward at the +evening star, have thought it was a vision, until they got closer and +found that she was sucking peppermints. + +“I should so like to have a room all to myself,” added Veronica. + +“It would be a room!” commented Robin. + +“It wouldn’t have your hairpins sticking up all over the bed, anyhow,” +murmured Veronica dreamily. + +“I like that!” said Robin; “why—” + +“You’re harder than I am,” said Veronica. + +“I should wish you to have a room, Veronica,” I said. “My fear is that +in place of one untidy bedroom in the house—a room that makes me shudder +every time I see it through the open door; and the door, in spite of all +I can say, generally is wide open—” + +“I’m not untidy,” said Robin, “not really. I know where everything is in +the dark—if people would only leave them alone.” + +“You are. You’re about the most untidy girl I know,” said Dick. + +“I’m not,” said Robin; “you don’t see other girls’ rooms. Look at yours +at Cambridge. Malooney told us you’d had a fire, and we all believed him +at first.” + +“When a man’s working—” said Dick. + +“He must have an orderly place to work in,” suggested Robin. + +Dick sighed. “It’s never any good talking to you,” said Dick. “You +don’t even see your own faults.” + +“I can,” said Robin; “I see them more than anyone. All I claim is +justice.” + +“Show me, Veronica,” I said, “that you are worthy to possess a room. At +present you appear to regard the whole house as your room. I find your +gaiters on the croquet lawn. A portion of your costume—an article that +anyone possessed of the true feelings of a lady would desire to keep +hidden from the world—is discovered waving from the staircase window.” + +“I put it out to be mended,” explained Veronica. + +“You opened the door and flung it out. I told you of it at the time,” +said Robin. “You do the same with your boots.” + +“You are too high-spirited for your size,” explained Dick to her. “Try +to be less dashing.” + +“I could also wish, Veronica,” I continued, “that you shed your back comb +less easily, or at least that you knew when you had shed it. As for your +gloves—well, hunting your gloves has come to be our leading winter +sport.” + +“People look in such funny places for them,” said Veronica. + +“Granted. But be just, Veronica,” I pleaded. “Admit that it is in funny +places we occasionally find them. When looking for your things one +learns, Veronica, never to despair. So long as there remains a corner +unexplored inside or outside the house, within the half-mile radius, hope +need not be abandoned.” + +Veronica was still gazing dreamily into the fire. + +“I suppose,” said Veronica, “it’s reditty.” + +“It’s what?” I said. + +“She means heredity,” suggested Dick—“cheeky young beggar! I wonder you +let her talk to you the way she does.” + +“Besides,” added Robin, “as I am always explaining to you, Pa is a +literary man. With him it is part of his temperament.” + +“It’s hard on us children,” said Veronica. + +We were all agreed—with the exception of Veronica—that it was time +Veronica went to bed. As chairman I took it upon myself to closure the +debate. + + + + +CHAPTER II + + +“DO you mean, Governor, that you have actually bought the house?” +demanded Dick, “or are we only talking about it?” + +“This time, Dick,” I answered, “I have done it.” + +Dick looked serious. “Is it what you wanted?” he asked. + +“No, Dick,” I replied, “it is not what I wanted. I wanted an +old-fashioned, picturesque, rambling sort of a place, all gables and ivy +and oriel windows.” + +“You are mixing things up,” Dick interrupted, “gables and oriel windows +don’t go together.” + +“I beg your pardon, Dick,” I corrected him, “in the house I wanted, they +do. It is the style of house you find in the Christmas number. I have +never seen it anywhere else, but I took a fancy to it from the first. It +is not too far from the church, and it lights up well at night. ‘One of +these days,’ I used to say to myself when a boy, ‘I’ll be a clever man +and live in a house just like that.’ It was my dream.” + +“And what is this place like?” demanded Robin, “this place you have +bought.” + +“The agent,” I explained, “claims for it that it is capable of +improvement. I asked him to what school of architecture he would say it +belonged; he said he thought that it must have been a local school, and +pointed out—what seems to be the truth—that nowadays they do not build +such houses.” + +“Near to the river?” demanded Dick. + +“Well, by the road,” I answered, “I daresay it may be a couple of miles.” + +“And by the shortest way?” questioned Dick. + +“That is the shortest way,” I explained; “there’s a prettier way through +the woods, but that is about three miles and a half.” + +“But we had decided it was to be near the river,” said Robin. + +“We also decided,” I replied, “that it was to be on sandy soil, with a +south-west aspect. Only one thing in this house has a south-west aspect, +and that’s the back door. I asked the agent about the sand. He advised +me, if I wanted it in any quantity, to get an estimate from the Railway +Company. I wanted it on a hill. It is on a hill, with a bigger hill in +front of it. I didn’t want that other hill. I wanted an uninterrupted +view of the southern half of England. I wanted to take people out on the +step, and cram them with stories about our being able on clear days to +see the Bristol Channel. They might not have believed me, but without +that hill I could have stuck to it, and they could not have been +certain—not dead certain—I was lying. + +“Personally, I should have liked a house where something had happened. I +should have liked, myself, a blood-stain—not a fussy blood-stain, a neat +unobtrusive blood-stain that would have been content, most of its time, +to remain hidden under the mat, shown only occasionally as a treat to +visitors. I had hopes even of a ghost. I don’t mean one of those noisy +ghosts that doesn’t seem to know it is dead. A lady ghost would have +been my fancy, a gentle ghost with quiet, pretty ways. This house—well, +it is such a sensible-looking house, that is my chief objection to it. +It has got an echo. If you go to the end of the garden and shout at it +very loudly, it answers you back. This is the only bit of fun you can +have with it. Even then it answers you in such a tone you feel it thinks +the whole thing silly—is doing it merely to humour you. It is one of +those houses that always seems to be thinking of its rates and taxes.” + +“Any reason at all for your having bought it?” asked Dick. + +“Yes, Dick,” I answered. “We are all of us tired of this suburb. We +want to live in the country and be good. To live in the country with any +comfort it is necessary to have a house there. This being admitted, it +follows we must either build a house or buy one. I would rather not +build a house. Talboys built himself a house. You know Talboys. When I +first met him, before he started building, he was a cheerful soul with a +kindly word for everyone. The builder assures him that in another twenty +years, when the colour has had time to tone down, his house will be a +picture. At present it makes him bilious, the mere sight of it. Year by +year, they tell him, as the dampness wears itself away, he will suffer +less and less from rheumatism, ague, and lumbago. He has a hedge round +the garden; it is eighteen inches high. To keep the boys out he has put +up barbed-wire fencing. But wire fencing affords no real privacy. When +the Talboys are taking coffee on the lawn, there is generally a crowd +from the village watching them. There are trees in the garden; you know +they are trees—there is a label tied to each one telling you what sort of +tree it is. For the moment there is a similarity about them. Thirty +years hence, Talboys estimates, they will afford him shade and comfort; +but by that time he hopes to be dead. I want a house that has got over +all its troubles; I don’t want to spend the rest of my life bringing up a +young and inexperienced house.” + +“But why this particular house?” urged Robin, “if, as you say, it is not +the house you wanted.” + +“Because, my dear girl,” I answered, “it is less unlike the house I +wanted than other houses I have seen. When we are young we make up our +minds to try and get what we want; when we have arrived at years of +discretion we decide to try and want what we can get. It saves time. +During the last two years I have seen about sixty houses, and out of the +lot there was only one that was really the house I wanted. Hitherto I +have kept the story to myself. Even now, thinking about it irritates me. +It was not an agent who told me of it. I met a man by chance in a +railway carriage. He had a black eye. If ever I meet him again I’ll +give him another. He accounted for it by explaining that he had had +trouble with a golf ball, and at the time I believed him. I mentioned to +him in conversation I was looking for a house. He described this place +to me, and it seemed to me hours before the train stopped at a station. +When it did I got out and took the next train back. I did not even wait +for lunch. I had my bicycle with me, and I went straight there. It +was—well, it was the house I wanted. If it had vanished suddenly, and I +had found myself in bed, the whole thing would have seemed more +reasonable. The proprietor opened the door to me himself. He had the +bearing of a retired military man. It was afterwards I learnt he was the +proprietor. + +“I said, ‘Good afternoon; if it is not troubling you, I would like to +look over the house.’ We were standing in the oak-panelled hall. I +noticed the carved staircase about which the man in the train had told +me, also the Tudor fireplaces. That is all I had time to notice. The +next moment I was lying on my back in the middle of the gravel with the +door shut. I looked up. I saw the old maniac’s head sticking out of a +little window. It was an evil face. He had a gun in his hand. + +“‘I’m going to count twenty,’ he said. ‘If you are not the other side of +the gate by then, I shoot.’ + +“I ran over the figures myself on my way to the gate. I made it +eighteen. + +“I had an hour to wait for the train. I talked the matter over with the +station-master. + +“‘Yes,’ he said, ‘there’ll be trouble up there one of these days.’ + +“I said, ‘It seems to me to have begun.’ + +“He said, ‘It’s the Indian sun. It gets into their heads. We have one +or two in the neighbourhood. They are quiet enough till something +happens.’ + +“‘If I’d been two seconds longer,’ I said, ‘I believe he’d have done it.’ + +“‘It’s a taking house,’ said the station-master; ‘not too big and not too +little. It’s the sort of house people seem to be looking for.’ + +“‘I don’t envy,’ I said, ‘the next person that finds it.’ + +“‘He settled himself down here,’ said the station-master, ‘about ten +years ago. Since then, if one person has offered to take the house off +his hands, I suppose a thousand have. At first he would laugh at them +good-temperedly—explain to them that his idea was to live there himself, +in peace and quietness, till he died. Two out of every three of them +would express their willingness to wait for that, and suggest some +arrangement by which they might enter into possession, say, a week after +the funeral. The last few months it has been worse than ever. I reckon +you’re about the eighth that has been up there this week, and to-day only +Thursday. There’s something to be said, you know, for the old man.’” + +“And did he,” asked Dick—“did he shoot the next party that came along?” + +“Don’t be so silly, Dick,” said Robin; “it’s a story. Tell us another, +Pa.” + +“I don’t know what you mean, Robina, by a story,” I said. “If you mean +to imply—” + +Robina said she didn’t; but I know quite well she did. Because I am an +author, and have to tell stories for my living, people think I don’t know +any truth. It is vexing enough to be doubted when one is exaggerating; +to have sneers flung at one by one’s own kith and kin when one is +struggling to confine oneself to bald, bare narrative—well, where is the +inducement to be truthful? There are times when I almost say to myself +that I will never tell the truth again. + +“As it happens,” I said, “the story is true, in many places. I pass over +your indifference to the risk I ran; though a nice girl at the point +where the gun was mentioned would have expressed alarm. Anyhow, at the +end you might have said something more sympathetic than merely, ‘Tell us +another.’ He did not shoot the next party that arrived, for the reason +that the very next day his wife, alarmed at what had happened, went up to +London and consulted an expert—none too soon, as it turned out. The poor +old fellow died six months later in a private lunatic asylum; I had it +from the station-master on passing through the junction again this +spring. The house fell into the possession of his nephew, who is living +in it now. He is a youngish man with a large family, and people have +learnt that the place is not for sale. It seems to me rather a sad +story. The Indian sun, as the station-master thinks, may have started +the trouble; but the end was undoubtedly hastened by the annoyance to +which the unfortunate gentleman had been subjected; and I myself might +have been shot. The only thing that comforts me is thinking of that +fool’s black eye—the fool that sent me there.” + +“And none of the other houses,” suggested Dick, “were any good at all?” + +“There were drawbacks, Dick,” I explained. “There was a house in Essex; +it was one of the first your mother and I inspected. I nearly shed tears +of joy when I read the advertisement. It had once been a priory. Queen +Elizabeth had slept there on her way to Greenwich. A photograph of the +house accompanied the advertisement. I should not have believed the +thing had it been a picture. It was under twelve miles from Charing +Cross. The owner, it was stated, was open to offers.” + +“All humbug, I suppose,” suggested Dick. + +“The advertisement, if anything,” I replied, “had under-estimated the +attractiveness of that house. All I blame the advertisement for is that +it did not mention other things. It did not mention, for instance, that +since Queen Elizabeth’s time the neighbourhood had changed. It did not +mention that the entrance was between a public-house one side of the gate +and a fried-fish shop on the other; that the Great Eastern +Railway-Company had established a goods depot at the bottom of the +garden; that the drawing-room windows looked out on extensive chemical +works, and the dining-room windows, which were round the corner, on a +stonemason’s yard. The house itself was a dream.” + +“But what is the sense of it?” demanded Dick. “What do house agents +think is the good of it? Do they think people likely to take a house +after reading the advertisement without ever going to see it?” + +“I asked an agent once that very question,” I replied. “He said they did +it first and foremost to keep up the spirits of the owner—the man who +wanted to sell the house. He said that when a man was trying to part +with a house he had to listen to so much abuse of it from people who came +to see it that if somebody did not stick up for the house—say all that +could be said for it, and gloss over its defects—he would end by becoming +so ashamed of it he would want to give it away, or blow it up with +dynamite. He said that reading the advertisement in the agent’s +catalogue was the only thing that reconciled him to being the owner of +the house. He said one client of his had been trying to sell his house +for years—until one day in the office he read by chance the agent’s +description of it. Upon which he went straight home, took down the +board, and has lived there contentedly ever since. From that point of +view there is reason in the system; but for the house-hunter it works +badly. + +“One agent sent me a day’s journey to see a house standing in the middle +of a brickfield, with a view of the Grand Junction Canal. I asked him +where was the river he had mentioned. He explained it was the other side +of the canal, but on a lower level; that was the only reason why from the +house you couldn’t see it. I asked him for his picturesque scenery. He +explained it was farther on, round the bend. He seemed to think me +unreasonable, expecting to find everything I wanted just outside the +front-door. He suggested my shutting out the brickfield—if I didn’t like +the brickfield—with trees. He suggested the eucalyptus-tree. He said it +was a rapid grower. He also told me that it yielded gum. + +“Another house I travelled down into Dorsetshire to see. It contained, +according to the advertisement, ‘perhaps the most perfect specimen of +Norman arch extant in Southern England.’ It was to be found mentioned in +Dugdale, and dated from the thirteenth century. I don’t quite know what +I expected. I argued to myself that there must have been ruffians of +only moderate means even in those days. Here and there some robber baron +who had struck a poor line of country would have had to be content with a +homely little castle. A few such, hidden away in unfrequented districts, +had escaped destruction. More civilised descendants had adapted them to +later requirements. I had in my mind, before the train reached +Dorchester, something between a miniature Tower of London and a mediæval +edition of Ann Hathaway’s cottage at Stratford. I pictured dungeons and +a drawbridge, perhaps a secret passage. Lamchick has a secret passage, +leading from behind a sort of portrait in the dining-room to the back of +the kitchen chimney. They use it for a linen closet. It seems to me a +pity. Of course originally it went on farther. The vicar, who is a bit +of an antiquarian, believes it comes out somewhere in the churchyard. I +tell Lamchick he ought to have it opened up, but his wife doesn’t want it +touched. She seems to think it just right as it is. I have always had a +fancy for a secret passage. I decided I would have the drawbridge +repaired and made practicable. Flanked on each side with flowers in +tubs, it would have been a novel and picturesque approach.” + +“Was there a drawbridge?” asked Dick. + +“There was no drawbridge,” I explained. “The entrance to the house was +through what the caretaker called the conservatory. It was not the sort +of house that goes with a drawbridge.” + +“Then what about the Norman arches?” argued Dick. + +“Not arches,” I corrected him; “Arch. The Norman arch was downstairs in +the kitchen. It was the kitchen, that had been built in the thirteenth +century—and had not had much done to it since, apparently. Originally, I +should say, it had been the torture chamber; it gave you that idea. I +think your mother would have raised objections to the kitchen—anyhow, +when she came to think of the cook. It would have been necessary to put +it to the woman before engaging her:— + +“‘You don’t mind cooking in a dungeon in the dark, do you?’ + +“Some cooks would. The rest of the house was what I should describe as +present-day mixed style. The last tenant but one had thrown out a +bathroom in corrugated iron.” + +“Then there was a house in Berkshire that I took your mother to see, with +a trout stream running through the grounds. I imagined myself going out +after lunch, catching trout for dinner; inviting swagger friends down to +‘my little place in Berkshire’ for a few days’ trout-fishing. There is a +man I once knew who is now a baronet. He used to be keen on fishing. I +thought maybe I’d get him. It would have looked well in the Literary +Gossip column: ‘Among the other distinguished guests’—you know the sort +of thing. I had the paragraph already in my mind. The wonder is I +didn’t buy a rod.” + +“Wasn’t there any trout stream?” questioned Robin. + +“There was a stream,” I answered; “if anything, too much stream. The +stream was the first thing your mother noticed. She noticed it a quarter +of an hour before we came to it—before we knew it was the stream. We +drove back to the town, and she bought a smelling-bottle, the larger +size. + +“It gave your mother a headache, that stream, and made me mad. The +agent’s office was opposite the station. I allowed myself half an hour +on my way back to tell him what I thought of him, and then I missed the +train. I could have got it in if he had let me talk all the time, but he +would interrupt. He said it was the people at the paper-mill—that he had +spoken to them about it more than once; he seemed to think sympathy was +all I wanted. He assured me, on his word as a house-agent, that it had +once been a trout stream. The fact was historical. Isaac Walton had +fished there—that was prior to the paper-mill. He thought a collection +of trout, male and female, might be bought and placed in it; preference +being given to some hardy breed of trout, accustomed to roughing it. I +told him I wasn’t looking for a place where I could play at being Noah; +and left him, as I explained to him, with the intention of going straight +to my solicitors and instituting proceedings against him for talking like +a fool; and he put on his hat and went across to his solicitors to +commence proceedings against me for libel. + +“I suppose that, with myself, he thought better of it in the end. But +I’m tired of having my life turned into one perpetual first of April. +This house that I have bought is not my heart’s desire, but about it +there are possibilities. We will put in lattice windows, and fuss-up the +chimneys. Maybe we will let in a tablet over the front-door, with a +date—always looks well: it is a picturesque figure, the old-fashioned +five. By the time we have done with it—for all practical purposes—it +will be a Tudor manor-house. I have always wanted an old Tudor +manor-house. There is no reason, so far as I can see, why there should +not be stories connected with this house. Why should not we have a room +in which Somebody once slept? We won’t have Queen Elizabeth. I’m tired +of Queen Elizabeth. Besides, I don’t believe she’d have been nice. Why +not Queen Anne? A quiet, gentle old lady, from all accounts, who would +not have given trouble. Or, better still, Shakespeare. He was +constantly to and fro between London and Stratford. It would not have +been so very much out of his way. ‘The room where Shakespeare slept!’ +Why, it’s a new idea. Nobody ever seems to have thought of Shakespeare. +There is the four-post bedstead. Your mother never liked it. She will +insist, it harbours things. We might hang the wall with scenes from his +plays, and have a bust of the old gentleman himself over the door. If +I’m left alone and not worried, I’ll probably end by believing that he +really did sleep there.” + +“What about cupboards?” suggested Dick. “The Little Mother will clamour +for cupboards.” + +It is unexplainable, the average woman’s passion for cupboards. In +heaven, her first request, I am sure, is always, “Can I have a cupboard?” +She would keep her husband and children in cupboards if she had her way: +that would be her idea of the perfect home, everybody wrapped up with a +piece of camphor in his or her own proper cupboard. I knew a woman once +who was happy—for a woman. She lived in a house with twenty-nine +cupboards: I think it must have been built by a woman. They were +spacious cupboards, many of them, with doors in no way different from +other doors. Visitors would wish each other good-night and disappear +with their candles into cupboards, staggering out backwards the next +moment, looking scared. One poor gentleman, this woman’s husband told +me, having to go downstairs again for something he had forgotten, and +unable on his return to strike anything else but cupboards, lost heart +and finished up the night in a cupboard. At breakfast-time guests would +hurry down, and burst open cupboard doors with a cheery “Good-morning.” +When that woman was out, nobody in that house ever knew where anything +was; and when she came home she herself only knew where it ought to have +been. Yet once, when one of those twenty-nine cupboards had to be +cleared out temporarily for repairs, she never smiled, her husband told +me, for more than three weeks—not till the workmen were out of the house, +and that cupboard in working order again. She said it was so confusing, +having nowhere to put her things. + +The average woman does not want a house, in the ordinary sense of the +word. What she wants is something made by a genii. You have found, as +you think, the ideal house. You show her the Adams fireplace in the +drawing-room. You tap the wainscoting of the hall with your umbrella: +“Oak,” you impress upon her, “all oak.” You draw her attention to the +view: you tell her the local legend. By fixing her head against the +window-pane she can see the tree on which the man was hanged. You dwell +upon the sundial; you mention for a second time the Adams fireplace. + +“It’s all very nice,” she answers, “but where are the children going to +sleep?” + +It is so disheartening. + +If it isn’t the children, it’s the water. She wants water—wants to know +where it comes from. You show her where it comes from. + +“What, out of that nasty place!” she exclaims. + +She is equally dissatisfied whether it be drawn from a well, or whether +it be water that has fallen from heaven and been stored in tanks. She +has no faith in Nature’s water. A woman never believes that water can be +good that does not come from a water-works. Her idea appears to be that +the Company makes it fresh every morning from some old family recipe. + +If you do succeed in reconciling her to the water, then she feels sure +that the chimneys smoke; they look as if they smoked. Why—as you tell +her—the chimneys are the best part of the house. You take her outside +and make her look at them. They are genuine sixteenth-century chimneys, +with carving on them. They couldn’t smoke. They wouldn’t do anything so +inartistic. She says she only hopes you are right, and suggests cowls, +if they do. + +After that she wants to see the kitchen—where’s the kitchen? You don’t +know where it is. You didn’t bother about the kitchen. There must be a +kitchen, of course. You proceed to search for the kitchen. When you +find it she is worried because it is the opposite end of the house to the +dining-room. You point out to her the advantage of being away from the +smell of the cooking. At that she gets personal: tells you that you are +the first to grumble when the dinner is cold; and in her madness accuses +the whole male sex of being impractical. The mere sight of an empty +house makes a woman fretful. + +Of course the stove is wrong. The kitchen stove always is wrong. You +promise she shall have a new one. Six months later she will want the old +one back again: but it would be cruel to tell her this. The promise of +that new stove comforts her. The woman never loses hope that one day it +will come—the all-satisfying kitchen stove, the stove of her girlish +dreams. + +The question of the stove settled, you imagine you have silenced all +opposition. At once she begins to talk about things that nobody but a +woman or a sanitary inspector can talk about without blushing. + +It calls for tact, getting a woman into a new house. She is nervous, +suspicious. + +“I am glad, my dear Dick,” I answered; “that you have mentioned +cupboards. It is with cupboards that I am hoping to lure your mother. +The cupboards, from her point of view, will be the one bright spot; there +are fourteen of them. I am trusting to cupboards to tide me over many +things. I shall want you to come with me, Dick. Whenever your mother +begins a sentence with: ‘But now to be practical, dear,’ I want you to +murmur something about cupboards—not irritatingly as if it had been +prearranged: have a little gumption.” + +“Will there be room for a tennis court?” demanded Dick. + +“An excellent tennis court already exists,” I informed him. “I have also +purchased the adjoining paddock. We shall be able to keep our own cow. +Maybe we’ll breed horses.” + +“We might have a croquet lawn,” suggested Robin. + +“We might easily have a croquet lawn,” I agreed. “On a full-sized lawn I +believe Veronica might be taught to play. There are natures that demand +space. On a full-sized lawn, protected by a stout iron border, less time +might be wasted exploring the surrounding scenery for Veronica’s lost +ball.” + +“No chance of a golf links anywhere in the neighbourhood?” feared Dick. + +“I am not so sure,” I answered. “Barely a mile away there is a pretty +piece of gorse land that appears to be no good to anyone. I daresay for +a reasonable offer—” + +“I say, when will this show be ready?” interrupted Dick. + +“I propose beginning the alterations at once,” I explained. “By luck +there happens to be a gamekeeper’s cottage vacant and within distance. +The agent is going to get me the use of it for a year—a primitive little +place, but charmingly situate on the edge of a wood. I shall furnish a +couple of rooms; and for part of every week I shall make a point of being +down there, superintending. I have always been considered good at +superintending. My poor father used to say it was the only work I seemed +to take an interest in. By being on the spot to hurry everybody on I +hope to have the ‘show,’ as you term it, ready by the spring.” + +“I shall never marry,” said Robin. + +“Don’t be so easily discouraged,” advised Dick; “you are still young.” + +“I don’t ever want to get married,” continued Robin. “I should only +quarrel with my husband, if I did. And Dick will never do anything—not +with his head.” + +“Forgive me if I am dull,” I pleaded, “but what is the connection between +this house, your quarrels with your husband if you ever get one, and +Dick’s head?” + +By way of explanation, Robin sprang to the ground, and before he could +stop her had flung her arms around Dick’s neck. + +“We can’t help it, Dick dear,” she told him. “Clever parents always have +duffing children. But we’ll be of some use in the world after all, you +and I.” + +The idea was that Dick, when he had finished failing in examinations, +should go out to Canada and start a farm, taking Robin with him. They +would breed cattle, and gallop over the prairies, and camp out in the +primeval forest, and slide about on snow-shoes, and carry canoes on their +backs, and shoot rapids, and stalk things—so far as I could gather, have +a sort of everlasting Buffalo-Bill’s show all to themselves. How and +when the farm work was to get itself done was not at all clear. The +Little Mother and myself were to end our days with them. We were to sit +about in the sun for a time, and then pass peacefully away. Robin shed a +few tears at this point, but regained her spirits, thinking of Veronica, +who was to be lured out on a visit and married to some true-hearted +yeoman: which is not at present Veronica’s ambition. Veronica’s +conviction is that she would look well in a coronet: her own idea is +something in the ducal line. Robina talked for about ten minutes. By +the time she had done she had persuaded Dick that life in the backwoods +of Canada had been his dream from infancy. She is that sort of girl. + +I tried talking reason, but talking to Robin when she has got a notion in +her head is like trying to fix a halter on a two-year-old colt. This +tumble-down, six-roomed cottage was to be the saving of the family. An +ecstatic look transfigured Robina’s face even as she spoke of it. You +might have fancied it a shrine. Robina would do the cooking. Robina +would rise early and milk the cow, and gather the morning egg. We would +lead the simple life, learn to fend for ourselves. It would be so good +for Veronica. The higher education could wait; let the higher ideals +have a chance. Veronica would make the beds, dust the rooms. In the +evening Veronica, her little basket by her side, would sit and sew while +I talked, telling them things, and Robina moved softly to and fro about +her work, the household fairy. The Little Mother, whenever strong +enough, would come to us. We would hover round her, tending her with +loving hands. The English farmer must know something, in spite of all +that is said. Dick could arrange for lessons in practical farming. She +did not say it crudely; but hinted that, surrounded by example, even I +might come to take an interest in honest labour, might end by learning to +do something useful. + +Robina talked, I should say, for a quarter of an hour. By the time she +had done, it appeared to me rather a beautiful idea. Dick’s vacation had +just commenced. For the next three months there would be nothing else +for him to do but—to employ his own expressive phrase—“rot round.” In +any event, it would be keeping him out of mischief. Veronica’s governess +was leaving. Veronica’s governess generally does leave at the end of +about a year. I think sometimes of advertising for a lady without a +conscience. At the end of a year, they explain to me that their +conscience will not allow them to remain longer; they do not feel they +are earning their salary. It is not that the child is not a dear child, +it is not that she is stupid. Simply it is—as a German lady to whom Dick +had been giving what he called finishing lessons in English, once put +it—that she does not seem to be “taking any.” Her mother’s idea is that +it is “sinking in.” Perhaps if we allowed Veronica to lie fallow for +awhile, something might show itself. Robina, speaking for herself, held +that a period of quiet usefulness, away from the society of other silly +girls and sillier boys, would result in her becoming a sensible woman. +It is not often that Robina’s yearnings take this direction: to thwart +them, when they did, seemed wrong. + +We had some difficulty with the Little Mother. That these three babies +of hers will ever be men and women capable of running a six-roomed +cottage appears to the Little Mother in the light of a fantastic dream. +I explained to her that I should be there, at all events for two or three +days in every week, to give an eye to things. Even that did not content +her. She gave way eventually on Robina’s solemn undertaking that she +should be telegraphed for the first time Veronica coughed. + +On Monday we packed a one-horse van with what we deemed essential. Dick +and Robina rode their bicycles. Veronica, supported by assorted bedding, +made herself comfortable upon the tailboard. I followed down by train on +the Wednesday afternoon. + + + + +CHAPTER III + + +IT was the cow that woke me the first morning. I did not know it was our +cow—not at the time. I didn’t know we had a cow. I looked at my watch; +it was half-past two. I thought maybe she would go to sleep again, but +her idea was that the day had begun. I went to the window, the moon was +at the full. She was standing by the gate, her head inside the garden; I +took it her anxiety was lest we might miss any of it. Her neck was +stretched out straight, her eyes towards the sky; which gave to her the +appearance of a long-eared alligator. I have never had much to do with +cows. I don’t know how you talk to them. I told her to “be quiet,” and +to “lie down”; and made pretence to throw a boot at her. It seemed to +cheer her, having an audience; she added half a dozen extra notes. I +never knew before a cow had so much in her. There is a thing one +sometimes meets with in the suburbs—or one used to; I do not know whether +it is still extant, but when I was a boy it was quite common. It has a +hurdy-gurdy fixed to its waist and a drum strapped on behind, a row of +pipes hanging from its face, and bells and clappers from most of its +other joints. It plays them all at once, and smiles. This cow reminded +me of it—with organ effects added. She didn’t smile; there was that to +be said in her favour. + +I hoped that if I made believe to be asleep she would get discouraged. +So I closed the window ostentatiously, and went back to bed. But it only +had the effect of putting her on her mettle. “He did not care for that +last,” I imagined her saying to herself, “I wasn’t at my best. There +wasn’t feeling enough in it.” She kept it up for about half an hour, and +then the gate against which, I suppose, she had been leaning, gave way +with a crash. That frightened her, and I heard her gallop off across the +field. I was on the point of dozing off again when a pair of pigeons +settled on the window-sill and began to coo. It is a pretty sound when +you are in the mood for it. I wrote a poem once—a simple thing, but +instinct with longing—while sitting under a tree and listening to the +cooing of a pigeon. But that was in the afternoon. My only longing now +was for a gun. Three times I got out of bed and “shoo’d” them away. The +third time I remained by the window till I had got it firmly into their +heads that I really did not want them. My behaviour on the former two +occasions they had evidently judged to be mere playfulness. I had just +got back to bed again when an owl began to screech. That is another +sound I used to think attractive—so weird, so mysterious. It is +Swinburne, I think, who says that you never get the desired one and the +time and the place all right together. If the beloved one is with you, +it is the wrong place or at the wrong time; and if the time and the place +happen to be right, then it is the party that is wrong. The owl was all +right: I like owls. The place was all right. He had struck the wrong +time, that was all. Eleven o’clock at night, when you can’t see him, and +naturally feel that you want to, is the proper time for an owl. Perched +on the roof of a cow-shed in the early dawn he looks silly. He clung +there, flapping his wings and screeching at the top of his voice. What +it was he wanted I am sure I don’t know; and anyhow it didn’t seem the +way to get it. He came to this conclusion himself at the end of twenty +minutes, and shut himself up and went home. I thought I was going to +have at last some peace, when a corncrake—a creature upon whom Nature has +bestowed a song like to the tearing of calico-sheets mingled with the +sharpening of saws—settled somewhere in the garden and set to work to +praise its Maker according to its lights. I have a friend, a poet, who +lives just off the Strand, and spends his evenings at the Garrick Club. +He writes occasional verse for the evening papers, and talks about the +“silent country, drowsy with the weight of languors.” One of these times +I’ll lure him down for a Saturday to Monday and let him find out what the +country really is—let him hear it. He is becoming too much of a dreamer: +it will do him good, wake him up a bit. The corncrake after awhile +stopped quite suddenly with a jerk, and for quite five minutes there was +silence. + +“If this continues for another five,” I said to myself, “I’ll be asleep.” +I felt it coming over me. I had hardly murmured the words when the cow +turned up again. I should say she had been somewhere and had had a +drink. She was in better voice than ever. + +It occurred to me that this would be an opportunity to make a few notes +on the sunrise. The literary man is looked to for occasional description +of the sunrise. The earnest reader who has heard about this sunrise +thirsts for full particulars. Myself, for purposes of observation, I +have generally chosen December or the early part of January. But one +never knows. Maybe one of these days I’ll want a summer sunrise, with +birds and dew-besprinkled flowers: it goes well with the rustic heroine, +the miller’s daughter, or the girl who brings up chickens and has dreams. +I met a brother author once at seven o’clock in the morning in Kensington +Gardens. He looked half asleep and so disagreeable that I hesitated for +awhile to speak to him: he is a man that as a rule breakfasts at eleven. +But I summoned my courage and accosted him. + +“This is early for you,” I said. + +“It’s early for anyone but a born fool,” he answered. + +“What’s the matter?” I asked. “Can’t you sleep?” + +“Can’t I sleep?” he retorted indignantly. “Why, I daren’t sit down upon +a seat, I daren’t lean up against a tree. If I did I’d be asleep in half +a second.” + +“What’s the idea?” I persisted. “Been reading Smiles’s ‘Self Help and +the Secret of Success’? Don’t be absurd,” I advised him. “You’ll be +going to Sunday school next and keeping a diary. You have left it too +late: we don’t reform at forty. Go home and go to bed.” I could see he +was doing himself no good. + +“I’m going to bed,” he answered, “I’m going to bed for a month when I’ve +finished this confounded novel that I’m on. Take my advice,” he said—he +laid his hand upon my shoulder—“Never choose a colonial girl for your +heroine. At our age it is simple madness.” + +“She’s a fine girl,” he continued, “and good. Has a heart of gold. +She’s wearing me to a shadow. I wanted something fresh and +unconventional. I didn’t grasp what it was going to do. She’s the girl +that gets up early in the morning and rides bare-back—the horse, I mean, +of course; don’t be so silly. Over in New South Wales it didn’t matter. +I threw in the usual local colour—the eucalyptus-tree and the +kangaroo—and let her ride. It is now that she is over here in London +that I wish I had never thought of her. She gets up at five and wanders +about the silent city. That means, of course, that I have to get up at +five in order to record her impressions. I have walked six miles this +morning. First to St. Paul’s Cathedral; she likes it when there’s nobody +about. You’d think it wasn’t big enough for her to see if anybody else +was in the street. She thinks of it as of a mother watching over her +sleeping children; she’s full of all that sort of thing. And from there +to Westminster Bridge. She sits on the parapet and reads Wordsworth, +till the policeman turns her off. This is another of her favourite +spots.” He indicated with a look of concentrated disgust the avenue +where we were standing. “This is where she likes to finish up. She +comes here to listen to a blackbird.” + +“Well, you are through with it now,” I said to console him. “You’ve done +it; and it’s over.” + +“Through with it!” he laughed bitterly. “I’m just beginning it. There’s +the entire East End to be done yet: she’s got to meet a fellow there as +big a crank as herself. And walking isn’t the worst. She’s going to +have a horse; you can guess what that means.