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diff --git a/old/65162-0.txt b/old/65162-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 29acba1..0000000 --- a/old/65162-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,9114 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Vagaries of Tod and Peter, by L. Allen -Harker - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you -will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before -using this eBook. - -Title: The Vagaries of Tod and Peter - -Author: L. Allen Harker - -Release Date: April 25, 2021 [eBook #65162] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -Produced by: Tim Lindell, David E. Brown, and the Online Distributed - Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was - produced from images generously made available by The Internet - Archive/American Libraries.) - -*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE VAGARIES OF TOD AND PETER *** - - - - -BY L. ALLEN HARKER - - - THE VAGARIES OF TOD AND PETER - THE REALLY ROMANTIC AGE - THE BRIDGE ACROSS - MONTAGU WYCHERLY - ALLEGRA - CHILDREN OF THE DEAR COTSWOLDS - JAN AND HER JOB - THE FFOLLIOTS OF REDMARLEY - MISS ESPERANCE AND MR. WYCHERLY - MR. WYCHERLY’S WARDS - MASTER AND MAID - CONCERNING PAUL AND FIAMMETTA - A ROMANCE OF THE NURSERY - - -CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS - - - - - THE VAGARIES - OF TOD AND PETER - - - - - THE VAGARIES - OF TOD AND PETER - - - BY - L. ALLEN HARKER - - - NEW YORK - CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS - 1923 - - - - - COPYRIGHT, 1923, BY - CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS - - Printed in the United States of America - - Published September, 1923 - - [Illustration] - - - - - TO - MARGARET GWENELIN WATSON - - WITH LOVE AND HIGH HOPES FOR - HER FUTURE - - - - -FOREWORD - - -A small boy coming down to the drawing-room at half-past five for the -sacred hour of play, found a visitor absorbing his mother’s attention. -For five minutes or so he politely refrained from interrupting their -conversation, and he wandered about the room, a little disconsolate -perhaps, but in that state of being described by nurses as “not a bit -of trouble.” When, however, the five minutes lengthened into ten, he -felt that direct action of some sort was imperative. So he advanced -upon the lingering guest, laid small, imperative hands upon her knee; -and lifting an anxious face to hers, enquired in honeyed tones: “Is you -going to stay very much longer?” - -That was in the forgotten, by some regretted, by many derided, nineties. - -The other day I was having tea with a charming friend, wise mother of -many sons, when the youngest, aged two, came for the sacred hour. It -was pleasant in that drawing-room and I made no haste to go. Whereupon -he came to me and, with a gracious, even a gallant, gesture, held out -his hand to me with the utmost friendliness, conversing the while -perpetually and emphatically in a manner difficult for the uninitiated -to follow. Pleased and flattered, I took the kind little hand, which -pulled me to my feet. He then firmly led me to the door and out to the -top of the staircase, and was preparing to escort me downstairs and to -the front door, when his mother ran after us and fetched us back. - -Whatever else is changing in the present; bewildering world, there is -one section of the community that is essentially Conservative, not to -say “Die Hard.” - -Outside my window there is a long, straggling street of old cottages -which have altered very little since the fourteenth century, and in -those little old houses dwell many children who play in the street, -games that were doubtless popular “in Thebes’s streets three thousand -years ago.” - -The adult attitude towards children has changed even during the last -fifty years, and largely for the better. Yet the child’s attitude -towards his playmate, and even towards the omniscient grown-up, is -fundamentally what it has been throughout the ages. - -The early nineteenth century is often quoted by deprecators of the -twentieth as a time when the attitude of youth towards age was -particularly praiseworthy in its modesty and reverence. Such people, -who are perhaps a little prone to forget their own youthful viewpoint, -tell us that in those golden days children accepted without question -the opinions of those who were set in authority over them, and were -almost invariably obedient, contented and unenterprising. Yet, -researches in the literature published especially for children by -that “friend of youth,” John Newbery, at “the corner of St. Paul’s -Churchyard,” in his little “gilt books”--most of them published -between 1745 and 1802--prove that badly-behaved children were by no -means uncommon, and that over-indulgent parents were not unknown. In -the “Histories of More Children than One; or, Goodness Better than -Beauty,” Master John and Miss Mary Strictum, who, as their names imply, -are models of deportment, are unfavorably contrasted with Master Thomas -and Miss Kitty Bloomer. - -Thomas insists upon his papa’s horse being brought into the parlour for -him to ride round the room. His mamma tried “to persuade him not to -want it, but he would have his own way.” - -“Thomas was much pleased to have it, but Kitty was afraid of it and did -not like that it should stay. She therefore began to scream and beg it -might go out. ‘Pray take it out!’ said she. ‘It shall go out; it shan’t -stay.’ - -“‘It shan’t go out. It shall stay!’ said her brother. - -“They made such a noise that they frightened the horse, and he began to -kick and prance,” and all manner of disasters followed. Not even the -most weak-minded modern parent could go further than this in the way of -indulgence. - -Even in so didactic a work as “The First Principles of Religion and -the _Existence of a Deity Explained in a Series of Dialogues Adapted -to the Capacity of the Infant Mind_,” you will find a child as human -and engaging as any infant born since the Armistice. In this work -the particular infant selected for enlightenment is one Maria, made -after no formal pattern. Throughout the long and deadly dialogues her -nimble mind outpaces mamma’s ponderous aphorisms. As, when that lady -discourses on the awful consequences of taking God’s name in vain, -Maria demands demurely: “But would it not be politer and prettier to -say either Mr. or Mrs., and not plain God?” - -Again, when her mother, as an example of the evils of slyness, relates -how “the two Misses Quick had pincushions of the same make, but Miss -Betty’s was larger than Miss Sally’s,” and Miss Sally by a subterfuge -manages to exchange her own for her sister’s, Maria says thoughtfully: -“Do you think then, Mamma, that it signifies to God which of the Miss -Quicks had the larger pincushion?” - -Could the most recent Realist ask a more searching question? - -At Christmas time the papers seemed full of descriptions of _blasé_ -children who insisted on going to expensive shops to choose their own -presents, who scoffed at fairies or Santa Claus, and scouted the idea -of any sort of childlike party. I do not move in plutocratic circles, -so I cannot vouch for either the truth or falsehood of these dismal -revelations. But I do know that the vast majority of gently-bred -children born before and during the years that followed 1914 are -easily pleased, and are grateful for very small mercies in the way -of amusement, because nothing else is possible to the greater part -of the upper middle class for financial reasons. And no one who, in -recent years, has been to “Peter Pan” and looked round the crowded -theatre gloriously garlanded with chubby, rosy faces, and heard the -full-throated affirmative that greets the question “Do you believe in -fairies?” can doubt that children are still pretty sound on subjects of -that sort. - -This being so, is it incredibly bold or superlatively simple, on my -part, to have ventured to collect into a little sheaf some fugitive -sketches of the kind of children I have known during the last -twenty-five years? - -Perhaps it is, and that being so, I can only quote the lines in which -Mr. Kipling has once and for all time summed up the humble plea of the -free-lance: - - When ’Omer smote ’is bloomin’ lyre, - He’d ’eard men sing by land an’ sea; - An’ what he thought ’e might require, - ’E went an’ took--the same as me! - - CIRENCESTER - 1923 - - - - -CONTENTS - - - PAGE - - FOREWORD vii - - - PART I--BOYS - - THE VAGARIES OF TOD AND PETER 1 - - “TONY” 56 - - A SQUARE PEG 64 - - A TWENTIETH-CENTURY MISOGYNIST 79 - - - PART II--CHILDREN OF LAST CENTURY - - A SMALL EVENT 105 - - IN DURANCE VILE 126 - - THE SURRENDER OF LADY GRIZELL 134 - - A CLEAN PACK 144 - - AN IRON SEAT 152 - - LÉON 160 - - THE OLD RELIGION 168 - - COMRADES 177 - - LITTLE SHOES 184 - - “PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN” 189 - - A THROW BACK 197 - - THE INTERVENTION OF THE DUKE 207 - - - PART III--CHILDREN OF THIS - - JEAN, A PORTRAIT 253 - - THE DOLL’S-HOUSE FLAGS (1917) 264 - - CONCERNING CHRIS AND EASTER (1916) 280 - - - - -PART I - -BOYS - - - - -THE VAGARIES OF TOD AND PETER - - -I - -THE MURDER - -By the people who live in the same terrace they are known as “those -dreadful twins.” By the more plain-spoken of the masters at the -preparatory school which they attend they are distinguished by an -adjective whose meaning is the reverse of “heavenly”; and their -schoolfellows are filled with respectful admiration for the boys, the -most resourcefully and superfluously naughty of their acquaintance, -whose genius for making the most patient of masters lose his temper is -unsurpassed. - -The only person who takes them and their ways with calm philosophy is -their mother. She, with that sense of proportion and balanced wisdom so -frequently vouchsafed to mothers of large families, laughs and loves -them, and believes in their ultimate regeneration. There is some ground -for the faith that is in her; for when a woman has seen six sons fare -forth into the world to cut no such indifferent figure in it, she is -not apt to despair of the two youngest, roister they never so. - -Moreover, she declares that most of their evil doings are “really Mr. -Stevenson’s fault,” and there is truth in the charge, for from the -moment that some thoughtless person, probably a godfather (I have known -godfathers, living at a distance, who would present trumpets, nay, -even concertinas! to the sons of men whom they have called by the name -of friend), gave Peter a copy of “The Merry Men” and Tod “Treasure -Island,” they have tried to fit their surroundings to the characters -they are forever enacting; with the result that the plain workaday -world, that knows not the “Master Mage” of Samoa, is always puzzled and -generally wroth. - -That genial “spirit of boyhood” had never so much as to beckon to them; -he had but to hold out his friendly hands, and Tod and Peter, each -clasping one in both their own, were his, body and soul, forevermore. - -They are alike as the two Dromios, these twins; and the mistakes and -complications arising from this likeness are a never-failing source -of satisfaction to them. For instance, Peter will cheerfully undergo -a caning intended for Tod that he may afterwards meekly demand of -his chastener what he has done to deserve this discipline, gleefully -watching the while the weary wonder on the master’s face grow to a -disgusted certainty that he has, as usual, “punished the wrong one.” - -The fact that they are rather noticeably comely boys--they came of a -family where on both sides of the house good looks are the invariable -rule--only serves to increase the confusion. Both are tall and -straight, fair-haired, blue-eyed, ruddy, and of a uniformly cheerful -countenance. But kind Nature has bestowed on Tod an accomplishment she -has denied to Peter, to his lasting grief. - -At certain seasons of the year Tod “moults” and can pull out quantities -of his thick fair hair without the slightest inconvenience to himself. -He generally chooses to perform this feat during the silent hours of -“prep.” They have done their evening work at school ever since the -night they were discovered grilling “Home Influence” and “A Mother’s -Recompense” over the study fire, when they ought to have been wrestling -with “Excerpta Facilia.” When the master in charge has walked down -to the end of the long schoolroom where Tod “keeps,” and has turned -to go back again, Tod is suddenly seized by a perfect paroxysm of -despair, clutches at his hair with frantic though absolute noiseless -gesticulations, and casts whole handfuls of fluffy curls on the floor -about him. - -Naturally his companions, including Peter, get lines for disturbing the -placidity of “prep” with their unseemly giggles. And George, when he -sweeps up the schoolroom next morning, may be heard to mutter: - -“Wherever all this ’air do come from passes me!” - -Tod’s real name is Percy--he is called after a wealthy and aristocratic -relative--but he refuses point-blank to answer to it, for he fancies -that it savours of those “eeny peeny” children in “Home Influence,” a -work that earned their undying hatred when it was read aloud to them -by a well-intentioned but mistaken aunt while they were recovering from -measles. - -On the occasion of its holocaust, before referred to, their mother, -passing the study, and struck by the unwonted stillness reigning -therein, opened the door softly and looked in. Both boys were stooping -over the fireplace and prodding a solid yet feathery mass that glowed -and gloomed in the heart of the embers. - -“There goes Herbert, ‘the almost-angel boy,’ and ‘haughty Caroline,’ -and ‘playful Emmiline,’” whispered Tod, poking viciously. While Peter, -quoting from “Thrawn Janet,” added in an awful voice: - -“_Witch, beldame, devil! I charge you, by the power of God, begone--if -you be dead, to the grave--if you be damned, to hell._” - -I regret to say that their mother’s sense of humor is stronger than her -dislike of strong language, and that she stole away to laugh, leaving -the conspirators unrebuked for the moment. But they did their “prep.” -at school henceforth. - -Peter’s manner is singularly misleading in its frank sincerity, and he -will on occasion answer a sudden question in a way which is, to say the -least of it, bewildering to his interlocutor. - -For instance, one day in the football-field a new master asked him the -name of a small boy some distance off who was “slacking” abominably. - -“Who’s that chap with the red hair by the goal posts?” he said to -Peter, who had been somewhat officiously putting him right on several -points. - -“Dumpkins, sir,” that youth replied, demurely, and strolled off to a -distant part of the playground. - -“Dumpkins!” bawled the master. “Dumpkins, why aren’t you playing up?” - -But Dumpkins heeded not the voice of authority and continued to loll -and gaze heavenward in easy inactivity. - -“Dumpkins! Dump-kins!” again he bellowed. - -But Dumpkins only took an apple out of his pocket and began to eat it. - -He is a hasty-tempered young man that master, and he strode toward the -hapless Dumpkins and shook him angrily, exclaiming: - -“Why don’t you answer when I call, you cheeky little beggar?” - -“Please, sir, you never called me, sir,” expostulated the boy, -wriggling in the master’s grip. - -“Why, I’ve been shouting ‘Dumpkins’ all over the field for the last -five minutes!” - -“But, please sir, my name is Jones!” - - * * * * * - -“Why did you tell me Jones’s name was Dumpkins, you, Peter?” the master -indignantly demanded of Tod some minutes later. - -“I couldn’t have done that, sir,” said Tod, gravely, “for there’s -nobody called Dumpkins in the school.” - -It was this young master who rechristened the twins when Peter next day -insisted that “a point has position but no gratitude.” - -Strangely enough “The Merry Men” finds even greater favor with them -than “Treasure Island,” and with the enigmatical decision of childhood -their favorite of all the stories is “Markheim,” not “Will o’ the -Mill,” beloved of critics. It is doubtful if they understand much of -it, but nevertheless they read it over and over again to each other -aloud, or silently with their curly heads pressed together, till they -knew it by heart. To be sure, “Thrawn Janet” has a dreadful fascination -for them, and they acted one of the principal scenes with somewhat -direful results. - -Peter made Tod “tie him by the neck” to the bed with red worsted, while -Tod, in his character of the minister, had to creep in, candle in -hand, to discover the dread spectacle; and Peter’s representation of -the fearsome Janet was so truthful and blood-curdling that Tod dropped -the candle and fled downstairs howling at the top of his voice, and -such was his haste that he fell and sprained his wrist. Meanwhile, the -candle had set fire to the valance of the bed, and altogether there was -a fine hullabaloo; there was also an end put to their dramatic efforts -for a week or two. - -Nothing daunted, however, about a month later, on a Sunday evening when -the servants were all at church, and their mother writing for dear -life the long weekly letters that have to be written when a woman has -husband and four sons scattered about the globe, Tod and Peter sought -the seclusion of the kitchen and determined to “act” “Markheim.” - -All went well and quietly for a long time; the firelit kitchen with -loud ticking clock answered admirably as the scene of the murder, the -dialogue between Markheim and the mysterious stranger went without -a hitch, and Tod sallied forth into a “wonderful clear night of -stars,” while Peter shut the back door softly after him. Peter, in his -character of Markheim, was bent upon making the speech with which the -story concludes, where the maidservant rings the door-bell and Markheim -opens to her with the words: “You had better go for the police; I have -killed your master!” - -Poor Tod had to be the maidservant--he always had to follow where Peter -led. He shivered as he ran up the area steps; it was a cold night, he -had not troubled to provide himself with a coat, and his heart was -heavy, for, to tell the truth, he has far more imagination than Peter, -and sometimes their plays are to him one long agony of apprehension. - -He positively dreaded ringing that area bell, and the sinister -announcement that would follow on the act. No longer was he Tod, but -a trembling servant lass who was forced by fate to ring a bell which -sounded a tocsin of dreadful import. - -He ran down to the end of the terrace and stood under a lamp that he -might brace himself for the final effort. - -Meanwhile, Peter, swollen with importance at the thought of the mighty -sensation he would make in a minute or two, stood squeezed against the -hinge of the door waiting for the fateful ring. - -Then came a patter of light feet down the area steps and someone gave -the bell a modest pull. Peter drew open the door with great suddenness -upon himself, exclaiming in a deep and tragic voice, the result of long -practice in solitary attics: - -“_You had better go for the police; I have killed your master!