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Jerome</title> + <style type="text/css"> +/*<![CDATA[ XML blockout */ +<!-- + P { margin-top: .75em; + margin-bottom: .75em; + } + P.gutsumm { margin-left: 5%;} + P.poetry {margin-left: 3%; } + .GutSmall { font-size: 0.7em; } + H1, H2 { + text-align: center; + margin-top: 2em; + margin-bottom: 2em; + } + H3, H4, H5 { + text-align: center; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; + } + BODY{margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; + } + table { border-collapse: collapse; } +table {margin-left:auto; margin-right:auto;} + td { vertical-align: top; border: 1px solid black;} + td p { margin: 0.2em; } + .blkquot {margin-left: 4em; margin-right: 4em;} /* block indent */ + + .smcap {font-variant: small-caps;} + + .pagenum {position: absolute; + left: 92%; + font-size: small; + text-align: right; + font-weight: normal; + color: gray; + } + img { border: none; } + img.dc { float: left; width: 50px; height: 50px; } + p.gutindent { margin-left: 2em; } + div.gapspace { height: 0.8em; } + div.gapline { height: 0.8em; width: 100%; border-top: 1px solid;} + div.gapmediumline { height: 0.3em; width: 40%; margin-left:30%; + border-top: 1px solid; } + div.gapmediumdoubleline { height: 0.3em; width: 40%; margin-left:30%; + border-top: 1px solid; border-bottom: 1px solid;} + div.gapshortdoubleline { height: 0.3em; width: 20%; + margin-left: 40%; border-top: 1px solid; + border-bottom: 1px solid; } + div.gapdoubleline { height: 0.3em; width: 50%; + margin-left: 25%; border-top: 1px solid; + border-bottom: 1px solid;} + div.gapshortline { height: 0.3em; width: 20%; margin-left:40%; + border-top: 1px solid; } + .citation {vertical-align: super; + font-size: .8em; + text-decoration: none;} + img.floatleft { float: left; + margin-right: 1em; + margin-top: 0.5em; margin-bottom: 0.5em; } + img.floatright { float: right; + margin-left: 1em; margin-top: 0.5em; + margin-bottom: 0.5em; } + img.clearcenter {display: block; + margin-left: auto; + margin-right: auto; margin-top: 0.5em; + margin-bottom: 0.5em} + --> + /* XML end ]]>*/ + </style> +</head> +<body> +<pre> + +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: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII) + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THEY AND I*** +</pre> +<p>Transcribed from the 1909 Bernhard Tauchnitz edition by David +Price, email ccx074@pglaf.org</p> +<h1>THEY AND I</h1> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p style="text-align: center"><span +class="GutSmall">BY</span></p> +<p style="text-align: center">JEROME K. JEROME</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="GutSmall">AUTHOR +OF</span><br /> +<span class="GutSmall">“THE IDLE THOUGHTS OF AN IDLE +FELLOW,” “THREE MEN ON</span><br /> +<span class="GutSmall">THE BUMMEL,” “PAUL +KELVER,” ETC.</span></p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>COPYRIGHT EDITION</i></p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p style="text-align: center">LEIPZIG</p> +<p style="text-align: center">BERNHARD TAUCHNITZ</p> +<p style="text-align: center">1909.</p> +<h2>CHAPTER I</h2> +<p>“<span class="smcap">It</span> 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—”</p> +<p>“Never mind the kitchen,” said Dick: “what +about the billiard-room?”</p> +<p>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—”</p> +<p>“What’s this thing in the middle of the hall, that +looks like a grating?” demanded Robina.</p> +<p>“She means the stairs,” explained Dick.</p> +<p>“Then why don’t they look like stairs?” +commented Robina.</p> +<p>“They do,” replied Dick, “to people with +sense.”</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“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—”</p> +<p>“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—”</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“I wish you would be sensible,” said Robin.</p> +<p>“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—</p> +<p>“Don’t forget the billiard-room,” said +Dick.</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“You talk like that,” retorted Dick, “merely +because you can’t play.”</p> +<p>“I can beat you, anyhow,” retorted Robin.</p> +<p>“Once,” admitted Dick—“once in six +weeks.”</p> +<p>“Twice,” corrected Robin.</p> +<p>“You don’t play,” Dick explained to her; +“you just whack round and trust to Providence.”</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“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—”</p> +<p>“If you get a really good table, governor,” said +Dick, “I’ll teach you billiards.”</p> +<p>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.”</p> +<p>‘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.”</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“Good beginning!” said the Captain.</p> +<p>Malooney seemed pleased with himself, and took off his +coat.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“Ninety-nine plays nothing,” said Dick, who was +marking. “Better make it a hundred and fifty, +hadn’t we, Captain?”</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“Whatever you think right, sir,” said Rory +Malooney.</p> +<p>Malooney finished his break for twenty-two, leaving himself +hanging over the middle pocket and the red tucked up in +baulk.</p> +<p>“Nothing plays a hundred and eight,” said +Dick.</p> +<p>“When I want the score,” said the Captain, +“I’ll ask for it.”</p> +<p>“Beg pardon, sir,” said Dick.</p> +<p>“I hate a noisy game,” said the Captain.</p> +<p>The Captain, making up his mind without much waste of time, +sent his ball under the cushion, six inches outside baulk.</p> +<p>“What will I do here?” asked Malooney.</p> +<p>“I don’t know what you will do,” said the +Captain; “I’m waiting to see.”</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“Sixty-two plays one hundred and twenty-eight. Now +then, Captain, game in your hands,” said Dick.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“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—”</p> +<p>“Hush,” said Dick.</p> +<p>The Captain drew his cue back and gently pushed it +forward.</p> +<p>“Pretty stroke,” I whispered to Malooney; +“now, that’s the sort—”</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“Why does he do that?” Malooney whispered. +Malooney has a singularly hearty whisper.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“Veronica,” I said, “are you not ashamed of +yourself? You wicked child, how dare you—”</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“Well, if he scores off that!” said Dick.</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>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?</p> +<p>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 <i>The Field</i>.</p> +<p>It remains still undecided. The Captain came into my +study the next morning. He said: “If you +haven’t written that letter to <i>The Field</i>, +don’t mention my name. They know me on <i>The +Field</i>. 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.”</p> +<p>“Well,” I answered, “I know most of the +fellows on <i>The Field</i> 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.”</p> +<p>“It is not a point likely to crop up often,” said +the Captain. “I’d let it rest if I were +you.”</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“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—”</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>Minus Twenty was even more astonished. I heard him as I +passed:</p> +<p>“Who handicapped this man?” he asked.</p> +<p>“I did,” said the pleasant-spoken youngster.</p> +<p>“Oh,” said Minus Twenty—“friend of +yours, I presume?”</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“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—”</p> +<p>“Can I have a room to myself?” asked Veronica.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“I should so like to have a room all to myself,” +added Veronica.</p> +<p>“It would be a room!” commented Robin.</p> +<p>“It wouldn’t have your hairpins sticking up all +over the bed, anyhow,” murmured Veronica dreamily.</p> +<p>“I like that!” said Robin; +“why—”</p> +<p>“You’re harder than I am,” said +Veronica.</p> +<p>“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—”</p> +<p>“I’m not untidy,” said Robin, “not +really. I know where everything is in the dark—if +people would only leave them alone.”</p> +<p>“You are. You’re about the most untidy girl +I know,” said Dick.</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“When a man’s working—” said Dick.</p> +<p>“He must have an orderly place to work in,” +suggested Robin.