—Hyde Park will be no good to +her. She’ll find out Richmond and Ham Common. I’ve got to describe the +scenery and the mad joy of the thing.” + +“Can’t you imagine it?” I suggested. + +“I’m going to imagine all the enjoyable part of it,” he answered. “I +must have a groundwork to go upon. She’s got to have feelings come to +her upon this horse. You can’t enter into a rider’s feelings when you’ve +almost forgotten which side of the horse you get up.” + +I walked with him to the Serpentine. I had been wondering how it was he +had grown stout so suddenly. He had a bath towel round him underneath +his coat. + +“It’ll give me my death of cold, I know it will,” he chattered while +unlacing his boots. + +“Can’t you leave it till the summer-time,” I suggested, “and take her to +Ostend?” + +“It wouldn’t be unconventional,” he growled. “She wouldn’t take an +interest in it.” + +“But do they allow ladies to bathe in the Serpentine?” I persisted. + +“It won’t be the Serpentine,” he explained. “It’s going to be the Thames +at Greenwich. But it must be the same sort of feeling. She’s got to +tell them all about it during a lunch in Queen’s Gate, and shock them +all. That’s all she does it for, in my opinion.” + +He emerged a mottled blue. I helped him into his clothes, and he was +fortunate enough to find an early cab. The book appeared at Christmas. +The critics agreed that the heroine was a delightful creation. Some of +them said they would like to have known her. + +Remembering my poor friend, it occurred to me that by going out now and +making a few notes about the morning, I might be saving myself trouble +later on. I slipped on a few things—nothing elaborate—put a notebook in +my pocket, opened the door and went down. + +Perhaps it would be more correct to say “opened the door and was down.” +It was my own fault, I admit. We had talked this thing over before going +to bed, and I myself had impressed upon Veronica the need for caution. +The architect of the country cottage does not waste space. He dispenses +with landings; the bedroom door opens on to the top stair. It does not +do to walk out of your bedroom, for the reason there is nothing outside +to walk on. I had said to Veronica, pointing out this fact to her: + +“Now don’t, in the morning, come bursting out of the room in your usual +volcanic style, because if you do there will be trouble. As you +perceive, there is no landing. The stairs commence at once; they are +steep, and they lead down to a brick floor. Open the door quietly, look +where you are going, and step carefully.” + +Dick had added his advice to mine. “I did that myself the first +morning,” Dick had said. “I stepped straight out of the bedroom into the +kitchen; and I can tell you, it hurts. You be careful, young ’un. This +cottage doesn’t lend itself to dash.” + +Robina had fallen down with a tray in her hand. She said that never +should she forget the horror of that moment, when, sitting on the kitchen +floor, she had cried to Dick—her own voice sounding to her as if it came +from somewhere quite far off: “Is it broken? Tell me the truth. Is it +broken anywhere?” and Dick had replied: “Broken! why, it’s smashed to +atoms. What did you expect?” Robina had asked the question with +reference to her head, while Dick had thought she was alluding to the +teapot. In that moment, had said Robina, her whole life had passed +before her. She let Veronica feel the bump. + +Veronica was disappointed with the bump, having expected something +bigger, but had promised to be careful. We had all agreed that if in +spite of our warnings she forgot, and came blundering down in the +morning, it would serve her right. It was thinking of all this that, as +I lay upon the floor, made me feel angry with everybody. I hate people +who can sleep through noises that wake me up. Why was I the only person +in the house to be disturbed? Dick’s room was round the corner; there +was some excuse for him. But Robina and Veronica’s window looked +straight down upon the cow. If Robina and Veronica were not a couple of +logs, the cow would have aroused them. We should have discussed the +matter with the door ajar. Robina would have said, “Whatever you do, be +careful of the stairs, Pa,” and I should have remembered. The modern +child appears to me to have no feeling for its parent. + +I picked myself up and started for the door. The cow continued bellowing +steadily. My whole anxiety was to get to her quickly and to hit her. +But the door took more finding than I could have believed possible. The +shutters were closed and the whole place was in pitch darkness. The idea +had been to furnish this cottage only with things that were absolutely +necessary, but the room appeared to me to be overcrowded. There was a +milking-stool, which is a thing made purposely heavy so that it may not +be easily upset. If I tumbled over it once I tumbled over it a dozen +times. I got hold of it at last and carried it about with me. I thought +I would use it to hit the cow—that is, when I had found the front-door. +I knew it led out of the parlour, but could not recollect its exact +position. I argued that if I kept along the wall I should be bound to +come to it. I found the wall, and set off full of hope. I suppose the +explanation was that, without knowing it, I must have started with the +door, not the front-door, the other door, leading into the kitchen. I +crept along, carefully feeling my way, and struck quite new things +altogether—things I had no recollection of and that hit me in fresh +places. I climbed over what I presumed to be a beer-barrel and landed +among bottles; there were dozens upon dozens of them. To get away from +these bottles I had to leave the wall; but I found it again, as I +thought, and I felt along it for another half a dozen yards or so and +then came again upon bottles: the room appeared to be paved with bottles. +A little farther on I rolled over another beer-barrel: as a matter of +fact it was the same beer-barrel, but I did not know this. At the time +it seemed to me that Robina had made up her mind to run a public-house. +I found the milking-stool again and started afresh, and before I had gone +a dozen steps was in among bottles again. Later on, in the broad +daylight, it was easy enough to understand what had happened. I had been +carefully feeling my way round and round a screen. I got so sick of +these bottles and so tired of rolling over these everlasting +beer-barrels, that I abandoned the wall and plunged boldly into space. + +I had barely started, when, looking up, I saw the sky above me: a star +was twinkling just above my head. Had I been wide awake, and had the cow +stopped bellowing for just one minute, I should have guessed that somehow +or another I had got into a chimney. But as things were, the wonder and +the mystery of it all appalled me. “Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland” +would have appeared to me, at that moment, in the nature of a guide to +travellers. Had a rocking-horse or a lobster suddenly appeared to me I +should have sat and talked to it; and if it had not answered me I should +have thought it sulky and been hurt. I took a step forward and the star +disappeared, just as if somebody had blown it out. I was not surprised +in the least. I was expecting anything to happen. + +I found a door and it opened quite easily. A wood was in front of me. I +couldn’t see any cow anywhere, but I still heard her. It all seemed +quite natural. I would wander into the wood; most likely I should meet +her there, and she would be smoking a pipe. In all probability she would +know some poetry. + +With the fresh air my senses gradually came back to me, and I began to +understand why it was I could not see the cow. The reason was that the +house was between us. By some mysterious process I had been discharged +into the back garden. I still had the milking-stool in my hand, but the +cow no longer troubled me. Let her see if she could wake Veronica by +merely bellowing outside the door; it was more than I had ever been able +to do. + +I sat down on the stool and opened my note-book. I headed the page: +“Sunrise in July: observations and emotions,” and I wrote down at once, +lest I should forget it, that towards three o’clock a faint light is +discernible, and added that this light gets stronger as the time goes on. + +It sounded footling even to myself, but I had been reading a novel of the +realistic school that had been greatly praised for its actuality. There +is a demand in some quarters for this class of observation. I likewise +made a note that the pigeon and the corncrake appear to be among the +earliest of Nature’s children to welcome the coming day; and added that +the screech-owl may be heard, perhaps at its best, by anyone caring to +rise for the purpose, some quarter of an hour before the dawn. That was +all I could think of just then. As regards emotions, I did not seem to +have any. + +I lit a pipe and waited for the sun. The sky in front of me was tinged +with a faint pink. Every moment it flushed a deeper red. I maintain +that anyone, not an expert, would have said that was the portion of the +horizon on which to keep one’s eye. I kept my eye upon it, but no sun +appeared. I lit another pipe. The sky in front of me was now a blaze of +glory. I scribbled a few lines, likening the scattered clouds to brides +blushing at the approach of the bridegroom. That would have been all +right if later on they hadn’t begun to turn green: it seemed the wrong +colour for a bride. Later on still they went yellow, and that spoilt the +simile past hope. One cannot wax poetical about a bride who at the +approach of the bridegroom turns first green and then yellow: you can +only feel sorry for her. I waited some more. The sky in front of me +grew paler every moment. I began to fear that something had happened to +that sun. If I hadn’t known so much astronomy I should have said that he +had changed his mind and had gone back again. I rose with the idea of +seeing into things. He had been up apparently for hours: he had got up +at the back of me. It seemed to be nobody’s fault. I put my pipe into +my pocket and strolled round to the front. The cow was still there; she +was pleased to see me, and started bellowing again. + +I heard a sound of whistling. It proceeded from a farmer’s boy. I +hailed him, and he climbed a gate and came to me across the field. He +was a cheerful youth. He nodded to the cow and hoped she had had a good +night: he pronounced it “nihet.” + +“You know the cow?” I said. + +“Well,” he explained, “we don’t precisely move in the sime set. Sort o’ +business relytionship more like—if you understand me?” + +Something about this boy was worrying me. He did not seem like a real +farmer’s boy. But then nothing seemed quite real this morning. My +feeling was to let things go. + +“Whose cow is it?” I asked. + +He stared at me. + +“I want to know to whom it belongs,” I said. “I want to restore it to +him.” + +“Excuse me,” said the boy, “but where do you live?” + +He was making me cross. “Where do I live?” I retorted. “Why, in this +cottage. You don’t think I’ve got up early and come from a distance to +listen to this cow? Don’t talk so much. Do you know whose cow it is, or +don’t you?” + +“It’s your cow,” said the boy. + +It was my turn to stare. + +“But I haven’t got a cow,” I told him. + +“Yus you have,” he persisted; “you’ve got that cow.” + +She had stopped bellowing for a moment. She was not the cow I felt I +could ever take a pride in. At some time or another, quite recently, she +must have sat down in some mud. + +“How did I get her?” I demanded. + +“The young lydy,” explained the boy, “she came rahnd to our plice on +Tuesday—” + +I began to see light. “An excitable young lady—talks very fast—never +waits for the answer?” + +“With jolly fine eyes,” added the boy approvingly. + +“And she ordered a cow?” + +“Didn’t seem to ’ave strength enough to live another dy withaht it.” + +“Any stipulation made concerning the price of the cow?” + +“Any what?” + +“The young lady with the eyes—did she think to ask the price of the cow?” + +“No sordid details was entered into, so far as I could ’ear,” replied the +boy. + +They would not have been—by Robina. + +“Any hint let fall as to what the cow was wanted for?” + +“The lydy gives us to understand,” said the boy, “that fresh milk was ’er +idea.” + +That surprised me: that was thoughtful of Robina. “And this is the cow?” + +“I towed her rahnd last night. I didn’t knock at the door and tell yer +abaht ’er, cos, to be quite frank with yer, there wasn’t anybody in.” + +“What is she bellowing for?” I asked. + +“Well,” said the boy, “it’s only a theory, o’ course, but I should sy, +from the look of ’er, that she wanted to be milked.” + +“But it started bellowing at half-past two,” I argued. “It doesn’t +expect to be milked at half-past two, does it?” + +“Meself,” said the boy, “I’ve given up looking for sense in cows.” + +In some unaccountable way this boy was hypnotising me. Everything had +suddenly become out of place. + +The cow had suddenly become absurd: she ought to have been a milk-can. +The wood struck me as neglected: there ought to have been notice-boards +about, “Keep off the Grass,” “Smoking Strictly Prohibited”: there wasn’t +a seat to be seen. The cottage had surely got itself there by accident: +where was the street? The birds were all out of their cages; everything +was upside down. + +“Are you a real farmer’s boy?” I asked him. + +“O’ course I am,” he answered. “What do yer tike me for—a hartist in +disguise?” + +It came to me. “What is your name?” + +“’Enery—’Enery ’Opkins.” + +“Where were you born?” + +“Camden Tahn.” + +Here was a nice beginning to a rural life! What place could be the +country while this boy Hopkins was about? He would have given to the +Garden of Eden the atmosphere of an outlying suburb. + +“Do you want to earn an occasional shilling?” I put it to him. + +“I’d rather it come reggler,” said Hopkins. “Better for me kerrickter.” + +“You drop that Cockney accent and learn Berkshire, and I’ll give you half +a sovereign when you can talk it,” I promised him. “Don’t, for instance, +say ‘ain’t,’” I explained to him. “Say ‘bain’t.’ Don’t say ‘The young +lydy, she came rahnd to our plice;’ say ‘The missy, ’er coomed down; ’er +coomed, and ’er ses to the maister, ’er ses . . . ’ That’s the sort of +thing I want to surround myself with here. When you informed me that the +cow was mine, you should have said: ‘Whoi, ’er be your cow, surelie ’er +be.’” + +“Sure it’s Berkshire?” demanded Hopkins. “You’re confident about it?” +There is a type that is by nature suspicious. + +“It may not be Berkshire pure and undefiled,” I admitted. “It is what in +literature we term ‘dialect.’ It does for most places outside the +twelve-mile radius. The object is to convey a feeling of rustic +simplicity. Anyhow, it isn’t Camden Town.” + +I started him with a shilling then and there to encourage him. He +promised to come round in the evening for one or two books, written by +friends of mine, that I reckoned would be of help to him; and I returned +to the cottage and set to work to rouse Robina. Her tone was apologetic. +She had got the notion into her head that I had been calling her for +quite a long time. I explained that this was not the case. + +“How funny!” she answered. “I said to Veronica more than an hour ago: +‘I’m sure that’s Pa calling us.’ I suppose I must have been dreaming.” + +“Well, don’t dream any more,” I suggested. “Come down and see to this +confounded cow of yours.” + +“Oh,” said Veronica, “has it come?” + +“It has come,” I told her. “As a matter of fact, it has been here some +time. It ought to have been milked four hours ago, according to its own +idea.” + +Robina said she would be down in a minute. + +She was down in twenty-five, which was sooner than I had expected. She +brought Veronica with her. She said she would have been down sooner if +she had not waited for Veronica. It appeared that this was just +precisely what Veronica had been telling her. I was feeling irritable. +I had been up half a day, and hadn’t had my breakfast. + +“Don’t stand there arguing,” I told them. “For goodness’ sake let’s get +to work and milk this cow. We shall have the poor creature dying on our +hands if we’re not careful.” + +Robina was wandering round the room. + +“You haven’t come across a milking-stool anywhere, have you, Pa?” asked +Robina. + +“I have come across your milking-stool, I estimate, some thirteen times,” +I told her. I fetched it from where I had left it, and gave it to her; +and we filed out in procession; Veronica with a galvanised iron bucket +bringing up the rear. + +The problem that was forcing itself upon my mind was: did Robina know how +to milk a cow? Robina, I argued, the idea once in her mind, would +immediately have ordered a cow, clamouring for it—as Hopkins had +picturesquely expressed it—as though she had not strength to live another +day without a cow. Her next proceeding would have been to buy a +milking-stool. It was a tasteful milking-stool, this one she had +selected, ornamented with the rough drawing of a cow in poker work: a +little too solid for my taste, but one that I should say would wear well. +The pail she had not as yet had time to see about. This galvanised +bucket we were using was, I took it, a temporary makeshift. When Robina +had leisure she would go into the town and purchase something at an art +stores. That, to complete the scheme, she would have done well to have +taken a few practical lessons in milking would come to her, as an +inspiration, with the arrival of the cow. I noticed that Robina’s steps +as we approached the cow were less elastic. Just outside the cow Robina +halted. + +“I suppose,” said Robina, “there’s only one way of milking a cow?” + +“There may be fancy ways,” I answered, “necessary to you if later on you +think of entering a competition. This morning, seeing we are late, I +shouldn’t worry too much about style. If I were you, this morning I +should adopt the ordinary unimaginative method, and aim only at results.” + +Robina sat down and placed her bucket underneath the cow. + +“I suppose,” said Robina, “it doesn’t matter which—which one I begin +with?” + +It was perfectly plain she hadn’t the least notion how to milk a cow. I +told her so, adding comments. Now and then a little fatherly talk does +good. As a rule I have to work myself up for these occasions. This +morning I was feeling fairly fit: things had conspired to this end. I +put before Robina the aims and privileges of the household fairy as they +appeared, not to her, but to me. I also confided to Veronica the result +of many weeks’ reflections concerning her and her behaviour. I also told +them both what I thought about Dick. I do this sort of thing once every +six months: it has an excellent effect for about three days. + +Robina wiped away her tears, and seized the first one that came to her +hand. The cow, without saying a word, kicked over the empty bucket, and +walked away, disgust expressed in every hair of her body. Robina, crying +quietly, followed her. By patting her on her neck, and letting her wipe +her nose upon my coat—which seemed to comfort her—I persuaded her to keep +still while Robina worked for ten minutes at high pressure. The result +was about a glassful and a half, the cow’s capacity, to all appearance, +being by this time some five or six gallons. + +Robina broke down, and acknowledged she had been a wicked girl. If the +cow died, so she said, she should never forgive herself. Veronica at +this burst into tears also; and the cow, whether moved afresh by her own +troubles or by theirs, commenced again to bellow. I was fortunately able +to find an elderly labourer smoking a pipe and eating bacon underneath a +tree; and with him I bargained that for a shilling a day he should milk +the cow till further notice. + +We left him busy, and returned to the cottage. Dick met us at the door +with a cheery “Good morning.” He wanted to know if we had heard the +storm. He also wanted to know when breakfast would be ready. Robina +thought that happy event would be shortly after he had boiled the kettle +and made the tea and fried the bacon, while Veronica was laying the +table. + +“But I thought—” + +Robina said that if he dared to mention the word “household-fairy” she +would box his ears, and go straight up to bed, and leave everybody to do +everything. She said she meant it. + +Dick has one virtue: it is philosophy. “Come on, young ’un,” said Dick +to Veronica. “Trouble is good for us all.” + +“Some of us,” said Veronica, “it makes bitter.” + +We sat down to breakfast at eight-thirty. + + + + +CHAPTER IV + + +OUR architect arrived on Friday afternoon, or rather, his assistant. + +I felt from the first I was going to like him. He is shy, and that, of +course, makes him appear awkward. But, as I explained to Robina, it is +the shy young men who, generally speaking, turn out best: few men could +have been more painfully shy up to twenty-five than myself. + +Robina said that was different: in the case of an author it did not +matter. Robina’s attitude towards the literary profession would not +annoy me so much were it not typical. To be a literary man is, in +Robina’s opinion, to be a licensed idiot. It was only a week or two ago +that I overheard from my study window a conversation between Veronica and +Robina upon this very point. Veronica’s eye had caught something lying +on the grass. I could not myself see what it was, in consequence of an +intervening laurel bush. Veronica stooped down and examined it with +care. The next instant, uttering a piercing whoop, she leapt into the +air; then, clapping her hands, began to dance. Her face was radiant with +a holy joy. Robina, passing near, stopped and demanded explanation. + +“Pa’s tennis racket!” shouted Veronica—Veronica never sees the use of +talking in an ordinary tone of voice when shouting will do just as well. +She continued clapping her hands and taking little bounds into the air. + +“Well, what are you going on like that for?” asked Robina. “It hasn’t +bit you, has it?” + +“It’s been out all night in the wet,” shouted Veronica. “He forgot to +bring it in.” + +“You wicked child!” said Robina severely. “It’s nothing to be pleased +about.” + +“Yes, it is,” explained Veronica. “I thought at first it was mine. Oh, +wouldn’t there have been a talk about it, if it had been! Oh my! +wouldn’t there have been a row!” She settled down to a steady rhythmic +dance, suggestive of a Greek chorus expressing satisfaction with the +gods. + +Robina seized her by the shoulders and shook her back into herself. “If +it had been yours,” said Robina, “you would deserve to have been sent to +bed.” + +“Well, then, why don’t he go to bed?” argued Veronica. + +Robina took her by the arm and walked her up and down just underneath my +window. I listened, because the conversation interested me. + +“Pa, as I am always explaining to you,” said Robina, “is a literary man. +He cannot help forgetting things.” + +“Well, I can’t help forgetting things,” insisted Veronica. + +“You find it hard,” explained Robina kindly; “but if you keep on trying +you will succeed. You will get more thoughtful. I used to be forgetful +and do foolish things once, when I was a little girl.” + +“Good thing for us if we was all literary,” suggested Veronica. + +“If we ‘were’ all literary,” Robina corrected her. “But you see we are +not. You and I and Dick, we are just ordinary mortals. We must try and +think, and be sensible. In the same way, when Pa gets excited and +raves—I mean, seems to rave—it’s the literary temperament. He can’t help +it.” + +“Can’t you help doing anything when you are literary?” asked Veronica. + +“There’s a good deal you can’t help,” answered Robina. “It isn’t fair to +judge them by the ordinary standard.” + +They drifted towards the kitchen garden—it was the time of +strawberries—and the remainder of the talk I lost. I noticed that for +some days afterwards Veronica displayed a tendency to shutting herself up +in the schoolroom with a copybook, and that lead pencils had a way of +disappearing from my desk. One in particular that had suited me I +determined if possible to recover. A subtle instinct guided me to +Veronica’s sanctum. I found her thoughtfully sucking it. She explained +to me that she was writing a little play. + +“You get things from your father, don’t you?” she enquired of me. + +“You do,” I admitted; “but you ought not to take them without asking. I +am always telling you of it. That pencil is the only one I can write +with.” + +“I didn’t mean the pencil,” explained Veronica. “I was wondering if I +had got your literary temper.” + +It is puzzling, when you come to think of it, this estimate accorded by +the general public to the _littérateur_. It stands to reason that the +man who writes books, explaining everything and putting everybody right, +must be himself an exceptionally clever man; else how could he do it! +The thing is pure logic. Yet to listen to Robina and her like you might +think we had not sense enough to run ourselves, as the saying is—let +alone running the universe. If I would let her, Robina would sit and +give me information by the hour. + +“The ordinary girl . . . ” Robina will begin, with the air of a +University Extension Lecturer. + +It is so exasperating. As if I did not know all there is to be known +about girls! Why, it is my business. I point this out to Robina. + +“Yes, I know,” Robina will answer sweetly. “But I was meaning the real +girl.” + +It would make not the slightest difference were I even quite a high-class +literary man—Robina thinks I am: she is a dear child. Were I Shakespeare +himself, and could I in consequence say to her: “Methinks, child, the +creator of Ophelia and Juliet, and Rosamund and Beatrice, must surely +know something about girls,” Robina would still make answer: + +“Of course, Pa dear. Everybody knows how clever you are. But I was +thinking for the moment of real girls.” + +I wonder to myself sometimes, Is literature to the general reader ever +anything more than a fairy-tale? We write with our heart’s blood, as we +put it. We ask our conscience, Is it right thus to lay bare the secrets +of our souls? The general reader does not grasp that we are writing with +our heart’s blood: to him it is just ink. He does not believe we are +laying bare the secrets of our souls: he takes it we are just pretending. +“Once upon a time there lived a girl named Angelina who loved a party by +the name of Edwin.” He imagines—he, the general reader—when we tell him +all the wonderful thoughts that were inside Angelina, that it was we who +put them there. He does not know, he will not try to understand, that +Angelina is in reality more real than is Miss Jones, who rides up every +morning in the ’bus with him, and has a pretty knack of rendering +conversation about the weather novel and suggestive. As a boy I won some +popularity among my schoolmates as a teller of stories. One afternoon, +to a small collection with whom I was homing across Regent’s Park, I told +the story of a beautiful Princess. But she was not the ordinary +Princess. She would not behave as a Princess should. I could not help +it. The others heard only my voice, but I was listening to the wind. +She thought she loved the Prince—until he had wounded the Dragon unto +death and had carried her away into the wood. Then, while the Prince lay +sleeping, she heard the Dragon calling to her in its pain, and crept back +to where it lay bleeding, and put her arms about its scaly neck and +kissed it; and that healed it. I was hoping myself that at this point it +would turn into a prince itself, but it didn’t; it just remained a +dragon—so the wind said. Yet the Princess loved it: it wasn’t half a bad +dragon, when you knew it. I could not tell them what became of the +Prince: the wind didn’t seem to care a hang about the Prince. + +Myself, I liked the story, but Hocker, who was a Fifth Form boy, voicing +our little public, said it was rot, so far, and that I had got to hurry +up and finish things rightly. + +“But that is all,” I told them. + +“No, it isn’t,” said Hocker. “She’s got to marry the Prince in the end. +He’ll have to kill the Dragon again; and mind he does it properly this +time. Whoever heard of a Princess leaving a Prince for a Dragon!” + +“But she wasn’t the ordinary sort of Princess,” I argued. + +“Then she’s got to be,” criticised Hocker. “Don’t you give yourself so +many airs. You make her marry the Prince, and be slippy about it. I’ve +got to catch the four-fifteen from Chalk Farm station.” + +“But she didn’t,” I persisted obstinately. “She married the Dragon and +lived happy ever afterwards.” + +Hocker adopted sterner measures. He seized my arm and twisted it behind +me. + +“She married who?” demanded Hocker: grammar was not Hocker’s strong +point. + +“The Dragon,” I growled. + +“She married who?” repeated Hocker. + +“The Dragon,” I whined. + +“She married who?” for the third time urged Hocker. + +Hocker was strong, and the tears were forcing themselves into my eyes in +spite of me. So the Princess in return for healing the Dragon made it +promise to reform. It went back with her to the Prince, and made itself +generally useful to both of them for the rest of the tour. And the +Prince took the Princess home with him and married her; and the Dragon +died and was buried. The others liked the story better, but I hated it; +and the wind sighed and died away. + +The little crowd becomes the reading public, and Hocker grows into an +editor; he twists my arm in other ways. Some are brave, so the crowd +kicks them and scurries off to catch the four-fifteen. But most of us, I +fear, are slaves to Hocker. Then, after awhile, the wind grows sulky and +will not tell us stories any more, and we have to make them up out of our +own heads. Perhaps it is just as well. What were doors and windows made +for but to keep out the wind. + +He is a dangerous fellow, this wandering Wind; he leads me astray. I was +talking about our architect. + +He made a bad start, so far as Robina was concerned, by coming in at the +back-door. Robina, in a big apron, was washing up. He apologised for +having blundered into the kitchen, and offered to go out again and work +round to the front. Robina replied, with unnecessary severity as I +thought, that an architect, if anyone, might have known the difference +between the right side of a house and the wrong; but presumed that youth +and inexperience could always be pleaded as excuse for stupidity. I +cannot myself see why Robina should have been so much annoyed. Labour, +as Robina had been explaining to Veronica only a few hours before, exalts +a woman. In olden days, ladies—the highest in the land—were proud, not +ashamed, of their ability to perform domestic duties. This, later on, I +pointed out to Robina. Her answer was that in olden days you didn’t have +chits of boys going about, calling themselves architects, and opening +back-doors without knocking; or if they did knock, knocking so that +nobody on earth could hear them. + +Robina wiped her hands on the towel behind the door, and brought him into +the front-room, where she announced him, coldly, as “The young man from +the architect’s office.” He explained—but quite modestly—that he was not +exactly Messrs. Spreight’s young man, but an architect himself, a junior +member of the firm. To make it clear he produced his card, which was +that of Mr. Archibald T. Bute, F.R.I.B.A. Practically speaking, all this +was unnecessary. Through the open door I had, of course, heard every +word; and old Spreight had told me of his intention to send me one of his +most promising assistants, who would be able to devote himself entirely +to my work. I put matters right by introducing him formally to Robina. +They bowed to one another rather stiffly. Robina said that if he would +excuse her she would return to her work; and he answered “Charmed,” and +also that he didn’t mean it. As I have tried to get it into Robina’s +head, the young fellow was confused. He had meant—it was +self-evident—that he was charmed at being introduced to her, not at her +desire to return to the kitchen. But Robina appears to have taken a +dislike to him. + +I gave him a cigar, and we started for the house. It lies just a mile +from this cottage, the other side of the wood. One excellent trait in +him I soon discovered—he is intelligent without knowing everything. + +I confess it to my shame, but the young man who knows everything has come +to pall upon me. According to Emerson, this is a proof of my own +intellectual feebleness. The strong man, intellectually, cultivates the +society of his superiors. He wants to get on, he wants to learn things. +If I loved knowledge as one should, I would have no one but young men +about me. There was a friend of Dick’s, a gentleman from Rugby. At one +time he had hopes of me; I felt he had. But he was too impatient. He +tried to bring me on too quickly. You must take into consideration +natural capacity. After listening to him for an hour or two my mind +would wander. I could not help it. The careless laughter of uninformed +middle-aged gentlemen and ladies would creep to me from the croquet lawn +or from the billiard-room. I longed to be among them. Sometimes I would +battle with my lower nature. What did they know? What could they tell +me? More often I would succumb. There were occasions when I used to get +up and go away from him, quite suddenly. + +I talked with young Bute during our walk about domestic architecture in +general. He said he should describe the present tendency in domestic +architecture as towards corners. The desire of the British public was to +go into a corner and live. A lady for whose husband his firm had lately +built a house in Surrey had propounded to him a problem in connection +with this point. She agreed it was a charming house; no house in Surrey +had more corners, and that was saying much. But she could not see how +for the future she was going to bring up her children. She was a +humanely minded lady. Hitherto she had punished them, when needful, by +putting them in the corner; the shame of it had always exercised upon +them a salutary effect. But in the new house corners are reckoned the +prime parts of every room. It is the honoured guest who is sent into the +corner. The father has a corner sacred to himself, with high up above +his head a complicated cupboard, wherein with the help of a step-ladder, +he may keep his pipes and his tobacco, and thus by slow degrees cure +himself of the habit of smoking. The mother likewise has her corner, +where stands her spinning-wheel, in case the idea comes to her to weave +sheets and underclothing. It also has a book-shelf supporting thirteen +volumes, arranged in a sloping position to look natural; the last one +maintained at its angle of forty-five degrees by a ginger-jar in old blue +Nankin. You are not supposed to touch them, because that would +disarrange them. Besides which, fooling about, you might upset the +ginger-jar. The consequence of all this is the corner is no longer +disgraceful. The parent can no more say to the erring child: + +“You wicked boy! Go into the cosy corner this very minute!” + +In the house of the future the place of punishment will have to be the +middle of the room. The angry mother will exclaim: + +“Don’t you answer me, you saucy minx! You go straight into the middle of +the room, and don’t you dare to come out of it till I tell you!” + +The difficulty with the artistic house is finding the right people to put +into it. In the picture the artistic room never has anybody in it. +There is a strip of art embroidery upon the table, together with a bowl +of roses. Upon the ancient high-backed settee lies an item of fancy +work, unfinished—just as she left it. In the “study” an open book, face +downwards, has been left on a chair. It is the last book he was +reading—it has never been disturbed. A pipe of quaint design is cold +upon the lintel of the lattice window. No one will ever smoke that pipe +again: it must have been difficult to smoke at any time. The sight of +the artistic room, as depicted in the furniture catalogue, always brings +tears to my eyes. People once inhabited these rooms, read there those +old volumes bound in vellum, smoked—or tried to smoke—these impracticable +pipes; white hands, that someone maybe had loved to kiss, once fluttered +among the folds of these unfinished antimacassars, or Berlin wool-work +slippers, and went away, leaving the things about. + +One takes it that the people who once occupied these artistic rooms are +now all dead. This was their “Dining-Room.” They sat on those artistic +chairs. They could hardly have used the dinner service set out upon the +Elizabethan dresser, because that would have left the dresser bare: one +assumes they had an extra service for use, or else that they took their +meals in the kitchen. The “Entrance Hall” is a singularly chaste +apartment. There is no necessity for a door-mat: people with muddy +boots, it is to be presumed, were sent round to the back. A +riding-cloak, the relic apparently of a highwayman, hangs behind the +door. It is the sort of cloak you would expect to find there—a +decorative cloak. An umbrella or a waterproof cape would be fatal to the +whole effect. + +Now and again the illustrator of the artistic room will permit a young +girl to come and sit there. But she has to be a very carefully selected +girl. To begin with, she has got to look and dress as though she had +been born at least three hundred years ago. She has got to have that +sort of clothes, and she has got to have her hair done just that way. + +She has got to look sad; a cheerful girl in the artistic room would jar +one’s artistic sense. One imagines the artist consulting with the proud +possessor of the house. + +“You haven’t got such a thing as a miserable daughter, have you? Some +fairly good-looking girl who has been crossed in love, or is +misunderstood. Because if so, you might dress her up in something out of +the local museum and send her along. A little thing like that gives +verisimilitude to a design.” + +She must not touch anything. All she may do is to read a book—not really +read it, that would suggest too much life and movement: she sits with the +book in her lap and gazes into the fire, if it happens to be the +dining-room: or out of the window if it happens to be a morning-room, and +the architect wishes to call attention to the window-seat. Nothing of +the male species, as far as I have been able to ascertain, has ever +entered these rooms. I once thought I had found a man who had been +allowed into his own “Smoking-Den,” but on closer examination it turned +out he was only a portrait. + +Sometimes one is given “Vistas.” Doors stand open, and you can see right +away through “The Nook” into the garden. There is never a living soul +about the place. The whole family has been sent out for a walk or locked +up in the cellars. This strikes you as odd until you come to think the +matter out. The modern man and woman is not artistic. I am not +artistic—not what I call really artistic. I don’t go well with Gobelin +tapestry and warming-pans. I feel I don’t. Robina is not artistic, not +in that sense. I tried her once with a harpsichord I picked up cheap in +Wardour Street, and a reproduction of a Roman stool. The thing was an +utter failure. A cottage piano, with a photo-frame and a fern upon, it +is what the soul cries out for in connection with Robina. Dick is not +artistic. Dick does not go with peacocks’ feathers and guitars. I can +see Dick with a single peacock’s feather at St. Giles’s Fair, when the +bulldogs are not looking; but the decorative panel of peacock’s feathers +is too much for him. I can imagine him with a banjo—but a guitar +decorated with pink ribbons! To begin with he is not dressed for it. +Unless a family be prepared to make themselves up as troubadours or +cavaliers and to talk blank verse, I don’t see how they can expect to be +happy living in these fifteenth-century houses. The modern family—the +old man in baggy trousers and a frock-coat he could not button if he +tried to; the mother of figure distinctly Victorian; the boys in flannel +suits and collars up to their ears; the girls in motor caps—are as +incongruous in these mediæval dwellings as a party of Cook’s tourists +drinking bottled beer in the streets of Pompeii. + +The designer of “The Artistic Home” is right in keeping to still life. +In the artistic home—to paraphrase Dr. Watts—every prospect pleases and +only man is inartistic. In the picture, the artistic bedroom, “in apple +green, the bedstead of cherry-wood, with a touch of turkey-red throughout +the draperies,” is charming. It need hardly be said the bed is empty. +Put a man or woman in that cherry-wood bed—I don’t care how artistic they +may think themselves—the charm would be gone. The really artistic party, +one supposes, has a little room behind, where he sleeps and dresses +himself. He peeps in at the door of this artistic bedroom, maybe +occasionally enters to change the roses. + +Imagine the artistic nursery five minutes after the real child had been +let loose in it. I know a lady who once spent hundreds of pounds on an +artistic nursery. She showed it to her friends with pride. The children +were allowed in there on Sunday afternoons. I did an equally silly thing +myself not long ago. Lured by a furniture catalogue, I started Robina in +a boudoir. I gave it to her as a birthday-present. We have both +regretted it ever since. Robina reckons she could have had a bicycle, a +diamond bracelet, and a mandoline, and I should have saved money. I did +the thing well. I told the furniture people I wanted it just as it stood +in the picture: “Design for bedroom and boudoir combined, suitable for +young girl, in teak, with sparrow blue hangings.” We had everything: the +antique fire arrangements that a vestal virgin might possibly have +understood; the candlesticks, that were pictures in themselves, until we +tried to put candles in them; the book-case and writing-desk combined, +that wasn’t big enough to write on, and out of which it was impossible to +get a book until you had abandoned the idea of writing and had closed the +cover; the enclosed washstand, that shut down and looked like an old +bureau, with the inevitable bowl of flowers upon it that had to be taken +off and put on the floor whenever you wanted to use the thing as a +washstand; the toilet-table, with its cunning little glass, just big +enough to see your nose in; the bedstead, hidden away behind the +“thinking corner,” where the girl couldn’t get at it to make it. A +prettier room you could not have imagined, till Robina started sleeping +in it. I think she tried. Girl friends of hers, to whom she had bragged +about it, would drop in and ask to be allowed to see it. Robina would +say, “Wait a minute,” and would run up and slam the door; and we would +hear her for the next half-hour or so rushing round opening and shutting +drawers and dragging things about. By the time it was a boudoir again +she was exhausted and irritable. She wants now to give it up to +Veronica, but Veronica objects to the position, which is between the +bathroom and my study. Her idea is a room more removed, where she would +be able to shut herself in and do her work, as she explains, without fear +of interruption. + +Young Bute told me that a friend of his, a well-to-do young fellow, who +lived in Piccadilly, had had the whim to make his flat the reproduction +of a Roman villa. There were of course no fires, the rooms were warmed +by hot air from the kitchen. They had a cheerless aspect on a November +afternoon, and nobody knew exactly where to sit. Light was obtained in +the evening from Grecian lamps, which made it easy to understand why the +ancient Athenians, as a rule, went to bed early. You dined sprawling on +a couch. This was no doubt practicable when you took your plate into +your hand and fed yourself with your fingers; but with a knife and fork +the meal had all the advantages of a hot picnic. You did not feel +luxurious or even wicked: you only felt nervous about your clothes. The +thing lacked completeness. He could not expect his friends to come to +him in Roman togas, and even his own man declined firmly to wear the +costume of a Roman slave. The compromise was unsatisfactory, even from +the purely pictorial point of view. You cannot be a Roman patrician of +the time of Antoninus when you happen to live in Piccadilly at the +opening of the twentieth century. All you can do is to make your friends +uncomfortable and spoil their dinner for them. Young Bute said that, so +far as he was concerned, he would always rather have spent the evening +with his little nephews and nieces, playing at horses; it seemed to him a +more sensible game. + +Young Bute said that, speaking as an architect, he of course admired the +ancient masterpieces of his art. He admired the Erechtheum at Athens; +but Spurgeon’s Tabernacle in the Old Kent Road built upon the same model +would have irritated him. For a Grecian temple you wanted Grecian skies +and Grecian girls. He said that, even as it was, Westminster Abbey in +the season was an eyesore to him. The Dean and Choir in their white +surplices passed muster, but the congregation in its black frock-coats +and Paris hats gave him the same sense of incongruity as would a banquet +of barefooted friars in the dining-hall of the Cannon Street Hotel. + +It struck me there was sense in what he said. I decided not to mention +my idea of carving 1553 above the front-door. + +He said he could not understand this passion of the modern house-builder +for playing at being a Crusader or a Canterbury Pilgrim. A retired +Berlin boot-maker of his acquaintance had built himself a miniature Roman +Castle near Heidelberg. They played billiards in the dungeon, and let +off fireworks on the Kaiser’s birthday from the roof of the watch-tower. + +Another acquaintance of his, a draper at Holloway, had built himself a +moated grange. The moat was supplied from the water-works under special +arrangement, and all the electric lights were imitation candles. He had +done the thing thoroughly. He had even designed a haunted chamber in +blue, and a miniature chapel, which he used as a telephone closet. Young +Bute had been invited down there for the shooting in the autumn. He said +he could not be sure whether he was doing right or wrong, but his +intention was to provide himself with a bow and arrows. + +A change was coming over this young man. We had talked on other subjects +and he had been shy and deferential. On this matter of bricks and mortar +he spoke as one explaining things. + +I ventured to say a few words in favour of the Tudor house. The Tudor +house, he argued, was a fit and proper residence for the Tudor +citizen—for the man whose wife rode behind him on a pack-saddle, who +conducted his correspondence by the help of a moss-trooper. The Tudor +fireplace was designed for folks to whom coal was unknown, and who left +their smoking to their chimneys. A house that looked ridiculous with a +motor-car before the door, where the electric bell jarred upon one’s +sense of fitness every time one heard it, was out of date, he maintained. + +“For you, sir,” he continued, “a twentieth-century writer, to build +yourself a Tudor House would be as absurd as for Ben Jonson to have +planned himself a Norman Castle with a torture-chamber underneath the +wine-cellar, and the fireplace in the middle of the dining-hall. His +fellow cronies of the Mermaid would have thought him stark, staring mad.” + +There was reason in what he was saying. I decided not to mention my idea +of altering the chimneys and fixing up imitation gables, especially as +young Bute seemed pleased with the house, which by this time we had +reached. + +“Now, that is a good house,” said young Bute. “That is a house where a +man in a frock-coat and trousers can sit down and not feel himself a +stranger from another age. It was built for a man who wore a frock-coat +and trousers—on weekdays, maybe, gaiters and a shooting-coat. You can +enjoy a game of billiards in that house without the feeling that comes to +you when playing tennis in the shadow of the Pyramids.” + +We entered, and I put before him my notions—such of them as I felt he +would approve. We were some time about the business, and when we looked +at our watches young Bute’s last train to town had gone. There still +remained much to talk about, and I suggested he should return with me to +the cottage and take his luck. I could sleep with Dick and he could have +my room. I told him about the cow, but he said he was a practised +sleeper and would be delighted, if I could lend him a night-shirt, and if +I thought Miss Robina would not be put out. I assured him that it would +be a good thing for Robina; the unexpected guest would be a useful lesson +to her in housekeeping. Besides, as I pointed out to him, it didn’t +really matter even if Robina were put out. + +“Not to you, sir, perhaps,” he answered, with a smile. “It is not with +you that she will be indignant.” + +“That will be all right, my boy,” I told him; “I take all +responsibility.” + +“And I shall get all the blame,” he laughed. + +But, as I pointed out to him, it really didn’t matter whom Robina blamed. +We talked about women generally on our way back. I told him—impressing +upon him there was no need for it to go farther—that I personally had +come to the conclusion that the best way to deal with women was to treat +them all as children. He agreed it might be a good method, but wanted to +know what you did when they treated you as a child. + +I know a most delightful couple: they have been married nearly twenty +years, and both will assure you that an angry word has never passed +between them. He calls her his “Little One,” although she must be quite +six inches taller than himself, and is never tired of patting her hand or +pinching her ear. They asked her once in the drawing-room—so the Little +Mother tells me—her recipe for domestic bliss. She said the mistake most +women made was taking men too seriously. + +“They are just overgrown children, that’s all they are, poor dears,” she +laughed. + +There are two kinds of love: there is the love that kneels and looks +upward, and the love that looks down and pats. For durability I am +prepared to back the latter. + +The architect had died out of young Bute; he was again a shy young man +during our walk back to the cottage. My hand was on the latch when he +stayed me. + +“Isn’t this the back-door again, sir?” he enquired. + +It was the back-door; I had not noticed it. + +“Hadn’t we better go round to the front, sir, don’t you think?” he said. + +“It doesn’t matter—” I began. + +But he had disappeared. So I followed him, and we entered by the front. +Robina was standing by the table, peeling potatoes. + +“I have brought Mr. Bute back with me,” I explained. “He is going to +stop the night.” + +Robina said: “If ever I go to live in a cottage again it will have one +door.” She took her potatoes with her and went upstairs. + +“I do hope she isn’t put out,” said young Bute. + +“Don’t worry yourself,” I comforted him. “Of course she isn’t put out. +Besides, I don’t care if she is. She’s got to get used to being put out; +it’s part of the lesson of life.” + +I took him upstairs, meaning to show him his bedroom and take my own +things out of it. The doors of the two bedrooms were opposite one +another. I made a mistake and opened the wrong door. Robina, still +peeling potatoes, was sitting on the bed. + +I explained we had made a mistake. Robina said it was of no consequence +whatever, and, taking the potatoes with her, went downstairs again. +Looking out of the window, I saw her making towards the wood. She was +taking the potatoes with her. + +“I do wish we hadn’t opened the door of the wrong room,” groaned young +Bute. + +“What a worrying chap you are!” I said to him. “Look at the thing from +the humorous point of view. It’s funny when you come to think of it. +Wherever the poor girl goes, trying to peel her potatoes in peace and +quietness, we burst in upon her. What we ought to do now is to take a +walk in the wood. It is a pretty wood. We might say we had come to pick +wild flowers.” + +But I could not persuade him. He said he had letters to write, and, if I +would allow him, would remain in his room till dinner was ready. + +Dick and Veronica came in a little later. Dick had been to see Mr. St. +Leonard to arrange about lessons in farming. He said he thought I should +like the old man, who wasn’t a bit like a farmer. He had brought +Veronica back in one of her good moods, she having met there and fallen +in love with a donkey. Dick confided to