_” - -The visitor gave a piercing shriek and rushed up the steps again, -calling breathlessly upon Heaven and the police. Peter, behind the -door, wagged his head, exclaiming admiratively: - -“How well that kid does act; I could almost declare I heard skirts -rustling.” - -Peter waited awhile for his brother to return and be congratulated, but -Tod didn’t appear, so he concluded that he had gone round to the front -door and come in that way; besides, the servants were just due from -church, and cook would be cross if she found him in her domain. He ran -upstairs and waited for his twin in the drawing-room. His mother looked -up from her letters and smiled at the little figure tip-toeing on the -hearth-rug to admire himself in the glass. Then scratch, scratch went -her pen again. - -Now, Ada, the housemaid, has a dear friend in service at the other -end of the terrace, and she attends a church where the sermons are -shorter than those at the one frequented by Peter’s household. On this -particular Sunday she got out of church quite early and thought she -would see whether Ada happened to be in. Thus, while Tod with lagging -feet crept slowly down the terrace from one end, she was already -fleeing affrightedly to the other in search of the nearest policeman. - -She found him at the pillar-box, and fell into his stalwart arms, -crying hysterically: - -“Oh, come quick! There’s bin murder done at Number 9. Someone’s bin an’ -killed the marster!” - -P.C. Lee turned the light of his bull’s-eye upon Ada’s friend and found -her fair to look upon. All the same, although he still supported her -trembling frame, he shook his head slowly, saying: - -“’E ain’t there for to be murdered; the Colonel’s bin in Hinjia this -las’ ten weeks; the missis tol’ me so ’erself, when she ast me to keep -a special heye to them premises.” - -All the same, in spite of his incredulity, P.C. Lee was already on his -way to Number 9, half leading, half carrying Ada’s friend with him. - -“But I tell you,” persisted the girl, “when I ring that there bell, the -door opened sudden-like as if someone was be’ind it, and a hawful voice -says to me, ‘You’d better go for the perlice,’ it says, ‘I’ve killed -your master,’ and I was that taken to, I did go for you, Mr. Lee, as -fast as I could lay foot to the ground. It may be as one of the young -gentlemen’s bin murdered, ’is pa bein’, so to speak, abroad. It give me -such a turn----” - -And Ada’s friend was forced to stop in the middle of the road, overcome -by the horrid recollection. - -“But didn’t you see no one?” asked P.C. Lee, in a judicial voice. - -“No, trust me, I didn’t wait to _see_ nothing; I’d ’eard enough without -that. I’ll wait out ’ere,” she continued as they reached the scene -of the tragedy, “on the top of the steps. I couldn’t abear to see no -dead bodies;” and Ada’s friend disengaged herself from the policeman’s -protecting clasp and clung to the area railings for support, -exclaiming afresh: “I’d never get over it--never!” - -“But you must come in and give evidence wot you did ’ear,” expostulated -P.C. Lee. “I don’t believe myself as anything criminal ’as occurred; -but I’ll just ring and ast.” - -“I’d take my dyin’ oath them was the very words that murderer says -to me,” cried Ada’s friend, jibbing on the top step as the minion of -the law put forth a large hand to assist her down. “‘I’ve killed your -master,’ says ’e, despairin’ like, as if it was no use to try an’ ’ide -it.” - -P.C. Lee proceeded to perform a solo on the bell very different to -the two timid tintinnabulations that had preceded it during the last -ten minutes; for while Ada’s friend sought the protection of the -strong arm of the law, poor little Tod had screwed his courage to -the sticking-point, gone back and rung the area bell, when, to his -unspeakable relief, he was admitted by cook, just returned from church -in so benign a humor that she forebore to scold him for being out at -such untoward hours “without so much as a ’at,” and bestowed a piece of -bread and dripping upon him “to stop ’is teeth a-chatterin’.” - -Whereupon, comforted and refreshed, he departed to find Peter. - -Meanwhile P.C. Lee insisted that he must see the missis, for Ada’s -friend was unshaken in her evidence, question they never so, and the -four maids at Number 9 declared that they could not sleep comfortably -in their beds unless the search-light of his bull’s-eye was thrown on -every dusky corner of the house by P.C. Lee himself before he took his -departure. - -Ada’s friend was seated weeping in the front hall surrounded by the -others, when the mistress, fetched by Ada herself, and accompanied by -Tod and Peter, descended to hold parley with P.C. Lee. - -“I can’t understand it, ma’am,” concluded the policeman, after a -long explanation, continually interrupted by Ada’s friend with such -interpolations as: “Oh, a hawful voice, that mournful”--“Them was the -very words,” etc. - -During this recital Tod and Peter crept further and further into the -background, nudging each other in the ecstasy occasioned by such an -unexpected tribute to their histrionic powers. - -But their mother knows her Stevenson--and the twins--so before the -narrative was nearly finished she turned swiftly upon them, demanding -sternly: - -“Which of you was it?” - - * * * * * - -“Young varmints!” said P.C. Lee to Ada’s friend, as he escorted her -home; “I might ’a’ knowed it was them. ’Tain’t the fust time I’ve come -across ’em, neither....” - - -II - -THE SENDING - -When the time came for those twins, Tod and Peter, to go to public -school, their mother seriously considered the advisability of putting -them into different “houses.” At first she thought that, perhaps, -it might make for righteousness to separate them. But on hearing the -subject mooted, they so whole-heartedly fell in with her opinion, -rapturously reviewing the possibility of “changing houses” whenever -they felt so inclined, that she instantly dismissed the idea; rightly -coming to the conclusion that if their extraordinary resemblance was a -cause of general muddle and mystification while they were together, it -would become confusion worse confounded were they separated. Moreover, -she reflected that even schoolmasters are men of like passions with -ourselves, and rightly refrained from adding to such a one’s already -heavy burden by a separate superintendence of the twins. - -Tod and Peter, whose mental attitude was always that “all is for -the best in the best possible of worlds,” decided that after all -propinquity has its advantages, and rejoiced that family tradition -sent them into a house whose head was proverbially the “slackest old -slackster in the whole school.” A dreamy, mild-mannered, gentlemanly -man that master, who left the management of the “house” entirely -to an extremely energetic wife and a “young brusher” (“brusher” is -the familiar term for master in that school), whose prowess in the -playing-fields was only equalled by his extreme fussiness where rules -of his own making were concerned. - -“Not a bad chap,” the twins decided after their first week; “but a -bit like the German Emperor, you know--wants things all his own way. -Still, if you humor the youth, he’s all right.” - -So successfully did they humor the “young brusher” in question that -for the first month all went smoothly, and the house-master himself, a -gentle optimist, ever ready to believe the best of boy-humanity, really -thought that the “character” that had preceded them from preparatory -school was perhaps over-emphasized. - -Their late headmaster, while giving them full credit for general -integrity and fair abilities, had, in mercy to his brethren of the -craft, pointed out that they were ever “ready to join in frivolity -and insubordination, when not under my own eye.” They had to work, -for they were on the Modern Side, and destined for the army, and in -that particular school, not the wiliest shirker in creation can escape -the argus eye of the “head of the Modern,” or the retribution, swift, -sharp, and sure, that follows any such line of conduct. - -But, bless you! ordinary work and games, at which both were good, never -found sufficient scope for the energies of Tod and Peter, and by the -time the first month was up they began their tricks. - -One Mr. Neatby, M.A., taught the twins chemistry. Not that they went -to him together. They were in different, though, as far as work went, -parallel forms, and finding that their systematic “changing” was -never so much as suspected, and therefore carried with it no spice of -danger or adventure, they gave it up, devoting their energies to the -tormenting of Mr. Neatby, who had by his severity incurred their august -displeasure. - -Mr. Neatby was tall, severe, and dignified. He really liked his -subject, but felt, as a rule, little affection for his pupils. -Nevertheless, he was conscientious to the last degree in the discharge -of his duties. His way of expressing himself was what Peter called -“essayish”; he gave lines lavishly, and had but little mercy on the -reckless breaker of test-tubes. He did not rant, or stamp, or call -people by opprobrious names, as did many better loved masters. He was -always cold, cutting, and superior. But the thing about him that most -excited Peter’s animosity was his necktie. - -“He wears revolting, jerry-built, Judas-like ties,” the indignant Peter -proclaimed to an admiring audience of lower boys; “ties that slip down -and show a beastly, brassy stud. His socks, too, leave much to be -desired; in fact, his extremities altogether are such as betoken a bad, -hard heart.” - -“Let me see,” said Tod softly, looking up from a book he was reading; -“do you think that a _sending_ might soften the man’s hard heart?” - -At this particular stage of the twins’ career, Mr. Kipling was the God -of their idolatry, and both of them had “gloated,” even in the manner -of the immortal “Stalky” himself, over the vengeance of Ram Das. - -“It might be managed,” Peter answered, thoughtfully scratching his -smooth chin; “but then again, it may be close-time for kittens just at -present; don’t they generally bloom in the spring?” - -“There’s always plenty of kittens, you juggins,” ejaculated a prosaic -friend. “Why, when I was down at the riding school this morning, there -was a cat with six in an empty loose-box; they’ll have to drown five of -’em, they told me. D’your people want one or what?” - -“_I_ want one,” Peter rejoined excitedly; “not one, but five, to give -to a dear friend.” - -“Shouldn’t think he’d be your dear friend long.” - -“Oh, yes, he will. He’s an S.P.C.K., or whatever it is. He’s awfully -profane--humane, I mean.” - -“Well,” said the other boy, still unconvinced; “you can ask about ’em -when you go for your lesson to-morrow morning. They weren’t half bad -little beasts, but I shouldn’t advise you to give your friend more than -one at a time, anyhow.” - -Both Tod and Peter went twice a week to the riding school in the town, -as they were both destined for cavalry. Every underling about the -place knew them well, and liked them. Their father had lived in the -town during his last leave, jobbed his horses at the riding-master’s -stables, and had himself assisted at the lessons of elder brothers of -Tod and Peter. - -Now there was at the school a certain Figgins, a generally handy man, -or rather boy, who worshipped the ground the twins walked upon; and -after their next lesson they and Figgins might have been seen holding -long and earnest parley in the loose-box containing the cat and kittens. - -The twins laughed uproariously all the way home, and just as they -reached the house, Peter remarked: “I hate anything dead. Figgins -has promised not one of ’em shall be drowned, and when they’re fit to -be moved, he’ll tell old White he’s found good homes for the lot. And -then--and then Tod, my boy! our dear