</p> +<p>Dick sighed. “It’s never any good talking to +you,” said Dick. “You don’t even see your +own faults.”</p> +<p>“I can,” said Robin; “I see them more than +anyone. All I claim is justice.”</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“I put it out to be mended,” explained +Veronica.</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“You are too high-spirited for your size,” +explained Dick to her. “Try to be less +dashing.”</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“People look in such funny places for them,” said +Veronica.</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>Veronica was still gazing dreamily into the fire.</p> +<p>“I suppose,” said Veronica, “it’s +reditty.”</p> +<p>“It’s what?” I said.</p> +<p>“She means heredity,” suggested +Dick—“cheeky young beggar! I wonder you let her +talk to you the way she does.”</p> +<p>“Besides,” added Robin, “as I am always +explaining to you, Pa is a literary man. With him it is +part of his temperament.”</p> +<p>“It’s hard on us children,” said +Veronica.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<h2>CHAPTER II</h2> +<p>“<span class="smcap">Do</span> you mean, Governor, that +you have actually bought the house?” demanded Dick, +“or are we only talking about it?”</p> +<p>“This time, Dick,” I answered, “I have done +it.”</p> +<p>Dick looked serious. “Is it what you +wanted?” he asked.</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“You are mixing things up,” Dick interrupted, +“gables and oriel windows don’t go +together.”</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“And what is this place like?” demanded Robin, +“this place you have bought.”</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“Near to the river?” demanded Dick.</p> +<p>“Well, by the road,” I answered, “I daresay +it may be a couple of miles.”</p> +<p>“And by the shortest way?” questioned Dick.</p> +<p>“That is the shortest way,” I explained; +“there’s a prettier way through the woods, but that +is about three miles and a half.”</p> +<p>“But we had decided it was to be near the river,” +said Robin.</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“Any reason at all for your having bought it?” +asked Dick.</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“But why this particular house?” urged Robin, +“if, as you say, it is not the house you wanted.”</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“‘I’m going to count twenty,’ he +said. ‘If you are not the other side of the gate by +then, I shoot.’</p> +<p>“I ran over the figures myself on my way to the +gate. I made it eighteen.</p> +<p>“I had an hour to wait for the train. I talked the +matter over with the station-master.</p> +<p>“‘Yes,’ he said, ‘there’ll be +trouble up there one of these days.’</p> +<p>“I said, ‘It seems to me to have begun.’</p> +<p>“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.’</p> +<p>“‘If I’d been two seconds longer,’ I +said, ‘I believe he’d have done it.’</p> +<p>“‘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.’</p> +<p>“‘I don’t envy,’ I said, ‘the +next person that finds it.’</p> +<p>“‘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.’”</p> +<p>“And did he,” asked Dick—“did he shoot +the next party that came along?”</p> +<p>“Don’t be so silly, Dick,” said Robin; +“it’s a story. Tell us another, Pa.”</p> +<p>“I don’t know what you mean, Robina, by a +story,” I said. “If you mean to +imply—”</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“And none of the other houses,” suggested Dick, +“were any good at all?”</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“All humbug, I suppose,” suggested Dick.</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“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?”</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“Was there a drawbridge?” asked Dick.</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“Then what about the Norman arches?” argued +Dick.</p> +<p>“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:—</p> +<p>“‘You don’t mind cooking in a dungeon in the +dark, do you?’</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“Wasn’t there any trout stream?” questioned +Robin.</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“What about cupboards?” suggested Dick. +“The Little Mother will clamour for cupboards.”</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“It’s all very nice,” she answers, +“but where are the children going to sleep?”</p> +<p>It is so disheartening.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“What, out of that nasty place!” she exclaims.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>It calls for tact, getting a woman into a new house. She +is nervous, suspicious.</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“Will there be room for a tennis court?” demanded +Dick.</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“We might have a croquet lawn,” suggested +Robin.</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“No chance of a golf links anywhere in the +neighbourhood?” feared Dick.</p> +<p>“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—”</p> +<p>“I say, when will this show be ready?” interrupted +Dick.</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“I shall never marry,” said Robin.</p> +<p>“Don’t be so easily discouraged,” advised +Dick; “you are still young.”</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“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?”</p> +<p>By way of explanation, Robin sprang to the ground, and before +he could stop her had flung her arms around Dick’s +neck.</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<h2>CHAPTER III</h2> +<p><span class="smcap">It</span> 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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“This is early for you,” I said.</p> +<p>“It’s early for anyone but a born fool,” he +answered.</p> +<p>“What’s the matter?” I asked. +“Can’t you sleep?”</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“Well, you are through with it now,” I said to +console him. “You’ve done it; and it’s +over.”</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“Can’t you imagine it?” I suggested.</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“It’ll give me my death of cold, I know it +will,” he chattered while unlacing his boots.</p> +<p>“Can’t you leave it till the summer-time,” I +suggested, “and take her to Ostend?”</p> +<p>“It wouldn’t be unconventional,” he +growled. “She wouldn’t take an interest in +it.”</p> +<p>“But do they allow ladies to bathe in the +Serpentine?” I persisted.</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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:</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>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.”</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.”</p> +<p>“You know the cow?” I said.</p> +<p>“Well,” he explained, “we don’t +precisely move in the sime set. Sort o’ business +relytionship more like—if you understand me?”</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“Whose cow is it?” I asked.</p> +<p>He stared at me.</p> +<p>“I want to know to whom it belongs,” I said. +“I want to restore it to him.”</p> +<p>“Excuse me,” said the boy, “but where do you +live?”</p> +<p>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?”</p> +<p>“It’s your cow,” said the boy.</p> +<p>It was my turn to stare.</p> +<p>“But I haven’t got a cow,” I told him.</p> +<p>“Yus you have,” he persisted; “you’ve +got that cow.”</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“How did I get her?” I demanded.</p> +<p>“The young lydy,” explained the boy, “she +came rahnd to our plice on Tuesday—”</p> +<p>I began to see light. “An excitable young +lady—talks very fast—never waits for the +answer?”</p> +<p>“With jolly fine eyes,” added the boy +approvingly.</p> +<p>“And she ordered a cow?”</p> +<p>“Didn’t seem to ’ave strength enough to live +another dy withaht it.”</p> +<p>“Any stipulation made concerning the price of the +cow?”</p> +<p>“Any what?”</p> +<p>“The young lady with the eyes—did she think to ask +the price of the cow?”</p> +<p>“No sordid details was entered into, so far as I could +’ear,” replied the boy.</p> +<p>They would not have been—by Robina.</p> +<p>“Any hint let fall as to what the cow was wanted +for?”</p> +<p>“The lydy gives us to understand,” said the boy, +“that fresh milk was ’er idea.”</p> +<p>That surprised me: that was thoughtful of Robina. +“And this is the cow?”</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“What is she bellowing for?” I asked.