me that, without committing +himself, he had hinted to Veronica that if she would remain good for +quite a long while I might be induced to buy it for her. It was a sturdy +little animal, and could be made useful. Anyhow, it would give Veronica +an object in life—something to strive for—which was just what she wanted. +He is a thoughtful lad at times, is Dick. + +The dinner was more successful than I had hoped for. Robina gave us +melon as a _hors d’œuvre_, followed by sardines and a fowl, with potatoes +and vegetable marrow. Her cooking surprised me. I had warned young Bute +that it might be necessary to regard this dinner rather as a joke than as +an evening meal, and was prepared myself to extract amusement from it +rather than nourishment. My disappointment was agreeable. One can +always imagine a comic dinner. + +I dined once with a newly married couple who had just returned from their +honeymoon. We ought to have sat down at eight o’clock; we sat down +instead at half-past ten. The cook had started drinking in the morning; +by seven o’clock she was speechless. The wife, giving up hope at a +quarter to eight, had cooked the dinner herself. The other guests were +sympathised with, but all I got was congratulation. + +“He’ll write something so funny about this dinner,” they said. + +You might have thought the cook had got drunk on purpose to oblige me. I +have never been able to write anything funny about that dinner; it +depresses me to this day, merely thinking of it. + +We finished up with a cold trifle and some excellent coffee that Robina +brewed over a lamp on the table while Dick and Veronica cleared away. It +was one of the jolliest little dinners I have ever eaten; and, if +Robina’s figures are to be trusted, cost exactly six-and-fourpence for +the five of us. There being no servants about, we talked freely and +enjoyed ourselves. I began once at a dinner to tell a good story about a +Scotchman, when my host silenced me with a look. He is a kindly man, and +had heard the story before. He explained to me afterwards, over the +walnuts, that his parlourmaid was Scotch and rather touchy. The talk +fell into the discussion of Home Rule, and again our host silenced us. +It seemed his butler was an Irishman and a violent Parnellite. Some +people can talk as though servants were mere machines, but to me they are +human beings, and their presence hampers me. I know my guests have not +heard the story before, and from one’s own flesh and blood one expects a +certain amount of sacrifice. But I feel so sorry for the housemaid who +is waiting; she must have heard it a dozen times. I really cannot +inflict it upon her again. + +After dinner we pushed the table into a corner, and Dick extracted a sort +of waltz from Robina’s mandoline. It is years since I danced; but +Veronica said she would rather dance with me any day than with some of +the “lumps” you were given to drag round by the dancing-mistress. I have +half a mind to take it up again. After all, a man is only as old as he +feels. + +Young Bute, it turned out, was a capital dancer, and could even reverse, +which in a room fourteen feet square is of advantage. Robina confided to +me after he was gone that while he was dancing she could just tolerate +him. I cannot myself see rhyme or reason in Robina’s objection to him. +He is not handsome, but he is good-looking, as boys go, and has a +pleasant smile. Robina says it is his smile that maddens her. Dick +agrees with me that there is sense in him; and Veronica, not given to +loose praise, considers his performance of a Red Indian, both dead and +alive, the finest piece of acting she has ever encountered. We wound up +the evening with a little singing. The extent of Dick’s repertoire +surprised me; evidently he has not been so idle at Cambridge as it +seemed. Young Bute has a baritone voice of some richness. We remembered +at quarter-past eleven that Veronica ought to have gone to bed at eight. +We were all of us surprised at the lateness of the hour. + +“Why can’t we always live in a cottage and do just as we like? I’m sure +it’s much jollier,” Veronica put it to me as I kissed her good night. + +“Because we are idiots, most of us, Veronica,” I answered. + + + + +CHAPTER V + + +I STARTED the next morning to call upon St. Leonard. Near to the house I +encountered young Hopkins on a horse. He was waving a pitchfork over his +head and reciting “The Charge of the Light Brigade.” The horse looked +amused. He told me I should find “the gov’nor” up by the stables. St. +Leonard is not an “old man.” Dick must have seen him in a bad light. I +should describe him as about the prime of life, a little older than +myself, but nothing to speak of. Dick was right, however, in saying he +was not like a farmer. To begin with, “Hubert St. Leonard” does not +sound like a farmer. One can imagine a man with a name like that writing +a book about farming, having theories on this subject. But in the +ordinary course of nature things would not grow for him. He does not +look like a farmer. One cannot say precisely what it is, but there is +that about a farmer that tells you he is a farmer. The farmer has a way +of leaning over a gate. There are not many ways of leaning over a gate. +I have tried all I could think of, but it was never quite the right way. +It has to be in the blood. A farmer has a way of standing on one leg and +looking at a thing that isn’t there. It sounds simple, but there is +knack in it. The farmer is not surprised it is not there. He never +expected it to be there. It is one of those things that ought to be, and +is not. The farmer’s life is full of such. Suffering reduced to a +science is what the farmer stands for. All his life he is the good man +struggling against adversity. Nothing his way comes right. This does +not seem to be his planet. Providence means well, but she does not +understand farming. She is doing her best, he supposes; that she is a +born muddler is not her fault. If Providence could only step down for a +month or two and take a few lessons in practical farming, things might be +better; but this being out of the question there is nothing more to be +said. From conversation with farmers one conjures up a picture of +Providence as a well-intentioned amateur, put into a position for which +she is utterly unsuited. + +“Rain,” says Providence, “they are wanting rain. What did I do with that +rain?” + +She finds the rain and starts it, and is pleased with herself until some +Wandering Spirit pauses on his way and asks her sarcastically what she +thinks she’s doing. + +“Raining,” explains Providence. “They wanted rain—farmers, you know, +that sort of people.” + +“They won’t want anything for long,” retorts the Spirit. “They’ll be +drowned in their beds before you’ve done with them.” + +“Don’t say that!” says Providence. + +“Well, have a look for yourself if you won’t believe me,” says the +Spirit. “You’ve spoilt that harvest again, you’ve ruined all the fruit, +and you are rotting even the turnips. Don’t you ever learn by +experience?” + +“It is so difficult,” says Providence, “to regulate these things just +right.” + +“So it seems—for you,” retorts the Spirit. “Anyhow, I should not rain +any more, if I were you. If you must, at least give them time to build +another ark.” And the Wandering Spirit continues on his way. + +“The place does look a bit wet, now I come to notice it,” says +Providence, peeping down over the edge of her star. “Better turn on the +fine weather, I suppose.” + +She starts with she calls “set fair,” and feeling now that she is +something like a Providence, composes herself for a doze. She is +startled out of her sleep by the return of the Wandering Spirit. + +“Been down there again?” she asks him pleasantly. + +“Just come back,” explains the Wandering Spirit. + +“Pretty spot, isn’t it?” says Providence. “Things nice and dry down +there now, aren’t they?” + +“You’ve hit it,” he answers. “Dry is the word. The rivers are dried up, +the wells are dried up, the cattle are dying, the grass is all withered. +As for the harvest, there won’t be any harvest for the next two years! +Oh, yes, things are dry enough.” + +One imagines Providence bursting into tears. “But you suggested yourself +a little fine weather.” + +“I know I did,” answers the Spirit. “I didn’t suggest a six months’ +drought with the thermometer at a hundred and twenty in the shade. +Doesn’t seem to me that you’ve got any sense at all.” + +“I do wish this job had been given to someone else,” says Providence. + +“Yes, and you are not the only one to wish it,” retorts the Spirit +unfeelingly. + +“I do my best,” urges Providence, wiping her eyes with her wings. “I am +not fitted for it.” + +“A truer word you never uttered,” retorts the Spirit. + +“I try—nobody could try harder,” wails Providence. “Everything I do +seems to be wrong.” + +“What you want,” says the Spirit, “is less enthusiasm and a little +commonsense in place of it. You get excited, and then you lose your +head. When you do send rain, ten to one you send it when it isn’t +wanted. You keep back your sunshine—just as a duffer at whist keeps back +his trumps—until it is no good, and then you deal it out all at once.” + +“I’ll try again,” said Providence. “I’ll try quite hard this time.” + +“You’ve been trying again,” retorts the Spirit unsympathetically, “ever +since I have known you. It is not that you do not try. It is that you +have not got the hang of things. Why don’t you get yourself an +almanack?” + +The Wandering Spirit takes his leave. Providence tells herself she +really must get that almanack. She ties a knot in her handkerchief. It +is not her fault: she was made like it. She forgets altogether for what +reason she tied that knot. Thinks it was to remind her to send frosts in +May, or Scotch mists in August. She is not sure which, so sends both. +The farmer has ceased even to be angry with her—recognises that +affliction and sorrow are good for his immortal soul, and pursues his way +in calmness to the Bankruptcy Court. + +Hubert St. Leonard, of Windrush Bottom Farm, I found to be a +worried-looking gentleman. He taps his weather-glass, and hopes and +fears, not knowing as yet that all things have been ordered for his ill. +It will be years before his spirit is attuned to that attitude of +tranquil despair essential to the farmer: one feels it. He is tall and +thin, with a sensitive, mobile face, and a curious trick of taking his +head every now and again between his hands, as if to be sure it is still +there. When I met him he was on the point of starting for his round, so +I walked with him. He told me that he had not always been a farmer. +Till a few years ago he had been a stockbroker. But he had always hated +his office; and having saved a little, had determined when he came to +forty to enjoy the rare luxury of living his own life. I asked him if he +found that farming paid. He said: + +“As in everything else, it depends upon the price you put upon yourself. +Now, as a casual observer, what wage per annum would you say I was +worth?” + +It was an awkward question. + +“You are afraid that if you spoke candidly you would offend me,” he +suggested. “Very well. For the purpose of explaining my theory let us +take, instead, your own case. I have read all your books, and I like +them. Speaking as an admirer, I should estimate you at five hundred a +year. You, perhaps, make two thousand, and consider yourself worth +five.” + +The whimsical smile with which he accompanied the speech disarmed me. + +“What we most of us do,” he continued, “is to over-capitalise ourselves. +John Smith, honestly worth a hundred a year, claims to be worth two. +Result: difficulty of earning dividend, over-work, over-worry, constant +fear of being wound up. Now, there is that about your work that suggests +to me you would be happier earning five hundred a year than you ever will +be earning two thousand. To pay your dividend—to earn your two +thousand—you have to do work that brings you no pleasure in the doing. +Content with five hundred, you could afford to do only that work that +does give you pleasure. This is not a perfect world, we must remember. +In the perfect world the thinker would be worth more than the mere +jester. In the perfect world the farmer would be worth more than the +stockbroker. In making the exchange I had to write myself down. I earn +less money, but get more enjoyment out of life. I used to be able to +afford champagne, but my liver was always wrong, and I dared not drink +it. Now I cannot afford champagne, but I enjoy my beer. That is my +theory, that we are all of us entitled to payment according to our market +value, neither more nor less. You can take it all in cash. I used to. +Or you can take less cash and more fun: that is what I am getting now.” + +“It is delightful,” I said, “to meet with a philosopher. One hears about +them, of course; but I had got it into my mind they were all dead.” + +“People laugh at philosophy,” he said. “I never could understand why. +It is the science of living a free, peaceful, happy existence. I would +give half my remaining years to be a philosopher.” + +“I am not laughing at philosophy,” I said. “I honestly thought you were +a philosopher. I judged so from the way you talked.” + +“Talked!” he retorted. “Anybody can talk. As you have just said, I talk +like a philosopher.” + +“But you not only talk,” I insisted, “you behave like a philosopher. +Sacrificing your income to the joy of living your own life! It is the +act of a philosopher.” + +I wanted to keep him in good humour. I had three things to talk to him +about: the cow, the donkey, and Dick. + +“No, it wasn’t,” he answered. “A philosopher would have remained a +stockbroker and been just as happy. Philosophy does not depend upon +environment. You put the philosopher down anywhere. It is all the same +to him, he takes his philosophy with him. You can suddenly tell him he +is an emperor, or give him penal servitude for life. He goes on being a +philosopher just as if nothing had happened. We have an old tom-cat. +The children lead it an awful life. It does not seem to matter to the +cat. They shut it up in the piano: their idea is that it will make a +noise and frighten someone. It doesn’t make a noise; it goes to sleep. +When an hour later someone opens the piano, the poor thing is lying there +stretched out upon the keyboard purring to itself. They dress it up in +the baby’s clothes and take it out in the perambulator: it lies there +perfectly contented looking round at the scenery—takes in the fresh air. +They haul it about by its tail. You would think, to watch it swinging +gently to and fro head downwards, that it was grateful to them for giving +it a new sensation. Apparently it looks on everything that comes its way +as helpful experience. It lost a leg last winter in a trap: it goes +about quite cheerfully on three. Seems to be rather pleased, if +anything, at having lost the fourth—saves washing. Now, he is your true +philosopher, that cat; never minds what happens to him, and is equally +contented if it doesn’t.” + +I found myself becoming fretful. I know a man with whom it is impossible +to disagree. Men at the Club—new-comers—have been lured into taking bets +that they could on any topic under the sun find themselves out of +sympathy with him. They have denounced Mr. Lloyd George as a traitor to +his country. This man has risen and shaken them by the hand, words being +too weak to express his admiration of their outspoken fearlessness. You +might have thought them Nihilists denouncing the Russian Government from +the steps of the Kremlin at Moscow. They have, in the next breath, +abused Mr. Balfour in terms transgressing the law of slander. He has +almost fallen on their necks. It has transpired that the one dream of +his life was to hear Mr. Balfour abused. I have talked to him myself for +a quarter of an hour, and gathered that at heart he was a +peace-at-any-price man, strongly in favour of Conscription, a vehement +Republican, with a deep-rooted contempt for the working classes. It is +not bad sport to collect half a dozen and talk round him. At such times +he suggests the family dog that six people from different parts of the +house are calling to at the same time. He wants to go to them all at +once. + +I felt I had got to understand this man, or he would worry me. + +“We are going to be neighbours,” I said, “and I am inclined to think I +shall like you. That is, if I can get to know you. You commence by +enthusing on philosophy: I hasten to agree with you. It is a noble +science. When my youngest daughter has grown up, when the other one has +learnt a little sense, when Dick is off my hands, and the British public +has come to appreciate good literature, I am hoping to be a bit of a +philosopher myself. But before I can explain to you my views you have +already changed your own, and are likening the philosopher to an old +tom-cat that seems to be weak in his head. Soberly now, what are you?” + +“A fool,” he answered promptly; “a most unfortunate fool. I have the +mind of a philosopher coupled to an intensely irritable temperament. My +philosophy teaches me to be ashamed of my irritability, and my +irritability makes my philosophy appear to be arrant nonsense to myself. +The philosopher in me tells me it does not matter when the twins fall +down the wishing-well. It is not a deep well. It is not the first time +they have fallen into it: it will not be the last. Such things pass: the +philosopher only smiles. The man in me calls the philosopher a +blithering idiot for saying it does not matter when it does matter. Men +have to be called away from their work to haul them out. We all of us +get wet. I get wet and excited, and that always starts my liver. The +children’s clothes are utterly spoilt. Confound them,”—the blood was +mounting to his head—“they never care to go near the well except they are +dressed in their best clothes. On other days they will stop indoors and +read Foxe’s ‘Book of Martyrs.’ There is something uncanny about twins. +What is it? Why should twins be worse than other children? The ordinary +child is not an angel, Heaven knows. Take these boots of mine. Look at +them; I have had them for over two years. I tramp ten miles a day in +them; they have been soaked through a hundred times. You buy a boy a +pair of boots—” + +“Why don’t you cover over the well?” I suggested. + +“There you are again,” he replied. “The philosopher in me—the sensible +man—says, ‘What is the good of the well? It is nothing but mud and +rubbish. Something is always falling into it—if it isn’t the children +it’s the pigs. Why not do away with it?’” + +“Seems to be sound advice,” I commented. + +“It is,” he agreed. “No man alive has more sound commonsense than I +have, if only I were capable of listening to myself. Do you know why I +don’t brick in that well? Because my wife told me I would have to. It +was the first thing she said when she saw it. She says it again every +time anything does fall into it. ‘If only you would take my advice’—you +know the sort of thing. Nobody irritates me more than the person who +says, ‘I told you so.’ It’s a picturesque old ruin: it used to be +haunted. That’s all been knocked on the head since we came. What +self-respecting nymph can haunt a well into which children and pigs are +for ever flopping?” + +He laughed; but before I could join him he was angry again. “Why should +I block up an historic well, that is an ornament to the garden, because a +pack of fools can’t keep a gate shut? As for the children, what they +want is a thorough good whipping, and one of these days—” + +A voice crying to us to stop interrupted him. + +“Am on my round. Can’t come,” he shouted. + +“But you must,” explained the voice. + +He turned so quickly that he almost knocked me over. “Bother and +confound them all!” he said. “Why don’t they keep to the time-table? +There’s no system in this place. That is what ruins farming—want of +system.” + +He went on grumbling as he walked. I followed him. Halfway across the +field we met the owner of the voice. She was a pleasant-looking lass, +not exactly pretty—not the sort of girl one turns to look at in a +crowd—yet, having seen her, it was agreeable to continue looking at her. +St. Leonard introduced me to her as his eldest daughter, Janie, and +explained to her that behind the study door, if only she would take the +trouble to look, she would find a time-table— + +“According to which,” replied Miss Janie, with a smile, “you ought at the +present moment to be in the rick-yard, which is just where I want you.” + +“What time is it?” he asked, feeling his waistcoat for a watch that +appeared not to be there. + +“Quarter to eleven,” I told him. + +He took his head between his hands. “Good God!” he cried, “you don’t say +that!” + +The new binder, Miss Janie told us, had just arrived. She was anxious +her father should see it was in working order before the men went back. +“Otherwise,” so she argued, “old Wilkins will persist it was all right +when he delivered it, and we shall have no remedy.” + +We turned towards the house. + +“Speaking of the practical,” I said, “there were three things I came to +talk to you about. First and foremost, that cow.” + +“Ah, yes, the cow,” said St. Leonard. He turned to his daughter. “It +was Maud, was it not?” + +“No,” she answered, “it was Susie.” + +“It is the one,” I said, “that bellows most all night and three parts of +the day. Your boy Hopkins thinks maybe she’s fretting.” + +“Poor soul!” said St. Leonard. “We only took her calf away from her—when +did we take her calf away from her?” he asked of Janie. + +“On Thursday morning,” returned Janie; “the day we sent her over.” + +“They feel it so at first,” said St. Leonard sympathetically. + +“It sounds a brutal sentiment,” I said, “but I was wondering if by any +chance you happened to have by you one that didn’t feel it quite so much. +I suppose among cows there is no class that corresponds to what we term +our ‘Smart Set’—cows that don’t really care for their calves, that are +glad to get away from them?” + +Miss Janie smiled. When she smiled, you felt you would do much to see +her smile again. + +“But why not keep it up at your house, in the paddock,” she suggested, +“and have the milk brought down? There is an excellent cowshed, and it +is only a mile away.” + +It struck me there was sense in this idea. I had not thought of that. I +asked St. Leonard what I owed him for the cow. He asked Miss Janie, and +she said sixteen pounds. I had been warned that in doing business with +farmers it would be necessary always to bargain; but there was that about +Miss Janie’s tone telling me that when she said sixteen pounds she meant +sixteen pounds. I began to see a brighter side to Hubert St. Leonard’s +career as a farmer. + +“Very well,” I said; “we will regard the cow as settled.” + +I made a note: “Cow, sixteen pounds. Have the cowshed got ready, and buy +one of those big cans on wheels.” + +“You don’t happen to want milk?” I put it to Miss Janie. “Susie seems to +be good for about five gallons a day. I’m afraid if we drink it all +ourselves we’ll get too fat.” + +“At twopence halfpenny a quart, delivered at the house, as much as you +like,” replied Miss Janie. + +I made a note of that also. “Happen to know a useful boy?” I asked Miss +Janie. + +“What about young Hopkins,” suggested her father. + +“The only male thing on this farm—with the exception of yourself, of +course, father dear—that has got any sense,” said Miss Janie. “He can’t +have Hopkins.” + +“The only fault I have to find with Hopkins,” said St. Leonard, “is that +he talks too much.” + +“Personally,” I said, “I should prefer a country lad. I have come down +here to be in the country. With Hopkins around, I don’t somehow feel it +is the country. I might imagine it a garden city: that is as near as +Hopkins would allow me to get. I should like myself something more +suggestive of rural simplicity.” + +“I think I know the sort of thing you mean,” smiled Miss Janie. “Are you +fairly good-tempered?” + +“I can generally,” I answered, “confine myself to sarcasm. It pleases +me, and as far as I have been able to notice, does neither harm nor good +to anyone else.” + +“I’ll send you up a boy,” promised Miss Janie. + +I thanked her. “And now we come to the donkey.” + +“Nathaniel,” explained Miss Janie, in answer to her father’s look of +enquiry. “We don’t really want it.” + +“Janie,” said Mr. St. Leonard in a tone of authority, “I insist upon +being honest.” + +“I was going to be honest,” retorted Miss Janie, offended. + +“My daughter Veronica has given me to understand,” I said, “that if I buy +her this donkey it will be, for her, the commencement of a new and better +life. I do not attach undue importance to the bargain, but one never +knows. The influences that make for reformation in human character are +subtle and unexpected. Anyhow, it doesn’t seem right to throw a chance +away. Added to which, it has occurred to me that a donkey might be +useful in the garden.” + +“He has lived at my expense for upwards of two years,” replied St. +Leonard. “I cannot myself see any moral improvement he has brought into +my family. What effect he may have upon your children, I cannot say. +But when you talk about his being useful in a garden—” + +“He draws a cart,” interrupted Miss Janie. + +“So long as someone walks beside him feeding him with carrots. We tried +fixing the carrot on a pole six inches beyond his reach. That works all +right in the picture: it starts this donkey kicking.” + +“You know yourself,” he continued with growing indignation, “the very +last time your mother took him out she used up all her carrots getting +there, with the result that he and the cart had to be hauled home behind +a trolley.” + +We had reached the yard. Nathaniel was standing with his head stretched +out above the closed half of his stable door. I noticed points of +resemblance between him and Veronica herself: there was about him a like +suggestion of resignation, of suffering virtue misunderstood; his eye had +the same wistful, yearning expression with which Veronica will stand +before the window gazing out upon the purple sunset, while people are +calling to her from distant parts of the house to come and put her things +away. Miss Janie, bending over him, asked him to kiss her. He complied, +but with a gentle, reproachful look that seemed to say, “Why call me back +again to earth?” + +It made me mad with him. I was wrong in thinking Miss Janie not a pretty +girl. Hers is that type of beauty that escapes attention by its own +perfection. It is the eccentric, the discordant, that arrests the roving +eye. To harmony one has to attune oneself. + +“I believe,” said Miss Janie, as she drew away, wiping her cheek, “one +could teach that donkey anything.” + +Apparently she regarded willingness to kiss her as indication of +exceptional amiability. + +“Except to work,” commented her father. “I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” he +said. “If you take that donkey off my hands and promise not to send it +back again, why, you can have it.” + +“For nothing?” demanded Janie woefully. + +“For nothing,” insisted her father. “And if I have any argument, I’ll +throw in the cart.” + +Miss Janie sighed and shrugged her shoulders. It was arranged that +Hopkins should deliver Nathaniel into my keeping some time the next day. +Hopkins, it appeared, was the only person on the farm who could make the +donkey go. + +“I don’t know what it is,” said St. Leonard, “but he has a way with him.” + +“And now,” I said, “there remains but Dick.” + +“The lad I saw yesterday?” suggested St. Leonard. “Good-looking young +fellow.” + +“He is a nice boy,” I said. “I don’t really think I know a nicer boy +than Dick; and clever, when you come to understand him. There is only +one fault I have to find with Dick: I don’t seem able to get him to +work.” + +Miss Janie was smiling. I asked her why. + +“I was thinking,” she answered, “how close the resemblance appears to be +between him and Nathaniel.” + +It was true. I had not thought of it. + +“The mistake,” said St. Leonard, “is with ourselves. We assume every boy +to have the soul of a professor, and every girl a genius for music. We +pack off our sons to cram themselves with Greek and Latin, and put our +daughters down to strum at the piano. Nine times out of ten it is sheer +waste of time. They sent me to Cambridge, and said I was lazy. I was +not lazy. I was not intended by nature for a Senior Wrangler. I did not +see the good of being a Senior Wrangler. Who wants a world of Senior +Wranglers? Then why start every young man trying? I wanted to be a +farmer. If intelligent lads were taught farming as a business, farming +would pay. In the name of commonsense—” + +“I am inclined to agree with you,” I interrupted him. “I would rather +see Dick a good farmer than a third-rate barrister, anyhow. He thinks he +could take an interest in farming. There are ten weeks before he need go +back to Cambridge, sufficient time for the experiment. Will you take him +as a pupil?” + +St. Leonard grasped his head between his hands and held it firmly. “If I +consent,” he said, “I must insist on being honest.” + +I saw the woefulness again in Janie’s eyes. + +“I think,” I said, “it is my turn to be honest. I have got the donkey +for nothing; I insist on paying for Dick. They are waiting for you in +the rick-yard. I will settle the terms with Miss Janie.” + +He regarded us both suspiciously. + +“I will promise to be honest,” laughed Miss Janie. + +“If it’s more than I’m worth,” he said, “I’ll send him home again. My +theory is—” + +He stumbled over a pig which, according to the time-table, ought not to +have been there. They went off hurriedly together, the pig leading, both +screaming. + +Miss Janie said she would show me the short cut across the fields; we +could talk as we went. We walked in silence for awhile. + +“You must not think,” she said, “I like being the one to do all the +haggling. I feel a little sore about it very often. But somebody, of +course, must do it; and as for father, poor dear—” + +I looked at her. Her’s is the beauty to which a touch of sadness adds a +charm. + +“How old are you?” I asked her. + +“Twenty,” she answered, “next birthday.” + +“I judged you to be older,” I said. + +“Most people do,” she answered. + +“My daughter Robina,” I said, “is just the same age—according to years; +and Dick is twenty-one. I hope you will be friends with them. They have +got sense, both of them. It comes out every now and again and surprises +you. Veronica, I think, is nine. I am not sure how Veronica is going to +turn out. Sometimes things happen that make us think she has a beautiful +character, and then for quite long periods she seems to lose it +altogether. The Little Mother—I don’t know why we always call her Little +Mother—will not join us till things are more ship-shape. She does not +like to be thought an invalid, and if we have her about anywhere near +work that has to be done, and are not always watching her, she gets at it +and tires herself.” + +“I am glad we are going to be neighbours,” said Miss Janie. “There are +ten of us altogether. Father, I am sure, you will like; clever men +always like father. Mother’s day is Friday. As a rule it is the only +day no one ever calls.” She laughed. The cloud had vanished. “They +come on other days and find us all in our old clothes. On Friday +afternoon we sit in state and nobody comes near us, and we have to eat +the cakes ourselves. It makes her so cross. You will try and remember +Fridays, won’t you?” + +I made a note of it then and there. + +“I am the eldest,” she continued, “as I think father told you. Harry and +Jack came next; but Jack is in Canada and Harry died, so there is +somewhat of a gap between me and the rest. Bertie is twelve and Ted +eleven; they are home just now for the holidays. Sally is eight, and +then there come the twins. People don’t half believe the tales that are +told about twins, but I am sure there is no need to exaggerate. They are +only six, but they have a sense of humour you would hardly credit. One +is a boy, and the other a girl. They are always changing clothes, and we +are never quite sure which is which. Wilfrid gets sent to bed because +Winnie has not practised her scales, and Winnie is given syrup of squills +because Wilfried has been eating green gooseberries. Last spring Winnie +had the measles. When the doctor came on the fifth day he was as pleased +as punch; he said it was the quickest cure he had ever known, and that +really there was no reason why she might not get up. We had our +suspicions, and they were right. Winnie was hiding in the cupboard, +wrapped up in a blanket. They don’t seem to mind what trouble they get +into, provided it isn’t their own. The only safe plan, unless you happen +to catch them red-handed, is to divide the punishment between them, and +leave them to settle accounts between themselves afterwards. Algy is +four; till last year he was always called the baby. Now, of course, +there is no excuse; but the name still clings to him in spite of his +indignant protestations. Father called upstairs to him the other day: +‘Baby, bring me down my gaiters.’ He walked straight up to the cradle +and woke up the baby. ‘Get up,’ I heard him say—I was just outside the +door—‘and take your father down his gaiters. Don’t you hear him calling +you?’ He is a droll little fellow. Father took him to Oxford last +Saturday. He is small for his age. The ticket-collector, quite +contented, threw him a glance, and merely as a matter of form asked if he +was under three. ‘No,’ he shouted before father could reply; ‘I ’sists +on being honest. I’se four.’ It is father’s pet phrase.” + +“What view do you take of the exchange,” I asked her, “from stockbroking +with its larger income to farming with its smaller?” + +“Perhaps it was selfish,” she answered, “but I am afraid I rather +encouraged father. It seems to me mean, making your living out of work +that does no good to anyone. I hate the bargaining, but the farming +itself I love. Of course, it means having only one evening dress a year +and making that myself. But even when I had a lot I always preferred +wearing the one that I thought suited me the best. As for the children, +they are as healthy as young savages, and everything they want to make +them happy is just outside the door. The boys won’t go to college; but +seeing they will have to earn their own living, that, perhaps, is just as +well. It is mother, poor dear, that worries so.” She laughed again. +“Her favourite walk is to the workhouse. She came back quite excited the +other day because she had heard the Guardians intend to try the +experiment of building separate houses for old married couples. She is +convinced she and father are going to end their days there.” + +“You, as the business partner,” I asked her, “are hopeful that the farm +will pay?” + +“Oh, yes,” she answered, “it will pay all right—it does pay, for the +matter of that. We live on it and live comfortably. But, of course, I +can see mother’s point of view, with seven young children to bring up. +And it is not only that.” She stopped herself abruptly. “Oh, well,” she +continued with a laugh, “you have got to know us. Father is trying. He +loves experiments, and a woman hates experiments. Last year it was bare +feet. I daresay it is healthier. But children who have been about in +bare feet all the morning—well, it isn’t pleasant when they sit down to +lunch; I don’t care what you say. You can’t be always washing. He is so +unpractical. He was quite angry with mother and myself because we +wouldn’t. And a man in bare feet looks so ridiculous. This summer it is +short hair and no hats; and Sally had such pretty hair. Next year it +will be sabots or turbans—something or other suggesting the idea that +we’ve lately escaped from a fair. On Mondays and Thursdays we talk +French. We have got a French nurse; and those are the only days in the +week on which she doesn’t understand a word that’s said to her. We can +none of us understand father, and that makes him furious. He won’t say +it in English; he makes a note of it, meaning to tell us on Tuesday or +Friday, and then, of course, he forgets, and wonders why we haven’t done +it. He’s the dearest fellow alive. When I think of him as a big boy, +then he is charming, and if he really were only a big boy there are times +when I would shake him and feel better for it.” + +She laughed again. I wanted her to go on talking, because her laugh was +so delightful. But we had reached the road, and she said she must go +back: there were so many things she had to do. + +“We have not settled about Dick,” I reminded her. + +“Mother took rather a liking to him,” she murmured. + +“If Dick could make a living,” I said, “by getting people to like him, I +should not be so anxious about his future—lazy young devil!” + +“He has promised to work hard if you let him take up farming,” said Miss +Janie. + +“He has been talking to you?” I said. + +She admitted it. + +“He will begin well,” I said. “I know him. In a month he will have +tired of it, and be clamouring to do something else.” + +“I shall be very disappointed in him if he does,” she said. + +“I will tell him that,” I said, “it may help. People don’t like other +people to be disappointed in them.” + +“I would rather you didn’t,” she said. “You could say that father will +be disappointed in him. Father formed rather a good opinion of him, I +know.” + +“I will tell him,” I suggested, “that we shall all be disappointed in +him.” + +She agreed to that, and we parted. I remembered, when she was gone, that +after all we had not settled terms. + +Dick overtook me a little way from home. + +“I have settled your business,” I told him. + +“It’s awfully good of you,” said Dick. + +“Mind,” I continued, “it’s on the understanding that you throw yourself +into the thing and work hard. If you don’t, I shall be disappointed in +you, I tell you so frankly.” + +“That’s all right, governor,” he answered cheerfully. “Don’t you worry.” + +“Mr. St. Leonard will also be disappointed in you, Dick,” I informed him. +“He has formed a very high opinion of you. Don’t give him cause to +change it.” + +“I’ll get on all right with him,” answered Dick. “Jolly old duffer, +ain’t he?” + +“Miss Janie will also be disappointed in you,” I added. + +“Did she say that?” he asked. + +“She mentioned it casually,” I explained: “though now I come to think of +it she asked me not to say so. What she wanted me to impress upon you +was that her father would be disappointed in you.” + +Dick walked beside me in silence for awhile. + +“Sorry I’ve been a worry to you, dad,” he said at last + +“Glad to hear you say so,” I replied. + +“I’m going to turn over a new leaf, dad,” he said. “I’m going to work +hard.” + +“About time,” I said. + + + + +CHAPTER VI + + +WE had cold bacon for lunch that day. There was not much of it. I took +it to be the bacon we had not eaten for breakfast. But on a clean dish +with parsley it looked rather neat. It did not suggest, however, a lunch +for four people, two of whom had been out all the morning in the open +air. There was some excuse for Dick. + +“I never heard before,” said Dick, “of cold fried bacon as a _hors +d’œuvre_.” + +“It is not a _hors d’œuvre_,” explained Robina. “It is all there is for +lunch.” She spoke in the quiet, passionless voice of one who has done +with all human emotion. She added that she should not be requiring any +herself, she having lunched already. + +Veronica, conveying by her tone and bearing the impression of something +midway between a perfect lady and a Christian martyr, observed that she +also had lunched. + +“Wish I had,” growled Dick. + +I gave him a warning kick. I could see he was on the way to getting +himself into trouble. As I explained to him afterwards, a woman is most +dangerous when at her meekest. A man, when he feels his temper rising, +takes every opportunity of letting it escape. Trouble at such times he +welcomes. A broken boot-lace, or a shirt without a button, is to him +then as water in the desert. An only collar-stud that will disappear as +if by magic from between his thumb and finger and vanish apparently into +thin air is a piece of good fortune sent on these occasions only to those +whom the gods love. By the time he has waddled on his hands and knees +twice round the room, broken the boot-jack raking with it underneath the +wardrobe, been bumped and slapped and kicked by every piece of furniture +that the room contains, and ended up by stepping on that stud and +treading it flat, he has not a bitter or an angry thought left in him. +All that remains of him is sweet and peaceful. He fastens his collar +with a safety-pin, humming an old song the while. + +Failing the gifts of Providence, the children—if in health—can generally +be depended upon to afford him an opening. Sooner or later one or +another of them will do something that no child, when he was a boy, would +have dared—or dreamed of daring—to even so much as think of doing. The +child, conveying by expression that the world, it is glad to say, is +slowly but steadily growing in sense, and pity it is that old-fashioned +folks can’t bustle up and keep abreast of it, points out that firstly it +has not done this thing, that for various reasons—a few only of which +need be dwelt upon—it is impossible it could have done this thing; that +secondly it has been expressly requested to do this thing, that wishful +always to give satisfaction, it has—at sacrifice of all its own +ideas—gone out of its way to do this thing; that thirdly it can’t help +doing this thing, strive against fate as it will. + +He says he does not want to hear what the child has got to say on the +subject—nor on any other subject, neither then nor at any other time. He +says there’s going to be a new departure in this house, and that things +all round are going to be very different. He suddenly remembers every +rule and regulation he has made during the past ten years for the +guidance of everybody, and that everybody, himself included, has +forgotten. He tries to talk about them all at once, in haste lest he +should forget them again. By the time he has succeeded in getting +himself, if nobody else, to understand himself, the children are swarming +round his knees extracting from him promises that in his sober moments he +will be sorry that he made. + +I knew a woman—a wise and good woman she was—who when she noticed that +her husband’s temper was causing him annoyance, took pains to help him to +get rid of it. To relieve his sufferings I have known her search the +house for a last month’s morning paper and, ironing it smooth, lay it +warm and neatly folded on his breakfast plate. + +“One thing in this world to be thankful for, at all events, and that is +that we don’t live in Ditchley-in-the-Marsh,” he would growl ten minutes +later from the other side of it. + +“Sounds a bit damp,” the good woman would reply. + +“Damp!” he would grunt, “who minds a bit of damp! Good for you. Makes +us Englishmen what we are. Being murdered in one’s bed about once a week +is what I should object to.” + +“Do they do much of that sort of thing down there?” the good woman would +enquire. + +“Seems to be the chief industry of the place. Do you mean to say you +don’t remember that old maiden lady being murdered by her own gardener +and buried in the fowl-run? You women! you take no interest in public +affairs.” + +“I do remember something about it, now you mention it, dear,” the good +woman would confess. “Always seems such an innocent type of man, a +gardener.” + +“Seems to be a special breed of them at Ditchley-in-the-Marsh,” he +answers. “Here again last Monday,” he continues, reading with growing +interest. “Almost the same case—even to the pruning knife. Yes, hanged +if he doesn’t!—buries her in the fowl-run. This is most extraordinary.” + +“It must be the imitative instinct asserting itself,” suggests the good +woman. “As you, dear, have so often pointed out, one crime makes +another.” + +“I have always said so,” he agrees; “it has always been a theory of +mine.” + +He folds the paper over. “Dull dogs, these political chaps!” he says. +“Here’s the Duke of Devonshire, speaking last night at Hackney, begins by +telling a funny story he says he has just heard about a parrot. Why, +it’s the same story somebody told a month ago; I remember reading it. +Yes—upon my soul—word for word, I’d swear to it. Shows you the sort of +men we’re governed by.” + +“You can’t expect everyone, dear, to possess your repertoire,” the good +woman remarks. + +“Needn’t say he’s just heard it that afternoon, anyhow,” responds the +good man. + +He turns to another column. “What the devil! Am I going off my head?” +He pounces on the eldest boy. “When was the Oxford and Cambridge +Boat-race?” he fiercely demands. + +“The Oxford and Cambridge Boat-race!” repeats the astonished youth. +“Why, it’s over. You took us all to see it, last month. The Saturday +before—” + +The conversation for the next ten minutes he conducts himself, unaided. +At the end he is tired, maybe a trifle hoarse. But all his bad temper is +gone. His sorrow is there was not sufficient of it. He could have done +with more. + +Woman knows nothing of simple mechanics. A woman thinks you can get rid +of steam by boxing it up and sitting on the safety-valve. + +“Feeling as I do this morning, that I’d like to wring everybody’s neck +for them,” the average woman argues to herself; “my proper course—I see +it clearly—is to creep about the house, asking of everyone that has the +time to spare to trample on me.” + +She coaxes you to tell her of her faults. When you have finished she +asks for more—reminds you of one or two you had missed out. She wonders +why it is that she is always wrong. There must be a reason for it; if +only she could discover it. She wonders how it is that people can put up +with her—thinks it so good of them. + +At last, of course, the explosion happens. The awkward thing is that +neither she herself nor anyone else knows when it is coming. A husband +cornered me one evening in the club. It evidently did him good to talk. +He told me that, finding his wife that morning in one of her rare +listening moods, he had seized the opportunity to mention one or two +matters in connection with the house he would like to have altered; that +was, if she had no objection. She had—quite pleasantly—reminded him the +house was his, that he was master there. She added that any wish of his +of course was law to her. + +He was a young and inexperienced husband; it seemed to him a hopeful +opening. He spoke of quite a lot of things—things about which he felt +that he was right and she was wrong. She went and fetched a quire of +paper, and borrowed his pencil and wrote them down. + +Later on, going through his letters in the study, he found an unexpected +cheque; and ran upstairs and asked her if she would not like to come out +with him and get herself a new hat. + +“I could have understood it,” he moaned, “if she had dropped on me while +I was—well, I suppose, you might say lecturing her. She had listened to +it like a lamb—hadn’t opened her mouth except to say ‘yes, dear,’ or ‘no, +dear.’ Then, when I only asked her if she’d like a new hat, she goes +suddenly raving mad. I never saw a woman go so mad.” + +I doubt if there be anything in nature quite as unexpected as a woman’s +temper, unless it be tumbling into a hole. I told all this to Dick. I +have told it him before. One of these days he will know it. + +“You are right to be angry with me,” Robina replied meekly; “there is no +excuse for me. The whole thing is the result of my own folly.” + +Her pathetic humility should have appealed to him. He can be +sympathetic, when he isn’t hungry. Just then he happened to be hungry. + +“I left you making a pie,” he said. “It looked to me a fair-sized pie. +There was a duck on the table, with a cauliflower and potatoes; Veronica +was up to her elbows in peas. It made me hungry merely passing through +the kitchen. I wouldn’t have anything to eat in the town for fear of +spoiling my appetite. Where is it all? You don’t mean to say that you +and Veronica have eaten the whole blessed lot!” + +There is one thing—she admits it herself—that exhausts Veronica’s +patience: it is unjust suspicion. + +“Do I look as if I’d eaten anything for hours and hours?” Veronica +demanded. “You can feel my waistband if you don’t believe me.” + +“You said just now you had had your lunch,” Dick argued. + +“I know I did,” Veronica admitted. “One minute you are told that it is +wicked to tell lies; the next—” + +“Veronica!” Robina interrupted threateningly. + +“It’s easy for you,” retorted Veronica. “You are not a growing child. +You don’t feel it.” + +“The least you can do,” said Robina, “is to keep silence.” + +“What’s the good,” said Veronica—not without reason. “You’ll tell them +when I’ve gone to bed, and can’t put in a word for myself. Everything is +always my fault. I wish sometimes that I was dead.” + +“That I were dead,” I corrected her. “The verb ‘to wish,’ implying +uncertainty, should always be followed by the conditional mood.” + +“You ought,” said Robina, “to be thankful to Providence that you’re not +dead.” + +“People are sorry when you’re dead,” said Veronica. + +“I suppose there’s some bread-and-cheese in the house,” suggested Dick. + +“The baker, for some reason or another, has not called this morning,” +Robina answered sweetly. “Neither unfortunately has the grocer. +Everything there is to eat in the house you see upon the table.” + +“Accidents will happen,” I said. “The philosopher—as our friend St. +Leonard would tell us—only smiles.” + +“I could smile,” said Dick, “if it were his lunch.” + +“Cultivate,” I said, “a sense of humour. From a humorous point of view +this lunch is rather good.” + +“Did you have anything to eat at the St. Leonards’?” he asked. + +“Just a glass or so of beer and a sandwich or two,” I admitted. “They +brought it out to us while we were talking in the yard. To tell the +truth, I was feeling rather peckish.” + +Dick made no answer, but continued to chew bacon-rind. Nothing I could +say seemed to cheer him. I thought I would try religion. + +“A dinner of herbs—the sentiment applies equally to lunch—and contentment +therewith is better,” I said, “than a stalled ox.” + +“Don’t talk about oxen,” he interrupted fretfully. “I feel I could just +eat one—a plump one.” + +There is a man I know. I confess he irritates me. His argument is that +you should always rise from a meal feeling hungry. As I once explained +to him, you cannot rise from a meal feeling hungry without sitting down +to a meal feeling hungry; which means, of course, that you are always +hungry. He agreed with me. He said that was the idea—always ready. + +“Most people,” he said, “rise from a meal feeling no more interest in +their food. That was a mental attitude injurious to digestion. Keep it +always interested; that was the proper way to treat it.” + +“By ‘it’ you mean . . . ?” I said. + +“Of course,” he answered; “I’m talking about it.” + +“Now I myself;” he explained—“I rise from breakfast feeling eager for my +lunch. I get up from my lunch looking forward to my dinner. I go to bed +just ready for my breakfast.” + +Cheerful expectancy, he said, was a wonderful aid to digestion. “I call +myself;” he said, “a cheerful feeder.” + +“You don’t seem to me,” I said, “to be anything else. You talk like a +tadpole. Haven’t you any other interest in life? What about home, and +patriotism, and Shakespeare—all those sort of things? Why not give it a +square meal, and silence it for an hour or two; leave yourself free to +think of something else.” + +“How can you think of anything,” he argued, “when your stomach’s out of +order?” + +“How can you think of anything,” I argued, “when it takes you all your +time to keep it in order? You are not a man; you are a nurse to your own +stomach.” We were growing excited, both of us, forgetting our natural +refinement. “You don’t get even your one afternoon a week. You are +healthy enough, I admit it. So are the convicts at Portland. They never +suffer from indigestion. I knew a doctor once who prescribed for a +patient two years’ penal servitude as the only thing likely to do him +permanent good. Your stomach won’t let you smoke. It won’t let you +drink—not when you are thirsty. It allows you a glass of Apenta water at +times when you don’t want it, assuming there could ever be a time when +you did want it. You are deprived of your natural victuals, and made to +live upon prepared food, as though you were some sort of a prize chicken. +You are sent to bed at eleven, and dressed in hygienic clothing that +makes no pretence to fit you. Talk of being hen-pecked! Why, the +mildest husband living would run away or drown himself, rather than +remain tied for the rest of his existence to your stomach.” + +“It is easy to sneer,” he said. + +“I am not sneering,” I said; “I am sympathising with you.” + +He said he did not want any sympathy. He said if only I would give up +over-eating and drinking myself, it would surprise me how bright and +intelligent I should become. + +I thought this man might be of use to us on the present occasion. +Accordingly I spoke of him and of his theory. Dick seemed impressed. + +“Nice sort of man?” he asked. + +“An earnest man,” I replied. “He practises what he preaches, and whether +because, or in spite of it, the fact remains that a chirpier soul I am +sure does not exist.” + +“Married?” demanded Dick. + +“A single man,” I answered. “In all things an idealist. He has told me +he will never marry until he can find his ideal woman.” + +“What about Robina here!” suggested Dick. “Seem to have been made for +one another.” + +Robina smiled. It was a wan, pathetic smile. + +“Even he,” thought Robina, “would want his beans cooked to time, and to +feel that a reasonable supply of nuts was always in the house. We +incompetent women never ought to marry.” + +We had finished the bacon. Dick said he would take a stroll into the +town. Robina suggested he might take Veronica with him, that perhaps a +bun and a glass of milk would do the child no harm. + +Veronica for a wonder seemed to know where all her things were. Before +Dick had filled his pipe she was ready dressed and waiting for him. +Robina said she would give them a list of things they might bring back +with them. She also asked Dick to get together a plumber, a carpenter, a +bricklayer, a glazier, and a civil engineer, and to see to it that they +started off at once. She thought that among them they might be able to +do all that was temporarily necessary, but the great thing was that the +work should be commenced without delay. + +“Why, what on earth’s the matter, old girl?” asked Dick. “Have you had +an accident?” + +Then it was that Robina exploded. I had been wondering when it would +happen. To Dick’s astonishment it happened then. + +Yes, she answered, there had been an accident. Did he suppose that seven +scrimpy scraps of bacon was her notion of a lunch between four hungry +persons? Did he, judging from himself, imagine that our family yielded +only lunatics? Was it kind—was it courteous to his parents, to the +mother he pretended to love, to the father whose grey hairs he was by his +general behaviour bringing down in sorrow to the grave—to assume without +further enquiry that their eldest daughter was an imbecile? (My hair, +by-the-bye, is not grey. There may be a suggestion of greyness here and +there, the natural result of deep thinking. To describe it in the lump +as grey is to show lack of observation. And at forty-eight—or a trifle +over—one is not going down into the grave, not straight down. Robina +when excited uses exaggerated language. I did not, however, interrupt +her; she meant well. Added to which, interrupting Robina, when—to use +her own expression—she is tired of being a worm, is like trying to stop a +cyclone with an umbrella.) Had his attention been less concentrated on +the guzzling of cold bacon (he had only had four mouthfuls, poor +fellow)—had he noticed the sweet patient child starving before his very +eyes (this referred to Veronica)—his poor elder sister, worn out with +work and worry, pining for nourishment herself, it might have occurred to +even his intelligence that there had been an accident. The selfishness, +the egotism of men it was that staggered, overwhelmed Robina, when she +came to think of it. + +Robina paused. Not for want of material, I judged, so much as want of +breath. Veronica performed a useful service by seizing the moment to +express a hope that it was not early-closing day. Robina felt a +conviction that it was: it would be just like Dick to stand there +dawdling in a corner till it was too late to do anything. + +“I have been trying to get out of this corner for the last five minutes,” +explained Dick, with that angelic smile of his that I confess is +irritating. “If you have done talking, and will give me an opening, I +will go.” + +Robina told him that she had done talking. She gave him her reasons for +having done talking. If talking to him would be of any use she would +often have felt it her duty to talk to him, not only with regard to his +stupidity and selfishness and general aggravatingness, but with reference +to his character as a whole. Her excuse for not talking to him was the +crushing conviction of the hopelessness of ever effecting any improvement +in him. Were it otherwise— + +“Seriously speaking,” said Dick, now escaped from his corner, “something, +I take it, has gone wrong with the stove, and you want a sort of general +smith.” + +He opened the kitchen door and looked in. + +“Great Scott!” he said. “What was it—an earthquake?” + +I looked in over his shoulder. + +“But it could not have been an earthquake,” I said. “We should have felt +it.” + +“It is not an earthquake,” explained Robina. “It is your youngest +daughter’s notion of making herself useful.” + +Robina spoke severely. I felt for the moment as if I had done it all +myself. I had an uncle who used to talk like that. “Your aunt,” he +would say, regarding me with a reproachful eye, “your aunt can be, when +she likes, the most trying woman to live with I have ever known.” It +would depress me for days. I would wonder whether I ought to speak to +her about it, or whether I should be doing only harm. + +“But how did she do it?” I demanded. “It is impossible that a mere +child—where is the child?” + +The parlour contained but Robina. I hurried to the door; Dick was +already half across the field. Veronica I could not see. + +“We are making haste,” Dick shouted back, “in case it is early-closing +day.” + +“I want Veronica!” I shouted. + +“What?” shouted Dick. + +“Veronica!” I shouted with my hands to my mouth. + +“Yes!” shouted Dick. “She’s on ahead.” + +It was useless screaming any more. He was now climbing the stile. + +“They always take each other’s part, those two,” sighed Robina. + +“Yes, and you are just as bad,” I told her; “if he doesn’t, you do. And +then if it’s you they take your part. And you take his part. And he +takes both your parts. And between you all I am just getting tired of +bringing any of you up.” (Which is the truth.) “How did this thing +happen?” + +“I had got everything finished,” answered Robina. “The duck was in the +oven with the pie; the peas and potatoes were boiling nicely. I was +feeling hot, and I thought I could trust Veronica to watch the things for +awhile. She promised not to play King Alfred.” + +“What’s that?” I asked. + +“You know,” said Robina—“King Alfred and the cakes. I left her one +afternoon last year when we were on the houseboat to watch some buns. +When I came back she was sitting in front of the fire, wrapped up in the +table-cloth, with Dick’s banjo on her knees and a cardboard crown upon +her head. The buns were all burnt to a cinder. As I told her, if I had +known what she wanted to be up to I could have given her some extra bits +of dough to make believe with. But oh, no! if you please, that would not +have suited her at all. It was their being real buns, and my being real +mad, that was the best part of the game. She is an uncanny child.” + +“What was the game this time?” I asked. + +“I don’t think it was intended for a game—not at first,” answered Robina. +“I went into the wood to pick some flowers for the table. I was on my +way back, still at some distance from the house, when I heard quite a +loud report. I took it for a gun, and wondered what anyone would be +shooting in July. It must be rabbits, I thought. Rabbits never seem to +have any time at all to themselves, poor things. And in consequence I +did not hurry myself. It must have been about twenty minutes later when +I came in sight of the house. Veronica was in the garden deep in +confabulation with an awful-looking boy, dressed in nothing but rags. +His face and hands were almost black. You never saw such an object. +They both seemed very excited. Veronica came to meet me; and with a face +as serious as mine is now, stood there and told me the most barefaced +pack of lies you ever heard. She said that a few minutes after I had +gone, robbers had come out of the wood—she talked about them as though +there had been hundreds—and had with the most awful threats demanded to +be admitted into the house. Why they had not lifted the latch and walked +in, she did not explain. It appeared this cottage was their secret +rendezvous, where all their treasure lies hidden. Veronica would not let +them in, but shouted for help: and immediately this awful-looking boy, to +whom she introduced me as ‘Sir Robert’ something or another, had appeared +upon the scene; and then there had followed—well, I have not the patience +to tell you the whole of the rigmarole they had concocted. The upshot of +it was that the robbers, defeated in their attempt to get into the house, +had fired a secret mine, which had exploded in the kitchen. If I did not +believe them I could go into the kitchen and see for myself. Say what I +would, that is the story they both stuck to. It was not till I had +talked to Veronica for a quarter of an hour, and had told her that you +would most certainly communicate with the police, and that she would have +to convince a judge and jury of the truth of her story, that I got any +sense at all out of her.” + +“What was the sense you did get out of her?” I asked. + +“Well, I am not sure even now that it is the truth,” said Robina—“the +child does not seem to possess a proper conscience. What she will grow +up like, if something does not happen to change her, it is awful to +think.” + +“I don’t want to appear a hustler,” I said, “and maybe I am mistaken in +the actual time, but it feels to me like hours since I asked you how the +catastrophe really occurred.” + +“I am telling you,” explained Robina, hurt. “She was in the kitchen +yesterday when I mentioned to Harry’s mother, who had looked in to help +me wash up, that the kitchen chimney smoked: and then she said—” + +“Who said?” I asked. + +“Why, she did,” answered Robina, “Harry’s mother. She said that very +often a pennyworth of gunpowder—” + +“Now at last we have begun,” I said. “From this point I may be able to +help you, and we will get on. At the word ‘gunpowder’ Veronica pricked +up her ears. The thing by its very nature would appeal to Veronica’s +sympathies. She went to bed dreaming of gunpowder. Left in solitude +before the kitchen fire, other maidens might have seen pictured in the +glowing coals, princes, carriages, and balls. Veronica saw visions of +gunpowder. Who knows?—perhaps even she one day will have gunpowder of +her own! She looks up from her reverie: a fairy godmamma in the disguise +of a small boy—it was a small boy, was it not?” + +“Rather a nice little boy, he gave me the idea of having been, +originally,” answered Robina; “the child, I should say, of well-to-do +parents. He was dressed in a little Lord Fauntleroy suit—or rather, he +had been.” + +“Did Veronica know how he was—anything about him?” I asked. + +“Nothing that I could get out of her,” replied Robina; “you know her +way—how she chums on with anybody and everybody. As I told her, if she +had been attending to her duties instead of staring out of the window, +she would not have seen him. He happened to be crossing the field just +at the time.” + +“A boy born to ill-luck, evidently,” I observed. “To Veronica of course +he seemed like the answer to a prayer. A boy would surely know where +gunpowder could be culled.” + +“They must have got a pound of it from somewhere,” said Robina, “judging +from the result.” + +“Any notion where they got it from?” I asked. + +“No,” explained Robina. “All Veronica can say is that he told her he +knew where he could get some, and was gone about ten minutes. Of course +they must have stolen it—even that did not seem to trouble her.” + +“It came to her as a gift from the gods, Robina,” I explained. “I +remember how I myself used to feel about these things, at ten. To have +enquired further would have seemed to her impious. How was it they were +not both killed?” + +“Providence,” was Robina’s suggestion: it seemed to be the only one +possible. “They lifted off one of the saucepans and just dropped the +thing in—fortunately wrapped up in a brown paper parcel, which gave them +both time to get out of the house. At least Veronica got clear off. For +a change it was not she who fell over the mat, it was the boy.” + +I looked again into the kitchen; then I returned and put my hands on +Robina’s shoulders. “It is a most amusing incident—as it has turned +out,” I said. + +“It might have turned out rather seriously,” thought Robina. + +“It might,” I agreed: “she might be lying upstairs.” + +“She is a wicked, heartless child,” said Robina; “she ought to be +punished.” + +I lent Robina my handkerchief; she never has one of her own. + +“She is going to be punished,” I said; “I will think of something.” + +“And so ought I,” said Robina; “it was my fault, leaving her, knowing +what she’s like. I might have murdered her. She doesn’t care. She’s +stuffing herself with cakes at this very moment.” + +“They will probably give her indigestion,” I said. “I hope they do.” + +“Why didn’t you have better children?” sobbed Robina; “we are none of us +any good to you.” + +“You are not the children I wanted, I confess,” I answered. + +“That’s a nice kind thing to say!” retorted Robina indignantly. + +“I wanted such charming children,” I explained—“my idea of charming +children: the children I had imagined for myself. Even as babies you +disappointed me.” + +Robina looked astonished. + +“You, Robina, were the most disappointing,” I complained. “Dick was a +boy. One does not calculate upon boy angels; and by the time Veronica +arrived I had got more used to things. But I was so excited when you +came. The Little Mother and I would steal at night into the nursery. +‘Isn’t it wonderful,’ the Little Mother would whisper, ‘to think it all +lies hidden there: the little tiresome child, the sweetheart they will +one day take away from us, the wife, the mother?’ ‘I am glad it is a +girl,’ I would whisper; ‘I shall be able to watch her grow into +womanhood. Most of the girls one comes across in books strike one as not +perhaps quite true to life. It will give me such an advantage having a +girl of my own. I shall keep a note-book, with a lock and key, devoted +to her.’” + +“Did you?” asked Robina. + +“I put it away,” I answered; “there were but a few pages written on. It +came to me quite early in your life that you were not going to be the +model heroine. I was looking for the picture baby, the clean, thoughtful +baby, with its magical, mystical smile. I wrote poetry about you, +Robina, but you would slobber and howl. Your little nose was always +having to be wiped, and somehow the poetry did not seem to fit you. You +were at your best when you were asleep, but you would not even sleep when +it was expected of you. I think, Robina, that the fellows who draw the +pictures for the comic journals of the man in his night-shirt with the +squalling baby in his arms must all be single men. The married man sees +only sadness in the design. It is not the mere discomfort. If the +little creature were ill or in pain we should not think of that. It is +the reflection that we, who meant so well, have brought into the world +just an ordinary fretful human creature with a nasty temper of its own: +that is the tragedy, Robina. And then you grew into a little girl. I +wanted the soulful little girl with the fathomless eyes, who would steal +to me at twilight and question me concerning life’s conundrums. + +“But I used to ask you questions,” grumbled Robina, “and you would tell +me not to be silly.” + +“Don’t you understand, Robina?” I answered. “I am not blaming you, I am +blaming myself. We are like children who plant seeds in a garden, and +then are angry with the flowers because they are not what we expected. +You were a dear little girl; I see that now, looking back. But not the +little girl I had in my mind. So I missed you, thinking of the little +girl you were not. We do that all our lives, Robina. We are always +looking for the flowers that do not grow, passing by, trampling +underfoot, the blossoms round about us. It was the same with Dick. I +wanted a naughty boy. Well, Dick was naughty, no one can say that he was +not. But it was not my naughtiness. I was prepared for his robbing +orchards. I rather hoped he would rob orchards. All the high-spirited +boys in books rob orchards, and become great men. But there were not any +orchards handy. We happened to be living in Chelsea at the time he ought +to have been robbing orchards: that, of course, was my fault. I did not +think of that. He stole a bicycle that a lady had left outside the +tea-room in Battersea Park, he and another boy, the son of a common +barber, who shaved people for three-halfpence. I am a Republican in +theory, but it grieved me that a son of mine could be drawn to such +companionship. They contrived to keep it for a week—till the police +found it one night, artfully hidden behind bushes. Logically, I do not +see why stealing apples should be noble and stealing bicycles should be +mean, but it struck me that way at the time. It was not the particular +steal I had been hoping for. + +“I wanted him wild; the hero of the book was ever in his college days a +wild young man. Well, he was wild. It cost me three hundred pounds to +keep that breach of promise case out of Court; I had never imagined a +breach of promise case. Then he got drunk, and bonneted a bishop in +mistake for a ‘bull-dog.’ I didn’t mind the bishop. That by itself +would have been wholesome fun. But to think that a son of mine should +have been drunk!” + +“He has never been drunk since,” pleaded Robina. “He had only three +glasses of champagne and a liqueur: it was the liqueur—he was not used to +it. He got into the wrong set. You cannot in college belong to the wild +set without getting drunk occasionally.” + +“Perhaps not,” I admitted. “In the book the wild young man drinks +without ever getting drunk. Maybe there is a difference between life and +the book. In the book you enjoy your fun, but contrive somehow to escape +the licking: in life the licking is the only thing sure. It was the wild +young man of fiction I was looking for, who, a fortnight before the +exam., ties a wet towel round his head, drinks strong tea, and passes +easily with honours. He tried the wet towel, he tells me. It never +would keep in its place. Added to which it gave him neuralgia; while the +strong tea gave him indigestion. I used to picture myself the proud, +indulgent father lecturing him for his wildness—turning away at some +point in the middle of my tirade to hide a smile. There was never any +smile to hide. I feel that he has behaved disgracefully, wasting his +time and my money.” + +“He is going to turn over a new leaf;” said Robina: “I am sure he will +make an excellent farmer.” + +“I did not want a farmer,” I explained; “I wanted a Prime Minister. +Children, Robina, are very disappointing. Veronica is all wrong. I like +a mischievous child. I like reading stories of mischievous children: +they amuse me. But not the child who puts a pound of gunpowder into a +red-hot fire, and escapes with her life by a miracle.” + +“And yet, I daresay,” suggested Robina, “that if one put it into a book—I +mean that if you put it into a book, it would read amusingly.” + +“Likely enough,” I agreed. “Other people’s troubles can always be +amusing. As it is, I shall be in a state of anxiety for the next six +months, wondering, every moment that she is out of my sight, what new +devilment she is up to. The Little Mother will be worried out of her +life, unless we can keep it from her.” + +“Children will be children,” murmured Robina, meaning to be comforting. + +“That is what I am complaining of, Robina. We are always hoping that +ours won’t be. She is full of faults, Veronica, and they are not always +nice faults. She is lazy—lazy is not the word for it.” + +“She is lazy,” Robina was compelled to admit. + +“There are other faults she might have had and welcome,” I pointed out; +“faults I could have taken an interest in and liked her all the better +for. You children are so obstinate. You will choose your own faults. +Veronica is not truthful always. I wanted a family of little George +Washingtons, who could not tell a lie. Veronica can. To get herself out +of trouble—and provided there is any hope of anybody believing her—she +does.” + +“We all of us used to when we were young,” Robina maintained; “Dick used +to, I used to. It is a common fault with children.” + +“I know it is,” I answered. “I did not want a child with common faults. +I wanted something all my own. I wanted you, Robina, to be my ideal +daughter. I had a girl in my mind that I am sure would have been +charming. You are not a bit like her. I don’t say she was perfect, she +had her failings, but they were such delightful failings—much better than +yours, Robina. She had a temper—a woman without a temper is insipid; but +it was that kind of temper that made you love her all the more. Yours +doesn’t, Robina. I wish you had not been in such a hurry, and had left +me to arrange your temper for you. We should all of us have preferred +mine. It had all the attractions of temper without the drawbacks of the +ordinary temper.” + +“Couldn’t use it up, I suppose, for yourself, Pa?” suggested Robina. + +“It was a lady’s temper,” I explained. “Besides,” as I asked her, “what +is wrong with the one I have?” + +“Nothing,” answered Robina. Yet her tone conveyed doubt. “It seems to +me sometimes that an older temper would suit you better, that was all.” + +“You have hinted as much before, Robina,” I remarked, “not only with +reference to my temper, but with reference to things generally. One +would think that you were dissatisfied with me because I am too young.” + +“Not in years perhaps,” replied Robina, “but—well, you know what I mean. +One wants one’s father to be always great and dignified.” + +“We cannot change our ego,” I explained to her. “Some daughters would +appreciate a father youthful enough in temperament to sympathise with and +to indulge them. The solemn old fogey you have in your mind would have +brought you up very differently. Let me tell you that, my girl. You +would not have liked him, if you had had him.” + +“Perhaps not,” Robina agreed. “You are awfully good in some ways.” + +“What we have got to do in this world, Robina,” I said, “is to take +people as they are, and make the best of them. We cannot expect +everybody to be just as we would have them, and maybe we should not like +them any better if they were. Don’t bother yourself about how much nicer +they might be; think how nice they are.” + +Robina said she would try. I have hopes of making Robina a sensible +woman. + + + + +CHAPTER VII + + +DICK and Veronica returned laden with parcels. They explained that +“Daddy Slee,” as it appeared he was generally called, a local builder of +renown, was following in his pony-cart, and was kindly bringing the +bulkier things with him. + +“I tried to hustle him,” said Dick, “but coming up after he had washed +himself and had his tea seemed to be his idea of hustling. He has got +the reputation of being an honest old Johnny, slow but sure; the others, +they tell me, are slower. I thought you might care, later on, to talk to +him about the house.” + +Veronica took off her things and put them away, each one in its proper +place. She said, if no one wanted her, she would read a chapter of “The +Vicar of Wakefield,” and retired upstairs. Robina and I had an egg with +our tea; Mr. Slee arrived as we had finished, and I took him straight +into the kitchen. He was a large man, with a dreamy expression and a +habit of sighing. He sighed when he saw our kitchen. + +“There’s four days’ work for three men here,” he said, “and you’ll want a +new stove. Lord! what trouble children can be!” + +Robina agreed with him. + +“Meanwhile,” she demanded, “how am I to cook?” + +“Myself, missie,” sighed Mr. Slee, “I don’t see how you are going to +cook.” + +“We’ll all have to tramp home again,” thought Dick. + +“And tell Little Mother the reason, and frighten her out of her life!” +retorted Robina indignantly. + +Robina had other ideas. Mr. Slee departed, promising that work should be +commenced at seven o’clock on Monday morning. Robina, the door closed, +began to talk. + +“Let Pa have a sandwich,” said Robina, “and catch the six-fifteen.” + +“We might all have a sandwich,” suggested Dick; “I could do with one +myself.” + +“Pa can explain,” said Robina, “that he has been called back to town on +business. That will account for everything, and Little Mother will not +be alarmed.” + +“She won’t believe that business has brought him back at nine o’clock on +a Saturday night,” argued Dick; “you think that Little Mother hasn’t any +sense. She’ll see there’s something up, and ask a hundred questions. +You know what she is.” + +“Pa,” said Robina, “will have time while in the train to think out +something plausible; that’s where Pa is clever. With Pa off my hands I +sha’n’t mind. We three can live on cold ham and things like that. By +Thursday we will be all right, and then he can come down again.” + +I pointed out to Robina, kindly but firmly, the utter absurdity of her +idea. How could I leave them, three helpless children, with no one to +look after them? What would the Little Mother say? What might not +Veronica be up to in my absence? There were other things to be +considered. The donkey might arrive at any moment—no responsible person +there to receive him—to see to it that his simple wants would be provided +for. I should have to interview Mr. St. Leonard again to fix up final +details as regarded Dick. Who was going to look after the cow, about to +be separated from us? Young Bute would be down again with plans. Who +was going to take him over the house, explain things to him intelligibly? +The new boy might turn up—this simple son of the soil Miss Janie had +promised to dig out and send along. He would talk Berkshire. Who would +there be to understand him—to reply to him in dialect? What was the use +of her being impetuous and talking nonsense? + +She went on cutting sandwiches. She said they were not helpless +children. She said if she and Dick at forty-two hadn’t grit enough to +run a six-roomed cottage it was time they learned. + +“Who’s forty-two?” I demanded. + +“We are,” explained Robina, “Dick and I—between us. We shall be +forty-two next birthday. Nearly your own age.” + +“Veronica,” she continued, “for the next few days won’t be a child at +all. She knows nothing of the happy medium. She is either herself or +she goes to the opposite extreme, and tries to be an angel. Till about +the end of the week it will be like living with a vision. As for the +donkey, we’ll try and make him feel as much at home as if you were here.” + +“I don’t mean to be rude, Pa,” Robina explained, “but from the way you +put it you evidently regard yourself as the only one among us capable of +interesting him. I take it he won’t mind for a night or two sharing the +shed with the cow. If he looks shocked at the suggestion, Dick can knock +up a partition. I’d rather for the present, till you come down again, +the cow stopped where she was. She helps to wake me in the morning. You +may reckon you have settled everything as far as Dick is concerned. If +you talk to St. Leonard again for an hour it will be about the future of +the Yellow Races or the possibility of life in Jupiter. If you mention +terms he will be insulted, and if he won’t let you then you will be +insulted, and the whole thing will be off. Let me talk to Janie. We’ve +both of us got sense. As for Mr. Bute, I know all your ideas about the +house, and I sha’n’t listen to any of his silly arguments. What that +young man wants is someone to tell him what he’s got to do, and then let +there be an end of it. And the sooner that handy boy turns up the +better. I don’t mind what he talks. All I want him to do is to clean +knives and fetch water and chop wood. At the worst I’ll get that home to +him by pantomime. For conversation he can wait till you come down.” + +That is the gist of what she said. It didn’t run exactly as I have put +it down. There were points at which I interrupted, but Robina never +listens; she just talks on, and at the end she assumes that, as a matter +of course, you have come round to her point of view, and persuading her +that you haven’t means beginning the whole thing over again. + +She said I hadn’t time to talk, and that she would write and tell me +everything. Dick also said he would write and tell me everything; and +that if I felt moved to send them down a hamper—the sort of thing that, +left to themselves, Fortnum & Mason would put together for a good-class +picnic, say, for six persons—I might rely upon it that nothing would be +wasted. + +Veronica, by my desire, walked with me to the end of the lane. I talked +to her very seriously. Her difficulty was that she had not been blown +up. Had she been blown up, then she would have known herself she had +done wrong. In the book it is the disobedient child that is tossed by +the bull. The child that has been sent with the little basket to visit +the sick aunt may be right in the bull’s way. That is a bit of bad luck +for the bull. The poor bull is compelled to waste valuable time working +round carefully, so as not to upset the basket. If the wicked child had +sense (which in the book does not happen), it would, while the bull was +dodging to get past the good child, seize the opportunity to move itself +quickly. The wicked child never looks round, but pegs along steadily; +and when the bull arrives it is sure to be in the most convenient +position for receiving moral lessons. The good child, whatever its +weight, crosses the ice in safety. The bad child may turn the scale at +two stone lighter; the ice will have none of him. “Don’t you talk to me +about relative pressure to the square inch,” says the indignant ice. +“You were unkind to your little baby brother the week before last: in you +go.” Veronica’s argument, temperately and courteously expressed, I +admit, came practically to this: + +“I may have acted without sufficient knowledge to guide me. My education +has not, perhaps, on the whole, been ordered wisely. Subjects that I +feel will never be of the slightest interest or consequence to me have +been insisted upon with almost tiresome reiteration. Matters that should +be useful and helpful to me—gunpowder, to take but one example—I have +been left in ignorance concerning. About all that I say nothing; people +have done their best according to their lights, no doubt. When, however, +we come to purity of motives, singleness of intention, then, I maintain, +I am above reproach. The proof of this is that Providence has bestowed +upon me the seal of its approval: I was not blown up. Had my conduct +been open to censure—as in certain quarters has been suggested—should I +be walking besides you now, undamaged—not a hair turned, as the saying +is? No. Discriminating Fate—that is, if any reliance at all is to be +placed on literature for the young—would have made it her business that +at least I was included in the _débris_. Instead, what do we notice!—a +shattered chimney, a ruined stove, broken windows, a wreckage of +household utensils; I, alone of all things, miraculously preserved. I do +not wish to press the point offensively, but really it would almost seem +that it must be you three—you, my dear parent, upon whom will fall the +bill for repairs; Dick, apt to attach too much importance, maybe, to his +victuals, and who for the next few days will be compelled to exist +chiefly upon tinned goods; Robina, by nature of a worrying disposition, +certain till things get straight again to be next door to off her +head—who must, by reason of conduct into which I do not enquire, have +merited chastisement at the hands of Providence. The moral lesson would +certainly appear to be between you three. I—it grows clear to me—have +been throughout but the innocent instrument.” + +Admit the premise that to be virtuous is to escape whipping, the argument +is logical. I felt that left uncombated it might lead us into yet +further trouble. + +“Veronica,” I said, “the time has come to reveal to you a secret: +literature is not always a safe guide to life.” + +“You mean—” said Veronica. + +“I mean,” I said, “that the writer of books is, generally speaking, an +exceptionally moral man. That is what leads him astray: he is too good. +This world does not come up to his ideas. It is not the world as he +would have made it himself. To satisfy his craving for morality he sets +to work to make a world of his own. It is not this world. It is not a +bit like this world. In a world as it should be, Veronica, you would +undoubtedly have been blown up—if not altogether, at all events +partially. What you have to do, Veronica, is, with a full heart, to +praise Heaven that this is not a perfect world. If it were I doubt very +much, Veronica, your being here. That you are here happy and thriving +proves that all is not as it should be. The bull of this world, feeling +he wants to toss somebody, does not sit upon himself, so to speak, till +the wicked child comes by. He takes the first child that turns up, and +thanks God for it. A hundred to one it is the best child for miles +around. The bull does not care. He spoils that pattern child. He’d +spoil a bishop, feeling as he does that morning. Your little friend in +the velvet suit who did get himself blown up, at all events as regards +the suit— Which of you was it that thought of that gunpowder, you or +he?” + +Veronica claimed that the inspiration had been hers. + +“I can easily believe it. And was he anxious to steal the gunpowder and +put it on the fire, or did he have to be persuaded?” + +Veronica admitted that in the qualities of a first-class hero he was +wanting. Not till it had been suggested to him that he must at heart be +a cowardy cowardy custard had he been moved to take a hand in the +enterprise. + +“A lad, clearly,” I continued, “that left to himself would be a comfort +to his friends. And the story of the robbers—your invention or his?” + +Veronica was generously of opinion that he might have thought of it had +he not been chiefly concerned at the moment with the idea of getting home +to his mother. As it was, the clothing with romance of incidents +otherwise bald and uninteresting had fallen upon her. + +“The good child of the story. The fact stands out at every point. His +one failing an amiable weakness. Do you not see it for yourself; +Veronica? In the book, you, not he, would have tumbled over the mat. In +this wicked world it is the wicked who prosper. He, the innocent, the +virtuous, is torn into rags. You, the villain of the story, escape.” + +“I see,” said Veronica; “then whenever nothing happens to you that means +that you’re a wrong ’un.” + +“I don’t go so far as to say that, Veronica. And I wish you wouldn’t use +slang. Dick is a man, and a man—well, never mind about a man. You, +Veronica, must never forget that you’re a lady. Justice must not be +looked for in this world. Sometimes the wicked get what they deserve. +More often they don’t. There seems to be no rule. Follow the dictates +of your conscience, Veronica, and blow—I mean be indifferent to the +consequences. Sometimes you’ll come out all right, and sometimes you +won’t. But the beautiful sensation will always be with you: I did right. +Things have turned out unfortunately: but that’s not my fault. Nobody +can blame me.” + +“But they do,” said Veronica, “they blame you just as if you’d meant to +go and do it.” + +“It does not matter, Veronica,” I pointed out, “the opinion of the world. +The good man disregards it.” + +“But they send you to bed,” persisted Veronica. + +“Let them,” I said. “What is bed so long as the voice of the inward +Monitor consoles us with the reflection—” + +“But it don’t,” interrupted Veronica; “it makes you feel all the madder. +It does really.” + +“It oughtn’t to,” I told her. + +“Then why does it?” argued Veronica. “Why don’t it do what it ought to?” + +The trouble about arguing with children is that they will argue too. + +“Life’s a difficult problem, Veronica,” I allowed. “Things are not as +they ought to be, I admit it. But one must not despair. Something’s got +to be done.” + +“It’s jolly hard on some of us,” said Veronica. “Strive as you may, you +can’t please everyone. And if you just as much as stand up for yourself, +oh, crikey!” + +“The duty of the grown-up person, Veronica,” I said, “is to bring up the +child in the way that it should go. It isn’t easy work, and occasionally +irritability may creep in.” + +“There’s such a lot of ’em at it,” grumbled Veronica. “There are times, +between ’em all, when you don’t know whether you’re standing on your head +or your heels.” + +“They mean well, Veronica,” I said. “When I was a little boy I used to +think just as you do. But now—” + +“Did you ever get into rows?” interrupted Veronica. + +“Did I ever?—was never out of them, so far as I can recollect. If it +wasn’t one thing, then it was another.” + +“And didn’t it make you wild?” enquired Veronica, “when first of all +they’d ask what you’d got to say and why you’d done it, and then, when +you tried to explain things to them, wouldn’t listen to you?” + +“What used to irritate me most, Veronica,” I replied—“I can remember it +so well—was when they talked steadily for half an hour themselves, and +then, when I would attempt with one sentence to put them right about the +thing, turn round and bully-rag me for being argumentative.” + +“If they would only listen,” agreed Veronica, “you might get them to +grasp things. But no, they talk and talk, till at the end they don’t +know what they are talking about themselves, and then they pretend it’s +your fault for having made them tired.” + +“I know,” I said, “they always end up like that. ‘I am tired of talking +to you,’ they say—as if we were not tired of listening to them!” + +“And then when you think,” said Veronica, “they say you oughtn’t to +think. And if you don’t think, and let it out by accident, then they say +‘why don’t you think?’ It don’t seem as though we could do right. It +makes one almost despair.” + +“And it isn’t even as if they were always right themselves,” I pointed +out to her. “When they knock over a glass it is, ‘Who put that glass +there?’ You’d think that somebody had put it there on purpose and made +it invisible. They are not expected to see a glass six inches in front +of their nose, in the place where the glass ought to be. The way they +talk you’d suppose that a glass had no business on a table. If I broke +it, then it was always, ‘Clumsy little devil! ought to have his dinner in +the nursery.’ If they mislay their things and can’t find them, it’s, +‘Who’s been interfering with my things? Who’s been in here rummaging +about?’ Then when they find it they want to know indignantly who put it +there. If I could not find a thing, for the simple reason that somebody +had taken it away and put it somewhere else, then wherever they had put +it was the right place for it, and I was a little idiot for not knowing +it.” + +“And of course you mustn’t say anything,” commented Veronica. “Oh, no! +If they do something silly and you just point it out to them, then there +is always a reason for it that you wouldn’t understand. Oh, yes! And if +you make just the slightest mistake, like what is natural to all of us, +that is because you are wicked and unfeeling and don’t want to be +anything else.” + +“I will tell you what we will do, Veronica,” I said; “we will write a +book. You shall help me. And in it the children shall be the wise and +good people who never make mistakes, and they shall boss the show—you +know what I mean—look after the grown-up people and bring them up +properly. And everything the grown-up people do, or don’t do, will be +wrong.” + +Veronica clapped her hands. “No, will you really?” she said. “Oh, do.” + +“I will really,” I answered. “We will call it a moral tale for parents; +and all the children will buy it and give it to their fathers and mothers +and such-like folk for their birthdays, with writing on the title-page, +‘From Johnny, or Jenny, to dear Papa, or to dear Aunty, with every good +wish for his or her improvement!’” + +“Do you think they will read it?” doubted Veronica. + +“We will put in it something shocking,” I suggested, “and get some paper +to denounce it as a disgrace to English literature. And if that won’t do +it we will say it is a translation from the Russian. The children shall +stop at home and arrange what to have for dinner, and the grown-up people +shall be sent to school. We will start them off each morning with a +little satchel. They shall be made to read ‘Grimm’s Fairy Tales’ in the +original German, with notes; and learn ‘Old Mother Hubbard’ by heart and +explain the grammar.” + +“And go to bed early,” suggested Veronica. + +“We will have them all in bed by eight o’clock, Veronica, and they will +go cheerfully, as if they liked it, or we will know the reason why. We +will make them say their prayers. Between ourselves, Veronica, I don’t +believe they always do. And no reading in bed, and no final glass of +whisky toddy, or any nonsense of that sort. An Abernethy biscuit and +perhaps if they are good a jujube, and then ‘Good night,’ and down with +their head on the pillow. And no calling out, and no pretending they +have got a pain in their tummy and creeping downstairs in their +night-shirts and clamouring for brandy. We will be up to all their +tricks.” + +“And they’ll have to take their medicine,” Veronica remembered. + +“The slightest suggestion of sulkiness, the first intimation that they +are not enjoying themselves, will mean cod liver oil in a tablespoon, +Veronica.” + +“And we will ask them why they never use their commonsense,” chirped +Veronica. + +“That will be our trouble, Veronica; that they won’t have any sense of +any sort—not what we shall deem sense. But, nevertheless, we will be +just. We will always give them a reason why they have got to do +everything they don’t want to do, and nothing that they want to do. They +won’t understand it and they won’t agree that it is a reason; but they +will keep that to themselves, if they are wise.” + +“And of course they must not argue,” Veronica insisted. + +“If they answer back, Veronica, that will show they are cursed with an +argumentative temperament which must be rooted out at any cost,” I +agreed; “and if they don’t say anything, that will prove them possessed +of a surly disposition which must be checked at once, before it develops +into a vice.” + +“And whatever we do to them we will tell them it’s for their own good,” +Veronica chortled. + +“Of course it will be for their own good,” I answered. “That will be our +chief pleasure—making them good and happy. It won’t be their pleasure, +but that will be owing to their ignorance.” + +“They will be grateful to us later on,” gurgled Veronica. + +“With that assurance we will comfort them from time to time,” I answered. +“We will be good to them in all ways. We will let them play games—not +stupid games, golf and croquet, that do you no good and lead only to +language and dispute—but bears and wolves and whales; educational sort of +games that will aid them in acquiring knowledge of natural history. We +will show them how to play Pirates and Red Indians and Ogres—sensible +play that will help them to develop their imaginative faculties. That is +why grown-up people are so dull; they are never made to think. But now +and then,” I continued, “we will let them play their own games, say on +Wednesday and Saturday afternoons. We will invite other grown-ups to +come to tea with them, and let them flirt in the garden, or if wet make +love in the dining-room, till nurse comes for them. But we, of course, +must choose their friends for them—nice, well-behaved ladies and +gentlemen, the parents of respectable children; because left to +themselves—well, you know what they are! They would just as likely fall +in love with quite undesirable people—men and women we could not think of +having about the house. We will select for them companions we feel sure +will be the most suitable for them; and if they don’t like them—if Uncle +William says he can’t bear the girl we have invited up to love him—that +he positively hates her, we till tell him that it is only his wilful +temper, and that he’s got to like her because she’s good for him; and +don’t let us have any of his fretfulness. And if Grandmamma pouts and +says she won’t love old man Jones merely because he’s got a red nose, or +a glass eye, or some silly reason of that sort, we will say to her: ‘All +right, my lady, you will play with Mr. Jones and be nice to him, or you +will spend the afternoon putting your room tidy; make up your mind.’ We +will let them marry (on Wednesday and Saturday afternoons), and play at +keeping house. And if they quarrel we will shake them and take the +babies away from them, and lock them up in drawers, and tell them they +sha’n’t have them again till they are good.” + +“And the more they try to be good, the more it will turn out that they +ain’t been good,” Veronica reflected. + +“Their goodness and their badness will depend upon us in more senses than +one, Veronica,” I explained. “When Consols are down, when the east wind +has touched up our liver, they will be surprised how bad they are.” + +“And they mustn’t ever forget what they’ve ever been once told,” crowed +Veronica. “We mustn’t have to tell ’em the same thing over and over +again, like we was talking to brick walls.” + +“And if we meant to tell them and forgot to tell them,” I added, “we will +tell them that they ought not to want us to tell them a simple thing like +that, as if they were mere babies. We must remember all these points.” + +“And if they grumble we’ll tell them that’s ’cos they don’t know how +happy they are. And we’ll tell them how good we used to be when—I say, +don’t you miss your train, or I shall get into a row.” + +“Great Scott! I’d forgotten all about that train, Veronica,” I admitted. + +“Better run,” suggested Veronica. + +It sounded good advice. + +“Keep on thinking about that book,” shouted Veronica. + +“Make a note of things as they occur to you,” I shouted back. + +“What shall we call it?” Veronica screamed. + +“‘Why the Man in the Moon looks sat upon,’” I shrieked. + +When I turned again she was sitting on the top rail of the stile +conducting an imaginary orchestra with one of her own shoes. The +six-fifteen was fortunately twenty minutes late. + + * * * * * + +I thought it best to tell Ethelbertha the truth; that things had gone +wrong with the kitchen stove. + +“Let me know the worst,” she said. “Is Veronica hurt?” + +“The worst,” I said, “is that I shall have to pay for a new range. Why, +when anything goes amiss, poor Veronica should be assumed as a matter of +course to be in it, appears to me unjust.” + +“You are sure she’s all right?” persisted Ethelbertha. + +“Honest Injun—confound those children and their slang—I mean positively,” +I answered. The Little Mother looked relieved. + +I told her all the trouble we had had in connection with the cow. Her +sympathies were chiefly with the cow. I told her I had hopes of Robina’s +developing into a sensible woman. We talked quite a deal about Robina. +We agreed that between us we had accomplished something rather clever. + +“I must get back as soon as I can,” I said. “I don’t want young Bute +getting wrong ideas into his head.” + +“Who is young Bute?” she asked. + +“The architect,” I explained. + +“I thought he was an old man,” said Ethelbertha. + +“Old Spreight is old enough,” I said. “Young Bute is one of his young +men; but he understands his work, and seems intelligent.” + +“What’s he like?” she asked. + +“Personally, an exceedingly nice young fellow. There’s a good deal of +sense in him. I like a boy who listens.” + +“Good-looking?” she asked. + +“Not objectionably so,” I replied. “A pleasant face—particularly when he +smiles.” + +“Is he married?” she asked. + +“Really, it did not occur to me to ask him,” I admitted. “How curious +you women are! No, I don’t think so. I should say not.” + +“Why don’t you think so?” she demanded. + +“Oh, I don’t know. He doesn’t give you the idea of a married man. +You’ll like him. Seems so fond of his sister.” + +“Shall we be seeing much of him?” she asked. + +“A goodish deal,” I answered. “I expect he will be going down on Monday. +Very annoying, this stove business.” + +“What is the use of his being there without you?” Ethelbertha wanted to +know. + +“Oh, he’ll potter round,” I suggested, “and take measurements. Dick will +be about to explain things to him. Or, if he isn’t, there’s +Robina—awkward thing is, Robina seems to have taken a dislike to him.” + +“Why has she taken a dislike to him?” asked Ethelbertha. + +“Oh, because he mistook the back of the house for the front, or the front +of the house for the back,” I explained; “I forget which now. Says it’s +his smile that irritates her. She owns herself there’s no real reason.” + +“When will you be going down again?” Ethelbertha asked. + +“On Thursday next,” I told her; “stove or no stove.” + +She said she would come with me. She felt the change would do her good, +and promised not to do anything when she got there. And then I told her +all that I had done for Dick. + +“The ordinary farmer,” I pointed out to her, “is so often a haphazard +type of man with no ideas. If successful, it is by reason of a natural +instinct which cannot be taught. St. Leonard has studied the theory of +the thing. From him Dick will learn all that can be learnt about +farming. The selection, I felt, demanded careful judgment.” + +“But will Dick stick to it?” Ethelbertha wondered. + +“There, again,” I pointed out to her, “the choice was one calling for +exceptional foresight. The old man—as a matter of fact, he isn’t old at +all; can’t be very much older than myself; I don’t know why they all call +him the old man—has formed a high opinion of Dick. His daughter told me +so, and I have taken care to let Dick know it. The boy will not care to +disappoint him. Her mother—” + +“Whose mother?” interrupted Ethelbertha. + +“Janie’s mother, Mrs. St. Leonard,” I explained. “She also has formed a +good opinion of him. The children like him. Janie told me so.” + +“She seems to do a goodish deal of talking, this Miss Janie,” remarked +Ethelbertha. + +“You will like her,” I said. “She is a charming girl—so sensible, and +good, and unselfish, and—” + +“Who told you all this about her?” interrupted Ethelbertha. + +“You can see it for yourself,” I answered. “The mother appears to be a +nonentity, and St. Leonard himself—well, he is not a business man. It is +Janie who manages everything—keeps everything going.” + +“What is she like?” asked Ethelbertha. + +“I am telling you,” I said. “She is so practical, and yet at the same +time—” + +“In appearance, I mean,” explained Ethelbertha. + +“How you women,” I said, “do worry about mere looks! What does it +matter? If you want to know, it is that sort of face that grows upon +you. At first you do not notice how beautiful it is, but when you come +to look into it—” + +“And has she also formed a high opinion of Dick?” interrupted +Ethelbertha. + +“She will be disappointed in him,” I said, “if he does not work hard and +stick to it. They will all be disappointed in him.” + +“What’s it got to do with them?” demanded Ethelbertha. + +“I’m not thinking about them,” I said. “What I look at is—” + +“I don’t like her,” said Ethelbertha. “I don’t like any of them.” + +“But—” She didn’t seem to be listening. + +“I know that class of man,” she said; “and the wife appears, if anything, +to be worse. As for the girl—” + +“When you come to know them—” I said. + +She said she didn’t want to know them. She wanted to go down on Monday, +early. + +I got her to see—it took some little time—the disadvantages of this. We +should only be adding to Robina’s troubles; and change of plan now would +unsettle Dick’s mind. + +“He has promised to write me,” I said, “and tell me the result of his +first day’s experience. Let us wait and hear what he says.” + +She said that whatever could have possessed her to let me take those poor +unfortunate children away from her, and muddle up everything without her, +was a mystery to herself. She hoped that, at least, I had done nothing +irrevocable in the case of Veronica. + +“Veronica,” I said, “is really wishful, I think, to improve. I have +bought her a donkey.” + +“A what?” exclaimed Ethelbertha. + +“A donkey,” I repeated. “The child took a fancy to it, and we all agreed +it might help to steady her—give her a sense of responsibility.” + +“I somehow felt you hadn’t overlooked Veronica,” said Ethelbertha. + +I thought it best to change the conversation. She seemed in a fretful +mood. + + + + +CHAPTER VIII + + +ROBINA’S letter was dated Monday evening, and reached us Tuesday morning. + + * * * * * + +“I hope you caught your train,” she wrote. “Veronica did not get back +till half-past six. She informed me that you and she had found a good +deal to talk about, and that ‘one thing had led to another.’ She is a +quaint young imp, but I think your lecture must have done her good. Her +present attitude is that of gentle forbearance to all around her—not +without its dignity. She has not snorted once, and at times is really +helpful. I have given her an empty scribbling diary we found in your +desk, and most of her spare time she remains shut up with it in the +bedroom. She tells me you and she are writing a book together. I asked +her what about. She waved me aside with the assurance that I would know +‘all in good time,’ and that it was going to do good. I caught sight of +just the title-page last night. It was lying open on the dressing-table: +‘Why the Man in the Moon looks sat upon.’ It sounds like a title of +yours. But I would not look further, though tempted. She has drawn a +picture underneath. It is really not bad. The old gentleman really does +look sat upon, and intensely disgusted. + +“‘Sir Robert’—his name being Theodore, which doesn’t seem to suit +him—turns out to be the only son of a widow, a Mrs. Foy, our next-door +neighbour to the south. We met her coming out of church on Sunday +morning. She was still crying. Dick took Veronica on ahead, and I +walked part of the way home with them. Her grandfather, it appears, was +killed many years ago by the bursting of a boiler; and she is haunted, +poor lady, by the conviction that Theodore is the inheritor of an +hereditary tendency to getting himself blown up. She attaches no blame +to us, seeing in Saturday’s catastrophe only the hand of the Family +Curse. I tried to comfort her with the idea that the Curse having spent +itself upon a futile effort, nothing further need now be feared from it; +but she persists in taking the gloomier view that in wrecking our +kitchen, Theodore’s ‘Doom,’ as she calls it, was merely indulging in a +sort of dress rehearsal; the finishing performance may be relied upon to +follow. It sounds ridiculous, but the poor woman was so desperately in +earnest that when an unlucky urchin, coming out of a cottage we were +passing, tripped on the doorstep and let fall a jug, we both screamed at +the same time, and were equally surprised to find ‘Sir Robert’ still +between us and all in one piece. I thought it foolish to discuss all +this before the child himself; but did not like to stop her. As a +result, he regards himself evidently as the chosen foe of Heaven, and is +not, unnaturally, proud of himself. She called here this (Monday) +afternoon to leave cards; and, at her request, I showed her the kitchen +and the mat over which he had stumbled. She seemed surprised that the +‘Doom’ had let slip so favourable a chance of accomplishing its business, +and gathered from the fact added cause for anxiety. Evidently something +much more thorough is in store for Master Theodore. It was only half a +pound of gunpowder, she told me. Doctor Smallboy’s gardener had bought +it for the purpose of raising the stump of an old elm-tree, and had left +it for a moment on the grass while he had returned to the house for more +brown paper. She seemed pleased with the gardener, who, as she said, +might, if dishonestly inclined, have charged her for a pound. I wanted +to pay for—at all events—our share, but she would not take a penny. Her +late lamented grandfather she regards as the person responsible for the +entire incident, and perhaps it may be as well not to disturb her view. +Had I suggested it, I feel sure she would have seen the justice of her +providing us with a new kitchen range. + +“Wildly exaggerated accounts of the affair are flying round the +neighbourhood; and my chief fear is that Veronica may discover she is a +local celebrity. Your sudden disappearance is supposed to have been +heavenward. An old farm labourer who saw you pass on your way to the +station speaks of you as ‘the ghost of the poor gentleman himself;’ and +fragments of clothing found anywhere within a radius of two miles are +being preserved, I am told, as specimens of your remains. Boots would +appear to have been your chief apparel. Seven pairs have already been +collected from the surrounding ditches. Among the more public-spirited +there is talk of using you to start a local museum.” + + * * * * * + +These first three paragraphs I did not read to Ethelbertha. Fortunately +they just filled the first sheet, which I took an opportunity of slipping +into my pocket unobserved. + + * * * * * + +“The new boy arrived on Sunday morning,” she continued. “His name—if I +have got it right—is William. Anyhow, that is the nearest I can get to +it. His other name, if any, I must leave you to extract from him +yourself. It may be Berkshire that he talks, but it sounds more like +barking. Please excuse the pun; but I have just been talking to him for +half an hour, trying to make him understand that I want him to go home, +and maybe, as a result, I am feeling a little hysterical. Anything more +rural I cannot imagine. But he is anxious to learn, and a fairly wide +field is in front of him. I caught him after our breakfast on Sunday +calmly throwing everything left over onto the dust-heap. I pointed out +to him the wickedness of wasting nourishing food, and impressed upon him +that the proper place for victuals was inside us. He never answers. He +stands stock still, with his mouth as wide open as it will go—which is +saying a good deal—and one trusts that one’s words are entering into him. +All Sunday afternoon he was struggling valiantly against an almost +supernatural sleepiness. After tea he got worse, and I began to think he +would be no use to me. We none of us ate much supper; and Dick, who +appears able to understand him, helped him to carry the things out. I +heard them talking, and then Dick came back and closed the door behind +him. ‘He wants to know,’ said Dick, ‘if he can leave the corned beef +over till to-morrow. Because, if he eats it all to-night, he doesn’t +think he will be able to walk home.’ + +“Veronica takes great interest in him. She has evidently a motherly side +to her character, for which we none of us have given her credit. She +says she is sure there is good in him. She sits beside him while he +chops wood, and tells him carefully selected stories, calculated, she +argues, to develop his intelligence. She is careful, moreover, not to +hurt his feelings by any display of superiority. ‘Of course, anyone +leading a useful life, such as yours,’ I overheard her saying to him this +morning, ‘don’t naturally get much time for reading. I’ve nothing else +to do, you see, ’cept to improve myself.’ + +“The donkey arrived this afternoon while I was out—galloping, I am given +to understand, with ’Opkins on his back. There seems to be some secret +between those two. We have tried him with hay, and we have tried him +with thistles; but he seems to prefer bread-and-butter. I have not been +able as yet to find out whether he takes tea or coffee in the morning. +But he is an animal that evidently knows his own mind, and fortunately +both are in the house. We are putting him up for to-night with the cow, +who greeted him at first with enthusiasm and wanted to adopt him, but has +grown cold to him since on discovering that he is not a calf. I have +been trying to make friends with her, but she is so very unresponsive. +She doesn’t seem to want anything but grass, and prefers to get that for +herself. She doesn’t seem to want to be happy ever again. + +“A funny thing happened in church. I was forgetting to tell you. The +St. Leonards occupy two pews at the opposite end from the door. They +were all there when we arrived, with the exception of the old gentleman +himself. He came in just before the ‘Dearly Beloved,’ when everybody was +standing up. A running fire of suppressed titters followed him up the +aisle, and some of the people laughed outright. I could see no reason +why. He looked a dignified old gentleman in his grey hair and tightly +buttoned frock coat, which gives him a somewhat military appearance. But +when he came level with our pew I understood. Hurrying back from his +morning round, and with no one there to superintend him, the dear old +absent-minded thing had forgotten to change his breeches. From a little +above the knee upward he was a perfect Christian; but his legs were just +those of a disreputable sinner. + +“‘What’s the joke?’ he whispered to me as he passed—I was in the corner +seat. ‘Have I missed it?’ + +“We called round on them after lunch, and at once I was appealed to for +my decision. + +“‘Now, here’s a plain sensible girl,’ exclaimed the old gentleman the +moment I entered the room.’ (You will notice I put no comma after +‘plain.’ I am taking it he did not intend one. You can employ one +adjective to qualify another, can’t you?) ‘And I will put it to her, +What difference can it make to the Almighty whether I go to church in +trousers or in breeches?’ + +“‘I do not see,’ retorted Mrs. St. Leonard somewhat coldly, ‘that Miss +Robina is in any better position than myself to speak with authority on +the views of the Almighty’—which I felt was true. ‘If it makes no +difference to the Almighty, then why not, for my sake, trousers?’ + +“‘The essential thing,’ he persisted, ‘is a contrite heart.’ He was +getting very cross. + +“‘It may just as well be dressed respectably,’ was his wife’s opinion. +He left the room, slamming the door. + +“I do like Janie the more and more I see of her. I do hope she will let +me get real chums with her. She does me so much good. (I read that bit +twice over to Ethelbertha, pretending I had lost the place.) I suppose +it is having rather a silly mother and an unpractical father that has +made her so capable. If you and Little Mother had been proper sort of +parents I might have been quite a decent sort of girl. But it’s too late +finding fault with you now. I suppose I must put up with you. She works +so hard, and is so unselfish. But she is not like some good people, who +make you feel it is hopeless your trying to be good. She gets cross and +impatient; and then she laughs at herself, and gets right again that way. +Poor Mrs. St. Leonard! I cannot help feeling sorry for her. She would +have been so happy as the wife of a really respectable City man, who +would have gone off every morning with a flower in his buttonhole and +have worn a white waistcoat on Sundays. I don’t believe what they say: +that husbands and wives should be the opposite of one another. Mr. St. +Leonard ought to have married a brainy woman, who would have discussed +philosophy with him, and have been just as happy drinking beer out of a +tea-cup: you know the sort I mean. If ever I marry it will be a +short-tempered man who loves music and is a good dancer; and if I find +out too late that he’s clever I’ll run away from him. + +“Dick has not yet come home—nearly eight o’clock. Veronica is supposed +to be in bed, but I can hear things falling. Poor boy! I expect he’ll +be tired; but to-day is an exception. Three hundred sheep have had to be +brought all the way from Ilsley, and must be ‘herded’—I fancy it is +called—before anybody can think of supper. I saw to it that he had a +good dinner. + +“And now to come to business. Young Bute has been here all day, and has +only just left. He is coming down again on Friday—which, by the way, +don’t forget is Mrs. St. Leonard’s ‘At Home’ day. She hopes she may then +have the pleasure of making your acquaintance, and thinks that possibly +there may be present one or two people we may like to know. From which I +gather that half the neighbourhood has been specially invited to meet +you. So mind you bring a frock-coat; and if Little Mother can put her +hand easily on my pink muslin with the spots—it is either in my wardrobe +or else in the bottom drawer in Veronica’s room, if it isn’t in the +cardboard box underneath mother’s bed—you might slip it into your bag. +But whatever you do don’t crush it. The sash I feel sure mother put away +somewhere herself. He sees no reason—I’m talking now about young +Bute,—if you approve his plans, why work should not be commenced +immediately. Shall I write old Slee to meet you at the house on Friday? +From all accounts I don’t think you’ll do better. He is on the spot, and +they say he is most reasonable. But you have to get estimates, don’t +you? He suggests—Mr. Bute, I mean—throwing what used to be the dairy +into the passage, which will make a hall big enough for anything. We +might even give a dance in it, he thinks. But all this you will be able +to discuss with him on Friday. He has evidently taken a great deal of +pains, and some of his suggestions sound sensible. But of course he must +fully understand that it is what we want, not what he thinks, that is +important. I told him you said I could have my room exactly as I liked +it myself; and I have explained to him my ideas. He seemed at first to +be under the impression that I didn’t know what I was talking about, so I +made it quite clear to him that I did, with the result that he has +consented to carry out my instructions, on condition that I put them down +in black and white—which I think just as well, as then there can be no +excuse afterwards for argument. I like him better than I did the first +time. About everything else he can be fairly amiable. It is when he +talks about ‘frontal elevations’ and ‘ground plans’ that he irritates me. +Tell Little Mother that I’ll write her to-morrow. Couldn’t she come down +with you on Friday? Everything will be ship-shape by then; and—” + +The remainder was of a nature more private. She concluded with a +postscript, which also I did not read to Ethelbertha. + +“Thought I had finished telling you everything, when quite a stylish +rat-tat sounded on the door. I placed an old straw hat of Dick’s in a +prominent position, called loudly to an imaginary ‘John’ not to go +without the letters, and then opened it. He turned out to be the local +reporter. I need not have been alarmed. He was much the more nervous of +the two, and was so full of excuses that had I not come to his rescue I +believe he would have gone away forgetting what he’d come for. Nothing +save an overwhelming sense of duty to the Public (with a capital P) could +have induced him to inflict himself upon me. Could I give him a few +details which would enable him to set rumour right? I immediately saw +visions of headlines: ‘Domestic Tragedy!’ ‘Eminent Author blown up by +his own Daughter!’ ‘Once Happy Home now a Mere Wreck!’ It seemed to me +our only plan was to enlist this amiable young man upon our side; I hope +I did not overdo it. My idea was to convey the impression that one +glance at him had convinced me he was the best and noblest of mankind; +that I felt I could rely upon his wit and courage to save us from a +notoriety that, so far as I was concerned, would sadden my whole life; +and that if he did so eternal gratitude and admiration would be the least +I could lay at his feet. I can be nice when I try. People have said so. +We parted with only a pressure of the hand, and I hope he won’t get into +trouble, but I see _The Berkshire Courier_ is going to be deprived of its +prey. Dick has just come in. He promises to talk when he has finished +eating.” + + * * * * * + +Dick’s letter, for which Ethelbertha seemed to be strangely impatient, +reached us on Wednesday morning. + +“If ever you want to find out, Dad, what hard work really means, you try +farming,” wrote Dick; “and yet I believe you would like it. Hasn’t some +old Johnny somewhere described it as the poetry of the ploughshare? Why +did we ever take to bothering about anything else—shutting ourselves up +in stuffy offices, worrying ourselves to death about a lot of rubbish +that isn’t any good to anybody? I wish I could put it properly, Dad; you +would see just what I mean. Why don’t we live in simply-built houses and +get most everything we want out of the land: which we easily could? You +take a dozen poor devils away from walking behind the plough and put them +down into coal-mines, and set them running about half-naked among a lot +of roaring furnaces, and between them they turn out a machine that does +the ploughing for them. What is the sense of it? Of course some things +are useful. I would like a motor-car, and railways and steamboats are +all right; but it seems to me that half the fiddle-faddles we fancy we +want we’d be just as well, if not better, without, and there would be all +that time and energy to spare for the sort of things that everybody ought +to have. It’s everywhere just like it was at school. They kept us so +hard at it, studying Greek roots, we hadn’t time to learn English +grammar. Look at young Dennis Yewbury. He’s got two thousand acres up +in Scotland. He could lead a jolly life turning the place into some real +use. Instead of which he lets it all run to waste for nothing but to +breed a few hundred birds that wouldn’t keep a single family alive; while +he works from morning till night at humbugging people in a beastly hole +in the City, just to fill his house with a host of silly gim-cracks and +dress up himself and his women-folk like peacocks. Of course we would +always want clever chaps like you to tell us stories; and doctors we +couldn’t do without, though I guess if we were leading sensible lives +we’d be able to get along with about half of them. It seems to me that +what we want is a comfortable home, enough to eat and drink, and a few +fal-lal sort of things to make the girls look pretty; and that all the +rest is rot. We would all of us have time then to think and play a bit, +and if we were all working fairly at something really useful and were +contented with our own share, there’d be enough for everybody. + +“I suppose this is all nonsense, but I wish it wasn’t. Anyway, it’s what +I mean to do myself; and I’m awfully much obliged to you, Dad, for giving +me this chance. You’ve hit the right nail on the head this time. +Farming was what I was meant for; I feel it. I would have hated being a +barrister, setting people by the ears and making my living out of other +people’s troubles. Being a farmer you feel that in doing good to +yourself you are doing good all round. Miss Janie agrees with all I say. +I think she is one of the most sensible girls I have ever come across, +and Robin likes her awfully. So is the old man: he’s a brick. I think +he has taken a liking to me, and I know I have to him. He’s the dearest +old fellow imaginable. The very turnips he seems to think of as though +they were so many rows of little children. And he makes you see the +inside of things. Take fields now, for instance. I used to think a +field was just a field. You scraped it about and planted it with seeds, +and everything else depended on the weather. Why, Dad, it’s alive! +There are good fields that want to get on—that are grateful for +everything you do for them, and take a pride in themselves. And there +are brutes of fields that you feel you want to kick. You can waste a +hundred pounds’ worth of manure on them, and it only makes them more +stupid than they were before. One of our fields—a wizened-looking +eleven-acre strip bordering the Fyfield road—he has christened Mrs. +Gummidge: it seems to feel everything more than any other field. From +whatever point of the compass the wind blows that field gets the most +harm from it. You would think to look at it after a storm that there +hadn’t been any rain in any other field—that that particular field must +have got it all; while two days’ sunshine has the effect upon it that a +six weeks’ drought would on any other field. His theory (he must have a +theory to account for everything; it comforts him. He has just hit upon +a theory that explains why twins are born with twice as much original sin +as other children, and doesn’t seem to mind now what they do) is that +each odd corner of the earth has gained a character of its own from the +spirits of the countless dead men buried in its bosom. ‘Robbers and +thieves,’ he will say, kicking the sod of some field all stones and +thistles; ‘silly fighting men who thought God built the world merely to +give them the fun of knocking it about. Look at them, the fools! stones +and thistles—thistles and stones: that is their notion of a field.’ Or, +leaning over the gate of some field of rich-smelling soil, he will +stretch out his arms as though to caress it: ‘Brave lads!’ he will say; +‘kindly honest fellows who loved the poor peasant folk.’ I fancy he has +not got much sense of humour; or if he has, it is a humour he leaves you +to find out for yourself. One does not feel one wants to laugh, +listening even to his most whimsical ideas; and anyhow it is a fact that +of two fields quite close to one another, one will be worth ten pounds an +acre and the other dear at half a crown, and there seems to be nothing to +explain it. We have a seven-acre patch just halfway up the hill. He +says he never passes it without taking off his hat to it. Whatever you +put in it does well; while other fields, try them with what you will, it +is always the very thing they did not want. You might fancy them +fractious children, always crying for the other child’s bun. There is +really no reason for its being such a good field, except its own pluck. +It faces the east, and the wood for half the day hides it from the sun; +but it makes the best of everything, and even on the greyest day it seems +to be smiling at you. ‘Some happy-hearted Mother Thing—a singer of love +songs the while she toiled,’ he will have it, must lie sleeping there. +By-the-bye, what a jolly field Janie would make! Don’t you think so, +Dad? + +“What the dickens, Dad, have you done to Veronica? She wanders about +everywhere with an exercise book in her hand, and when you say anything +to her, instead of answering you back, she sits plump down wherever she +is and writes for all she’s worth. She won’t say what she’s up to. She +says it’s a private matter between you and her, and that later on things +are going to be seen in their true light. I told her this morning what I +thought of her for forgetting to feed the donkey. I was prepared, of +course, for a hundred explanations: First, that she had meant to feed the +donkey; secondly, that it wasn’t her place to feed the donkey; thirdly, +that the donkey would have been fed if circumstances over which she had +no control had not arisen rendering it impossible for her to feed the +donkey; fourthly, that the morning wasn’t the proper time to feed the +donkey, and so on. Instead of which, out she whips this ridiculous book +and asks me if I would mind saying it over again. + +“I keep forgetting to ask Janie what it is he has been accustomed to. We +have tried him with thistles, and we’ve tried him with hay. The thistles +he scratches himself against; but for the hay he appears to have no use +whatever. Robin thinks his idea is to save us trouble. We are not to +get in anything especially for him—whatever we may happen to be having +ourselves he will put up with. Bread-and-butter cut thick, or a slice of +cake with an apple seems to be his notion of a light lunch; and for drink +he fancies tea out of a slop-basin, with two knobs of sugar and plenty of +milk. Robin says it’s waste of time taking his meals out to him. She +says she is going to train him to come in when he hears the gong. We use +the alarm clock at present for a gong. I don’t know what I shall do when +the cow goes away. She wakes me every morning punctually at half-past +four, but I’m in a blue funk that one of these days she will oversleep +herself. It is one of those clocks you read about. You wrote something +rather funny about one once yourself, but I always thought you had +invented it. I bought it because they said it was an extra loud one, and +so it is. The thing that’s wrong about it is that, do what you will, you +can’t get it to go off before six o’clock in the morning. I set it on +Sunday evening for half-past four—we farmers do have to work, I can tell +you. But it’s worth it. I had no idea that the world was so beautiful. +There is a light you never see at any other time, and the whole air seems +to be full of fluttering song. You feel—but you must get up and come out +with me, Dad. I can’t describe it. If it hadn’t been for the good old +cow, Lord knows what time I’d have been up. The clock went off at +half-past four in the afternoon, just as they were sitting down to tea, +and frightened them all out of their skins. We have fiddled about with +it all we know, but there’s no getting it to do anything between six p.m. +and six am. Anything you want of it in the daytime it is quite agreeable +to. But it seems to have fixed its own working hours, and isn’t going to +be bustled out of its proper rest. I got so mad with it myself I wanted +to pitch it out of the window, but Robin thought we ought to keep it till +you came, that perhaps you might be able to do something with it—writing +something about it, she means. I said I thought alarm clocks were pretty +well played out by this time; but, as she says, there is always a new +generation coming along to whom almost everything must be fresh. Anyhow, +the confounded thing cost seven and six, and seems to be no good for +anything else. + +“Whatever was it that you really did say to Robin about her room? Young +Bute came round to me on Monday quite upset about it. He says it is +going to be all windows, and will look, when finished, like an incorrect +copy of the Eddystone lighthouse. He says there will be no place for the +bed, and if there is to be a fireplace at all it will have to be in the +cupboard, and that the only way, so far as he can see, of her getting in +and out of it will be by a door through the bathroom. She said that you +said she could have it entirely to her own idea, and that he was just to +carry out her instructions; but, as he points out, you can’t have a room +in a house as if the rest of the house wasn’t there, even if it is your +own room. Nobody, it seems, will be able to have a bath without first +talking it over with her, and arranging a time mutually convenient. I +told him I was sure you never meant him to do anything absurd; and that +his best plan would be to go straight back to her, explain to her that +she’d been talking like a silly goat—he could have put it politely, of +course—and that he wasn’t going to pay any attention to her. You might +have thought I had suggested his walking into a den of lions and pulling +all their tails. I don’t know what Robin has done to him, but he seems +quite frightened of her. I had to promise that I would talk to her. +He’d better have done it himself. I only told her just what he said, and +off she went in one of her tantrums. You know her style: If she liked to +live in a room where she could see to do her hair that was no business of +his, and if he couldn’t design a plain, simple bedroom that wasn’t going +to look ridiculous and make her the laughing-stock of all the +neighbourhood, then the Royal Institute of British Architects must have +strange notions of the sort of person entitled to go about the country +building houses; that if he thought the proper place for a fire was in a +cupboard, she didn’t; that his duty was to carry out the instructions of +his employers, and if he imagined for a moment she was going to consent +to remain shut up in her room till everybody in the house had finished +bathing it would be better for us to secure the services of somebody +possessed of a little commonsense; that next time she met him she would +certainly tell him what she thought of him, also that she should +certainly decline to hold any further communication with him again; that +she doesn’t want a bedroom now of any sort—perhaps she may be permitted a +shakedown in the pantry, or perhaps Veronica will allow her an occasional +night’s rest with her, and if not it doesn’t matter. You’ll have to talk +to her yourself. I’m not going to say any more. + +“Don’t forget that Friday is the St. Leonards’ ‘At Home’ day. I’ve +promised Janie that you shall be there in all your best clothes. (Don’t +tell her I’m calling her Janie. It might offend her. But nobody calls +her Miss St. Leonard.) Everybody is coming, and all the children are +having their hair washed. You will have it all your own way down here. +There’s no other celebrity till you get to Boss Croker, the Tammany man, +the other side of Ilsley Downs. Artists they don’t count. The rumour +was all round the place last week that you were here incognito in the +person of a dismal-looking Johnny, staying at the ‘Fisherman’s Retreat,’ +who used to sit all day in a punt up the backwater drinking whisky. It +made me rather mad when I saw him. I suppose it was the whisky that +suggested the idea to them. They have got the notion in these parts that +a literary man is a sort of inspired tramp. A Mrs. Jaggerswade—or some +such name—whom I met here on Sunday and who is coming on Friday, took me +aside and asked me ‘what sort of things’ you said when you talked? She +said she felt sure it would be so clever, and, herself, she was looking +forward to it; but would I—‘quite between ourselves’—advise her to bring +the children. + +“I say, you will have to talk seriously to Veronica. Country life seems +to agree with her. She’s taken to poaching already—she and the twins. +It was the one sin that hitherto they had never committed, and I fancy +the old man was feeling proud of this. Luckily I caught them coming +home—with ten dead rabbits strung on a pole, the twins carrying it +between them on their shoulders, suggesting the picture of the spies +returning from the promised land with that bunch of grapes—Veronica +scouting on ahead with, every ten yards, her ear to the ground, listening +for hostile footsteps. The thing that troubled her most was that she +hadn’t heard me coming; she seemed to fear that something had gone wrong +with the laws of Nature. They had found the whole collection hanging +from a tree, and had persuaded themselves that Providence must have been +expecting them. I insisted on their going back with me and showing me +the tree, much to their disgust. And fortunately the keeper wasn’t +about—they are men that love making a row. I talked some fine moral +sentiment to her. But she says you have told her that it doesn’t matter +whether you are good or bad, things happen to you just the same; and this +being so she feels she may as well enjoy herself. I asked her why she +never seemed able to enjoy herself being good—I believe if I’d always had +a kid to bring up I’d have been a model chap myself by this time. Her +answer was that she supposed she was born bad. I pointed out to her that +was a reflection on you and Little Mother; and she answered she guessed +she must be a ‘throw-back.’ Old Slee’s got a dog that ought to have been +a fox-terrier, but isn’t, and he seems to have been explaining things to +her. + +“A thing that will trouble you down here, Dad, is the cruelty of the +country. They catch these poor little wretches in traps, leaving them +sometimes for days suffering what must be to them nothing short of +agony—to say nothing of the terror and the hunger. I tried putting my +finger in one of the beastly things and keeping it there for just two +minutes by my watch. It seemed like twenty. The pain grows more intense +with every second, and I’m not a soft, as you know. I’ve lain half an +hour with a broken leg, and that wasn’t as bad. One hears the little +creatures screaming, but cannot find them. Of course when one draws near +they keep silent. It makes one quite dislike country people. They are +so callous. When you speak to them about it they only grin. Janie goes +nearly mad about it. Mr. St. Leonard tried to get the clergyman to say +something on the subject, but he answered that he thought it better ‘for +the Church to confine herself to the accomplishment of her own great +mission.’ Ass! + +“Bring Little Mother down; we want to show her off on Friday. And make +her put on something pretty. Ask her if she’s got that lilac thing with +lace she wore at Cambridge for the May Week the year before last. Tell +her not to be silly; it wasn’t a bit too young. Nash said she looked +like something out of an old picture, and he’s going to be an artist. +Don’t let her dress herself. She doesn’t understand it. And will you +get me a gun—” + +The remainder of the letter was taken up with instructions concerning the +gun. It seemed a complicated sort of gun. I wished I hadn’t read about +the gun to Ethelbertha. It made her nervous for the rest of the day. + + * * * * * + +Veronica’s letter followed on Thursday morning. I read it going down in +the train. In transcribing I have thought it better, as regards the +spelling, to adopt the more conventional forms. + + * * * * * + +“You will be pleased to hear,” Veronica wrote, “that we are all quite +well. Robin works very hard. But I think it does her good. And of +course I help her. All I can. I am glad she has got a boy. To do the +washing-up. I think that was too much for her. It used to make her +cross. One cannot blame her. It is trying work. And it makes you +mucky. He is a good boy. But has been neglected. So doesn’t know much. +I am teaching him grammar. He says ‘you was’ and ‘her be.’ But is +getting better. He says he went to school. But they couldn’t have taken +any trouble with him. Could they? The system, I suppose, was rotten. +Robina says I mustn’t overdo it. Because you want him to talk Berkshire. +So I propose confining our attention to the elementary rules. He had +never heard of Robinson Crusoe. What a life! We went to church on +Sunday. I could not find my gloves. And Robina was waxy. But Mr. St. +Leonard came without his trousers. Which was worse. We found them in +the evening. The little boy that blew up our stove was there with his +mother. But I didn’t speak to her. He’s got a doom. That’s what made +him blow it up. He couldn’t help it. So you see it wasn’t my fault. +After all. His grandfather was blown up. And he’s going to be blown up +again. Later on. But he is very brave. And is going to make a will. I +like all the St. Leonards very much. We went there to tea on Sunday. +And Mr. St. Leonard said I was bright. I think Miss Janie very +beautiful. And so does Dick. She makes me think of angels. So she does +Dick. And he says she is so kind to her little brothers and sisters. It +is a good sign. I think she ought to marry Dick. It would steady him. +He works very hard. But I think it does him good. We have breakfast at +seven. And I lay the table. It is very beautiful in the morning. When +you are once up. Mrs. St. Leonard has twins. They are a great anxiety +to her. But she would not part from them. She has had much trouble. +And is sometimes very sad. I like the girl best. Her name is Winnie. +She is more like a boy. His name is Wilfrid. But sometimes they change +clothes. Then you’re done. They are only nearly seven. But they know a +lot. They are going to teach me swimming. Is it not kind of them? The +two older boys are at home for their holidays. But they give themselves +a lot of airs. And they called me a flapper. I told him he’d be sorry. +When he was a man. Because perhaps I’d grow up beautiful. And then he’d +fall in love with me. But he said he wouldn’t. So I let him see what I +thought of him. The little girl is very nice. She is about my own age. +Her name is Sally. We are going to write a play. But we sha’n’t let +Bertie act in it. Unless he turns over a new leaf. I’m going to be a +princess that doesn’t know it. But only feels it. And she’s going to be +a wicked witch. What wants me to marry her son. What’s a sight. But I +won’t, because I’d rather die first. And am in love with a swineherd. +That is a genius. Only nobody suspects it. I wear a crown in the last +act. And everybody rejoices. Except her. I think it will be good. We +have nearly finished the first act. She writes very well. And has a +sense of atmosphere. And I tell her what to say. Miss Janie is going to +make me a dress with a train. And gold spangles. And Robina is going to +lend me her blue necklace. Anything will do of course for the old witch. +So it won’t be much trouble to anyone. Mr. Bute is going to paint us +some scenery. And we are going to invite everybody. He is very nice. +Robina says he thinks too much of himself. By a long chalk. But she is +very critical where men are concerned. She admits it. She says she +can’t help it. I find him very affable. And so does Dick. We think +Robina will get over it. And he has promised not to be angry with her. +Because I have told him that she does not mean it. It is only her way. +She says she feels it is unjust of her. Because really he is rather +charming. I told him that. And he said I was a dear little girl. He is +going to get me a real crown. Robina says he has nice eyes. I told him +that. And he laughed. There is a gentleman comes here that I think is +in love with Robina. But I shouldn’t say anything to her about it. If I +was you. She is very snappy about it. He is not handsome. But he looks +good. He writes for the papers. But I don’t think he is rich. And +Robina is very nice to him. Until he’s gone. Then she gets mad. It all +began with the explosion. So perhaps it was fate. He is going to keep +it out of the papers. As much as he can. But of course he owes a duty +to the public. I am going to decline to see him. I think it better. +Mr. Slee says everything will be in apple-pie order to-morrow. So you +can come down. And we are going to have Irish stew. And roly-poly +pudding. It will be a change. He is very nice. And says he was always +in trouble himself when he was a little boy. It’s all experience. We +are all going on Friday to a party at Mr. St. Leonard’s. And you have +got to come too. Robina says I can wear my new frock. But we can’t find +the sash. It is very strange. Because I remember having seen it. You +didn’t take it for anything, did you? We shall have to get a new one, I +suppose. It is very annoying. My new shoes have also not worn well. +And they ought to have. Because Robina says they were expensive. The +donkey has come. And he is sweet. He eats out of my hand. And lets me +kiss him. But he won’t go. He goes a little when you shout at him. +Very loud. Me and Robina went for a drive yesterday after tea. And Dick +ran beside. And shouted. But he got hoarse. And then he wouldn’t go no +more. And Robina did not like it. Because Dick shouted swear words. He +says they come naturally to you when you shout. And Robina said it was +horrible. And that people would hear him. So we got out. And pushed +him home. But he is very strong. And we were all very tired. And +Robina says she hates him. Dick is going to give Mr. ’Opkins half a +crown. To tell him how he makes him go. Because Mr. ’Opkins makes him +gallop. Robina says it must be hypnotism. But Dick thinks it might be +something simpler. I think Mr. ’Opkins very nice. He says you promised +to lend him a book. What would help him to talk like a real country boy. +So I have lent him a book about a window. By Mr. Bane. What came to see +us last year. It has a lot of funny words in it. And he is going to +learn them up. But he don’t know what they mean. No more do I. I have +written a lot of the book. It promises to be very interesting. It is +all a dream. He is just the ordinary grown-up father. Neither better +nor worse. And he goes up and up. It is a pleasant sensation. Till he +reaches the moon. And there everything is different. It is the children +that know everything. And are always right. And the grown-ups have to +do all what they tell them. They are kind but firm. It is very good for +him. And when he wakes up he is a better man. I put down everything +that occurs to me. Like you suggested. There is quite a lot of it. And +it makes you see how unjustly children are treated. They said I was to +feed the donkey. Because it was my donkey. And I fed him. And there +wasn’t enough supper for Dick. And Dick said I was an idiot. And Robina +said I wasn’t to feed him. And in the morning there wasn’t anything to +feed him on. Because he won’t eat anything but bread-and-butter. And +the baker hadn’t come. And he wasn’t there. Because the man that comes +to milk the cow had left the door open. And I was distracted. And Dick +asked had I fed him. And of course I hadn’t fed him. And lord how Dick +talked. Never waited to hear anything, mind you. I let him talk. But +it just shows you. We are all very happy. But shall be pleased to see +you. Once again. The peppermint creams down here are not good. And are +very dear. Compared with London prices. Isn’t this a good letter? You +said I was to always write just as I thought. So I’m doing it. I think +that’s all.” + +I read selections from this letter aloud to Ethelbertha. She said she +was glad she had decided to come down with me. + + + + +CHAPTER IX + + +HAD all things gone as ordered, our arrival at the St. Leonards’ on +Friday afternoon would have been imposing. It was our entrance, so to +speak, upon the local stage; and Robina had decided it was a case where +small economies ought not to be considered. The livery stable proprietor +had suggested a brougham, but that would have necessitated one of us +riding outside. I explained to Robina that, in the country, this was +usual; and Robina had replied that much depended upon first impressions. +Dick would, in all probability, claim the place for himself; and, the +moment we were started, stick a pipe in his mouth. She selected an open +landau of quite an extraordinary size, painted yellow. It looked to me +an object more appropriate to a Lord Mayor’s show than to the +requirements of a Christian family; but Robina seemed touchy on the +subject, and I said no more. It certainly was roomy. Old Glossop had +turned it out well, with a pair of greys—seventeen hands, I judged them. +The only thing that seemed wrong was the coachman. I can’t explain why, +but he struck me as the class of youth one associates with a milk-cart. + +We set out at a gentle trot. Veronica, who had been in trouble most of +the morning, sat stiffly on the extreme edge of her seat, clothed in the +attitude of one dead to the world; Dick, in lavender gloves that Robina +had thoughtfully bought for him, next to her. Ethelbertha, Robina, and +myself sat perched on the back seat; to have leaned back would have been +to lie down. Ethelbertha, having made up her mind she was going to +dislike the whole family of the St. Leonards, seemed disinclined for +conversation. Myself I had forgotten my cigar-case. I have tried the +St. Leonard cigar. He does not smoke himself; but keeps a box for his +friends. He tells me he fancies men are smoking cigars less than +formerly. I did not see how I was going to get a smoke for the next +three hours. Nothing annoys me more than being bustled and made to +forget things. Robina, who has recently changed her views on the subject +of freckles, shared a parasol with her mother. They had to hold it +almost horizontally in front of them, and this obscured their view. I +could not myself understand why people smiled as we went by. Apart from +the carriage, which they must have seen before, we were not, I should +have said, an exhilarating spectacle. A party of cyclists laughed +outright. Robina said there was one thing we should have to be careful +about, living in the country, and that was that the strong air and the +loneliness combined didn’t sap our intellect. She said she had noticed +it—the tendency of country people to become prematurely silly. I did not +share her fears, as I had by this time divined what it was that was +amusing folks. Dick had discovered behind the cushions—remnant of some +recent wedding, one supposes—a large and tastefully bound Book of Common +Prayer. He and Veronica sat holding it between them. Looking at their +faces one could almost hear the organ pealing. + +Dick kept one eye on the parasol; and when, on passing into shade, it was +lowered, he and Veronica were watching with rapt ecstasy the flight of +swallows. Robina said she should tell Mr. Glossop of the insults to +which respectable people were subject when riding in his carriage. She +thought he ought to take steps to prevent it. She likewise suggested +that the four of us, leaving the Little Mother in the carriage, should +walk up the hill. Ethelbertha said that she herself would like a walk. +She had been balancing herself on the edge of a cushion with her feet +dangling for two miles, and was tired. She herself would have preferred +a carriage made for ordinary-sized people. Our coachman called attention +to the heat of the afternoon and the length of the hill, and recommended +our remaining where we were; but his advice was dismissed as exhibiting +want of feeling. Robina is, perhaps, a trifle over-sympathetic where +animals are concerned. I remember, when they were children, her banging +Dick over the head with the nursery bellows because he would not agree to +talk in a whisper for fear of waking the cat. You can, of course, overdo +kindness to animals, but it is a fault on the right side; and, as a rule, +I do not discourage her. Veronica was allowed to remain, owing to her +bad knee. It is a most unfortunate affliction. It comes on quite +suddenly. There is nothing to be seen; but the child’s face while she is +suffering from it would move a heart of stone. It had been troubling +her, so it appeared, all the morning; but she had said nothing, not +wishing to alarm her mother. Ethelbertha, who thinks it may be +hereditary—she herself having had an aunt who had suffered from +contracted ligament—fixed her up as comfortably as the pain would permit +with cushions in the centre of the back seat; and the rest of us toiled +after the carriage. + +I should not like to say for certain that horses have a sense of humour, +but I sometimes think they must. I had a horse years ago who used to +take delight in teasing girls. I can describe it no other way. He would +pick out a girl a quarter of a mile off; always some haughty, +well-dressed girl who was feeling pleased with herself. As we approached +he would eye her with horror and astonishment. It was too marked to +escape notice. A hundred yards off he would be walking sideways, backing +away from her; I would see the poor lady growing scarlet with the insult +and annoyance of it. Opposite to her, he would shy the entire width of +the road, and make pretence to bolt. Looking back I would see her vainly +appealing to surrounding nature for a looking-glass to see what it was +that had gone wrong with her. + +“What is the matter with me,” she would be crying to herself; “that the +very beasts of the field should shun me? Do they take me for a +gollywog?” + +Halfway up the hill, the off-side grey turned his head and looked at us. +We were about a couple of hundred yards behind; it was a hot and dusty +day. He whispered to the near-side grey, and the near-side grey turned +and looked at us also. I knew what was coming. I’ve been played the +same trick before. I shouted to the boy, but it was too late. They took +the rest of the hill at a gallop and disappeared over the brow. Had +there been an experienced coachman behind them, I should not have +worried. Dick told his mother not to be alarmed, and started off at +fifteen miles an hour. I calculated I was doing about ten, which for a +gentleman past his first youth, in a frock suit designed to disguise +rather than give play to the figure, I consider creditable. Robina, +undecided whether to go on ahead with Dick or remain to assist her +mother, wasted vigour by running from one to the other. Ethelbertha’s +one hope was that she might reach the wreckage in time to receive +Veronica’s last wishes. + +It was in this order that we arrived at the St. Leonards’. Veronica, +under an awning, sipping iced sherbet, appeared to be the centre of the +party. She was recounting her experiences with a modesty that had +already won all hearts. The rest of us, she had explained, had preferred +walking, and would arrive later. She was evidently pleased to see me, +and volunteered the information that the greys, to all seeming, had +enjoyed their gallop. + +I sent Dick back to break the good news to his mother. Young Bute said +he would go too. He said he was fresher than Dick, and would get there +first. As a matter of history he did, and was immediately sorry that he +had. + +This is not a well-ordered world, or it would not be our good deeds that +would so often get us into trouble. Robina’s insistence on our walking +up the hill had been prompted by tender feeling for dumb animals: a +virtuous emotion that surely the angels should have blessed. The result +had been to bring down upon her suffering and reproach. It is not often +that Ethelbertha loses her temper. When she does she makes use of the +occasion to perform what one might describe as a mental spring-cleaning. +All loose odds and ends of temper that may be lying about in her mind—any +scrap of indignation that has been reposing peacefully, half forgotten, +in a corner of her brain, she ferrets out and brushes into the general +heap. Small annoyances of the year before last—little things she hadn’t +noticed at the time—incidents in your past life that, so far as you are +concerned, present themselves as dim visions connected maybe with some +previous existence, she whisks triumphantly into her pan. The method has +its advantages. It leaves her, swept and garnished, without a scrap of +ill-feeling towards any living soul. For quite a long period after one +of these explosions it is impossible to get a cross word out of her. One +has to wait sometimes for months. But while the clearing up is in +progress the atmosphere round about is disturbing. The element of the +whole thing is its comprehensive swiftness. Before they had reached the +summit of the hill, Robina had acquired a tolerably complete idea of all +she had done wrong since Christmas twelvemonth: the present afternoon’s +proceedings—including as they did the almost certain sacrificing of a +sister to a violent death, together with the probable destruction of a +father, no longer of an age to trifle with apoplexy—being but a fit and +proper complement to what had gone before. It would be long, as Robina +herself that evening bitterly declared, before she would again give ear +to the promptings of her better nature. + +To take next the sad case of Archibald Bute: his sole desire had been to +relieve, at the earliest moment possible, the anxieties of a sister and a +mother. Robina’s new hat, not intended for sport, had broken away from +its fastenings. With it, it had brought down her hair. There is a +harmless contrivance for building up the female hair called, I am told, a +pad. It can be made of combings, and then, of course, is literally the +girl’s own hair. He came upon Robina at the moment when, retracing her +steps and with her back towards him, she was looking for it. With his +usual luck, he was the first to find it. Ethelbertha thanked him for his +information concerning Veronica, but seemed chiefly anxious to push on +and convince herself that it was true. She took Dick’s arm, and left +Robina to follow on with Bute. + +As I explained to him afterwards, had he stopped to ask my advice I +should have counselled his leaving the job to Dick, who, after all, was +only thirty seconds behind him. As regarded himself, I should have +suggested his taking a walk in the opposite direction, returning, say, in +half an hour, and pretending to have just arrived. By that time Robina, +with the assistance of Janie’s brush and comb, and possibly her +powder-puff, would have been feeling herself again. He could have +listened sympathetically to an account of the affair from Robina +herself—her version, in which she would have appeared to advantage. Give +her time, and she has a sense of humour. She would have made it bright +and whimsical. Without asserting it in so many words, she would have +conveyed the impression—I know her way—that she alone, throughout the +whole commotion, had remained calm and helpful. “Dear old Dick” and +“Poor dear papa”—I can hear her saying it—would have supplied the low +comedy, and Veronica, alluded to with affection free from sentimentality, +would have furnished the dramatic interest. It is not that Robina +intends to mislead, but she has the artistic instinct. It would have +made quite a charming story; Robina always the central figure. She would +have enjoyed telling it, and would have been pleased with the person +listening. All this—which would have been the reward of subterfuge—he +had missed. Virtuous intention had gained for him nothing but a few +scattered observations from Robina concerning himself; the probable +object of his Creator in fashioning him—his relation to the scheme of +things in general: observations all of which he had felt to be unjust. + +We compared experiences over a pipe that same evening; and he told me of +a friend of his, a law student, who had shared diggings with him in +Edinburgh. A kinder-hearted young man, Bute felt sure, could never have +breathed; nor one with a tenderer, more chivalrous regard for women; and +the misery this brought him, to say nothing of the irritation caused to +quite a number of respectable people, could hardly be imagined, so young +Bute assured me, by anyone not personally acquainted with the parties. +It was the plain and snappy girl, and the less attractive type of old +maid, for whom he felt the most sorrow. He could not help thinking of +all they had missed, and were likely to go on missing; the rapture—surely +the woman’s birthright—of feeling herself adored, anyhow, once in her +life; the delight of seeing the lover’s eye light up at her coming. Had +he been a Mormon he would have married them all. They too—the neglected +that none had invited to the feast of love—they also should know the joys +of home, feel the sweet comfort of a husband’s arm. Being a Christian, +his power for good was limited. But at least he could lift from them the +despairing conviction that they were outside the pale of masculine +affection. Not one of them, so far as he could help it, but should be +able to say: + +“I—even I had a lover once. No, dear, we never married. It was one of +those spiritual loves; a formal engagement with a ring would have spoiled +it—coarsened it. No; it was just a beautiful thing that came into my +life and passed away again, leaving behind it a fragrance that has +sweetened all my days.” + +That is how he imagined they would talk about it, years afterwards, to +the little niece or nephew, asking artless questions—how they would feel +about it themselves. Whether law circles are peculiarly rich in +unattractive spinsters, or whether it merely happened to be an +exceptional season for them, Bute could not say; but certain it was that +the number of sour-faced girls and fretful old maids in excess of the +demand seemed to be greater than usual that winter in Edinburgh, with the +result that young Hapgood had a busy time of it. He made love to them, +not obtrusively, which might have laid them open to ridicule—many of them +were old enough to have been his mother—but more by insinuation, by +subtle suggestion. His feelings, so they gathered, were too deep for +words; but the adoring eyes with which he would follow their every +movement, the rapt ecstasy with which he would drink in their lightest +remark about the weather, the tone of almost reverential awe with which +he would enquire of them concerning their lesser ailments—all conveyed to +their sympathetic observation the message that he dared not tell. He had +no favourites. Sufficient it was that a woman should be unpleasant, for +him to pour out at her feet the simulated passion of a lifetime. He sent +them presents—nothing expensive—wrapped in pleasing pretence of +anonymity; valentines carefully selected for their compromising +character. One carroty-headed old maid with warts he had kissed upon the +brow. + +All this he did out of his great pity for them. It was a beautiful idea, +but it worked badly. They did not understand—never got the hang of the +thing: not one of them. They thought he was really gone on them. For a +time his elusiveness, his backwardness in coming to the point, they +attributed to a fit and proper fear of his fate; but as the months went +by the feeling of each one was that he was carrying the apprehension of +his own unworthiness too far. They gave him encouragement, provided for +him “openings,” till the wonder grew upon them how any woman ever did get +married. At the end of their resources, they consulted bosom friends. +In several instances the bosom friend turned out to be the bosom friend +of more than one of them. The bosom friends began to take a hand in it. +Some of them came to him with quite a little list, insisting—playfully at +first—on his making up his mind what he was going to take and what he was +going to leave; offering, as reward for prompt decision, to make things +as easy for him as possible with the remainder of the column. + +It was then he saw that his good intentions were likely to end in +catastrophe. He would not tell the truth: that the whole scheme had been +conceived out of charity towards all ill-constructed or dilapidated +ladies; that personally he didn’t care a hang for any of them; had only +taken them on, vulgarly speaking, to give them a treat, and because +nobody else would. That wasn’t going to be a golden memory, colouring +their otherwise drab existence. He explained that it was not love—not +the love that alone would justify a man’s asking of a woman that she +should give herself to him for life—that he felt and always should feel +for them, but merely admiration and deep esteem; and seventeen of them +thought that would be sufficient to start with, and offered to chance the +rest. + +The truth had to come out. Friends who knew his noble nature could not +sit by and hear him denounced as a heartless and eccentric profligate. +Ladies whose beauty and popularity were beyond dispute thought it a +touching and tender thing for him to have done; but every woman to whom +he had ever addressed a kind word wanted to wring his neck. + +He did the most sensible thing he could, under all the circumstances; +changed his address to Aberdeen, where he had an aunt living. But the +story followed him. No woman would be seen speaking to him. One +admiring glance from Hapgood would send the prettiest girls home weeping +to their mothers. Later on he fell in love—hopelessly, madly in love. +But he dared not tell her—dared not let a living soul guess it. That was +the only way he could show it. It is not sufficient, in this world, to +want to do good; there’s got to be a knack about it. + +There was a man I met in Colorado, one Christmas-time. I was on a +lecturing tour. His idea was to send a loving greeting to his wife in +New York. He had been married nineteen years, and this was the first +time he had been separated from his family on Christmas Day. He pictured +them round the table in the little far-away New England parlour; his +wife, his sister-in-law, Uncle Silas, Cousin Jane, Jack and Willy, and +golden-haired Lena. They would be just sitting down to dinner, talking +about him, most likely; wishing he were among them. They were a nice +family and all fond of him. What joy it would give them to know that he +was safe and sound; to hear the very tones of his loved voice speaking to +them! Modern science has made possible these miracles. True, the +long-distance telephone would cost him five dollars; but what is five +dollars weighed against the privilege of wafting happiness to an entire +family on Christmas Day! We had just come back from a walk. He slammed +the money down, and laughed aloud at the thought of the surprise he was +about to give them all. + +The telephone bell rang out clear and distinct at the precise moment when +his wife, with knife and fork in hand, was preparing to carve the turkey. +She was a nervous lady, and twice that week had dreamed that she had seen +her husband without being able to get to him. On the first occasion she +had seen him enter a dry-goods store in Broadway, and hastening across +the road had followed him in. He was hardly a dozen yards in front of +her, but before she could overtake him all the young lady assistants had +rushed from behind their counters and, forming a circle round her, had +refused to let her pass, which in her dream had irritated her +considerably. On the next occasion he had boarded a Brooklyn car in +which she was returning home. She had tried to attract his attention +with her umbrella, but he did not seem to see her; and every time she +rose to go across to him the car gave a jerk and bumped her back into her +seat. When she did get over to him it was not her husband at all, but +the gentleman out of the Quaker Oats advertisement. She went to the +telephone, feeling—as she said herself afterwards—all of a tremble. + +That you could speak from Colorado to New York she would not then have +believed had you told her. The thing was in its early stages, which may +also have accounted for the voice reaching her strange and broken. I was +standing beside him while he spoke. We were in the vestibule of the +Savoy Hotel at Colorado Springs. It was five o’clock in the afternoon, +which would be about seven in New York. He told her he was safe and +well, and that she was not to fret about him. He told her he had been +that morning for a walk in the Garden of the Gods, which is the name +given to the local park; they do that sort of thing in Colorado. Also +that he had drunk from the silicial springs abounding in that favoured +land. I am not sure that “silicial” was the correct word. He was not +sure himself: added to which he pronounced it badly. Whatever they were, +he assured her they had done him good. He sent a special message to his +Cousin Jane—a maiden lady of means—to the effect that she could rely upon +seeing him soon. She was a touchy old lady, and liked to be singled out +for special attention. He made the usual kind enquiries about everybody, +sent them all his blessing, and only wished they could be with him in +this delectable land where it seemed to be always sunshine and balmy +breezes. He could have said more, but his time being up the telephone +people switched him off; and feeling he had done a good and thoughtful +deed, he suggested a game of billiards. + +Could he have been a witness of events at the other end of the wire, his +condition would have been one of less self-complacence. Long before the +end of the first sentence his wife had come to the conclusion that this +was a message from the dead. Why through a telephone did not greatly +worry her. It seemed as reasonable a medium as any other she had ever +heard of—indeed a trifle more so. Later, when she was able to review the +matter calmly, it afforded her some consolation to reflect that things +might have been worse. That “garden,” together with the “silicial +springs”—which she took to be “celestial,” there was not much difference +the way he pronounced it—was distinctly reassuring. The “eternal +sunshine” and the “balmy breezes” likewise agreed with her knowledge of +heavenly topography as derived from the Congregational Hymn-Book. That +he should have needed to enquire concerning the health of herself and the +children had puzzled her. The only explanation was that they didn’t know +everything, not even up. There—may be, not the new-comers. She had +answered as coherently as her state of distraction would permit, and had +then dropped limply to the floor. It was the sound of her falling +against the umbrella-stand and upsetting it that brought them all +trooping out from the dining-room. + +It took her some time to get the thing home to them; and when she had +finished, her brother Silas, acting on the impulse of the moment, rang up +the Exchange, with some vague idea of getting into communication with St. +Peter and obtaining further particulars, but recollected himself in time +to explain to the “hulloa girl” that he had made a mistake. + +The eldest boy, a practical youth, pointed out, very sensibly, that +nothing could be gained by their not going on with their dinner, but was +bitterly reproached for being able to think of any form of enjoyment at a +moment when his poor dear father was in heaven. It reminded his mother +of the special message to Cousin Jane, who up to that moment had been +playing the part of comforter. With the collapse of Cousin Jane, +dramatic in its suddenness, conversation disappeared. At nine o’clock +the entire family went dinnerless to bed. + +The eldest boy—as I have said, a practical youth—had the sense to get up +early the next morning and send a wire, which brought the glad news back +to them that their beloved one was not in heaven, but was still in +Colorado. But the only reward my friend got for all his tender +thoughtfulness was the vehement injunction never for the remainder of his +life to play such a fool’s trick again. + +There were other cases I could have recited showing the ill recompense +that so often overtakes the virtuous action; but, as I explained to Bute, +it would have saddened me to dwell upon the theme. + +It was quite a large party assembled at the St. Leonards’, including one +or two county people, and I should have liked, myself, to have made a +better entrance. A large lady with a very small voice seemed to be under +the impression that I had arranged the whole business on purpose. She +said it was “so dramatic.” One good thing came out of it: Janie, in her +quiet, quick way, saw to it that Ethelbertha and Robina slipped into the +house unnoticed by way of the dairy. When they joined the other guests, +half an hour later, they had had a cup of tea and a rest, and were +feeling calm and cool, with their hair nicely done; and Ethelbertha +remarked to Robina on the way home what a comfort it must be to Mrs. St. +Leonard to have a daughter so capable, one who knew just the right thing +to do, and did it without making a fuss and a disturbance. + +Everyone was very nice. Of course we made the usual mistake: they talked +to me about books and plays, and I gave them my views on agriculture and +cub-hunting. I’m not quite sure what fool it was who described a bore as +a man who talked about himself. As a matter of fact it is the only +subject the average man knows sufficiently well to make interesting. +There’s a man I know; he makes a fortune out of a patent food for +infants. He began life as a dairy farmer, and hit upon it quite by +accident. When he talks about the humours of company promoting and the +tricks of the advertising agent he is amusing. I have sat at his table, +when he was a bachelor, and listened to him by the hour with enjoyment. +The mistake he made was marrying a broad-minded, cultured woman, who +ruined him—conversationally, I mean. He is now well-informed and +tiresome on most topics. That is why actors and actresses are always +such delightful company: they are not ashamed to talk about themselves. +I remember a dinner-party once: our host was one of the best-known +barristers in London. A famous lady novelist sat on his right, and a +scientist of world-wide reputation had the place of honour next our +hostess, who herself had written a history of the struggle for +nationality in South America that serves as an authority to all the +Foreign Offices in Europe. Among the remaining guests were a bishop, the +editor-in-chief of a London daily newspaper, a man who knew the interior +of China as well as most men know their own club, a Russian revolutionist +just escaped from Siberia, a leading dramatist, a Cabinet Minister, and a +poet whose name is a household word wherever the English tongue is +spoken. And for two hours we sat and listened to a wicked-looking little +woman who from the boards of a Bowery music-hall had worked her way up to +the position of a star in musical comedy. Education, as she observed +herself without regret, had not been compulsory throughout the waterside +district of Chicago in her young days; and, compelled to earn her own +living from the age of thirteen, opportunity for supplying the original +deficiency had been wanting. But she knew her subject, which was +Herself—her experiences, her reminiscences: and bad sense enough to stick +to it. Until the moment when she took “the liberty of chipping in,” to +use her own expression, the amount of twaddle talked had been appalling. +The bishop had told us all he had learnt about China during a visit to +San Francisco, while the man who had spent the last twenty years of his +life in the country was busy explaining his views on the subject of the +English drama. Our hostess had been endeavouring to make the scientist +feel at home by talking to him about radium. The dramatist had explained +at some length his views of the crisis in Russia. The poet had quite +spoilt his dinner trying to suggest to the Cabinet Minister new sources +of taxation. The Russian revolutionist had told us what ought to have +been a funny story about a duck; and the lady novelist and the Cabinet +Minister had discussed Christian Science for a quarter of an hour, each +under the mistaken impression that the other one was a believer in it. +The editor had been explaining the attitude of the Church towards the New +Theology; and our host, one of the wittiest men at the Bar, had been +talking chiefly to the butler. The relief of listening to anybody +talking about something they knew was like finding a match-box to a man +who has been barking his shins in the dark. For the rest of the dinner +we clung to her. + +I could have made myself quite interesting to these good squires and +farmers talking to them about theatres and the literary celebrities I +have met; and they could have told me dog stories and given me useful +information as to the working of the Small Holdings Act. They said some +very charming things about my books—mostly to the effect that they read +and enjoyed them when feeling ill or suffering from mental collapse. I +gathered that had they always continued in a healthy state of mind and +body it would not have occurred to them to read me. One man assured me I +had saved his life. It was his brain, he told me. He had been so upset +by something that had happened to him that he had almost lost his reason. +There were times when he could not even remember his own name; his mind +seemed an absolute blank. And then one day by chance—or Providence, or +whatever you choose to call it—he had taken up a book of mine. It was +the only thing he had been able to read for months and months! And now, +whenever he felt himself run down—his brain like a squeezed orange (that +was his simile)—he would put everything else aside and read a book of +mine—any one: it didn’t matter which. I suppose one ought to be glad +that one has saved somebody’s life; but I should like to have the +choosing of them myself. + +I am not sure that Ethelbertha is going to like Mrs. St. Leonard; and I +don’t think Mrs. St. Leonard will much like Ethelbertha. I have gathered +that Mrs. St. Leonard doesn’t like anybody much—except, of course, when +it is her duty. She does not seem to have the time. Man is born to +trouble, and it is not bad philosophy to get oneself accustomed to the +feeling. But Mrs. St. Leonard has given herself up to the pursuit of +trouble to the exclusion of all other interests in life. She appears to +regard it as the only calling worthy a Christian woman. I found her +alone one afternoon. Her manner was preoccupied; I asked if I could be +of any assistance. + +“No,” she answered, “I am merely trying to think what it can be that has +been worrying me all the morning. It has clean gone out of my head.” + +She remembered it a little later with a glad sigh. + +St. Leonard himself, Ethelbertha thinks charming. We are to go again on +Sunday for her to see the children. Three or four people we met I fancy +we shall be able to fit in with. We left at half-past six, and took Bute +back with us to supper. + + + + +CHAPTER X + + +“SHE’S a good woman,” said Robina. + +“Who’s a good woman?” I asked. + +“He’s trying, I expect; although he is an old dear: to live with, I +mean,” continued Robina, addressing apparently the rising moon. “And +then there are all those children.” + +“You are thinking of Mrs. St. Leonard,” I suggested. + +“There seems no way of making her happy,” explained Robina. “On Thursday +I went round early in the morning to help Janie pack the baskets for the +picnic. It was her own idea, the picnic.” + +“Speaking of picnics,” I said. + +“You might have thought,” went on Robina, “that she was dressing for her +own funeral. She said she knew she was going to catch her death of cold, +sitting on the wet grass. Something told her. I reminded her it hadn’t +rained for three weeks, and that everything was as dry as a bone, but she +said that made no difference to grass. There is always a moisture in +grass, and that cushions and all that only helped to draw it out. Not +that it mattered. The end had to come, and so long as the others were +happy—you know her style. Nobody ever thought of her. She was to be +dragged here, dragged there. She talked about herself as if she were +some sacred image. It got upon my nerves at last, so that I persuaded +Janie to let me offer to stop at home with her. I wasn’t too keen about +going myself; not by that time.” + +“When our desires leave us, says Rochefoucauld,” I remarked, “we pride +ourselves upon our virtue in having overcome them.” + +“Well, it was her fault, anyhow,” retorted Robina; “and I didn’t make a +virtue of it. I told her I’d just as soon not go, and that I felt sure +the others would be all right without her, so that there was no need for +her to be dragged anywhere. And then she burst into tears.” + +“She said,” I suggested, “that it was hard on her to have children who +could wish to go to a picnic and leave their mother at home; that it was +little enough enjoyment she had in her life, heaven knows; that if there +was one thing she had been looking forward to it was this day’s outing; +but still, of course, if everybody would be happier without her—” + +“Something of the sort,” admitted Robina; “only there was a lot of it. +We had to all fuss round her, and swear that without her it wouldn’t be +worth calling a picnic. She brightened up on the way home.” + +The screech-owl in the yew-tree emitted a blood-curdling scream. He +perches there each evening on the extreme end of the longest bough. +Dimly outlined against the night, he has the appearance of a friendly +hobgoblin. But I wish he didn’t fancy himself as a vocalist. It is +against his own interests, I am sure, if he only knew it. That American +college yell of his must have the effect of sending every living thing +within half a mile back into its hole. Maybe it is a provision of nature +for clearing off the very old mice who have become stone deaf and would +otherwise be a burden on their relatives. The others, unless out for +suicide, must, one thinks, be tolerably safe. Ethelbertha is persuaded +he is a sign of death; but seeing there isn’t a square quarter of a mile +in this county without its screech-owl, there can hardly by this time be +a resident that an Assurance Society would look at. Veronica likes him. +She even likes his screech. I found her under the tree the other night, +wrapped up in a shawl, trying to learn it. As if one of them were not +enough! It made me quite cross with her. Besides, it wasn’t a bit like +it, as I told her. She said it was better than I could do, anyhow; and I +was idiot enough to take up the challenge. It makes me angry now, when I +think of it: a respectable, middle-aged literary man, standing under a +yew-tree trying to screech like an owl. And the bird was silly enough to +encourage us. + +“She was a charming girl,” I said, “seven-and-twenty years ago, when St. +Leonard fell in love with her. She had those dark, dreamy eyes so +suggestive of veiled mysteries; and her lips must have looked bewitching +when they pouted. I expect they often did. They do so still; but the +pout of a woman of forty-six no longer fascinates. To a pretty girl of +nineteen a spice of temper, an illogical unreasonableness, are added +attractions: the scratch of a blue-eyed kitten only tempts us to tease +her the more. Young Hubert St. Leonard—he had curly brown hair, with a +pretty trick of blushing, and was going to conquer the world—found her +fretfulness, her very selfishness adorable: and told her so, kneeling +before her, gazing into her bewildering eyes—only he called it her +waywardness, her imperiousness; begged her for his sake to be more +capricious. Told her how beautiful she looked when displeased. So, no +doubt, she did—at nineteen.” + +“He didn’t tell you all that, did he?” demanded Robina. + +“Not a word,” I reassured her, “except that she was acknowledged by all +authorities to have been the most beautiful girl in Tunbridge Wells, and +that her father had been ruined by a rascally solicitor. No, I was +merely, to use the phrase of the French police courts, ‘reconstructing +the crime.’” + +“It may be all wrong,” grumbled Robina. + +“It may be,” I agreed. “But why? Does it strike you as improbable?” + +We were sitting in the porch, waiting for Dick to come by the white path +across the field. + +“No,” answered Robina. “It all sounds very probable. I wish it didn’t.” + +“You must remember,” I continued, “that I am an old playgoer. I have sat +out so many of this world’s dramas. It is as easy to reconstruct them +backwards as forwards. We are witnessing the last act of the St. Leonard +drama: that unsatisfactory last act that merely fills out time after the +play is ended! The intermediate acts were probably more exciting, +containing ‘passionate scenes’ played with much earnestness; chiefly for +the amusement of the servants. But the first act, with the Kentish lanes +and woods for a back-cloth, must have been charming. Here was the devout +lover she had heard of, dreamed of. It is delightful to be regarded as +perfection—not absolute perfection, for that might put a strain upon us +to live up to, but as so near perfection that to be more perfect would +just spoil it. The spots upon us, that unappreciative friends and +relations would magnify into blemishes, seen in their true light: +artistic shading relieving a faultlessness that might otherwise prove too +glaring. Dear Hubert found her excellent just as she was in every +detail. It would have been a crime against Love for her to seek to +change herself.” + +“Well, then, it was his fault,” argued Robina. “If he was silly enough +to like her faults, and encourage her in them—” + +“What could he have done,” I asked, “even if he had seen them? A lover +does not point out his mistress’s shortcomings to her.” + +“Much the more sensible plan if he did,” insisted Robina. “Then if she +cared for him she could set to work to cure herself.” + +“You would like it?” I said; “you would appreciate it in your own case? +Can you imagine young Bute—?” + +“Why young Bute?” demanded Robina; “what’s he got to do with it?” + +“Nothing,” I answered; “except that he happens to be the first male +creature you have ever come across since you were six that you haven’t +flirted with.” + +“I don’t flirt with them,” said Robina; “I merely try to be nice to +them.” + +“With the exception of young Bute,” I persisted. + +“He irritates me,” Robina explained. + +“I was reading,” I said, “the other day, an account of the marriage +customs prevailing among the Lower Caucasians. The lover takes his stand +beneath his lady’s window, and, having attracted her attention, proceeds +to sing. And if she seems to like it—if she listens to it without +getting mad, that means she doesn’t want him. But if she gets upset +about it—slams down the window and walks away, then it’s all right. I +think it’s the Lower Caucasians.” + +“Must be a very silly people,” said Robina; “I suppose a pail of water +would be the highest proof of her affection he could hope for.” + +“A complex being, man,” I agreed. “We will call him X. Can you imagine +young X coming to you and saying: ‘My dear Robina, you have many +excellent qualities. You can be amiable—so long as you are having your +own way in everything; but thwarted you can be just horrid. You are very +kind—to those who are willing for you to be kind to them in your own way, +which is not always their way. You can be quite unselfish—when you +happen to be in an unselfish mood, which is far from frequent. You are +capable and clever, but, like most capable and clever people, impatient +and domineering; highly energetic when not feeling lazy; ready to forgive +the moment your temper is exhausted. You are generous and frank, but if +your object could only be gained through meanness or deceit you would not +hesitate a moment longer than was necessary to convince yourself that the +circumstances justified the means. You are sympathetic, tender-hearted, +and have a fine sense of justice; but I can see that tongue of yours, if +not carefully watched, wearing decidedly shrewish. You have any amount +of grit. A man might go tiger-hunting with you—with no one better; but +you are obstinate, conceited, and exacting. In short, to sum you up, you +have all the makings in you of an ideal wife combined with faults +sufficient to make a Socrates regret he’d ever married you.’” + +“Yes, I would!” said Robina, springing to her feet. I could not see her +face, but I knew there was the look upon it that made Primgate want to +paint her as Joan of Arc; only it would never stop long enough. “I’d +love him for talking like that. And I’d respect him. If he was that +sort of man I’d pray God to help me to be the sort of woman he wanted me +to be. I’d try. I’d try all day long. I would!” + +“I wonder,” I said. Robina had surprised me. I admit it. I thought I +knew the sex better. + +“Any girl would,” said Robina. “He’d be worth it.” + +“It would be a new idea,” I mused. “_Gott im Himmel_! what a new world +might it not create!” The fancy began to take hold of me. “Love no +longer blind. Love refusing any more to be the poor blind fool—sport of +gods and men. Love no longer passion’s slave. His bonds broken, the +senseless bandage flung aside. Love helping life instead of muddling it. +Marriage, the foundation of civilisation, no longer reared upon the sands +of lies and illusions, but grappled to the rock of truth—reality. Have +you ever read ‘Tom Jones?’” I said. + +“No,” answered Robina; “I’ve always heard it wasn’t a nice book.” + +“It isn’t,” I said. “Man isn’t a nice animal, not all of him. Nor woman +either. There’s a deal of the beast in man. What can you expect? Till +a few paltry thousands of years ago he _was_ a beast, fighting with other +beasts, his fellow denizens of the woods and caves; watching for his +prey, crouched in the long grass of the river’s bank, tearing it with +claws and teeth, growling as he ate. So he lived and died through the +dim unnamed ages, transmitting his beast’s blood, his bestial instincts, +to his offspring, growing ever stronger, fiercer, from generation to +generation, while the rocks piled up their strata and the oceans shaped +their beds. Moses! Why, Lord Rothschild’s great-grandfather, a few +score times removed, must have known Moses, talked with him. Babylon! +It is a modern city, fallen into disuse for the moment, owing to +alteration of traffic routes. History! it is a tale of to-day. Man was +crawling about the world on all fours, learning to be an animal for +millions of years before the secret of his birth was whispered to him. +It is only during the last few centuries that he has been trying to be a +man. Our modern morality! Why, compared with the teachings of nature, +it is but a few days old. What do you expect? That he shall forget the +lessons of the æons at the bidding of the hours?” + +“Then you advise me to read ‘Tom Jones’?” said Robina. + +“Yes,” I said, “I do. I should not if I thought you were still a child, +knowing only blind trust, or blind terror. The sun is not extinguished +because occasionally obscured by mist; the scent of the rose is not dead +because of the worm in the leaf. A healthy rose can afford a few +worms—has got to, anyhow. All men are not Tom Joneses. The standard of +masculine behaviour continues to go up: many of us make fine efforts to +conform to it, and some of us succeed. But the Tom Jones is there in all +of us who are not anæmic or consumptive. And there’s no sense at all in +getting cross with us about it, because we cannot help it. We are doing +our best. In another hundred thousand years or so, provided all goes +well, we shall be the perfect man. And seeing our early training, I +flatter myself that, up to the present, we have done remarkably well.” + +“Nothing like being satisfied with oneself,” said Robina. + +“I’m not satisfied,” I said; “I’m only hopeful. But it irritates me when +I hear people talk as though man had been born a white-souled angel and +was making supernatural efforts to become a sinner. That seems to me the +way to discourage him. What he wants is bucking up; somebody to say to +him, ‘Bravo! why, this is splendid! Just think, my boy, what you were, +and that not so very long ago—an unwashed, hairy savage; your law that of +the jungle, your morals those of the rabbit-warren. Now look at +yourself—dressed in your little shiny hat, your trousers neatly creased, +walking with your wife to church on Sunday! Keep on—that’s all you’ve +got to do. In a few more centuries your own mother Nature won’t know +you.’ + +“You women,” I continued; “why, a handful of years ago we bought and sold +you, kept you in cages, took the stick to you when you were not spry in +doing what you were told. Did you ever read the history of Patient +Griselda?” + +“Yes,” said Robina, “I have.” I gathered from her tone that the Joan of +Arc expression had departed. Had Primgate wanted to paint her at that +particular moment I should have suggested Katherine—during the earlier +stages—listening to a curtain lecture from Petruchio. “Are you +suggesting that all women should take her for a model?” + +“No,” I said, “I’m not. Though were we living in Chaucer’s time I might; +and you would not think it even silly. What I’m impressing upon you is +that the human race has yet a little way to travel before the average man +can be regarded as an up-to-date edition of King Arthur—the King Arthur +of the poetical legend, I mean. Don’t be too impatient with him.” + +“Thinking what a beast he has been ought to make him impatient himself +with himself,” considered Robina. “He ought to be feeling so ashamed of +himself as to be willing to do anything.” + +The owl in the old yew screamed, whether with indignation or amusement I +cannot tell. + +“And woman,” I said, “had the power been hers, would she have used it to +sweeter purpose? Where is your evidence? Your Cleopatras, Pompadours, +Jezebels; your Catherines of Russia, late Empresses of China; your +Faustines of all ages and all climes; your Mother Brownriggs; your +Lucretia Borgias, Salomes—I could weary you with names. Your Roman +task-mistresses; your drivers of lodging-house slaveys; your ladies who +whipped their pages to death in the Middle Ages; your modern dames of +fashion, decked with the plumage of the tortured grove. There have been +other women also—noble women, their names like beacon-lights studding the +dark waste of history. So there have been noble men—saints, martyrs, +heroes. The sex-line divides us physically, not morally. Woman has been +man’s accomplice in too many crimes to claim to be his judge. ‘Male and +female created He them’—like and like, for good and evil.” + +By good fortune I found a loose match. I lighted a fresh cigar. + +“Dick, I suppose, is the average man,” said Robina. + +“Most of us are,” I said, “when we are at home. Carlyle was the average +man in the little front parlour in Cheyne Row, though, to hear fools +talk, you might think no married couple outside literary circles had ever +been known to exchange a cross look. So was Oliver Cromwell in his own +palace with the door shut. Mrs. Cromwell must have thought him monstrous +silly, placing sticky sweetmeats for his guests to sit on—told him so, +most likely. A cheery, kindly man, notwithstanding, though given to +moods. He and Mrs. Cromwell seem to have rubbed along, on the whole, +pretty well together. Old Sam Johnson—great, God-fearing, lovable, +cantankerous old brute! Life with him, in a small house on a limited +income, must have had its ups and downs. Milton and Frederick the Great +were, one hopes, a little below the average. Did their best, no doubt; +lacked understanding. Not so easy as it looks, living up to the standard +of the average man. Very clever people, in particular, find it tiring.” + +“I shall never marry,” said Robina. “At least, I hope I sha’n’t.” + +“Why ‘hope’?” I asked. + +“Because I hope I shall never be idiot enough,” she answered. “I see it +all so clearly. I wish I didn’t. Love! it’s only an ugly thing with a +pretty name. It will not be me that he will fall in love with. He will +not know me until it is too late. How can he? It will be merely with +the outside of me—my pink-and-white skin, my rounded arms. I feel it +sometimes when I see men looking at me, and it makes me mad. And at +other times the admiration in their eyes pleases me. And that makes me +madder still.” + +The moon had slipped behind the wood. She had risen, and, leaning +against the porch, was standing with her hands clasped. I fancy she had +forgotten me. She seemed to be talking to the night. + +“It’s only a trick of Nature to make fools of us,” she said. “He will +tell me I am all the world to him; that his love will outlive the +stars—will believe it himself at the time, poor fellow! He will call me +a hundred pretty names, will kiss my feet and hands. And if I’m fool +enough to listen to him, it may last”—she laughed; it was rather an ugly +laugh—“six months; with luck perhaps a year, if I’m careful not to go out +in the east wind and come home with a red nose, and never let him catch +me in curl papers. It will not be me that he will want: only my youth, +and the novelty of me, and the mystery. And when that is gone—” + +She turned to me. It was a strange face I saw then in the pale light, +quite a fierce little face. She laid her hands upon my shoulders, and I +felt them cold. “What comes when it is dead?” she said. “What follows? +You must know. Tell me. I want the truth.” + +Her vehemence had arisen so suddenly. The little girl I had set out to +talk with was no longer there. To my bewilderment, it was a woman that +was questioning me. + +I drew her down beside me. But the childish face was still stern. + +“I want the truth,” she said; so that I answered very gravely: + +“When the passion is passed; when the glory and the wonder of +Desire—Nature’s eternal ritual of marriage, solemnising, sanctifying it +to her commands—is ended; when, sooner or later, some grey dawn finds you +wandering bewildered in once familiar places, seeking vainly the lost +palace of youth’s dreams; when Love’s frenzy is faded, like the fragrance +of the blossom, like the splendour of the dawn; there will remain to you, +just what was there before—no more, no less. If passion was all you had +to give to one another, God help you. You have had your hour of madness. +It is finished. If greed of praise and worship was your price—well, you +have had your payment. The bargain is complete. If mere hope to be made +happy was your lure, one pities you. We do not make each other happy. +Happiness is the gift of the gods, not of man. The secret lies within +you, not without. What remains to you will depend not upon what you +_thought_, but upon what you _are_. If behind the lover there was the +man—behind the impossible goddess of his love-sick brain some honest, +human woman, then life lies not behind you, but before you. + +“Life is giving, not getting. That is the mistake we most of us set out +with. It is the work that is the joy, not the wages; the game, not the +score. The lover’s delight is to yield, not to claim. The crown of +motherhood is pain. To serve the State at cost of ease and leisure; to +spend his thought and labour upon a hundred schemes, is the man’s +ambition. Life is doing, not having. It is to gain the peak the climber +strives, not to possess it. Fools marry thinking what they are going to +get out of it: good store of joys and pleasure, opportunities for +self-indulgence, eternal soft caresses—the wages of the wanton. The +rewards of marriage are toil, duty, responsibility—manhood, womanhood. +Love’s baby talk you will have outgrown. You will no longer be his +‘Goddess,’ ‘Angel,’ ‘Popsy Wopsy,’ ‘Queen of his heart.’ There are finer +names than these: wife, mother, priestess in the temple of humanity. +Marriage is renunciation, the sacrifice of Self upon the altar of the +race. ‘A trick of Nature’ you call it. Perhaps. But a trick of Nature +compelling you to surrender yourself to the purposes of God.” + +I fancy we must have sat in silence for quite a long while; for the moon, +creeping upward past the wood, had flooded the fields again with light +before Robina spoke. + +“Then all love is needless,” she said, “we could do better without it, +choose with more discretion. If it is only something that worries us for +a little while and then passes, what is the sense of it?” + +“You could ask the same question of Life itself,” I said; “‘something +that worries us for a little while, then passes.’ Perhaps the ‘worry,’ +as you call it, has its uses. Volcanic upheavals are necessary to the +making of a world. Without them the ground would remain rock-bound, +unfitted for its purposes. That explosion of Youth’s pent-up forces that +we term Love serves to the making of man and woman. It does not die, it +takes new shape. The blossom fades as the fruit forms. The passion +passes to give place to peace. The trembling lover has become the +helper, the comforter, the husband.” + +“But the failures,” Robina persisted; “I do not mean the silly or the +wicked people; but the people who begin by really loving one another, +only to end in disliking—almost hating one another. How do _they_ get +there?” + +“Sit down,” I said, “and I will tell you a story. + +“Once upon a time there was a girl, and a boy who loved her. She was a +clever, brilliant girl, and she had the face of an angel. They lived +near to one another, seeing each other almost daily. But the boy, awed +by the difference of their social position, kept his secret, as he +thought, to himself; dreaming, as youth will, of the day when fame and +wealth would bridge the gulf between them. The kind look in her eyes, +the occasional seeming pressure of her hand, he allowed to feed his +hopes; and on the morning of his departure for London an incident +occurred that changed his vague imaginings to set resolve. He had sent +on his scanty baggage by the carrier, intending to walk the three miles +to the station. It was early in the morning, and he had not expected to +meet a soul. But a mile from the village he overtook her. She was +reading a book, but she made no pretence that the meeting was accidental, +leaving him to form what conclusions he would. She walked with him some +distance, and he told her of his plans and hopes; and she answered him +quite simply that she should always remember him, always be more glad +than she could tell to hear of his success. Near the end of the lane +they parted, she wishing him in that low sweet woman’s voice of hers all +things good. He turned, a little farther on, and found that she had also +turned. She waved her hand to him, smiling. And through the long day’s +journey and through many days to come there remained with him that +picture of her, bringing with it the scent of the pine-woods: her white +hand waving to him, her sweet eyes smiling wistfully. + +“But fame and fortune are not won so quickly as boys dream, nor is life +as easy to live bravely as it looks in visions. It was nearly twenty +years before they met again. Neither had married. Her people were dead +and she was living alone; and to him the world at last had opened her +doors. She was still beautiful. A gracious, gentle lady, she had grown; +clothed with that soft sweet dignity that Time bestows upon rare women, +rendering them fairer with the years. + +“To the man it seemed a miracle. The dream of those early days came back +to him. Surely there was nothing now to separate them. Nothing had +changed but the years, bringing to them both wider sympathies, calmer, +more enduring emotions. She welcomed him again with the old kind smile, +a warmer pressure of the hand; and, allowing a little time to pass for +courtesy’s sake, he told her what was the truth: that he had never ceased +to love her, never ceased to keep the vision of her fair pure face before +him, his ideal of all that man could find of help in womanhood. And her +answer, until years later he read the explanation, remained a mystery to +him. She told him that she loved him, that she had never loved any other +man and never should; that his love, for so long as he chose to give it +to her, she should always prize as the greatest gift of her life. But +with that she prayed him to remain content. + +“He thought perhaps it was a touch of woman’s pride, of hurt dignity that +he had kept silent so long, not trusting her; that perhaps as time went +by she would change her mind. But she never did; and after awhile, +finding that his persistence only pained her, he accepted the situation. +She was not the type of woman about whom people talk scandal, nor would +it have troubled her much had they done so. Able now to work where he +would, he took a house in a neighbouring village, where for the best part +of the year he lived, near to her. And to the end they remained lovers.” + +“I think I understand,” said Robina. “I will tell you afterwards if I am +wrong.” + +“I told the story to a woman many years ago,” I said, “and she also +thought she understood. But she was only half right.” + +“We will see,” said Robina. “Go on.” + +“She left a letter, to be given to him after her death, in case he +survived her; if not, to be burned unopened. In it she told him her +reason, or rather her reasons, for having refused him. It was an odd +letter. The ‘reasons’ sounded so pitiably insufficient. Until one took +the pains to examine them in the cold light of experience. And then her +letter struck one, not as foolish, but as one of the grimmest +commentaries upon marriage that perhaps had ever been penned. + +“It was because she had wished always to remain his ideal; to keep their +love for one another to the end, untarnished; to be his true helpmeet in +all things, that she had refused to marry him. + +“Had he spoken that morning she had waited for him in the lane—she had +half hoped, half feared it—she might have given her promise: ‘For Youth,’ +so she wrote, ‘always dreams it can find a new way.’ She thanked God +that he had not. + +“‘Sooner or later,’ so ran the letter, ‘you would have learned, Dear, +that I was neither saint nor angel; but just a woman—such a tiresome, +inconsistent creature; she would have exasperated you—full of a thousand +follies and irritabilities that would have marred for you all that was +good in her. I wanted you to have of me only what was worthy, and this +seemed the only way. Counting the hours to your coming, hating the pain +of your going, I could always give to you my best. The ugly words, the +whims and frets that poison speech—they could wait; it was my lover’s +hour. + +“‘And you, Dear, were always so tender, so gay. You brought me joy with +both your hands. Would it have been the same, had you been my husband? +How could it? There were times, even as it was, when you vexed me. +Forgive me, Dear, I mean it was my fault—ways of thought and action that +did not fit in with my ways, that I was not large-minded enough to pass +over. As my lover, they were but as spots upon the sun. It was easy to +control the momentary irritation that they caused me. Time was too +precious for even a moment of estrangement. As my husband, the jarring +note would have been continuous, would have widened into discord. You +see, Dear, I was not great enough to love _all_ of you. I remember, as a +child, how indignant I always felt with God when my nurse told me He +would not love me because I was naughty, that He only loved good +children. It seemed such a poor sort of love, that. Yet that is +precisely how we men and women do love; taking only what gives us +pleasure, repaying the rest with anger. There would have arisen the +unkind words that can never be recalled; the ugly silences; the gradual +withdrawing from one another. I dared not face it. + +“‘It was not all selfishness. Truthfully I can say I thought more of you +than of myself. I wanted to keep the shadows of life away from you. We +men and women are like the flowers. It is in sunshine that we come to +our best. You were my hero. I wanted you to be great. I wanted you to +be surrounded by lovely dreams. I wanted your love to be a thing holy, +helpful to you.’ + +“It was a long letter. I have given you the gist of it.” + +Again there was a silence between us. + +“You think she did right?” asked Robina. + +“I cannot say,” I answered; “there are no rules for Life, only for the +individual.” + +“I have read it somewhere,” said Robina—“where was it?—‘Love suffers all +things, and rejoices.’” + +“Maybe in old Thomas Kempis. I am not sure,” I said. + +“It seems to me,” said Robina, “that the explanation lies in that one +sentence of hers: ‘I was not great enough to love _all_ of you.’” + +“It seems to me,” I said, “that the whole art of marriage is the art of +getting on with the other fellow. It means patience, self-control, +forbearance. It means the laying aside of our self-conceit and admitting +to ourselves that, judged by eyes less partial than our own, there may be +much in us that is objectionable, that calls for alteration. It means +toleration for views and opinions diametrically opposed to our most +cherished convictions. It means, of necessity, the abandonment of many +habits and indulgences that however trivial have grown to be important to +us. It means the shaping of our own desires to the needs of others; the +acceptance often of surroundings and conditions personally distasteful to +us. It means affection deep and strong enough to bear away the ugly +things of life—its quarrels, wrongs, misunderstandings—swiftly and +silently into the sea of forgetfulness. It means courage, good humour, +commonsense.” + +“That is what I am saying,” explained Robina. “It means loving him even +when he’s naughty.” + +Dick came across the fields. Robina rose and slipped into the house. + +“You are looking mighty solemn, Dad,” said Dick. + +“Thinking of Life, Dick,” I confessed. “Of the meaning and the +explanation of it.” + +“Yes, it’s a problem, Life,” admitted Dick. + +“A bit of a teaser,” I agreed. + +We smoked in silence for awhile. + +“Loving a good woman must be a tremendous help to a man,” said Dick. + +He looked very handsome, very gallant, his boyish face flashing challenge +to the Fates. + +“Tremendous, Dick,” I agreed. + +Robina called to him that his supper was ready. He knocked the ashes +from his pipe, and followed her into the house. Their laughing voices +came to me broken through the half-closed doors. From the night around +me rose a strange low murmur. It seemed to me as though above the +silence I heard the far-off music of the Mills of God. + + + + +CHAPTER XI + + +I FANCY Veronica is going to be an authoress. Her mother thinks this may +account for many things about her that have been troubling us. The story +never got far. It was laid aside for the more alluring work of +play-writing, and apparently forgotten. I came across the copy-book +containing her “Rough Notes” the other day. There is decided flavour +about them. I transcribe selections; the spelling, as before, being my +own. + +“The scene is laid in the Moon. But everything is just the same as down +here. With one exception. The children rule. The grown-ups do not like +it. But they cannot help it. Something has happened to them. They +don’t know what. And the world is as it used to be. In the sweet old +story-books. Before sin came. There are fairies that dance o’ nights. +And Witches. That lure you. And then turn you into things. And a +dragon who lives in a cave. And springs out at people. And eats them. +So that you have to be careful. And all the animals talk. And there are +giants. And lots of magic. And it is the children who know everything. +And what to do for it. And they have to teach the grown-ups. And the +grown-ups don’t believe half of it. And are far too fond of arguing. +Which is a sore trial to the children. But they have patience, and are +just. + +“Of course the grown-ups have to go to school. They have much to learn. +Poor things! And they hate it. They take no interest in fairy lore. +And what would happen to them if they got wrecked on a Desert Island they +don’t seem to care. And then there are languages. What they will need +when they come to be children. And have to talk to all the animals. And +magic. Which is deep. And they hate it. And say it is rot. They are +full of tricks. One catches them reading trashy novels. Under the desk. +All about love. Which is wasting their children’s money. And God knows +it is hard enough to earn. But the children are not angry with them. +Remembering how they felt themselves. When they were grown up. Only +firm. + +“The children give them plenty of holidays. Because holidays are good +for everyone. They freshen you up. But the grown-ups are very stupid. +And do not care for sensible games. Such as Indians. And Pirates. What +would sharpen their faculties. And so fit them for the future. They +only care to play with a ball. Which is of no help. To the stern +realities of life. Or talk. Lord, how they talk! + +“There is one grown-up. Who is very clever. He can talk about +everything. But it leads to nothing. And spoils the party. So they +send him to bed. And there are two grown-ups. A male and a female. And +they talk love. All the time. Even on fine days. Which is maudlin. +But the children are patient with them. Knowing it takes all sorts. To +make a world. And trusting they will grow out of it. And of course +there are grown-ups who are good. And a comfort to their children. + +“And everything the children like is good. And wholesome. And +everything the grown-ups like is bad for them. _And they mustn’t have +it_. They clamour for tea and coffee. What undermines their nervous +system. And waste their money in the tuck shop. Upon chops. And turtle +soup. And the children have to put them to bed. And give them pills. +Till they feel better. + +“There is a little girl named Prue. Who lives with a little boy named +Simon. They mean well. But haven’t much sense. They have two +grown-ups. A male and a female. Named Peter and Martha. Respectively. +They are just the ordinary grown-ups. Neither better nor worse. And +much might be done with them. By kindness. But Prue and Simon _go the +wrong way to work_. It is blame blame all day long. But as for praise. +Oh never! + +“One summer’s day Prue and Simon take Peter for a walk. In the country. +And they meet a cow. And they think this a good opportunity. To test +Peter’s knowledge. Of languages. So they tell him to talk to the cow. +And he talks to the cow. And the cow don’t understand him. And he don’t +understand the cow. And they are mad with him. ‘What is the use,’ they +say. ‘Of our paying expensive fees. To have you taught the language. +By a first-class cow. And when you come out into the country. You can’t +talk it.’ And he says he did talk it. But they will not listen to him. +But go on raving. And in the end it turns out. _It was a Jersey cow_! +What talked a dialect. So of course he couldn’t understand it. But did +they apologise? Oh dear no. + +“Another time. One morning at breakfast. Martha didn’t like her +raspberry vinegar. So she didn’t drink it. And Simon came into the +nursery. And he saw that Martha hadn’t drunk her raspberry vinegar. And +he asked her why. And she said she didn’t like it. Because it was +nasty. And he said it wasn’t nasty. And that she _ought_ to like it. +And how it was shocking. The way grown-ups nowadays grumbled. At good +wholesome food. Provided for them by their too-indulgent children. And +how when _he_ was a grown-up. He would never have dared. And so on. +All in the usual style. And to prove it wasn’t nasty. He poured himself +out a cupful. And drank it off. In a gulp. And he said it was +delicious. And turned pale. And left the room. + +“And Prue came into the nursery. And she saw that Martha hadn’t drunk +her raspberry vinegar. And she asked her why. And Martha told her how +she didn’t like it. Because it was nasty. And Prue told her she ought +to be ashamed of herself. For not liking it. Because it was good for +her. And really very nice. And anyhow she’d _got_ to like it. And not +get stuffing herself up with messy tea and coffee. Because she wouldn’t +have it. And there was an end of it. And so on. And to prove it was +all right. She poured herself out a cupful. And drank it off. In a +gulp. And she said there was nothing wrong with it. Nothing whatever. +And turned pale. And left the room. + +“And it wasn’t raspberry vinegar. But just red ink. What had got put +into the raspberry vinegar decanter. By an oversight. And they needn’t +have been ill at all. If only they had listened. To poor old Martha. +But no. That was their fixed idea. That grown-ups hadn’t any sense. At +all. What is a mistake. As one perceives.” + +Other characters had been sketched, some of them to be abandoned after a +few bold touches: the difficulty of avoiding too close a portraiture to +the living original having apparently proved irksome. Against one such, +evidently an attempt to help Dick see himself in his true colours, I find +this marginal, note in pencil: “Better not. Might make him ratty.” +Opposite to another—obviously of Mrs. St. Leonard, and with instinct for +alliteration—is scribbled; “Too terribly true. She’d twig it.” + +Another character is that of a gent: “With a certain gift. For telling +stories. Some of them _not bad_.” A promising party, on the whole. +Indeed, one might say, judging from description, a quite rational person: +“_When not on the rantan_. But inconsistent.” He is the grown-up of a +little girl: “Not beautiful. But strangely attractive. Whom we will +call Enid.” One gathers that if all the children had been Enids, then +surely the last word in worlds had been said. She has only this one +grown-up of her very own; but she makes it her business to adopt and +reform all the incorrigible old folk the other children have despaired +of. It is all done by kindness. “She is _ever_ patient. And just.” +Prominent among her numerous _protégées_ is a military man, an elderly +colonel; until she took him in hand, the awful example of what a grown-up +might easily become, left to the care of incompetent infants. He defies +his own child, a virtuous youth, but “lacking in sympathy;” is rude to +his little nephews and nieces; a holy terror to his governess. He uses +wicked words, picked up from retired pirates. “Of course without +understanding. Their terrible significance.” He steals the Indian’s +fire-water. “What few can partake of. With impunity.” Certainly not +the Colonel. “Can this be he! This gibbering wreck!” He hides cigars +in a hollow tree, and smokes on the sly. He plays truant. Lures other +old gentlemen away from their lessons to join him. They are discovered +in the woods, in a cave, playing whist for sixpenny points. + +Does Enid storm and bullyrag; threaten that if ever she catches him so +much as looking at a card again she will go straight out and tell the +dragon, who will in his turn be so shocked that in all probability he +will decide on coming back with her to kill and eat the Colonel on the +spot? No. “Such are not her methods.” Instead she smiles: +“indulgently.” She says it is only natural for grown-ups to like playing +cards. She is not angry with him. And there is no need for him to run +away and hide in a nasty damp cave. “_She herself will play whist with +him_.” The effect upon the Colonel is immediate: he bursts into tears. +She plays whist with him in the garden: “After school hours. When he has +been _good_.” Double dummy, one presumes. One leaves the Colonel, in +the end, cured of his passion for whist. Whether as the consequence of +her play or her influence the “Rough Notes” give no indication. + +In the play, I am inclined to think, Veronica received assistance. The +house had got itself finished early in September. Young Bute has +certainly done wonders. We performed it in the empty billiard-room, +followed by a one-act piece of my own. The occasion did duty as a +house-warming. We had quite a crowd, and ended up with a dance. +Everybody seemed to enjoy themselves, except young Bertie St. Leonard, +who played the Prince, and could not get out of his helmet in time for +supper. It was a good helmet, but had been fastened clumsily; and +inexperienced people trying to help had only succeeded in jambing all the +screws. Not only wouldn’t it come off, it would not even open for a +drink. All thought it an excellent joke, with the exception of young +Herbert St. Leonard. Our Mayor, a cheerful little man and very popular, +said that it ought to be sent to _Punch_. The local reporter reminded +him that the late John Leech had already made use of precisely the same +incident for a comic illustration, afterwards remembering that it was not +Leech, but the late Phil May. He seemed to think this ended the matter. +St. Leonard and the Vicar, who are rival authorities upon the subject, +fell into an argument upon armour in general, with special reference to +the fourteenth century. Each used the boy’s head to confirm his own +theory, passing it triumphantly from one to the other. We had to send +off young Hopkins in the donkey-cart for the blacksmith. I have found +out, by the way, how it is young Hopkins makes our donkey go. Young +Hopkins argues it is far less brutal than whacking him, especially after +experience has proved that he evidently does not know why you are +whacking him. I am not at all sure the boy is not right. + +Janie played the Fairy Godmamma in a white wig and panniers. She will +make a beautiful old lady. The white hair gives her the one thing that +she lacks: distinction. I found myself glancing apprehensively round the +room, wishing we had not invited so many eligible bachelors. Dick is +making me anxious. The sense of his own unworthiness, which has come to +him quite suddenly, and apparently with all the shock of a new discovery, +has completely unnerved him. It is a healthy sentiment, and does him +good. But I do not want it carried to the length of losing her. The +thought of what he might one day bring home has been a nightmare to me +ever since he left school. I suppose it is to most fathers. Especially +if one thinks of the women one loved oneself when in the early twenties. +A large pale-faced girl, who served in a bun-shop in the Strand, is the +first I can recollect. How I trembled when by chance her hand touched +mine! I cannot recall a single attraction about her except her size, yet +for nearly six months I lunched off pastry and mineral waters merely to +be near her. To this very day an attack of indigestion will always +recreate her image in my mind. Another was a thin, sallow girl, but with +magnificent eyes, I met one afternoon in the South Kensington Museum. +She was a brainless, vixenish girl, but the memory of her eyes would +always draw me back to her. More than two-thirds of our time together we +spent in violent quarrels; and all my hopes of eternity I would have +given to make her my companion for life. But for Luck, in the shape of a +well-to-do cab proprietor, as great an idiot as myself I might have done +it. The third was a chorus girl: on the whole, the best of the bunch. +Her father was a coachman, and she had ten brothers and sisters, most of +them doing well in service. And she was succeeded—if I have the order +correct—by the ex-wife of a solicitor, a sprightly lady; according to her +own account the victim of complicated injustice. I daresay there were +others, if I took the time to think; but not one of them can I remember +without returning thanks to Providence for having lost her. What is one +to do? There are days in springtime when a young man ought not to be +allowed outside the house. Thank Heaven and Convention it is not the +girls who propose! Few women, who would choose the right moment to put +their hands upon a young man’s shoulders, and, looking into his eyes, ask +him to marry them next week, would receive No for an answer. It is only +our shyness that saves us. A wise friend of mine, who has observed much, +would have all those marrying under five-and-twenty divorced by automatic +effluxion of time at forty, leaving the few who had chosen satisfactorily +to be reunited if they wished: his argument being that to condemn grown +men and women to abide by the choice of inexperienced boys and girls is +unjust and absurd. There were nice girls I could have fallen in love +with. They never occurred to me. It would seem as if a man had to learn +taste in women as in all other things, namely, by education. Here and +there may exist the born connoisseur. But with most of us our first +instincts are towards vulgarity. It is Barrie, I think, who says that if +only there were silly women enough to go round, good women would never +get a look in. It is certainly remarkable, the number of sweet old maids +one meets. Almost as remarkable as the number of stupid, cross-grained +wives. As I tell Dick, I have no desire for a daughter-in-law of whom he +feels himself worthy. If he can’t do better than that he had best remain +single. Janie and he, if I know anything of life, are just suited for +one another. Helpful people take their happiness in helping. I knew +just such another, once: a sweet, industrious, sensible girl. She made +the mistake of marrying a thoroughly good man. There was nothing for her +to do. She ended by losing all interest in him, devoting herself to a +Home in the East End for the reformation of newsboys. It was a pitiful +waste: so many women would have been glad of him; while to the ordinary +sinful man she would have been a life-long comfort. I must have a +serious talk to Dick. I shall point out what a good thing it will be for +her. I can see Dick keeping her busy and contented for the rest of her +days. + +Veronica played the Princess,—with little boy Foy—“Sir Robert of the +Curse”—as her page. Anything more dignified has, I should say, rarely +been seen upon the English stage. Among her wedding presents were: Two +Votes for Women, presented by the local Fire Brigade; a Flying Machine of +“proved stability. Might be used as a bathing tent;” a National Theatre, +“with Cold Water Douche in Basement for reception of English Dramatists;” +Recipe for building a Navy, without paying for it, “Gift of that great +Financial Expert, Sir Hocus Pocus;” one Conscientious Income Taxpayer, +“has been driven by a Lady;” two Socialists in agreement as to what it +means, “smaller one slightly damaged;” one Contented Farmer, “Babylonian +Period;” and one extra-sized bottle, “Solution of the Servant Problem.” + +Dick played the “Dragon without a Tail.” We had to make him without a +tail owing to the smallness of the stage. He had once had a tail. But +that was a long story: added to which there was not time to tell it. +Little Sally St. Leonard played his wife, and Robina was his +mother-in-law. So much depends upon one’s mood. What an ocean of +boredom might be saved if science could but give us a barometer +foretelling us our changes of temperament! How much more to our comfort +we could plan our lives, knowing that on Monday, say, we should be +feeling frivolous; on Saturday “dull to bad-tempered.” + +I took a man once to see _The Private Secretary_. I began by enjoying +myself, and ended by feeling ashamed of myself and vexed with the scheme +of creation. That authors should write such plays, that actors should be +willing to degrade our common nature by appearing in them was +explainable, he supposed, by the law of supply and demand. What he could +not understand was how the public could contrive to extract amusement +from them. What was there funny in seeing a poor gentleman shut up in a +box? Why should everybody roar with laughter when he asked for a bun? +People asked for buns every day—people in railway refreshment rooms, in +aerated bread shops. Where was the joke? A month later I found myself +by chance occupying the seat just behind him at the pantomime. The low +comedian was bathing a baby, and tears of merriment were rolling down his +cheeks. To me the whole business seemed painful and revolting. We were +being asked to find delight in the spectacle of a father—scouring down an +infant of tender years with a scrubbing-brush. How women—many of them +mothers—could remain through such an exhibition without rising in protest +appeared to me an argument against female suffrage. A lady entered, the +wife, so the programme informed me, of a Baron! All I can say is that a +more vulgar, less prepossessing female I never wish to meet. I even +doubted her sobriety. She sat down plump upon the baby. She must have +been a woman rising sixteen stone, and for one minute fifteen seconds by +my watch the whole house rocked with laughter. That the thing was only a +stage property I felt was no excuse. The humour—heaven save the mark—lay +in the supposition that what we were witnessing was the agony and +death—for no child could have survived that woman’s weight—of a real +baby. Had I been able to tap myself beforehand I should have learned +that on that particular Saturday I was going to be “set-serious.” +Instead of booking a seat for the pantomime I should have gone to a +lecture on Egyptian pottery which was being given by a friend of mine at +the London Library, and have had a good time. + +Children could tap their parents, warn each other that father was “going +down;” that mother next week was likely to be “gusty.” Children +themselves might hang out their little barometers. I remember a rainy +day in a country house during the Christmas holidays. We had among us a +Member of Parliament: a man of sunny disposition, extremely fond of +children. He said it was awfully hard lines on the little beggars cooped +up in a nursery; and borrowing his host’s motor-coat, pretended he was a +bear. He plodded round on his hands and knees and growled a good deal, +and the children sat on the sofa and watched him. But they didn’t seem +to be enjoying it, not much; and after a quarter of an hour or so he +noticed this himself. He thought it was, maybe, that they were tired of +bears, and fancied that a whale might rouse them. He turned the table +upside down and placed the children in it on three chairs, explaining to +them that they were ship-wrecked sailors on a raft, and that they must be +careful the whale did not get underneath it and upset them. He draped a +sheet over the towel-horse to represent an iceberg, and rolled himself up +in a mackintosh and flopped about the floor on his stomach, butting his +head occasionally against the table in order to suggest to them their +danger. The attitude of the children still remained that of polite +spectators. True, the youngest boy did make the suggestion of borrowing +the kitchen toasting-fork, and employing it as a harpoon; but even this +appeared to be the outcome rather of a desire to please than of any +warmer interest; and, the whale objecting, the idea fell through. After +that he climbed up on the dresser and announced to them that he was an +ourang-outang. They watched him break a soup-tureen, and then the eldest +boy, stepping out into the middle of the room, held up his arm, and the +Member of Parliament, somewhat surprised, sat down on the dresser and +listened. + +“Please, sir,” said the eldest boy, “we’re awfully sorry. It’s awfully +good of you, sir. But somehow we’re not feeling in the mood for wild +beasts this afternoon.” + +The Member of Parliament brought them down into the drawing-room, where +we had music; and the children, at their own request, were allowed to +sing hymns. The next day they came of their own accord, and asked the +Member of Parliament to play at beasts with them; but it seemed he had +letters to write. + +There are times when jokes about mothers-in-law strike me as lacking both +in taste and freshness. On this particular evening they came to me +bringing with them all the fragrance of the days that are no more. The +first play I ever saw dealt with the subject of the mother-in-law—the +“Problem” I think it was called in those days. The occasion was an +amateur performance given in aid of the local Ragged School. A cousin of +mine, lately married, played the wife; and my aunt, I remember, got up +and walked out in the middle of the second act. Robina, in spectacles +and an early Victorian bonnet, reminded me of her. Young Bute played a +comic cabman. It was at the old Haymarket, in Buckstone’s time, that I +first met the cabman of art and literature. Dear bibulous, becoated +creature, with ever-wrathful outstretched palm and husky “’Ere! Wot’s +this?” How good it was to see him once again! I felt I wanted to climb +over the foot-lights and shake him by the hand. The twins played a +couple of Young Turks, much concerned about their constitutions; and made +quite a hit with a topical duet to the refrain: “And so you see The +reason he Is not the Boss for us.” We all agreed it was a pun worthy of +Tom Hood himself. The Vicar thought he had heard it before, but this +seemed improbable. There was a unanimous call for Author, giving rise to +sounds of discussion behind the curtain. Eventually the whole company +appeared, with Veronica in the centre. I had noticed throughout that the +centre of the stage appeared to be Veronica’s favourite spot. I can see +the makings of a leading actress in Veronica. + +In my own piece, which followed, Robina and Bute played a young married +couple who do not know how to quarrel. It has always struck me how much +more satisfactorily people quarrel on the stage than in real life. On +the stage the man, having made up his mind—to have it out, enters and +closes the door. He lights a cigarette; if not a teetotaller mixes +himself a brandy-and-soda. His wife all this time is careful to remain +silent. Quite evident it is that he is preparing for her benefit +something unpleasant, and chatter might disturb him. To fill up the time +she toys with a novel or touches softly the keys of the piano until he is +quite comfortable and ready to begin. He glides into his subject with +the studied calm of one with all the afternoon before him. She listens +to him in rapt attention. She does not dream of interrupting him; would +scorn the suggestion of chipping in with any little notion of her own +likely to disarrange his train of thought. All she does when he pauses, +as occasionally he has to for the purpose of taking breath, is to come to +his assistance with short encouraging remarks, such, for instance, as: +“Well.” “You think that.” “And if I did?” Her object seems to be to +help him on. “Go on,” she says from time to time, bitterly. And he goes +on. Towards the end, when he shows signs of easing up, she puts it to +him as one sportsman to another: Is he quite finished? Is that all? +Sometimes it isn’t. As often as not he has been saving the pick of the +basket for the last. + +“No,” he says, “that is not all. There is something else!” + +That is quite enough for her. That is all she wanted to know. She +merely asked in case there might be. As it appears there is, she +re-settles herself in her chair and is again all ears. + +When it does come—when he is quite sure there is nothing he has +forgotten, no little point that he has overlooked, she rises. + +“I have listened patiently,” she begins, “to all that you have said.” +(The devil himself could not deny this. “Patience” hardly seems the +word. “Enthusiastically” she might almost have said). “Now”—with rising +inflection—“you listen to me.” + +The stage husband—always the gentleman—bows;—stiffly maybe, but quite +politely; and prepares in his turn to occupy the _rôle_ of dumb but +dignified defendant. To emphasise the coming change in their positions, +the lady most probably crosses over to what has hitherto been his side of +the stage; while he, starting at the same moment, and passing her about +the centre, settles himself down in what must be regarded as the +listener’s end of the room. We then have the whole story over again from +her point of view; and this time it is the gentleman who would bite off +his tongue rather than make a retort calculated to put the lady off. + +In the end it is the party who is in the right that conquers. Off the +stage this is more or less of a toss-up; on the stage, never. If justice +be with the husband, then it is his voice that, gradually growing louder +and louder, rings at last triumphant through the house. The lady sees +herself that she has been to blame, and wonders why it did not occur to +her before—is grateful for the revelation, and asks to be forgiven. If, +on the other hand, it was the husband who was at fault, then it is the +lady who will be found eventually occupying the centre of the stage; the +miserable husband who, morally speaking, will be trying to get under the +table. + +Now, in real life things don’t happen quite like this. What the quarrel +in real life suffers from is want of system. There is no order, no +settled plan. There is much too much go-as-you-please about the quarrel +in real life, and the result is naturally pure muddle. The man, turning +things over in the morning while shaving, makes up his mind to have this +matter out and have done with it. He knows exactly what he is going to +say. He repeats it to himself at intervals during the day. He will +first say This, and then he will go on to That; while he is about it he +will perhaps mention the Other. He reckons it will take him a quarter of +an hour. Which will just give him time to dress for dinner. + +After it is over, and he looks at his watch, he finds it has taken him +longer than that. Added to which he has said next to nothing—next to +nothing, that is, of what he meant to say. It went wrong from the very +start. As a matter of fact there wasn’t any start. He entered the room +and closed the door. That is as far as he got. The cigarette he never +even lighted. There ought to have been a box of matches on the +mantelpiece behind the photo-frame. And of course there were none there. +For her to fly into a temper merely because he reminded her that he had +spoken about this very matter at least a hundred times before, and accuse +him of going about his own house “stealing” his own matches was +positively laughable. They had quarrelled for about five minutes over +those wretched matches, and then for another ten because