teacher shall have ’em alive, -‘alive, all alive oh! alive, all alive oh!’” and Peter burst into song -in the exuberance of his joy. - -Mr. Neatby lived in lodgings within a convenient distance of the -school. He was therefore spared any intercourse with the boys after -school hours, and usually spent his evenings in correcting innumerable -marble-boarded exercise books, containing chemistry notes. He was so -engaged one evening about nine o’clock, when his landlady entered the -room and laid a square parcel at his elbow. - -He finished correcting the book he had in hand, and took another, when -his attention was arrested by an indescribable sound. - -Mr. Neatby lifted his head and gazed about the room. “Could it be a -mouse under the skirting-board?” he wondered. Then half unconsciously -his eyes fell on the parcel his landlady had brought into the room. It -was an oblong cardboard box, about the size of an ordinary shoe-box. -But, although tied up with string, it was not wrapped in paper, and -on looking at it more closely, Mr. Neatby discovered that the top was -riddled with small holes. - -Had it been summer, he, being something of a naturalist, would have at -once concluded that someone had sent him some rare caterpillars, but -what caterpillars are to be found in November? - -He drew the parcel toward him, and there arose that curious sound -again, louder and more insistent. He hastily cut the string and removed -the lid of the box, and inside, reposing on a nest of hay, lay a very -young and mewey kitten. A kitten who most evidently was homesick and -aggrieved at being reft from the maternal bosom. A sprawly, squirmy, -noisy kitten, that immediately proceeded to climb out of the box and -crawl uncertainly to Mr. Neatby’s blotting-pad, where it collapsed into -a dismal little heap, mewing louder than ever. - -“There must be some mistake,” muttered Mr. Neatby, flushed and -perturbed. “No one would send _me_ a kitten; that stupid woman must -have made some muddle or other,” and he arose hastily and rang the bell. - -He so rarely rang his bell after his modest supper had been cleared -away that Mrs. Vyner, his landlady, had given up expecting him to do -so, and had on this occasion “just stepped out,” as she would have put -it, to see a neighbor. - -Mr. Neatby rang, and rang in vain, finally so far departing from his -decorously distant demeanor as to go to the top of the kitchen stairs -and shout. But the faint mewing of the kitten was the only answer to -his outcries, and baffled and annoyed he returned to his sitting-room -to find that the kitten had upset the red ink over Tod’s chemistry -notes, which, in company with many others, lay open on the table, and -was feebly attempting to lap it up. - -“Poor little thing; it’s hungry,” he thought to himself. And being, -indeed, as Peter said, a very humane man, he lifted it from the table, -and went to his sideboard to see if he could find any milk. He did find -some in the cupboard underneath where it had no business to be, and -pouring some into a saucer, laid it on the floor beside the kitten, who -proceeded to refresh itself with commendable promptitude. - -Then, as his landlady still made no appearance, Mr. Neatby bethought -him of looking at the parcel to see whether the kitten had been left at -the wrong house. But no; attached to the string was a label, clearly -addressed in a flowing, clerkly hand, “S. S. Neatby, Esq., M.A.,” -followed by his address, accurate as to number, street, and even town. - -Once more he sat down in his chair, and leant his head on his hand to -think, when he perceived, tucked into the hay at one side of the box, -a card, and drew it forth hastily; a plain glazed visiting card on -which was inscribed the words, “From a grateful friend,” in the same -excellent handwriting as the label. - -Mr. Neatby blushed, and looked guiltily at the happily supping kitten. -In addition to being humane, Mr. Neatby was also charitable, and there -were many poor who had reason to be grateful to him. But as he always -gave alms through a third person, and was one of those modest people -who take care that their left hand knows not what the right hand doeth, -he felt quite upset. - -Presently he heard his landlady and her niece come in, and rang again. - -“Who brought this box, Mrs. Vyner?” he asked, holding it up toward her. - -“I can’t say, sir, I’m sure. It was dark when I answered the door, -and a young man--leastways, I think ’e was young--simply give it into -my ’ands and ran down the steps again. I ’eld it under the gas in the -’all, sir, and read the label, as it was for you right enough, so I -brings it in and lays it down without never interruptin’ you, sir, like -you said.” - -“_There was a kitten in that box_,” Mr. Neatby said solemnly, in such a -tone as might have announced some national calamity. - -“Sakes alive! you don’t say so, sir,” cried Mrs. Vyner in great -excitement; “shall you keep it, sir?” - -“I don’t know yet,” Mr. Neatby said gravely; “it must stay here for -to-night anyway.” - -“It’s a pretty little thing, sir,” said the landlady, stooping down to -look at it where it lay basking in the heat of the fire. “’Twould be -company for you, wouldn’t it, sir?” - -“Hadn’t it better go with you to the kitchen for to-night, Mrs. Vyner?” -Mr. Neatby asked persuasively, and Mrs. Vyner, with many protestations -of wonder, gathered up the kitten into her apron and departed to the -lower regions, where she informed the niece who lived with her that -their lodger “’adn’t spoken so many words to ’er never before, no, not -in a month of Sundays.” - -Mr. Neatby threw the box into his capacious waste-paper basket, but he -put the card and label carefully away in one of the pigeon-holes of -his desk. - -Next day, on his return from morning school, he found a white cardboard -hat-box, big enough to contain the most umbrageous matinée hat ever -worn, set right in the middle of his table, and he felt distinctly -annoyed. His landlady followed him into the sitting-room to lay lunch, -and he, pointing to the offending box, said coldly: “I must ask you not -to leave your parcels in my room, Mrs. Vyner.” - -Mrs. Vyner bridled, and seizing the box, held it out toward him, -remarking aggrievedly: “If so be as you refers to this ’ere, sir, I -must ast you to look ’oo it’s addressed to. It’s put plain enough for -you, sir.” - -“But I assure you,” Mr. Neatby cried, recoiling from the proffered -hat-box, “that I haven’t ordered a hat of any kind.” - -“Any’ow,” said Mrs. Vyner scornfully, “I don’t suppose, sir, as you’d -order your ’ats from Madame Looeese, if you ’ad. I thought per’aps -you’d bought a present for your young lady.” - -“Mrs. Vyner,” replied Mr. Neatby, in a voice glacial as liquid air -itself, “you forget yourself.” - -Mrs. Vyner set down the box with an angry thump, and proceeded to lay -the cloth in injured silence. - -When she had gone, Mr. Neatby approached the mysterious package -delicately, much as though it had been an infernal machine of some -sort, and regarded it searchingly on all sides. It most certainly -emanated from the millinery establishment of “Madame Louise,” but was -none the less certainly addressed in sprawly, feminine handwriting to -“S. S. Neatby, Esq., M.A.” - -Just then Mrs. Vyner opened the door, saying waspishly, “’Ere’s your -kitting, sir; it keeps getting under my feet while I’m dishin’ up.” - -It seemed to have gained considerable vigor during the night, for it -rushed across the room and up the curtain. - -But Mr. Neatby had screwed his courage to the sticking-place, and -even the tempestuous entry of the kitten could not turn him from -his purpose. Penknife in hand, he cut the string of the bonnet-box, -and lifted the lid timidly, prepared no doubt for some tissue-paper -protected “confection” within. When, lo! even as that of the shoe-box -on the previous night was this interior; hay, dry and fragrant of -stable, met his astonished gaze, while seated in its midst was a tabby -kitten, who gathered herself together for a spring the instant the lid -was lifted, and sprang with such good-will as to turn the box over on -its side, when she immediately dashed under the table. - -Mr. Neatby gazed, as if hypnotized, at the tumbled box, till the -rattling of dishes outside warned him of the near approach of his -landlady with lunch, and roused him from his trance. - -He stooped hastily, thrust the scattered hay into the band-box, clapped -on the lid, and placed it under the knee-hole of his writing-table. - -The door was opened rather suddenly to admit Mrs. Vyner; kitten number -one descended from the curtain, and Mr. Neatby found himself almost -praying that kitten number two would stay under the table while his -landlady was in the room. Mrs. Vyner glanced disdainfully in the -direction of the band-box, noted that the string had been cut, set the -dishes on the table with somewhat unnecessary violence, and departed -without having opened her lips, just as the two kittens frisked out -from beneath the table. - -Mr. Neatby, harrassed and flushed “all over his eminent forehead,” did -not begin his lunch. He went back to the band-box again, studied the -label anew, and finally rummaged in the hay inside. - -His search was rewarded by the discovery of a rather dirty piece of -paper, on which was written “A Present from Framilode,” Framilode being -a village in the neighborhood, celebrated for the manufacture of a -certain kind of mug which always bore that legend. He put it carefully -beside the other card and label in his desk, and returned to his lunch -with but small appetite, and a frown of perplexity upon his brow. The -kittens set up a perfect chorus of mewing; Mr. Neatby braced himself to -explain the new arrival to Mrs. Vyner, and rang for the pudding. - - * * * * * - -“It’s my belief, sir,” said Mrs. Vyner that evening, “that somebody’s a -puttin’ a ’oaf upon you. I sent my niece to that there Madame Looeese’s -with the box lid, an’ she see madame ’erself, and _she_ says as it’s a -hold box, an’ that they certainly never sent you no box, nor wouldn’t -think of such a liberty, and you one of the school gentlemen and all. -But my niece, she said as madame did laugh when she ’eard about the -kitten, and ’er young ladies, too.” - -Mr. Neatby writhed. - -To a man of his reserved and sensitive