</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“But it started bellowing at half-past two,” I +argued. “It doesn’t expect to be milked at +half-past two, does it?”</p> +<p>“Meself,” said the boy, “I’ve given up +looking for sense in cows.”</p> +<p>In some unaccountable way this boy was hypnotising me. +Everything had suddenly become out of place.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“Are you a real farmer’s boy?” I asked +him.</p> +<p>“O’ course I am,” he answered. +“What do yer tike me for—a hartist in +disguise?”</p> +<p>It came to me. “What is your name?”</p> +<p>“’Enery—’Enery +’Opkins.”</p> +<p>“Where were you born?”</p> +<p>“Camden Tahn.”</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“Do you want to earn an occasional shilling?” I +put it to him.</p> +<p>“I’d rather it come reggler,” said +Hopkins. “Better for me kerrickter.”</p> +<p>“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.’”</p> +<p>“Sure it’s Berkshire?” demanded +Hopkins. “You’re confident about +it?” There is a type that is by nature +suspicious.</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“Well, don’t dream any more,” I +suggested. “Come down and see to this confounded cow +of yours.”</p> +<p>“Oh,” said Veronica, “has it +come?”</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>Robina said she would be down in a minute.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>Robina was wandering round the room.</p> +<p>“You haven’t come across a milking-stool anywhere, +have you, Pa?” asked Robina.</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“I suppose,” said Robina, “there’s +only one way of milking a cow?”</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>Robina sat down and placed her bucket underneath the cow.</p> +<p>“I suppose,” said Robina, “it doesn’t +matter which—which one I begin with?”</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“But I thought—”</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>Dick has one virtue: it is philosophy. “Come on, +young ’un,” said Dick to Veronica. +“Trouble is good for us all.”</p> +<p>“Some of us,” said Veronica, “it makes +bitter.”</p> +<p>We sat down to breakfast at eight-thirty.</p> +<h2>CHAPTER IV</h2> +<p><span class="smcap">Our</span> architect arrived on Friday +afternoon, or rather, his assistant.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“Well, what are you going on like that for?” asked +Robina. “It hasn’t bit you, has it?”</p> +<p>“It’s been out all night in the wet,” +shouted Veronica. “He forgot to bring it +in.”</p> +<p>“You wicked child!” said Robina severely. +“It’s nothing to be pleased about.”</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>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.”</p> +<p>“Well, then, why don’t he go to bed?” argued +Veronica.</p> +<p>Robina took her by the arm and walked her up and down just +underneath my window. I listened, because the conversation +interested me.</p> +<p>“Pa, as I am always explaining to you,” said +Robina, “is a literary man. He cannot help forgetting +things.”</p> +<p>“Well, I can’t help forgetting things,” +insisted Veronica.</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“Good thing for us if we was all literary,” +suggested Veronica.</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“Can’t you help doing anything when you are +literary?” asked Veronica.</p> +<p>“There’s a good deal you can’t help,” +answered Robina. “It isn’t fair to judge them +by the ordinary standard.”</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“You get things from your father, don’t +you?” she enquired of me.</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“I didn’t mean the pencil,” explained +Veronica. “I was wondering if I had got your literary +temper.”</p> +<p>It is puzzling, when you come to think of it, this estimate +accorded by the general public to the +<i>littérateur</i>. 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.</p> +<p>“The ordinary girl . . . ” Robina will begin, with +the air of a University Extension Lecturer.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“Yes, I know,” Robina will answer sweetly. +“But I was meaning the real girl.”</p> +<p>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:</p> +<p>“Of course, Pa dear. Everybody knows how clever +you are. But I was thinking for the moment of real +girls.”</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“But that is all,” I told them.</p> +<p>“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!”</p> +<p>“But she wasn’t the ordinary sort of +Princess,” I argued.</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“But she didn’t,” I persisted +obstinately. “She married the Dragon and lived happy +ever afterwards.”</p> +<p>Hocker adopted sterner measures. He seized my arm and +twisted it behind me.</p> +<p>“She married who?” demanded Hocker: grammar was +not Hocker’s strong point.</p> +<p>“The Dragon,” I growled.</p> +<p>“She married who?” repeated Hocker.</p> +<p>“The Dragon,” I whined.</p> +<p>“She married who?” for the third time urged +Hocker.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>He is a dangerous fellow, this wandering Wind; he leads me +astray. I was talking about our architect.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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:</p> +<p>“You wicked boy! Go into the cosy corner this very +minute!”</p> +<p>In the house of the future the place of punishment will have +to be the middle of the room. The angry mother will +exclaim:</p> +<p>“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!”</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>It struck me there was sense in what he said. I decided +not to mention my idea of carving 1553 above the front-door.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“Not to you, sir, perhaps,” he answered, with a +smile. “It is not with you that she will be +indignant.”</p> +<p>“That will be all right, my boy,” I told him; +“I take all responsibility.”</p> +<p>“And I shall get all the blame,” he laughed.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“They are just overgrown children, that’s all they +are, poor dears,” she laughed.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“Isn’t this the back-door again, sir?” he +enquired.</p> +<p>It was the back-door; I had not noticed it.</p> +<p>“Hadn’t we better go round to the front, sir, +don’t you think?” he said.</p> +<p>“It doesn’t matter—” I began.</p> +<p>But he had disappeared. So I followed him, and we +entered by the front. Robina was standing by the table, +peeling potatoes.</p> +<p>“I have brought Mr. Bute back with me,” I +explained. “He is going to stop the night.”</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“I do hope she isn’t put out,” said young +Bute.</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“I do wish we hadn’t opened the door of the wrong +room,” groaned young Bute.</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>The dinner was more successful than I had hoped for. +Robina gave us melon as a <i>hors d’œuvre</i>, +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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“He’ll write something so funny about this +dinner,” they said.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“Because we are idiots, most of us, Veronica,” I +answered.</p> +<h2>CHAPTER V</h2> +<p>I <span class="smcap">started</span> 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.</p> +<p>“Rain,” says Providence, “they are wanting +rain. What did I do with that rain?”</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“Raining,” explains Providence. “They +wanted rain—farmers, you know, that sort of +people.”</p> +<p>“They won’t want anything for long,” retorts +the Spirit. “They’ll be drowned in their beds +before you’ve done with them.”</p> +<p>“Don’t say that!” says Providence.</p> +<p>“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?”</p> +<p>“It is so difficult,” says Providence, “to +regulate these things just right.”</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“Been down there again?” she asks him +pleasantly.</p> +<p>“Just come back,” explains the Wandering +Spirit.</p> +<p>“Pretty spot, isn’t it?” says +Providence. “Things nice and dry down there now, +aren’t they?”</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>One imagines Providence bursting into tears. “But +you suggested yourself a little fine weather.”</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“I do wish this job had been given to someone +else,” says Providence.