he said that +women had no sense of humour, and she wanted to know how he knew. After +that there had cropped up the last quarter’s gas-bill, and that by a +process still mysterious to him had led them into the subject of his +behaviour on the night of the Hockey Club dance. By an effort of almost +supernatural self-control he had contrived at length to introduce the +subject he had come home half an hour earlier than usual on purpose to +discuss. It didn’t interest her in the least. What she was full of by +this time was a girl named Arabella Jones. She got in quite a lot while +he was vainly trying to remember where he had last seen the damned girl. +He had just succeeded in getting back to his own topic when the Cuddiford +girl from next door dashed in without a hat to borrow a tuning-fork. It +had been quite a business finding the tuning-fork, and when she was gone +they had to begin all over again. They had quarrelled about the +drawing-room carpet; about her sister Florrie’s birthday present; and the +way he drove the motor-car. It had taken them over an hour and a half, +and rather than waste the tickets for the theatre, they had gone without +their dinner. The matter of the cold chisel still remained to be +thrashed out. + +It had occurred to me that through the medium of the drama I might show +how the domestic quarrel could so easily be improved. Adolphus Goodbody, +a worthy young man deeply attached to his wife, feels nevertheless that +the dinners she is inflicting upon him are threatening with permanent +damage his digestive system. He determines, come what may, to insist +upon a change. Elvira Goodbody, a charming girl, admiring and devoted to +her husband, is notwithstanding a trifle _en tête_, especially when her +domestic arrangements happen to be the theme of discussion. Adolphus, +his courage screwed to the sticking-point, broaches the difficult +subject; and for the first half of the act my aim was to picture the +progress of the human quarrel, not as it should be, but as it is. They +never reach the cook. The first mention of the word “dinner” reminds +Elvira (quick to perceive that argument is brewing, and alive to the +advantage of getting in first) that twice the month before he had dined +out, not returning till the small hours of the morning. What she wants +to know is where this sort of thing is going to end? If the purpose of +Freemasonry is the ruin of the home and the desertion of women, then all +she has to say—it turns out to be quite a good deal. Adolphus, when able +to get in a word, suggests that eleven o’clock at the latest can hardly +be described as the “small hours of the morning”: the fault with women is +that they never will confine themselves to the simple truth. From that +point onwards, as can be imagined, the scene almost wrote itself. They +have passed through all the customary stages, and are planning, with +exaggerated calm, arrangements for the separation which each now feels to +be inevitable, when a knock comes to the front-door, and there enters a +mutual friend. + +Their hasty attempts to cover up the traces of mental disorder with which +the atmosphere is strewed do not deceive him. There has been, let us +say, a ripple on the waters of perfect agreement. Come! What was it all +about? + +“About!” They look from one to the other. Surely it would be simpler to +tell him what it had _not_ been about. It had been about the parrot, +about her want of punctuality, about his using the butter-knife for the +marmalade, about a pair of slippers he had lost at Christmas, about the +education question, and her dressmaker’s bill, and his friend George, and +the next-door dog— + +The mutual friend cuts short the catalogue. Clearly there is nothing for +it but to begin the quarrel all over again; and this time, if they will +put themselves into his hands, he feels sure he can promise victory to +whichever one is in the right. + +Elvira—she has a sweet, impulsive nature—throws her arms around him: that +is all she wants. If only Adolphus could be brought to see! Adolphus +grips him by the hand. If only Elvira would listen to sense! + +The mutual friend—he is an old stage-manager—arranges the scene: Elvira +in easy-chair by fire with crochet. Enter Adolphus. He lights a +cigarette; flings the match on the floor; with his hands in his pockets +paces up and down the room; kicks a footstool out of his way. + +“Tell me when I am to begin,” says Elvira. + +The mutual friend promises to give her the right cue. + +Adolphus comes to a halt in the centre of the room. + +“I am sorry, my dear,” he says, “but there is something I must say to +you—something that may not be altogether pleasant for you to hear.” + +To which Elvira, still crocheting, replies, “Oh, indeed. And pray what +may that be?” + +This was not Elvira’s own idea. Springing from her chair, she had got as +far as: “Look here. If you have come home early merely for the purpose +of making a row—” before the mutual friend could stop her. The mutual +friend was firm. Only by exacting strict obedience could he guarantee a +successful issue. What she had got to say was, “Oh, indeed. Etcetera.” +The mutual friend had need of all his tact to prevent its becoming a +quarrel of three. + +Adolphus, allowed to proceed, explained that the subject about which he +wished to speak was the subject of dinner. The mutual friend this time +was beforehand. Elvira’s retort to that was: “Dinner! You complain of +the dinners I provide for you?” enabling him to reply, “Yes, madam, I do +complain,” and to give reasons. It seemed to Elvira that the mutual +friend had lost his senses. To tell her to “wait”; that “her time would +come”; of what use was that! Half of what she wanted to say would be +gone out of her head. Adolphus brought to a conclusion his criticism of +Elvira’s kitchen; and then Elvira, incapable of restraining herself +further, rose majestically. + +The mutual friend was saved the trouble of suppressing Adolphus. Until +Elvira had finished Adolphus never got an opening. He grumbled at their +dinners. He! who can dine night after night with his precious +Freemasons. Does he think she likes them any better? She, doomed to +stay at home and eat them. What does he take her for? An ostrich? +Whose fault is it that they keep an incompetent cook too old to learn and +too obstinate to want to? Whose old family servant was she? Not +Elvira’s. It has been to please Adolphus that she has suffered the +woman. And this is her reward. This! She breaks down. Adolphus is +astonished and troubled. Personally he never liked the woman. Faithful +she may have been, but a cook never. His own idea, had he been +consulted, would have been a small pension. Elvira falls upon his neck. +Why did he not say so before? Adolphus presses her to his bosom. If +only he had known! They promise the mutual friend never to quarrel again +without his assistance. + +The acting all round was quite good. Our curate, who is a bachelor, said +it taught a lesson. Veronica had tears in her eyes. She whispered to me +that she thought it beautiful. There is more in Veronica than people +think. + + + + +CHAPTER XII + + +I AM sorry the house is finished. There is a proverb: “Fools build +houses for wise men to live in.” It depends upon what you are after. +The fool gets the fun, and the wise men the bricks and mortar. I +remember a whimsical story I picked up at the bookstall of the Gare de +Lyon. I read it between Paris and Fontainebleau many years ago. Three +friends, youthful Bohemians, smoking their pipes after the meagre dinner +of a cheap restaurant in the Latin Quarter, fell to thinking of their +poverty, of the long and bitter struggle that lay before them. + +“My themes are so original,” sighed the Musician. “It will take me a +year of _fête_ days to teach the public to understand them, even if ever +I do succeed. And meanwhile I shall live unknown, neglected; watching +the men without ideals passing me by in the race, splashed with the mud +from their carriage-wheels as I beat the pavements with worn shoes. It +is really a most unjust world.” + +“An abominable world,” agreed the Poet. “But think of me! My case is +far harder than yours. Your gift lies within you. Mine is to translate +what lies around me; and that, for so far ahead as I can see, will always +be the shadow side of life. To develop my genius to its fullest I need +the sunshine of existence. My soul is being starved for lack of the +beautiful things of life. A little of the wealth that vulgar people +waste would make a great poet for France. It is not only of myself that +I am thinking.” + +The Painter laughed. “I cannot soar to your heights,” he said. “Frankly +speaking, it is myself that chiefly appeals to me. Why not? I give the +world Beauty, and in return what does it give me? This dingy restaurant, +where I eat ill-flavoured food off hideous platters, a foul garret giving +on to chimney-pots. After long years of ill-requited labour I may—as +others have before me—come into my kingdom: possess my studio in the +Champs Elysées, my fine house at Neuilly; but the prospect of the +intervening period, I confess, appals me.” + +Absorbed in themselves, they had not noticed that a stranger, seated at a +neighbouring table, had been listening with attention. He rose and, +apologising with easy grace for intrusion into a conversation he could +hardly have avoided overhearing, requested permission to be of service. +The restaurant was dimly lighted; the three friends on entering had +chosen its obscurest corner. The Stranger appeared to be well-dressed; +his voice and bearing suggested the man of affairs; his face—what feeble +light there was being behind him—remained in shadow. + +The three friends eyed him furtively: possibly some rich but eccentric +patron of the arts; not beyond the bounds of speculation that he was +acquainted with their work, had read the Poet’s verses in one of the +minor magazines, had stumbled upon some sketch of the Painter’s while +bargain-hunting among the dealers of the Quartier St. Antoine, been +struck by the beauty of the Composer’s Nocturne in F heard at some +student’s concert; having made enquiries concerning their haunts, had +chosen this method of introducing himself. The young men made room for +him with feelings of hope mingled with curiosity. The affable Stranger +called for liqueurs, and handed round his cigar-case. And almost his +first words brought them joy. + +“Before we go further,” said the smiling Stranger, “it is my pleasure to +inform you that all three of you are destined to become great.” + +The liqueurs to their unaccustomed palates were proving potent. The +Stranger’s cigars were singularly aromatic. It seemed the most +reasonable thing in the world that the Stranger should be thus able to +foretell to them their future. + +“Fame, fortune will be yours,” continued the agreeable Stranger. “All +things delightful will be to your hand: the adoration of women, the +honour of men, the incense of Society, joys spiritual and material, +beauteous surroundings, choice foods, all luxury and ease, the world your +pleasure-ground.” + +The stained walls of the dingy restaurant were fading into space before +the young men’s eyes. They saw themselves as gods walking in the garden +of their hearts’ desires. + +“But, alas,” went on the Stranger—and with the first note of his changed +voice the visions vanished, the dingy walls came back—“these things take +time. You will, all three, be well past middle-age before you will reap +the just reward of your toil and talents. Meanwhile—” the sympathetic +Stranger shrugged his shoulders—“it is the old story: genius spending its +youth battling for recognition against indifference, ridicule, envy; the +spirit crushed by its sordid environment, the drab monotony of narrow +days. There will be winter nights when you will tramp the streets, cold, +hungry, forlorn; summer days when you will hide in your attics, ashamed +of the sunlight on your ragged garments; chill dawns when you will watch +wild-eyed the suffering of those you love, helpless by reason of your +poverty to alleviate their pain.” + +The Stranger paused while the ancient waiter replenished the empty +glasses. The three friends drank in silence. + +“I propose,” said the Stranger, with a pleasant laugh, “that we pass over +this customary period of probation—that we skip the intervening +years—arrive at once at our true destination.” + +The Stranger, leaning back in his chair, regarded the three friends with +a smile they felt rather than saw. And something about the Stranger—they +could not have told themselves what—made all things possible. + +“A quite simple matter,” the Stranger assured them. “A little sleep and +a forgetting, and the years lie behind us. Come, gentlemen. Have I your +consent?” + +It seemed a question hardly needing answer. To escape at one stride the +long, weary struggle; to enter without fighting into victory! The young +men looked at one another. And each one, thinking of his gain, bartered +the battle for the spoil. + +It seemed to them that suddenly the lights went out; and a darkness like +a rushing wind swept past them, filled with many sounds. And then +forgetfulness. And then the coming back of light. + +They were seated at a table, glittering with silver and dainty chinaware, +to which the red wine in Venetian goblets, the varied fruit and flowers, +gave colour. The room, furnished too gorgeously for taste, they judged +to be a private cabinet in one of the great restaurants. Of such +interiors they had occasionally caught glimpses through open windows on +summer nights. It was softly illuminated by shaded lamps. The +Stranger’s face was still in shadow. But what surprised each of the +three most was to observe opposite him two more or less bald-headed +gentlemen of somewhat flabby appearance, whose features, however, in some +mysterious way appeared familiar. The Stranger had his wine-glass raised +in his hand. + +“Our dear Paul,” the Stranger was saying, “has declined, with his +customary modesty, any public recognition of his triumph. He will not +refuse three old friends the privilege of offering him their heartiest +congratulations. Gentlemen, I drink not only to our dear Paul, but to +the French Academy, which in honouring him has honoured France.” + +The Stranger, rising from his chair, turned his piercing eyes—the only +part of him that could be clearly seen—upon the astonished Poet. The two +elderly gentlemen opposite, evidently as bewildered as Paul himself, +taking their cue from the Stranger, drained their glasses. Still +following the Stranger’s lead, leant each across the table and shook him +warmly by the hand. + +“I beg pardon,” said the Poet, “but really I am afraid I must have been +asleep. Would it sound rude to you”—he addressed himself to the +Stranger: the faces of the elderly gentlemen opposite did not suggest +their being of much assistance to him—“if I asked you where I was?” + +Again there flickered across the Stranger’s face the smile that was felt +rather than seen. “You are in a private room of the Café Pretali,” he +answered. “We are met this evening to celebrate your recent elevation +into the company of the Immortals.” + +“Oh,” said the Poet, “thank you.” + +“The Academy,” continued the Stranger, “is always a little late in these +affairs. Myself, I could have wished your election had taken place ten +years ago, when all France—all France that counts, that is—was talking of +you. At fifty-three”—the Stranger touched lightly with his fingers the +Poet’s fat hand—“one does not write as when the sap was running up, +instead of down.” + +Slowly, memory of the dingy _café_ in the Rue St. Louis, of the strange +happening that took place there that night when he was young, crept back +into the Poet’s brain. + +“Would you mind,” said the Poet, “would it be troubling you too much to +tell me something of what has occurred to me?” + +“Not in the least,” responded the agreeable Stranger. “Your career has +been most interesting—for the first few years chiefly to yourself. You +married Marguerite. You remember Marguerite?” + +The Poet remembered her. + +“A mad thing to do, so most people would have said,” continued the +Stranger. “You had not a sou between you. But, myself, I think you were +justified. Youth comes to us but once. And at twenty-five our business +is to live. Undoubtedly the marriage helped you. You lived an idyllic +existence, for a time, in a tumble-down cottage at Suresnes, with a +garden that went down to the river. Poor, of course you were; poor as +church mice. But who fears poverty when hope and love are singing on the +bough! I really think quite your best work was done during those years +at Suresnes. Ah, the sweetness, the tenderness of it! There has been +nothing like it in French poetry. It made no mark at the time; but ten +years later the public went mad about it. She was dead then. Poor +child, it had been a hard struggle. And, as you may remember, she was +always fragile. Yet even in her death I think she helped you. There +entered a new note into your poetry, a depth that had hitherto been +wanting. It was the best thing that ever came to you, your love for +Marguerite.” + +The Stranger refilled his glass, and passed the decanter. But the Poet +left the wine unheeded. + +“And then, ah, yes, then followed that excursion into politics. Those +scathing articles you wrote for _La Liberté_! It is hardly an +exaggeration to say that they altered the whole aspect of French +political thought. Those wonderful speeches you made during your +election campaign at Angers. How the people worshipped you! You might +have carried your portfolio had you persisted. But you poets are such +restless fellows. And after all, I daresay you have really accomplished +more by your plays. You remember—no, of course, how could you?—the first +night of _La Conquêtte_. Shall I ever forget it! I have always reckoned +that the crown of your career. Your marriage with Madame Deschenelle—I +do not think it was for the public good. Poor Deschenelle’s millions—is +it not so? Poetry and millions interfere with one another. But a +thousand pardons, my dear Paul. You have done so much. It is only right +you should now be taking your ease. Your work is finished.” + +The Poet does not answer. Sits staring before him with eyes turned +inward. The Painter, the Musician: what did the years bring to them? +The Stranger tells them also of all that they have lost: of the griefs +and sorrows, of the hopes and fears they have never tasted, of their +tears that ended in laughter, of the pain that gave sweetness to joy, of +the triumphs that came to them in the days before triumph had lost its +savour, of the loves and the longings and fervours they would never know. +All was ended. The Stranger had given them what he had promised, what +they had desired: the gain without the getting. + +Then they break out. + +“What is it to me,” cries the Painter, “that I wake to find myself +wearing the gold medal of the Salon, robbed of the memory of all by which +it was earned?” + +The Stranger points out to him that he is illogical; such memories would +have included long vistas of meagre dinners in dingy restaurants, of +attic studios, of a life the chief part of which had been passed amid +ugly surroundings. It was to escape from all such that he had clamoured. +The Poet is silent. + +“I asked but for recognition,” cries the Musician, “that men might listen +to me; not for my music to be taken from me in exchange for the +recompense of a successful tradesman. My inspiration is burnt out; I +feel it. The music that once filled my soul is mute.” + +“It was born of the strife and anguish,” the Stranger tells him, “of the +loves that died, of the hopes that faded, of the beating of youth’s wings +against the bars of sorrow, of the glory and madness and torment called +Life, of the struggle you shrank from facing.” + +The Poet takes up the tale. + +“You have robbed us of Life,” he cries. “You tell us of dead lips whose +kisses we have never felt, of songs of victory sung to our deaf ears. +You have taken our fires, you have left us but the ashes.” + +“The fires that scorch and sear,” the Stranger adds, “the lips that cried +in their pain, the victory bought of wounds.” + +“It is not yet too late,” the Stranger tells them. “All this can be but +a troubled dream, growing fainter with each waking moment. Will you buy +back your Youth at the cost of ease? Will you buy back Life at the price +of tears?” + +They cry with one voice, “Give us back our Youth with its burdens, and a +heart to bear them! Give us back Life with its mingled bitter and +sweet!” + +Then suddenly the Stranger stands revealed before them. They see that he +is Life—Life born of battle, Life made strong by endeavour, Life learning +song from suffering. + +There follows more talk; which struck me, when I read the story, as a +mistake; for all that he tells them they have now learnt: that life to be +enjoyed must be lived; that victory to be sweet must be won. + +They awake in the dingy _café_ in the Rue St. Louis. The ancient waiter +is piling up the chairs preparatory to closing the shutters. The Poet +draws forth his small handful of coins; asks what is to pay. “Nothing,” +the waiter answers. A stranger who sat with them and talked awhile +before they fell asleep has paid the bill. They look at one another, but +no one speaks. + +The streets are empty. A thin rain is falling. They turn up the collars +of their coats; strike out into the night. And as their footsteps echo +on the glistening pavement it comes to each of them that they are walking +with a new, brave step. + +I feel so sorry for Dick—for the tens of thousands of happy, healthy, +cared-for lads of whom Dick is the type. There must be millions of +youngsters in the world who have never known hunger, except as an +appetiser to their dinner; who have never felt what it was to be tired, +without the knowledge that a comfortable bed was awaiting them. + +To the well-to-do man or woman life is one perpetual nursery. They are +wakened in the morning—not too early, not till the nursery has been swept +out and made ready, and the fire lighted—awakened gently with a cup of +tea to give them strength and courage for this great business of getting +up—awakened with whispered words, lest any sudden start should make their +little heads ache—the blinds carefully arranged to exclude the naughty +sun, which otherwise might shine into their little eyes and make them +fretful. The water, with the nasty chill off, is put ready for them; +they wash their little hands and faces, all by themselves! Then they are +shaved and have their hair done; their little hands are manicured, their +little corns cut for them. When they are neat and clean, they toddle +into breakfast; they are shown into their little chairs, their little +napkins handed to them; the nice food that is so good for them is put +upon their little plates; the drink is poured out for them into their +cups. If they want to play, there is the day nursery. They have only to +tell kind nurse what game it is they fancy. The toys are at once brought +out. The little gun is put into their hand; the little horse is dragged +forth from its corner, their little feet carefully placed in the +stirrups. The little ball and bat is taken from its box. + +Or they will take the air, as the wise doctor has ordered. The little +carriage will be ready in five minutes; the nice warm cloak is buttoned +round them, the footstool placed beneath their feet, the cushion at their +back. + +The day is done. The games have been played; the toys have been taken +from their tired hands, put back into the cupboard. The food that is so +good for them, that makes them strong little men and women, has all been +eaten. They have been dressed for going out into the pretty Park, +undressed and dressed again for going out to tea with the little boys and +girls next door; undressed and dressed again for the party. They have +read their little book? have seen a little play, have looked at pretty +pictures. The kind gentleman with the long hair has played the piano to +them. They have danced. Their little feet are really quite tired. The +footman brings them home. They are put into their little nighties. The +candle is blown out, the nursery door is softly closed. + +Now and again some restless little man, wearying of the smug nursery, +will run out past the garden gate, and down the long white road; will +find the North Pole or, failing that, the South Pole, or where the Nile +rises, or how it feels to fly; will climb the Mountains of the Moon—do +anything, go anywhere, to escape from Nurse Civilisation’s everlasting +apron strings. + +Or some queer little woman, wondering where the people come from, will +run and run till she comes to the great town, watch in wonder the strange +folk that sweat and groan—the peaceful nursery, with the toys, the pretty +frocks never quite the same again to her. + +But to the nineteen-twentieths of the well-to-do the world beyond the +nursery is an unknown land. Terrible things occur out there to little +men and women who have no pretty nursery to live in. People push and +shove you about, will even tread on your toes if you are not careful. +Out there is no kind, strong Nurse Bank-Balance to hold one’s little +hand, and see that no harm comes to one. Out there, one has to fight +one’s own battles. Often one is cold and hungry, out there. + +One has to fend for oneself, out there; earn one’s dinner before one eats +it, never quite sure of the week after next. Terrible things take place, +out there: strain and contest and fierce endeavour; the ways are full of +dangers and surprises; folk go up, folk go down; you have to set your +teeth and fight. Well-to-do little men and women shudder. Draw down the +nursery blinds. + +Robina had a little dog. It led the usual dog’s life: slept in a basket +on an eiderdown cushion, sheltered from any chance draught by silk +curtains; its milk warmed and sweetened; its cosy chair reserved for it, +in winter, near the fire; in summer, where the sun might reach it; its +three meals a day that a gourmet might have eaten gladly; its very fleas +taken off its hands. + +And twice a year still extra care was needed, lest it should wantonly +fling aside its days and nights of luxurious ease, claim its small share +of the passion and pain that go to the making of dogs and men. For twice +a year there came a wind, salt with the brine of earth’s ceaseless tides, +whispering to it of a wondrous land whose sharpest stones are sweeter +than the silken cushions of all the world without. + +One winter’s night there was great commotion. Babette was nowhere to be +found. We were living in the country, miles away from everywhere. +“Babette, Babette,” cried poor frenzied Robina; and for answer came only +the laughter of the wind, pausing in his game of romps with the +snow-flakes. + +Next morning an old woman from the town four miles away brought back +Babette at the end of a string. Oh, such a soaked, bedraggled Babette! +The old woman had found her crouching in a doorway, a bewildered little +heap of palpitating femininity; and, reading the address upon her collar, +and may be scenting a not impossible reward, had thought she might as +well earn it for herself. + +Robina was shocked, disgusted. To think that Babette—dainty, petted, +spoilt Babette—should have chosen of her own accord to go down into the +mud and darkness of the vulgar town; to leave her curtained eiderdown to +tramp the streets like any drab! Robina, to whom Babette had hitherto +been the ideal dog, moved away to hide her tears of vexation. The old +dame smiled. She had borne her good man eleven, so she told us. It had +been a hard struggle, and some had gone down, and some were dead; but +some, thank God, were doing well. + +The old dame wished us good day; but as she turned to go an impulse +seized her. She crossed to where Babette, ashamed, yet half defiant, sat +a wet, woeful little image on the hearthrug, stooped and lifted the +little creature in her thin, worn arms. + +“It’s trouble you’ve brought yourself,” said the old dame. “You couldn’t +help it, could you?” + +Babette’s little pink tongue stole out. + +“We understand, we know—we Mothers,” they seemed to be saying to one +another. + +And so the two kissed. + + * * * * * + +I think the terrace will be my favourite spot. Ethelbertha thinks, too, +that on sunny days she will like to sit there. From it, through an +opening I have made in the trees, I can see the cottage just a mile away +at the edge of the wood. Young Bute tells me it is the very place he has +been looking for. Most of his time, of course, he has to pass in town, +but his Fridays to Mondays he likes to spend in the country. Maybe I +shall hand it over to him. St. Leonard’s chimneys we can also see above +the trees. Dick tells me he has quite made up his mind to become a +farmer. He thinks it would be a good plan, for a beginning, to go into +partnership with St. Leonard. It is not unlikely that St. Leonard’s +restless temperament may prompt him eventually to tire of farming. He +has a brother in Canada doing well in the lumber business, and St. +Leonard often talks of the advantages of the colonies to a man who is +bringing up a large family. I shall be sorry to lose him as a neighbour; +though I see the advantages, under certain possibilities, of Mrs. St. +Leonard’s address being Manitoba. + +Veronica also thinks the terrace may come to be her favourite +resting-place. + +“I suppose,” said Veronica, “that if anything was to happen to Robina, +everything would fall on me.” + +“It would be a change, Veronica,” I suggested. “Hitherto it is you who +have done most of the falling.” + +“Suppose I’ve got to see about growing up,” said Veronica. + + * * * * * + + THE END. + + + + +***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THEY AND I*** + + +******* This file should be named 2437-0.txt or 2437-0.zip ******* + + +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: +http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/2/4/3/2437 + + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions 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. Special rules, +set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to +copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to +protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. Project +Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you +charge for the eBooks, unless you receive specific permission. If you +do not charge anything for copies of this eBook, complying with the +rules is very easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose +such as creation of derivative works, reports, performances and +research. They may be modified and printed and given away--you may do +practically ANYTHING with public domain eBooks. Redistribution is +subject to the trademark license, especially commercial +redistribution. + + + +*** START: FULL LICENSE *** + +THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE +PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK + +To protect the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting the free +distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work +(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase "Project +Gutenberg"), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full Project +Gutenberg-tm License available with this file or online at + www.gutenberg.org/license. + + +Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic works + +1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to +and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property +(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all +the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or destroy +all copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in your possession. +If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic work and you do not agree to be bound by the +terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person or +entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8. + +1.B. "Project Gutenberg" is a registered trademark. It may only be +used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who +agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few +things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works +even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See +paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works if you follow the terms of this agreement +and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works. See paragraph 1.E below. + +1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation ("the Foundation" +or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection of Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works. Nearly all the individual works in the +collection are in the public domain in the United States. If an +individual work is in the public domain in the United States and you are +located in the United States, we do not claim a right to prevent you from +copying, distributing, performing, displaying or creating derivative +works based on the work as long as all references to Project Gutenberg +are removed. Of course, we hope that you will support the Project +Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting free access to electronic works by +freely sharing Project Gutenberg-tm works in compliance with the terms of +this agreement for keeping the Project Gutenberg-tm name associated with +the work. You can easily comply with the terms of this agreement by +keeping this work in the same format with its attached full Project +Gutenberg-tm License when you share it without charge with others. + +1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern +what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are in +a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, check +the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this agreement +before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, distributing or +creating derivative works based on this work or any other Project +Gutenberg-tm work. The Foundation makes no representations concerning +the copyright status of any work in any country outside the United +States. + +1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg: + +1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other immediate +access to, the full Project Gutenberg-tm License must appear prominently +whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg-tm work (any work on which the +phrase "Project Gutenberg" appears, or with which the phrase "Project +Gutenberg" is associated) is accessed, displayed, performed, viewed, +copied or distributed: + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere 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 + +1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is derived +from the public domain (does not contain a notice indicating that it is +posted with permission of the copyright holder), the work can be copied +and distributed to anyone in the United States without paying any fees +or charges. If you are redistributing or providing access to a work +with the phrase "Project Gutenberg" associated with or appearing on the +work, you must comply either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 +through 1.E.7 or obtain permission for the use of the work and the +Project Gutenberg-tm trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or +1.E.9. + +1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is posted +with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution +must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any additional +terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms will be linked +to the Project Gutenberg-tm License for all works posted with the +permission of the copyright holder found at the beginning of this work. + +1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg-tm +License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this +work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg-tm. + +1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this +electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without +prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with +active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project +Gutenberg-tm License. + +1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary, +compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including any +word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access to or +distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg-tm work in a format other than +"Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other format used in the official version +posted on the official Project Gutenberg-tm web site (www.gutenberg.org), +you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense to the user, provide a +copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means of obtaining a copy upon +request, of the work in its original "Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other +form. Any alternate format must include the full Project Gutenberg-tm +License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1. + +1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying, +performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg-tm works +unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. + +1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing +access to or distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works provided +that + +- You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from + the use of Project Gutenberg-tm works calculated using the method + you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is + owed to the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark, but he + has agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the + Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments + must be paid within 60 days following each date on which you + prepare (or are legally required to prepare) your periodic tax + returns. Royalty payments should be clearly marked as such and + sent to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the + address specified in Section 4, "Information about donations to + the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation." + +- You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies + you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he + does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg-tm + License. You must require such a user to return or + destroy all copies of the works possessed in a physical medium + and discontinue all use of and all access to other copies of + Project Gutenberg-tm works. + +- You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of any + money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the + electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days + of receipt of the work. + +- You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free + distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm works. + +1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic work or group of works on different terms than are set +forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing from +both the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and Michael +Hart, the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark. Contact the +Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below. + +1.F. + +1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable +effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread +public domain works in creating the Project Gutenberg-tm +collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may contain +"Defects," such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate or +corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other intellectual +property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or other medium, a +computer virus, or computer codes that damage or cannot be read by +your equipment. + +1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the "Right +of Replacement or Refund" described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project +Gutenberg-tm trademark, and any other party distributing a Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all +liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal +fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT +LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE +PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE +TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE +LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR +INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH +DAMAGE. + +1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a +defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can +receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a +written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you +received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium with +your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you with +the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in lieu of a +refund. If you received the work electronically, the person or entity +providing it to you may choose to give you a second opportunity to +receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If the second copy +is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing without further +opportunities to fix the problem. + +1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth +in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you 'AS-IS', WITH NO OTHER +WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO +WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE. + +1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied +warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of damages. +If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement violates the +law of the state applicable to this agreement, the agreement shall be +interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or limitation permitted by +the applicable state law. The invalidity or unenforceability of any +provision of this agreement shall not void the remaining provisions. + +1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the +trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone +providing copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in accordance +with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the production, +promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works, +harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, including legal fees, +that arise directly or indirectly from any of the following which you do +or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this or any Project Gutenberg-tm +work, (b) alteration, modification, or additions or deletions to any +Project Gutenberg-tm work, and (c) any Defect you cause. + + +Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg-tm + +Project Gutenberg-tm is synonymous with the free distribution of +electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of computers +including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It exists +because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations from +people in all walks of life. + +Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the +assistance they need are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg-tm's +goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg-tm collection will +remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure +and permanent future for Project Gutenberg-tm and future generations. +To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation +and how your efforts and donations can help, see Sections 3 and 4 +and the Foundation information page at www.gutenberg.org + + +Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive +Foundation + +The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non profit +501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the +state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal +Revenue Service. The Foundation's EIN or federal tax identification +number is 64-6221541. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg +Literary Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent +permitted by U.S. federal laws and your state's laws. + +The Foundation's principal office is located at 4557 Melan Dr. S. +Fairbanks, AK, 99712., but its volunteers and employees are scattered +throughout numerous locations. Its business office is located at 809 +North 1500 West, Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887. Email +contact links and up to date contact information can be found at the +Foundation's web site and official page at www.gutenberg.org/contact + +For additional contact information: + Dr. Gregory B. Newby + Chief Executive and Director + gbnewby@pglaf.org + +Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg +Literary Archive Foundation + +Project Gutenberg-tm depends upon and cannot survive without wide +spread public support and donations to carry out its mission of +increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be +freely distributed in machine readable form accessible by the widest +array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations +($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt +status with the IRS. + +The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating +charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United +States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a +considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up +with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations +where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To +SEND DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any +particular state visit www.gutenberg.org/donate + +While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we +have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition +against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who +approach us with offers to donate. + +International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make +any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from +outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff. + +Please check the Project Gutenberg Web pages for current donation +methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other +ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. +To donate, please visit: www.gutenberg.org/donate + + +Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works. + +Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project Gutenberg-tm +concept of a library of electronic works that could be freely shared +with anyone. For forty years, he produced and distributed Project +Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support. + +Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the U.S. +unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not necessarily +keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition. + +Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility: + + www.gutenberg.org + +This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, +including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to +subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. |