temperament, the reflection -that his name could by any possibility be bandied about by a milliner -and her assistants was little short of maddening. If he could then and -there have ordered Mrs. Vyner “to take five hundred lines,” it might -have given him some relief. But in all things he was a just man, and -he knew that his landlady had at all events meant kindly in trying to -discover the perpetrator of the outrage; for the fact remained that -somebody had most assuredly “put a ’oax” on him in the shape of the -liveliest of tabby kittens. - -It never occurred to him to suspect any of the boys. For how could -one of them come by either band-box or kittens? To be sure there were -some day boys, but it happened that these were nearly all “on the -Classical,” and Mr. Neatby had but little to do with them. - -Of course he reckoned without the ubiquitous Figgins, who, unlike Mr. -Neatby, _had_ a young lady, who was employed by Madame Louise, and for -whom it was an easy matter both to procure a disused band-box and a new -label. - -“You’re certain he got them all right?” whispered Peter to Figgins -at his next lesson, as that worthy rushed forward officiously to -settle the sack on the horse’s back. “He gave me back my notes simply -smothered in red ink, and I thought I saw a mark like a kitten’s paw, -but I couldn’t be sure.” - -“Law bless you! yes, sir, _’e_ got ’em right enough. I took ’em myself, -and wot’s more, both of ’em’s there still, for I passed by this mornin’ -and ’appened to look down the airey, and there they both was as peart -as print. I s’pose we’d better wait a day or so for the next ’un, -’adn’t us?” - -“Yes, Figgins, wait two days till you see me again,” and Peter dug his -knees into his horse and rode at the first jump. - -“It’s rather decent of him to _keep_ them,” thought Peter to himself, -who was tender-hearted where animals were concerned. “Perhaps, if he -doesn’t clap on any more lines for a bit, I’ll let him off with two.” - -But, alas for good intentions. When Peter got back to the house, he -found Tod bursting with indignation. For at “Practical Chemistry,” that -very morning, Tod, who was supposed to be engaged in the manufacture of -hydrogen, used so many conflicting ingredients as to cause an explosion -and dense smoke, and a smell so appalling that it drove the whole class -into the corridor, and caused several testy masters to send indignant -messages demanding where the infernal smell came from. - -Mr. Neatby, exasperated to the last degree, not only told Tod to take -five hundred lines, but bade him return the very next half-holiday and -spend the afternoon in doing similar experiments under his master’s -supervision. - -Tod confided his grievance to Peter at great length, and concluded his -recital with the injunction, “Let him have all three, the _beast_! I -wish they were young gorillas.” - - * * * * * - -Mr. Neatby was very busy. He was taking extra duty for a master who was -ill, and for three or four days after the arrival of the second kitten -really had not a moment to call his own, so, as Mrs. Vyner seemed to -take quite kindly to the new arrivals--only taking care to charge her -lodger an extra quart of milk daily for their maintenance--he almost -forgot their existence. - -By Saturday evening he had accumulated a mass of mid-term examination -work to correct, and directly after supper set himself down to it, with -four clear hours before him, for he often worked till after midnight. - -His lamp was trimmed, his fire burned brightly, and one kitten, the -first, sat purring on the hearth. That, and the scratching of Mr. -Neatby’s pen as he corrected the generally mistaken views of boys as -to the nature of an element, were the only sounds till there came a -thunderous rap outside, and the door-bell pealed loudly. - -Mr. Neatby frowned, but never looked up from his corrections. He had -not been long at the school, and was not upon intimate terms with any -of the masters, so that it was hardly likely to be a caller for him. -He heard somebody open the front door, then some vehicle drive away. A -moment later there was a knock at his door, and Jemima, Mrs. Vyner’s -niece, came in, bearing a hamper. - -“Please, sir, this ’ave just come by rail; there wasn’t nothing to -pay.” - -“Very well,” Mr. Neatby answered without looking up; “put it down, -please; I can’t attend to it just now.” - -Jemima did as she was told, and once more silence settled upon the room. - -But not for long. Kitten number one got restless; it walked round and -round the hamper, and sniffed and mewed, and mewed and sniffed, with -irritating persistency. Moreover, a curious muffled echo seemed to -accompany its mewing. Mr. Neatby bore it for five minutes, then pushed -back his chair, caught the disturbing kitten by the scruff of its neck, -and bore it to the top of the kitchen stairs, calling to Jemima to take -it down. That young lady obeyed his summons, taking the kitten tenderly -into her arms with many endearments; but all the same she remarked to -her aunt, “Well, I do think as ’e might manage to look after _one_ on -’em ’isself, that I do.” - -Mr. Neatby went back to his papers and corrected with more vigor than -before; but, in spite of his haste, in spite of his absorption, the -muffled mewing continued. - -At last he laid down his pen and listened. “Surely,” he thought, “it -can’t sound like that from downstairs. I must have got the sound on my -nerves; it’s really most annoying.” It _was_ annoying; it grew louder -and louder till it seemed at his very side. - -Mr. Neatby was endowed with great powers, both of self-control and -concentration. Having decided that the sound was in his imagination, -and not actual, he went on with the paper that he was correcting, but -as he placed it on the top of the growing pile he chanced to notice the -hamper which was placed on the hearth-rug close beside him. “Apples, -I suppose, from home,” he thought to himself; “but all the same, I’d -better see.” He lifted it on to his knee. “Too light for apples,” he -thought again. “What can they have sent?” - -The lid was not very tightly fastened, and a slash or two of the -penknife at the string restraining it brought it away. - -Hay, and again hay, in this case forming the cosy nest of _two_ -kittens, one tortoiseshell and one black. Both lively and vociferous -beyond either of their predecessors. Mr. Neatby ejaculated just one -word, and sat perfectly still with the open hamper on his knee. The -kittens climbed out and made hay among his papers, but he took no -notice. “An angry man was he,” and when a man of his temperament is -angry, he usually sits tight. The kittens got tired of the table, and -jumped lightly to the floor, carrying a few dozen papers with them in -their flight, but still Mr. Neatby sat on staring into space. - -When at last he roused himself, he once more sought some solution of -the mystery in the address label, but the yellow railway label on the -back had been torn away, and only “ton” remained. The address itself -was printed very neatly by hand. - -Inside the hamper he found a little pink envelope with nicked edges -such as servants love. He opened it, and printed by the same hand, on -a piece of paper to match, was the following verse: - - The kitten’s a persistent beast, - It comes when you expect it least, - It comes in ones, it comes in twos-- - And when it comes it always mews. - -“Ah!” Mr. Neatby said softly to himself, “some boy is at the bottom of -this.” - -The clock struck twelve, and he remembered with a start that both his -landlady and Jemima would certainly be in bed. - -What was to be done with the kittens? - -He was far too kind-hearted to turn them out of doors on a cold -November night. They were really uncommonly pretty little beasts, and -as he watched their gambles he found himself quoting: - - Alas! regardless of their doom, - The little victims play, - -and then realized that they had no business to be playing at all at -that time of night, and that he certainly wanted to go to bed. - -He really was a much tried man that night. First, he had to catch the -kittens and put them in the hamper, and as fast as he put one in, the -other jumped out. This took some time. Then he carried the hamper up to -bed with him, the kittens making frantic efforts to escape the while. -And when at last he did get to bed, he had to get up again to let them -out of the hamper, for they made such a frightful din no mortal could -sleep. They finally elected to settle down on Mr. Neatby’s bed, and -in the morning one of them ungratefully scratched his nose because he -happened to move when the kitten in question chose to walk over his -face. - -When at last he arose from very broken slumbers, the black kitten upset -the shaving water and scalded its foot, and made a dreadful uproar, and -the tortoiseshell, while investigating the mantelpiece, upset and threw -into the grate a blue vase belonging to Mrs. Vyner. - -In chapel on Sunday morning, Tod and Peter noted gleefully the long -scratch on “old Stinks’” nose (“Stinks” being, I regret to say, the -name by which Mr. Neatby was known among his pupils). And curiosity -as to how he was getting on with his rapidly increasing family of -cats consumed them. In the afternoon they walked up and down the road -outside his lodgings for nearly an hour, but nothing did they discover; -for Mrs. Vyner’s windows were shrouded by white curtains, no one went -in or out of the house, and all their loitering was not rewarded by so -much as hearing a distant mew. - -The fact was that Mr. Neatby had gone for a long walk to try and work -off his irritation. That morning, while he was still at breakfast, Mrs. -Vyner had appeared in his sitting-room, and somewhat stormily informed -him that her “’ouse was not a ’ome for lost cats, nor never ’ad been.” -And she concluded her harangue as follows: - -“I’ve ’ad gentlemen, masters at the school, for twelve year come -Michaelmas, and some ’ave bin trouble enough, the Lard knows. -With their football and ’ockey, and ’ot baths in the middle of the -afternoon, and the mud on their flannings something hawful; but a -gentleman as surrounded ’imself with cats in sech numbers I never ’ave -’ad nor never won’t again, I ’opes and prays. And although it do go -again my conscience to do it of a Sunday, I _must_ ast you, sir, to -take a week’s notice from yesterday. For start a fresh week with sech -goin’s on, and cats a comin’ by every post as it were, I can’t; no, not -if the king ’imself was to ast me on ’is bended knees.” - -In vain poor Mr. Neatby pointed out that, far from “surrounding -himself” with kittens, they were thrust upon him he knew not by whom or -from whence. That he had no intention of keeping any of them if Mrs. -Vyner objected, and that it would really be extremely inconvenient for -him to have to seek new rooms in the middle of the term. - -Mrs. Vyner was implacable. “I’m very upset about it, too, sir,” she -answered, more in sorrow than in anger; “for I did think as ’ow I’d got -a nice quiet gentleman, you not bein’ given to them ’orrid games as is -so dirty, nor wantin’ an over amount of cookin’. But a gentleman as -’eaven appears to rain cats on like it do on you is not for the likes -of me nor shan’t be. And though I’m truly sorry as you should be so -afflicted, I must ast you to leave my ’ouse, sir, next Saturday as ever -is, and that’s my last word.” - -It wasn’t, not by a long way; for although Mr. Neatby reasoned, nay, -even almost implored Mrs. Vyner to reconsider her decision, she would -hardly let him get a word in edgeways, and remained unshaken in her -desire that he should vacate her rooms. “’Ow do I know, sir,” she asked -again and again, “wot hanimals may be sent you next? My ’eart would be -in my mouth every time the door-bell rang.” - -Truly, Tod and Peter had planned a fearful vengeance had they only -known it. But they did not know it, and their unsatisfied curiosity was -their undoing. On Monday morning at the riding school they arranged -with Figgins that he was to leave the fifth kitten at Mr. Neatby’s -rooms that afternoon, just before afternoon school finished. The -despatch of the hamper had been managed by a railway man, a friend of -Figgins, whose cart started from a parcel-receiving office close to the -riding school, and he delivered the hamper on his evening round. - -Directly school came out, the twins decided to rush down to Mr. -Neatby’s rooms before lock-up, to ask some frivolous question about -a paper he had set, and perhaps by great good luck be present at the -unveiling of the end of the sending. All fell out exactly as they had -arranged. Figgins took the parcel. Mrs. Vyner received it, addressed -as before to “S. S. Neatby, Esq., M.A.” (his real name was “Stuart,” -not “Stinks”), carried it grimly into his sitting-room, and laid it on -the table. She removed all her own ornaments from the chimneypiece and -sideboard, and then went downstairs and brought up all four kittens -(poor Mr. Neatby had not yet had time to arrange for their painless -destruction), and shut them up in the room to await their owner’s -return. - -At ten minutes past five he hastened in, trod on one of the kittens as -he entered the room, and struck a match to light his lamp. The kitten -noisily proclaimed its injury, and the other three expressed their -sympathy in similar terms. When he caught sight of the brown-paper -parcel on the table he turned pale. The very feel of it was enough, and -even before he had torn off the cover he was sure of its contents. Yes, -in a common little bird cage was a fat, white kitten, and an uncommonly -tight fit she was. - -He did not attempt to let her out, though her position was plainly one -of extreme discomfort, but stood with the cage in his hands, and the -four mewing kittens about his feet, in so universally distrustful a -frame of mind that he began to think that Mrs. Vyner herself was in the -plot to victimize him. - -The door was opened, and his landlady’s voice announced: “Two young -gentlemen to see you, sir.” - -Fresh colored and handsome, ruddy from their run in the cold evening -air, square-shouldered and upstanding, Tod and Peter allowed their two -pairs of candid blue eyes to travel from their master’s angry face to -his hands, from his hands holding the caged kitten to his feet, where -congregated the rest of the sending, and then exclaimed in a chorus of -genial astonishment: “Why, sir, what a lot of kittens you keep!” - -Now, although he had been at the school three terms, no boy had -ever ventured to call upon Mr. Neatby before. Other masters might -occasionally ask boys to tea or permit an occasional call out of school -hours to arrange about house matches, etc. But he had ever discouraged -any familiarity whatsoever, and that Tod and Peter should dare to -intrude upon him at such a moment seemed to him, as indeed it was, a -piece of unparalleled impertinence. - -“What do you want here?” he asked angrily. “It’s after lock-up.” - -“Mr. Ord gave us leave to come,” Peter said eagerly. “We don’t -understand this question, sir. Could you explain? What a noise those -kittens do make, don’t they?” - -Now if Tod could only have refrained from looking at Peter, Mr. Neatby -might have remained forever in the dark as to the mystery of the -kittens. But, even as Peter spoke, Tod, unaware that the light from -the master’s lamp shone full on his face, winked delightedly at his -brother, and in a flash Mr. Neatby connected their unexpected and -unnecessary visit with those equally unwelcome visitants whose advent -during the past week had entailed so much annoyance upon him. - -Taking no notice of the paper Peter held out toward him, he laid the -little cage on the table, and said very quietly: - -“Now that you are here, you will perhaps kindly explain what you mean -by sending all these animals to me.” - -“Us, sir!” the twins exclaimed breathlessly, and as usual in -chorus--“Us!” - -“Did you or did you not cause these five kittens to be sent to me?” Mr. -Neatby asked again. - -Dead silence. - -As Tod said afterward, “It was one of those beastly yes or no questions -that there’s no getting out of.” - -“Did you or did you not?” Mr. Neatby asked again, a little louder -than before, though even the kittens had ceased mewing and seemed to -be listening. “But I know you did, and I wish to know further what -you mean by a piece of such intolerable impertinence, and such wanton -defiance of school rules.” - -“There’s no rule about sending kittens, sir,” murmured Peter, with the -least suspicion of a giggle in his voice. - -That giggle broke down the last barrier of Mr. Neatby’s self-control. -For full five minutes he permitted himself to thunder at those boys, -finally bidding them take all five kittens away with them there and -then. - -“But we can’t, sir; we _can’t_ take them back to the house,” pleaded -Tod. “Whatever would Mrs. Ord say?” - -“Well, you must take them away from here, anyway, and what’s more, -you must give up the names of your confederates, that I may take -proceedings against them for their unwarrantable interference with my -privacy. Who were they, now? At once!” - -“It’s absolutely impossible for us to do that, sir,” Peter said firmly, -and Tod might have been heard to murmur something about “can’t and -won’t.” - -“Then,” said Mr. Neatby, “you will both come with me to the principal -now at once.” - - * * * * * - -The principal of that school is one of the youngest headmasters in -England, and he would not be the success he is did he not possess -a sense of humor. He partially pacified Mr. Neatby; he vigorously -“tanned” Tod and Peter there and then, and during the remainder of the -evening he laughed to himself more than once. - -For the remainder of the term Tod and Peter found their comings and -goings so perpetually watched and suspected by the “young brusher” -aforesaid, that even the rapturous recollection of the success of their -sending was somewhat dimmed. But it was not they who suffered most; -to this day Mr. Neatby suspects of sinister intention anyone who so -much as mentions kittens in his presence, and new boys always wonder -why their schoolfellows are so anxious that they should mew in the -chemistry lectures. They only do it once. - - -III - -THE BOY THAT DIDN’T COME - -During the first part of the next, the Easter, term the twins were -so closely watched that their genius for mischief had small scope. -Whereupon the authorities, finding them apparently absorbed in games -and the general routine, relaxed their vigilance. - -At the beginning of February the weather was mild and pleasant, with -just enough rain to keep the footer ground in good order. But at the -end of that fickle month there came a frost, the aggravating sort of -frost that makes a field too hard for football and yet leads to no -skating. - -The never long dormant spirit of mischief in the twins awoke. - -As usual, it was Peter who began it, though Tod was the innocent first -cause. - -Just after first lesson, as Tod was hurrying from one classroom to -another, he met the principal in the corridor, who bade him ask his -form-master to come and speak to him at a quarter past ten. Further -down the corridor Tod met his twin, who instantly demanded what the -“Pot” wanted, and on being informed, went upon his way. - -Peter might have been seen to stop more than one schoolfellow as he -went--the corridor was full of boys changing classrooms--and when he -reached his own he delivered a message to the effect that the Head -would like to see his form-master at ten-fifteen. - -Peter’s form-master, familiarly known as “Pig-Face,” from a fancied -resemblance to that animal in the matter of nose, is a testy man, -much given to abusing his form and to the use of opprobrious epithets -seriously reflecting upon the veracity of boys in general; so, on -receipt of the Head’s message, he knuckled Peter’s head, called him a -“shuffling little beast,” set a complicated sum in discount for his -form to wrestle with during his absence, and hurried away, fuming -inwardly at the unreason of such a summons in the middle of morning -school. When he arrived at the principal’s room he found six other -masters also in waiting, but the principal himself was not there. - -It happened that that gentleman had met Tod’s form-master three minutes -after he had seen Tod, he said what he had to say there and then in the -corridor, and dismissed the matter from his mind. - -The seven masters waited in a grumpy group for ten good minutes, when, -just as they had decided upon immediate departure, the principal -himself rushed in and gazed in somewhat indignant astonishment at the -assembled multitude. - -It took nearly five minutes more to explain the situation, and the only -boy whose conduct in delivering the various messages seemed not wholly -inexplicable appeared to be Peter. For the principal good-naturedly -came to the conclusion that it must have been Peter that he met, not -Tod, and that Peter had misunderstood him. - -Such a charitable view of Peter’s conduct, however, could not last -long, seeing that six angry masters rushed back to their respective -forms to inflict lines upon six perfectly innocent boys, who were not -slow to protest that the message was entrusted to them by another. - -During the morning three young gentlemen from the Modern and four from -the Classical received a summons “to the principal at twelve,” and of -course Tod and Peter were of the number, both looking so seraphically -innocent that the principal was perfectly sure that it was “a put-up -thing.” In this instance the innocent suffered with the guilty, for -Tod got five hundred lines as well as Peter. But they both agreed that -to have so scored off seven “brushers” at one time was well worth the -lines. - -Three days afterward Tod’s nose bled toward the end of morning school -and he was dismissed to his house to clean up. As he raced along the -corridor he noticed that the door of the little room into which the -rope of the school bell descended was left open, and, peeping in, he -discovered that Hooper, the trusty porter, was not within. - -In far less time than it takes to write the words, Tod had rushed in, -and the great school bell that dismisses morning school rang loud -and clear over the peaceful playing-fields surrounding the school -buildings, still humming with the busy life within. - -Every boy and every master stopped short in what he was doing and -looked at the clock. Those possessed of watches consulted them, shook -them, listened to them, dubiously pressing them to unbelieving ears. -And as the clocks in that school are by no means beyond reproach, being -worked by a system of electricity that is, to say the least of it, -capricious in its conduct, all came, not unwillingly, to the conclusion -that morning work had indeed ended. Only the Head of the Modern, that -man of iron endurance, whose whole scheme of creation seemed bounded by -the exigencies of the Civil Service Commissioners, refused to believe -that his watch was wrong, and continued to discuss the “directrix and -eccentric” of a certain angle until it was really twelve o’clock; -while one of the French masters, hailing from Geneva, proclaimed the -unreliability of English clocks in general. - -Meanwhile Hooper, who had gone down to the lodge to speak to his -wife, could hardly believe his ears when his own sacred bell clanged, -somewhat irresponsibly and gaily it is true, without his agency. - -He rushed up the drive to discover the perpetrator of this -extraordinary outrage, only to meet a throng of masters and boys -streaming out into the playground full twenty minutes before the -appointed hour. - -Tod was nearly at his house by this time, and when he did arrive, -hastened to the matron to descant upon the terrific hemorrhage that had -occurred in his nose. - -But Nemesis was never very leaden-footed where the twins were concerned. - -“Other chaps,” Tod remarked mournfully, “can break all sorts of rules -and do no end of mischief and never get found out, but if we do the -least little thing someone’s certain to be down on us like a hundred of -bricks, or else we’re obliged to own up to save somebody else.” - -In this case it was the latter course that Tod had to pursue. The -principal was exceedingly angry at such a wanton curtailment of the -last hour of morning school, and gave it out in the afternoon that if -the amateur bellringer did not disclose himself that very day, the -whole school should stay in on the next half-holiday; and the frost had -broken and football was in full swing once more. - -Of course Tod sought the principal at the earliest opportunity and -owned up. - -When he appeared in the principal’s room after afternoon school -he made, it is true, a valiant effort to present himself with due -solemnity, but his round face was absurdly chubby and cheerful, and -when the principal looked up from the letter he was writing to see who -the intruder was, he sighed deeply. - -“You again, Beaton!” he exclaimed wearily. “So it was _you_, was it, -who rang that bell? What on earth did you do it for?” - -“My nose bled, sir....” Tod began eagerly. - -“What had your nose to do with it?” - -“Everything, sir. I was sent out of class....” - -“Sent out of class?” the principal repeated sternly. - -“Because I made such a mess,” Tod hastened to add; “and the little door -was open--and so I rang the bell.” - -“Beaton, when will you cease to play these senseless and annoying -tricks? Your folly caused six hundred boys, to say nothing of the -masters, to lose twenty precious minutes. If I punished you as you -deserve, you ought to stay in for twenty minutes each day for six -hundred days....” - -Tod gasped. - -“But I won’t do that. Instead, you must do a thousand lines, to be -given up by the end of this week. I shall not cane you, as I have no -doubt you would infinitely prefer it.” - -A good many boys assisted to write those lines, and the impost was -given up at its appointed time. - -Hockey leagues were on and Peter was playing in his house team. On the -morning of the last practice before an important match, he acknowledged -so barely bowing an acquaintance with certain French idioms beloved of -the French master--for was he not their author?--that Peter was told to -stay in after morning school and learn them. - -Peter did nothing of the kind; on the contrary, he went out at the -usual hour and played hockey with his accustomed vigor, with the result -that the French master sent for him that afternoon to know why he had -not done as he was told. - -Peter pleaded “a very important engagement,” and, on being pressed to -disclose the nature of that same, as usual answered quite truthfully. -The French master, not unnaturally exasperated, forthwith reported him -to the Head of the Modern, with the result that Peter was hauled up and -bidden to stay in on the next half-holiday; the very half-holiday on -which his house was to play its bitterest rival. - -During the remainder of that term he got into several rows with his -form-master, and Tod was equally unlucky, so that by the time the -Easter holidays arrived both boys were quite ready for them and left -school vowing vengeance on their persecutors. - -Their parents were in India, so they went to spend the holidays with -a jolly young bachelor uncle, who was an ardent fisherman and carried -both the boys off with him for three weeks’ peel-fishing in a remote -village in North Wales. He was also of a literary turn, that uncle, -and took with him a box of books to enliven their evenings: lots of -Kipling and Stevenson, and amongst the latter the “Life and Letters.” -He read aloud the “Thomas Libby” incident, where Stevenson and certain -kindred spirits roused a whole neighborhood to excitement by constant -inquiries as to the whereabouts of one “Thomas Libby,” who existed only -in his creator’s vivid imagination. That of the twins was immediately -fired by an ambition to go and do likewise. - -The incident, or rather series of incidents, to which the -non-appearance of Mr. Libby led up, enchanted them. They chuckled over -the mysterious Thomas for a whole day, but it was not till evening, at -bedtime, that Tod whispered to Peter how, like “Sentimental Tommy,” he -had “found a way.” - -Sitting on the side of his bed, he announced gleefully: “Tell you what -it is, Peter, we’ll be a parent! A parent with a delicate kid! And -we’ll write long-winded letters in scratchy, small handwriting, you -know, like the masters write....” - -“But,” Peter interrupted excitedly, “how are we to get the answers? It -wouldn’t be any fun if we didn’t.” - -“The answers,” Tod replied calmly, “will come to the post office here, -where we’re living, you juggins! You bet there’ll be answers. They’re -awfully keen after the oof at the good old school. Why, they scent a -new boy a mile off. He shall go into old Pig-Face’s house, just to pay -him out for all his beastliness to you, and I’ll pester the Head about -him and his delicate chest, and all that sort of rot that parents _do_ -write, don’t you know.” - -Peter gasped. “But how can he ‘go’ into anybody’s house if there isn’t -a him to go?” - -“What an ass you are, Peter! _Was_ there a Thomas Libby? And how many -people’s houses was he going to, pray?” - -“Go on,” said Peter humbly, “go on.” - -“The parent’s name,” Tod announced proudly, “is Theopompus Buggins.” - -“Theopompus!” Peter echoed dubiously. “It doesn’t sound very real -somehow--and is the kid to be young Theopompus?” - -“No,” said Tod firmly, “_his_ name is Archibald, and Mr. Buggins is his -uncle.” - -“I thought he was to be a parent,” Peter objected in a dissatisfied -voice. - -“Well, an uncle is a sort of parent; probably the kid’s an orphan.” - -There was silence for a minute while Peter digested this view of the -matter. But still he was not quite satisfied, for presently he said: -“Tod, would _you_ believe in anyone called ‘Theopompus Buggins’?” - -“Well, no, I’m not sure that I would,” Tod admitted. “Why?” - -“D’you believe the Head will?” - -“I never thought of that.” - -“I think,” Peter suggested beguilingly, “that we had better have a -commoner name, don’t you?” - -“P’r’aps we had,” Tod sighed. “Let’s have Jones--Theopompus Jones, now.” - -“Jones is all right,” Peter allowed graciously, “but I don’t fancy -Theopompus much, it’s such a peculiar name.” - -“It’s a splendid name,” Tod exclaimed huffily, “but of course if you -think it’s too uncommon he can be ‘T. Jones, Esq.,’ or ‘John Jones’ if -you insist upon it. How would you like ‘Peter Jones’?” - -“T. Jones will do spiffingly,” Peter answered with some haste. “_We’ll_ -know his name is Theopompus right enough, and it don’t matter a hang to -them whether he’s Theobald or Theophilus or anything; but I say, Tod, -must he be an uncle?” - -“Yes,” Tod replied firmly, “he jolly well must, and, what’s more, -he’s got to be going to Injia just as term begins. We’ll look out the -sailings in uncle’s paper and choose his