</p> +<p>“Yes, and you are not the only one to wish it,” +retorts the Spirit unfeelingly.</p> +<p>“I do my best,” urges Providence, wiping her eyes +with her wings. “I am not fitted for it.”</p> +<p>“A truer word you never uttered,” retorts the +Spirit.</p> +<p>“I try—nobody could try harder,” wails +Providence. “Everything I do seems to be +wrong.”</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“I’ll try again,” said Providence. +“I’ll try quite hard this time.”</p> +<p>“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?”</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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:</p> +<p>“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?”</p> +<p>It was an awkward question.</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>The whimsical smile with which he accompanied the speech +disarmed me.</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“I am not laughing at philosophy,” I said. +“I honestly thought you were a philosopher. I judged +so from the way you talked.”</p> +<p>“Talked!” he retorted. “Anybody can +talk. As you have just said, I talk like a +philosopher.”</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>I wanted to keep him in good humour. I had three things +to talk to him about: the cow, the donkey, and Dick.</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>I felt I had got to understand this man, or he would worry +me.</p> +<p>“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?”</p> +<p>“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—”</p> +<p>“Why don’t you cover over the well?” I +suggested.</p> +<p>“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?’”</p> +<p>“Seems to be sound advice,” I commented.</p> +<p>“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?”</p> +<p>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—”</p> +<p>A voice crying to us to stop interrupted him.</p> +<p>“Am on my round. Can’t come,” he +shouted.</p> +<p>“But you must,” explained the voice.</p> +<p>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.”</p> +<p>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—</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“What time is it?” he asked, feeling his waistcoat +for a watch that appeared not to be there.</p> +<p>“Quarter to eleven,” I told him.</p> +<p>He took his head between his hands. “Good +God!” he cried, “you don’t say that!”</p> +<p>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.”</p> +<p>We turned towards the house.</p> +<p>“Speaking of the practical,” I said, “there +were three things I came to talk to you about. First and +foremost, that cow.”</p> +<p>“Ah, yes, the cow,” said St. Leonard. He +turned to his daughter. “It was Maud, was it +not?”</p> +<p>“No,” she answered, “it was +Susie.”</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“On Thursday morning,” returned Janie; “the +day we sent her over.”</p> +<p>“They feel it so at first,” said St. Leonard +sympathetically.</p> +<p>“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?”</p> +<p>Miss Janie smiled. When she smiled, you felt you would +do much to see her smile again.</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“Very well,” I said; “we will regard the cow +as settled.”</p> +<p>I made a note: “Cow, sixteen pounds. Have the +cowshed got ready, and buy one of those big cans on +wheels.”</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“At twopence halfpenny a quart, delivered at the house, +as much as you like,” replied Miss Janie.</p> +<p>I made a note of that also. “Happen to know a +useful boy?” I asked Miss Janie.</p> +<p>“What about young Hopkins,” suggested her +father.</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“The only fault I have to find with Hopkins,” said +St. Leonard, “is that he talks too much.”</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“I think I know the sort of thing you mean,” +smiled Miss Janie. “Are you fairly +good-tempered?”</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“I’ll send you up a boy,” promised Miss +Janie.</p> +<p>I thanked her. “And now we come to the +donkey.”</p> +<p>“Nathaniel,” explained Miss Janie, in answer to +her father’s look of enquiry. “We don’t +really want it.”</p> +<p>“Janie,” said Mr. St. Leonard in a tone of +authority, “I insist upon being honest.”</p> +<p>“I was going to be honest,” retorted Miss Janie, +offended.</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“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—”</p> +<p>“He draws a cart,” interrupted Miss Janie.</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>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?”</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“I believe,” said Miss Janie, as she drew away, +wiping her cheek, “one could teach that donkey +anything.”</p> +<p>Apparently she regarded willingness to kiss her as indication +of exceptional amiability.</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“For nothing?” demanded Janie woefully.</p> +<p>“For nothing,” insisted her father. +“And if I have any argument, I’ll throw in the +cart.”</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“I don’t know what it is,” said St. Leonard, +“but he has a way with him.”</p> +<p>“And now,” I said, “there remains but +Dick.”</p> +<p>“The lad I saw yesterday?” suggested St. +Leonard. “Good-looking young fellow.”</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>Miss Janie was smiling. I asked her why.</p> +<p>“I was thinking,” she answered, “how close +the resemblance appears to be between him and +Nathaniel.”</p> +<p>It was true. I had not thought of it.</p> +<p>“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—”</p> +<p>“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?”</p> +<p>St. Leonard grasped his head between his hands and held it +firmly. “If I consent,” he said, “I must +insist on being honest.”</p> +<p>I saw the woefulness again in Janie’s eyes.</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>He regarded us both suspiciously.</p> +<p>“I will promise to be honest,” laughed Miss +Janie.</p> +<p>“If it’s more than I’m worth,” he +said, “I’ll send him home again. My theory +is—”</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“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—”</p> +<p>I looked at her. Her’s is the beauty to which a +touch of sadness adds a charm.</p> +<p>“How old are you?” I asked her.</p> +<p>“Twenty,” she answered, “next +birthday.”</p> +<p>“I judged you to be older,” I said.</p> +<p>“Most people do,” she answered.</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“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?”</p> +<p>I made a note of it then and there.</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“What view do you take of the exchange,” I asked +her, “from stockbroking with its larger income to farming +with its smaller?”</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“You, as the business partner,” I asked her, +“are hopeful that the farm will pay?”</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“We have not settled about Dick,” I reminded +her.</p> +<p>“Mother took rather a liking to him,” she +murmured.</p> +<p>“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!”</p> +<p>“He has promised to work hard if you let him take up +farming,” said Miss Janie.</p> +<p>“He has been talking to you?” I said.</p> +<p>She admitted it.</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“I shall be very disappointed in him if he does,” +she said.</p> +<p>“I will tell him that,” I said, “it may +help. People don’t like other people to be +disappointed in them.”</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“I will tell him,” I suggested, “that we +shall all be disappointed in him.”</p> +<p>She agreed to that, and we parted. I remembered, when +she was gone, that after all we had not settled terms.</p> +<p>Dick overtook me a little way from home.</p> +<p>“I have settled your business,” I told him.</p> +<p>“It’s awfully good of you,” said Dick.</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“That’s all right, governor,” he answered +cheerfully. “Don’t you worry.”</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“I’ll get on all right with him,” answered +Dick. “Jolly old duffer, ain’t he?”</p> +<p>“Miss Janie will also be disappointed in you,” I +added.</p> +<p>“Did she say that?” he asked.</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>Dick walked beside me in silence for awhile.</p> +<p>“Sorry I’ve been a worry to you, dad,” he +said at last</p> +<p>“Glad to hear you say so,” I replied.</p> +<p>“I’m going to turn over a new leaf, dad,” he +said. “I’m going to work hard.”</p> +<p>“About time,” I said.</p> +<h2>CHAPTER VI</h2> +<p><span class="smcap">We</span> 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.</p> +<p>“I never heard before,” said Dick, “of cold +fried bacon as a <i>hors d’œuvre</i>.”</p> +<p>“It is not a <i>hors d’œuvre</i>,” +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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“Wish I had,” growled Dick.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“Sounds a bit damp,” the good woman would +reply.</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“Do they do much of that sort of thing down +there?” the good woman would enquire.</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“It must be the imitative instinct asserting +itself,” suggests the good woman. “As you, +dear, have so often pointed out, one crime makes +another.”</p> +<p>“I have always said so,” he agrees; “it has +always been a theory of mine.”</p> +<p>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.”</p> +<p>“You can’t expect everyone, dear, to possess your +repertoire,” the good woman remarks.</p> +<p>“Needn’t say he’s just heard it that +afternoon, anyhow,” responds the good man.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“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—”</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>Her pathetic humility should have appealed to him. He +can be sympathetic, when he isn’t hungry. Just then +he happened to be hungry.</p> +<p>“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!”</p> +<p>There is one thing—she admits it herself—that +exhausts Veronica’s patience: it is unjust suspicion.</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“You said just now you had had your lunch,” Dick +argued.</p> +<p>“I know I did,” Veronica admitted. +“One minute you are told that it is wicked to tell lies; +the next—”</p> +<p>“Veronica!” Robina interrupted threateningly.</p> +<p>“It’s easy for you,” retorted +Veronica. “You are not a growing child. You +don’t feel it.”</p> +<p>“The least you can do,” said Robina, “is to +keep silence.”</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“That I were dead,” I corrected her. +“The verb ‘to wish,’ implying uncertainty, +should always be followed by the conditional mood.”</p> +<p>“You ought,” said Robina, “to be thankful to +Providence that you’re not dead.”</p> +<p>“People are sorry when you’re dead,” said +Veronica.</p> +<p>“I suppose there’s some bread-and-cheese in the +house,” suggested Dick.</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“Accidents will happen,” I said. “The +philosopher—as our friend St. Leonard would tell +us—only smiles.”</p> +<p>“I could smile,” said Dick, “if it were his +lunch.”</p> +<p>“Cultivate,” I said, “a sense of +humour. From a humorous point of view this lunch is rather +good.”</p> +<p>“Did you have anything to eat at the St. +Leonards’?” he asked.</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>Dick made no answer, but continued to chew bacon-rind. +Nothing I could say seemed to cheer him. I thought I would +try religion.</p> +<p>“A dinner of herbs—the sentiment applies equally +to lunch—and contentment therewith is better,” I +said, “than a stalled ox.”</p> +<p>“Don’t talk about oxen,” he interrupted +fretfully. “I feel I could just eat one—a plump +one.”</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“By ‘it’ you mean . . . ?” I said.</p> +<p>“Of course,” he answered; “I’m talking +about it.”</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>Cheerful expectancy, he said, was a wonderful aid to +digestion. “I call myself;” he said, “a +cheerful feeder.”</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“How can you think of anything,” he argued, +“when your stomach’s out of order?”</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“It is easy to sneer,” he said.</p> +<p>“I am not sneering,” I said; “I am +sympathising with you.”</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“Nice sort of man?” he asked.</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“Married?” demanded Dick.</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“What about Robina here!” suggested Dick. +“Seem to have been made for one another.”</p> +<p>Robina smiled. It was a wan, pathetic smile.</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“Why, what on earth’s the matter, old girl?” +asked Dick. “Have you had an accident?”</p> +<p>Then it was that Robina exploded. I had been wondering +when it would happen. To Dick’s astonishment it +happened then.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>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—</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>He opened the kitchen door and looked in.</p> +<p>“Great Scott!” he said. “What was +it—an earthquake?”</p> +<p>I looked in over his shoulder.</p> +<p>“But it could not have been an earthquake,” I +said. “We should have felt it.”</p> +<p>“It is not an earthquake,” explained Robina. +“It is your youngest daughter’s notion of making +herself useful.”</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“But how did she do it?” I demanded. +“It is impossible that a mere child—where is the +child?”</p> +<p>The parlour contained but Robina. I hurried to the door; +Dick was already half across the field. Veronica I could +not see.</p> +<p>“We are making haste,” Dick shouted back, +“in case it is early-closing day.”</p> +<p>“I want Veronica!” I shouted.</p> +<p>“What?” shouted Dick.</p> +<p>“Veronica!” I shouted with my hands to my +mouth.</p> +<p>“Yes!” shouted Dick. “She’s on +ahead.”</p> +<p>It was useless screaming any more. He was now climbing +the stile.</p> +<p>“They always take each other’s part, those +two,” sighed Robina.</p> +<p>“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?”</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“What’s that?” I asked.</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“What was the game this time?” I asked.</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“What was the sense you did get out of her?” I +asked.</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“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—”</p> +<p>“Who said?” I asked.</p> +<p>“Why, she did,” answered Robina, +“Harry’s mother. She said that very often a +pennyworth of gunpowder—”</p> +<p>“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?”</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“Did Veronica know how he was—anything about +him?” I asked.</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“They must have got a pound of it from somewhere,” +said Robina, “judging from the result.”</p> +<p>“Any notion where they got it from?” I asked.</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“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?”</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“It might have turned out rather seriously,” +thought Robina.</p> +<p>“It might,” I agreed: “she might be lying +upstairs.”</p> +<p>“She is a wicked, heartless child,” said Robina; +“she ought to be punished.”</p> +<p>I lent Robina my handkerchief; she never has one of her +own.</p> +<p>“She is going to be punished,” I said; “I +will think of something.”</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“They will probably give her indigestion,” I +said. “I hope they do.”</p> +<p>“Why didn’t you have better children?” +sobbed Robina; “we are none of us any good to +you.”</p> +<p>“You are not the children I wanted, I confess,” I +answered.</p> +<p>“That’s a nice kind thing to say!” retorted +Robina indignantly.</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>Robina looked astonished.</p> +<p>“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.’”</p> +<p>“Did you?” asked Robina.</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“But I used to ask you questions,” grumbled +Robina, “and you would tell me not to be silly.”</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“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!”</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“He is going to turn over a new leaf;” said +Robina: “I am sure he will make an excellent +farmer.”</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“Children will be children,” murmured Robina, +meaning to be comforting.</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“She is lazy,” Robina was compelled to admit.</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“Couldn’t use it up, I suppose, for yourself, +Pa?” suggested Robina.</p> +<p>“It was a lady’s temper,” I explained. +“Besides,” as I asked her, “what is wrong with +the one I have?”</p> +<p>“Nothing,” answered Robina. Yet her tone +conveyed doubt. “It seems to me sometimes that an +older temper would suit you better, that was all.”</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“Not in years perhaps,” replied Robina, +“but—well, you know what I mean. One wants +one’s father to be always great and dignified.”</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“Perhaps not,” Robina agreed. “You are +awfully good in some ways.”</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>Robina said she would try. I have hopes of making Robina +a sensible woman.</p> +<h2>CHAPTER VII</h2> +<p><span class="smcap">Dick</span> 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.</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“There’s four days’ work for three men +here,” he said, “and you’ll want a new +stove. Lord! what trouble children can be!”</p> +<p>Robina agreed with him.</p> +<p>“Meanwhile,” she demanded, “how am I to +cook?”</p> +<p>“Myself, missie,” sighed Mr. Slee, “I +don’t see how you are going to cook.”</p> +<p>“We’ll all have to tramp home again,” +thought Dick.</p> +<p>“And tell Little Mother the reason, and frighten her out +of her life!” retorted Robina indignantly.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“Let Pa have a sandwich,” said Robina, “and +catch the six-fifteen.”</p> +<p>“We might all have a sandwich,” suggested Dick; +“I could do with one myself.”</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>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?</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“Who’s forty-two?” I demanded.</p> +<p>“We are,” explained Robina, “Dick and +I—between us. We shall be forty-two next +birthday. Nearly your own age.”</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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:</p> +<p>“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 +<i>débris</i>. 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.”</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“Veronica,” I said, “the time has come to +reveal to you a secret: literature is not always a safe guide to +life.”</p> +<p>“You mean—” said Veronica.</p> +<p>“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?”</p> +<p>Veronica claimed that the inspiration had been hers.</p> +<p>“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?”</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“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?”</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“I see,” said Veronica; “then whenever +nothing happens to you that means that you’re a wrong +’un.”</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“But they do,” said Veronica, “they blame +you just as if you’d meant to go and do it.”</p> +<p>“It does not matter, Veronica,” I pointed out, +“the opinion of the world. The good man disregards +it.”</p> +<p>“But they send you to bed,” persisted +Veronica.</p> +<p>“Let them,” I said. “What is bed so +long as the voice of the inward Monitor consoles us with the +reflection—”</p> +<p>“But it don’t,” interrupted Veronica; +“it makes you feel all the madder. It does +really.”</p> +<p>“It oughtn’t to,” I told her.</p> +<p>“Then why does it?” argued Veronica. +“Why don’t it do what it ought to?”</p> +<p>The trouble about arguing with children is that they will +argue too.</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“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!”</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“They mean well, Veronica,” I said. +“When I was a little boy I used to think just as you +do. But now—”</p> +<p>“Did you ever get into rows?” interrupted +Veronica.</p> +<p>“Did I ever?—was never out of them, so far as I +can recollect. If it wasn’t one thing, then it was +another.”</p> +<p>“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?”</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“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!”</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>Veronica clapped her hands. “No, will you +really?” she said. “Oh, do.”</p> +<p>“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!’”</p> +<p>“Do you think they will read it?” doubted +Veronica.</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“And go to bed early,” suggested Veronica.</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“And they’ll have to take their medicine,” +Veronica remembered.</p> +<p>“The slightest suggestion of sulkiness, the first +intimation that they are not enjoying themselves, will mean cod +liver oil in a tablespoon, Veronica.”</p> +<p>“And we will ask them why they never use their +commonsense,” chirped Veronica.</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“And of course they must not argue,” Veronica +insisted.</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“And whatever we do to them we will tell them it’s +for their own good,” Veronica chortled.</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“They will be grateful to us later on,” gurgled +Veronica.</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“And the more they try to be good, the more it will turn +out that they ain’t been good,” Veronica +reflected.</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“Great Scott! I’d forgotten all about that +train, Veronica,” I admitted.</p> +<p>“Better run,” suggested Veronica.</p> +<p>It sounded good advice.</p> +<p>“Keep on thinking about that book,” shouted +Veronica.</p> +<p>“Make a note of things as they occur to you,” I +shouted back.</p> +<p>“What shall we call it?” Veronica screamed.</p> +<p>“‘Why the Man in the Moon looks sat +upon,’” I shrieked.</p> +<p>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.</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p>I thought it best to tell Ethelbertha the truth; that things +had gone wrong with the kitchen stove.</p> +<p>“Let me know the worst,” she said. “Is +Veronica hurt?”</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“You are sure she’s all right?” persisted +Ethelbertha.</p> +<p>“Honest Injun—confound those children and their +slang—I mean positively,” I answered. The +Little Mother looked relieved.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“I must get back as soon as I can,” I said. +“I don’t want young Bute getting wrong ideas into his +head.”</p> +<p>“Who is young Bute?” she asked.</p> +<p>“The architect,” I explained.</p> +<p>“I thought he was an old man,” said +Ethelbertha.</p> +<p>“Old Spreight is old enough,” I said. +“Young Bute is one of his young men; but he understands his +work, and seems intelligent.”</p> +<p>“What’s he like?” she asked.</p> +<p>“Personally, an exceedingly nice young fellow. +There’s a good deal of sense in him. I like a boy who +listens.”</p> +<p>“Good-looking?” she asked.</p> +<p>“Not objectionably so,” I replied. “A +pleasant face—particularly when he smiles.”</p> +<p>“Is he married?” she asked.</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“Why don’t you think so?” she demanded.</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“Shall we be seeing much of him?” she asked.</p> +<p>“A goodish deal,” I answered. “I +expect he will be going down on Monday. Very annoying, this +stove business.”</p> +<p>“What is the use of his being there without you?” +Ethelbertha wanted to know.</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“Why has she taken a dislike to him?” asked +Ethelbertha.</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“When will you be going down again?” Ethelbertha +asked.</p> +<p>“On Thursday next,” I told her; “stove or no +stove.”</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“But will Dick stick to it?” Ethelbertha +wondered.</p> +<p>“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—”</p> +<p>“Whose mother?” interrupted Ethelbertha.</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“She seems to do a goodish deal of talking, this Miss +Janie,” remarked Ethelbertha.</p> +<p>“You will like her,” I said. “She is a +charming girl—so sensible, and good, and unselfish, +and—”</p> +<p>“Who told you all this about her?” interrupted +Ethelbertha.</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“What is she like?” asked Ethelbertha.</p> +<p>“I am telling you,” I said. “She is so +practical, and yet at the same time—”</p> +<p>“In appearance, I mean,” explained +Ethelbertha.</p> +<p>“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—”</p> +<p>“And has she also formed a high opinion of Dick?” +interrupted Ethelbertha.</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“What’s it got to do with them?” demanded +Ethelbertha.</p> +<p>“I’m not thinking about them,” I said. +“What I look at is—”</p> +<p>“I don’t like her,” said Ethelbertha. +“I don’t like any of them.”</p> +<p>“But—” She didn’t seem to be +listening.</p> +<p>“I know that class of man,” she said; “and +the wife appears, if anything, to be worse. As for the +girl—”</p> +<p>“When you come to know them—” I said.</p> +<p>She said she didn’t want to know them. She wanted +to go down on Monday, early.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“Veronica,” I said, “is really wishful, I +think, to improve. I have bought her a donkey.”</p> +<p>“A what?” exclaimed Ethelbertha.</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“I somehow felt you hadn’t overlooked +Veronica,” said Ethelbertha.</p> +<p>I thought it best to change the conversation. She seemed +in a fretful mood.</p> +<h2>CHAPTER VIII</h2> +<p><span class="smcap">Robina’s</span> letter was dated +Monday evening, and reached us Tuesday morning.</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“‘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.</p> +<p>“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.”</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p>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.</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p>“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.’</p> +<p>“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.’</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“‘What’s the joke?’ he whispered to me +as he passed—I was in the corner seat. ‘Have I +missed it?’</p> +<p>“We called round on them after lunch, and at once I was +appealed to for my decision.</p> +<p>“‘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?’</p> +<p>“‘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?’</p> +<p>“‘The essential thing,’ he persisted, +‘is a contrite heart.’ He was getting very +cross.</p> +<p>“‘It may just as well be dressed +respectably,’ was his wife’s opinion. He left +the room, slamming the door.</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“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—”</p> +<p>The remainder was of a nature more private. She +concluded with a postscript, which also I did not read to +Ethelbertha.</p> +<p>“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 <i>The Berkshire +Courier</i> is going to be deprived of its prey. Dick has +just come in. He promises to talk when he has finished +eating.”</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p>Dick’s letter, for which Ethelbertha seemed to be +strangely impatient, reached us on Wednesday morning.</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“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?</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“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!</p> +<p>“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—”</p> +<p>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.</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p>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.</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>I read selections from this letter aloud to Ethelbertha. +She said she was glad she had decided to come down with me.</p> +<h2>CHAPTER IX</h2> +<p><span class="smcap">Had</span> 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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“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?”</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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:</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>She remembered it a little later with a glad sigh.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<h2>CHAPTER X</h2> +<p>“<span class="smcap">She’s</span> a good +woman,” said Robina.</p> +<p>“Who’s a good woman?” I asked.</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“You are thinking of Mrs. St. Leonard,” I +suggested.</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“Speaking of picnics,” I said.</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“When our desires leave us, says Rochefoucauld,” I +remarked, “we pride ourselves upon our virtue in having +overcome them.”</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“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—”</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“He didn’t tell you all that, did he?” +demanded Robina.</p> +<p>“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.’”</p> +<p>“It may be all wrong,” grumbled Robina.</p> +<p>“It may be,” I agreed. “But why? +Does it strike you as improbable?”</p> +<p>We were sitting in the porch, waiting for Dick to come by the +white path across the field.</p> +<p>“No,” answered Robina. “It all sounds +very probable. I wish it didn’t.”</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“Well, then, it was his fault,” argued +Robina. “If he was silly enough to like her faults, +and encourage her in them—”</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“Much the more sensible plan if he did,” insisted +Robina. “Then if she cared for him she could set to +work to cure herself.”</p> +<p>“You would like it?” I said; “you would +appreciate it in your own case? Can you imagine young +Bute—?”</p> +<p>“Why young Bute?” demanded Robina; +“what’s he got to do with it?”</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“I don’t flirt with them,” said Robina; +“I merely try to be nice to them.”</p> +<p>“With the exception of young Bute,” I +persisted.</p> +<p>“He irritates me,” Robina explained.</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“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.’”</p> +<p>“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!”</p> +<p>“I wonder,” I said. Robina had surprised +me. I admit it. I thought I knew the sex better.</p> +<p>“Any girl would,” said Robina. +“He’d be worth it.”</p> +<p>“It would be a new idea,” I mused. +“<i>Gott im Himmel</i>! 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.</p> +<p>“No,” answered Robina; “I’ve always +heard it wasn’t a nice book.”</p> +<p>“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 <i>was</i> 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?”</p> +<p>“Then you advise me to read ‘Tom +Jones’?” said Robina.</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“Nothing like being satisfied with oneself,” said +Robina.</p> +<p>“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.’</p> +<p>“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?”</p> +<p>“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?”</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>The owl in the old yew screamed, whether with indignation or +amusement I cannot tell.</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>By good fortune I found a loose match. I lighted a fresh +cigar.</p> +<p>“Dick, I suppose, is the average man,” said +Robina.</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“I shall never marry,” said Robina. +“At least, I hope I sha’n’t.”</p> +<p>“Why ‘hope’?” I asked.</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“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—”</p> +<p>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.”</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>I drew her down beside me. But the childish face was +still stern.</p> +<p>“I want the truth,” she said; so that I answered +very gravely:</p> +<p>“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 <i>thought</i>, but upon what you +<i>are</i>. 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.</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“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?”</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“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 +<i>they</i> get there?”</p> +<p>“Sit down,” I said, “and I will tell you a +story.</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“I think I understand,” said Robina. +“I will tell you afterwards if I am wrong.”</p> +<p>“I told the story to a woman many years ago,” I +said, “and she also thought she understood. But she +was only half right.”</p> +<p>“We will see,” said Robina. “Go +on.”</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“‘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.</p> +<p>“‘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 +<i>all</i> 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.</p> +<p>“‘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.’</p> +<p>“It was a long letter. I have given you the gist +of it.”</p> +<p>Again there was a silence between us.</p> +<p>“You think she did right?” asked Robina.</p> +<p>“I cannot say,” I answered; “there are no +rules for Life, only for the individual.”</p> +<p>“I have read it somewhere,” said +Robina—“where was it?—‘Love suffers all +things, and rejoices.’”</p> +<p>“Maybe in old Thomas Kempis. I am not sure,” +I said.</p> +<p>“It seems to me,” said Robina, “that the +explanation lies in that one sentence of hers: ‘I was not +great enough to love <i>all</i> of you.’”</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“That is what I am saying,” explained +Robina. “It means loving him even when he’s +naughty.”</p> +<p>Dick came across the fields. Robina rose and slipped +into the house.</p> +<p>“You are looking mighty solemn, Dad,” said +Dick.</p> +<p>“Thinking of Life, Dick,” I confessed. +“Of the meaning and the explanation of it.”</p> +<p>“Yes, it’s a problem, Life,” admitted +Dick.</p> +<p>“A bit of a teaser,” I agreed.</p> +<p>We smoked in silence for awhile.</p> +<p>“Loving a good woman must be a tremendous help to a +man,” said Dick.</p> +<p>He looked very handsome, very gallant, his boyish face +flashing challenge to the Fates.</p> +<p>“Tremendous, Dick,” I agreed.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<h2>CHAPTER XI</h2> +<p>I <span class="smcap">fancy</span> 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.</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“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!</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“And everything the children like is good. And +wholesome. And everything the grown-ups like is bad for +them. <i>And they mustn’t have it</i>. 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.</p> +<p>“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 <i>go the wrong +way to work</i>. It is blame blame all day long. But +as for praise. Oh never!</p> +<p>“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. <i>It was +a Jersey cow</i>! What talked a dialect. So of course +he couldn’t understand it. But did they +apologise? Oh dear no.</p> +<p>“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 <i>ought</i> 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 +<i>he</i> 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.</p> +<p>“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 <i>got</i> 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.</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>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.”</p> +<p>Another character is that of a gent: “With a certain +gift. For telling stories. Some of them <i>not +bad</i>.” A promising party, on the whole. +Indeed, one might say, judging from description, a quite rational +person: “<i>When not on the rantan</i>. 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 <i>ever</i> +patient. And just.” Prominent among her +numerous <i>protégées</i> 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.</p> +<p>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. “<i>She herself will play whist with +him</i>.” 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 +<i>good</i>.” 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.</p> +<p>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 +<i>Punch</i>. 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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.”</p> +<p>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.”</p> +<p>I took a man once to see <i>The Private Secretary</i>. 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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“No,” he says, “that is not all. There +is something else!”</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>When it does come—when he is quite sure there is nothing +he has forgotten, no little point that he has overlooked, she +rises.</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>The stage husband—always the +gentleman—bows;—stiffly maybe, but quite politely; +and prepares in his turn to occupy the <i>rôle</i> 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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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 <i>en +tête</i>, 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.</p> +<p>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?</p> +<p>“About!” They look from one to the +other. Surely it would be simpler to tell him what it had +<i>not</i> 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—</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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!</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“Tell me when I am to begin,” says Elvira.</p> +<p>The mutual friend promises to give her the right cue.</p> +<p>Adolphus comes to a halt in the centre of the room.</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>To which Elvira, still crocheting, replies, “Oh, +indeed. And pray what may that be?”</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<h2>CHAPTER XII</h2> +<p>I <span class="smcap">am</span> 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.</p> +<p>“My themes are so original,” sighed the +Musician. “It will take me a year of +<i>fête</i> 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.”</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>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.”</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>The Stranger paused while the ancient waiter replenished the +empty glasses. The three friends drank in silence.</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“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?”</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“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?”</p> +<p>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.”</p> +<p>“Oh,” said the Poet, “thank you.”</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>Slowly, memory of the dingy <i>café</i> 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.</p> +<p>“Would you mind,” said the Poet, “would it +be troubling you too much to tell me something of what has +occurred to me?”</p> +<p>“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?”</p> +<p>The Poet remembered her.</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>The Stranger refilled his glass, and passed the +decanter. But the Poet left the wine unheeded.</p> +<p>“And then, ah, yes, then followed that excursion into +politics. Those scathing articles you wrote for <i>La +Liberté</i>! 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 <i>La Conquêtte</i>. +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.”</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>Then they break out.</p> +<p>“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?”</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>The Poet takes up the tale.</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“The fires that scorch and sear,” the Stranger +adds, “the lips that cried in their pain, the victory +bought of wounds.”</p> +<p>“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?”</p> +<p>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!”</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>They awake in the dingy <i>café</i> 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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“It’s trouble you’ve brought +yourself,” said the old dame. “You +couldn’t help it, could you?”</p> +<p>Babette’s little pink tongue stole out.</p> +<p>“We understand, we know—we Mothers,” they +seemed to be saying to one another.</p> +<p>And so the two kissed.</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p>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.</p> +<p>Veronica also thinks the terrace may come to be her favourite +resting-place.</p> +<p>“I suppose,” said Veronica, “that if +anything was to happen to Robina, everything would fall on +me.”</p> +<p>“It would be a change, Veronica,” I +suggested. “Hitherto it is you who have done most of +the falling.”</p> +<p>“Suppose I’ve got to see about growing up,” +said Veronica.</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="GutSmall">THE +END.</span></p> +<p>***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THEY AND I***</p> +<pre> + + +***** This file should be named 2437-h.htm or 2437-h.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. 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