ship. He’ll just get there in -the hot weather, but that can’t be helped.” - -The twins were well acquainted with the whereabouts of “sailings” in -the papers, as most Anglo-Indian children are. - -“Why, you’ve planned it all, Tod,” Peter said admiringly. “How’ll you -do about the writing?” - -“I shall write as like old Stinks as possible, that niggly, scrabbly -sort of writing, _you_ know.” - -“By Jove! So you can--that’ll be all right. Parents and people call -that sort of writing ‘scholarly,’ but if we did it they’d say we were -beastly illiterate or something.” - -“What I like about a scholarly handwriting,” said Tod thoughtfully, “is -that no mortal can tell whether the spelling’s right or not. When I’m -once through the Shop I shall always write a scholarly hand and not -bother about spelling and that any more.” - -“Boys,” a voice called from the next room, “you get to bed and don’t -keep jawing all night.” - - * * * * * - -It would not be fair to disclose the exact spot in Wales from which -that anxious relative, Mr. T. Jones, indited his first letter to the -headmaster of the Public School which reckoned Tod and Peter among its -pupils. - - “There are several L’s in the place where he dwells, - And of W’s more than one.” - -but it is impossible to be more explicit than this. - -The Principal of Harchester School was at breakfast in his hotel at -the seaside when a letter marked “urgent” and “if away please forward -immediately” reached him. He turned it over thoughtfully before opening -it, for he thought he recognized the handwriting of one of his masters -(familiarly referred to by Tod and Peter as “old Stinks”), a science -master, much given to drawing his attention to various details by means -of lengthy epistles. - -“What in the world can Neatby want now?” he wondered, “and in the -holidays, too; it really is a little too bad!” - -On opening the letter, however, he found that it was not from Mr. -Neatby, and set himself forthwith to decipher a missive in which the -margins were clear and spacious as the writing was small and obscure. -Yet it had the air, so the principal remarked to himself, of being the -letter of an educated man. Tod had played the “scholarly” game with -entire success. - -The letter was as follows: - - “DEAR SIR, - - “I am desirous that my only nephew, Archibald Jones, aged thirteen - years and six months, should be enrolled among the pupils of your - famous seminary at the commencement of the summer session. But - before placing him under your benignant charge there are several - points upon which I am desirous of enlightenment. Certain friends - have recommended to me the house of one Mr. Mannock, but from - other sources I have gathered that he is a man of somewhat violent - temper, sometimes almost abusive, in his intercourse with the boys. - Is this so? Because, if it is, I shall require to seek some other - house in which to place my nephew, an orphan of extremely sensitive - disposition, with a weak chest. It is possible that the accounts - I have heard of Mr. Mannock’s violence may be exaggerated, and I - should like Archibald to enter his house unless you especially warn - me against it. I wish my nephew to be entered upon the Classical - side, as I am given to understand that boys are less overworked in - that department than in that where they prepare for the Army. And - as his delicate chest will prevent my nephew joining in the rougher - sports of his contemporaries, I would suggest that one of the younger - masters should be told off to take Archibald for a walk every fine - day, as, of course, a certain amount of fresh air and exercise is - essential. He must not be placed in too high a class, as owing to - illness he has not been able to make such rapid progress in his - studies as his robuster contemporaries. - - “Any information that you can afford me--and as early an answer as - possible, for I am leaving England at the beginning of May and wish - to see my dear nephew comfortably settled before I sail--will greatly - oblige - - “Yours truly, - “T. JONES.” - -Tod had written “yours turly,” but was corrected by Peter, who, if -he had less sense of style, was fairly dependable where spelling was -concerned. - -Now the postmistress, their landlady, found her household duties so -much increased by the presence of her lodgers that she was fain to -depute her official cares to her daughter, Katie, a damsel who greatly -admired the good-looking twins. And when they confided to her that -if a letter came addressed to “T. Jones, Esq.” it really was for one -of them, she asked no questions, required no further information, -but, concluding that it was only a part of their mysterious charm to -receive letters in a name other than their own, promised to guard the -same should it come, without pointing out to anybody that just then no -person of the name of Jones was residing at the post office. - -The letter came in two days and ran as follows: - - “DEAR SIR, - - “I enclose the entrance form to be filled up by any parent or - guardian desirous of placing a boy at Harchester School. With regard - to the house in which you wish your nephew to board, Mr. Mannock’s - is, as I hope are all our houses, entirely satisfactory. But if - your nephew is, as you imply, a delicate boy, I would suggest that - he should be placed in one of the smaller boarding-houses, as he - would then receive more individual attention than it is possible to - bestow in a house where there are some fifty boys. I have asked the - bursar to send you a prospectus, in which you will find the names - and addresses of all the masters in the school who take boys; and - lest the house you select should be already full, I advise you to - communicate with the master at your earliest convenience.” - -When Mr. Theopompus Jones in the dual shape of Tod and Peter received -this missive they retired to a distant bridge, whereon they sat to read -it, and they laughed so much that they nearly fell over backward into -the river. They gloated over the very envelope. But later on, when -their first glee at getting an answer at all had somewhat abated, they -expressed disappointment that the Head had omitted to answer so many of -their questions. - -“You see,” Peter cried indignantly, “what a shufflin’ old hypocrite he -is. You can’t get a straight answer from him about old Pig-Face, and he -knows what an old brute he is just as well as we do.” - -“Shall we send dear Archibald into one of the smaller houses?” Tod -asked thoughtfully. - -“No,” Peter thundered. “He’s going to old Pig-Face, and to no one else. -Who knows but he may save some decent chap from going there? Let’s -write again to the Pot, it’s such a lark, he answers so nice and quick. -Why, there’s over a fortnight more of the holidays; we can get a whole -volume of his oily old letters by that time. I’ve always wondered how -humbugs like him manage to grease up to one’s people so, and for the -life of me I can’t see why now.” - -That night the twins again engaged in literary labors, much to their -uncle’s surprise, but he was an ardent bridge player, and, having found -three like-minded anglers at the village inn, he was glad to leave his -lively nephews so peacefully employed. - -“Are you chaps writing a story?” he asked that evening as he departed -to his bridge. - -“Yes,” “No,” the twins answered simultaneously, then Tod answered -with some decision: “No, Uncle Frank, we’re writing letters, business -letters, that’s all.” - -“Dear me,” their uncle replied, much impressed, and, having a -peace-loving and incurious disposition, he asked no further questions -and was soon contentedly playing a “no trumps” hand with conspicuous -success. - -A day or two later the headmaster of Harchester sighed gently as he -found beside his plate at breakfast another bulky epistle from the -anxious-minded Mr. T. Jones. This time that gentleman did not content -himself with generalities; he made the most searching inquiries as to -the disposition of the aforesaid Mr. Mannock. - -After thanking the headmaster of Harchester for his “polite letter” -(the headmaster raised his eyebrows as he reached this phrase), Mr. -Jones continued: - - “I fear that I cannot fall in with your suggestion of a private - boarding-house for my dear nephew. In the first place it is too - expensive, and in the second place I wish him to go into Mr. - Mannock’s house if you can satisfy me that he is of the considerate - and forbearing disposition that a man placed in his responsible - position ought to be. I am pressed for time, as I sail on May 1st for - Bombay, and an early answer will greatly oblige. - - “Yours truly, - “T. JONES.” - -Tod and Peter had the very greatest fun in filling in the form of -application. They had long ago decided that the youthful Archibald -was to enter on the Classical side, that he was destined for the -Church, that his father was “deceased,” but as to the late gentleman’s -profession they squabbled. Peter wanted Army or Indian Civil; Tod was -in favor of Navy or Church; when Peter suddenly recollected that there -were “lists and things” in most of the recognized professions and that -an “inquisitive old buffer like the Pot would be certain to look him -up.” - -Finally they decided that the deceased one had better be a “merchant.” -Peter wanted to add “prince,” but Tod, the far-seeing, pointed out that -such affluence would hardly coincide with an objection to one of the -smaller boarding-houses on the score of expense. - -Finally they despatched their entrance form “to the bursar,” -elaborately filled up in the scholarly handwriting of Mr. Theopompus -Jones, the handwriting that so puzzled the Principal of Harchester by -its haunting resemblance to that of one of his masters. - -Again the Pot was prompt and courteous, and by return the twins were -gloating over another letter, which, however, again disappointed them -by its brevity. - - “DEAR SIR (it ran), - - “As your time in this country is indeed getting short, I would advise - you at once to confer personally with Mr. Mannock as to whether he - can find room for your nephew or not; for, in the event of his having - no vacancy, you still may be enabled to place the boy in one of the - other houses.” - -“Oh, the shuffler!” Peter shouted indignantly. “The quibbler! The -sanctimonious humbug! _He_ thinks he’s diddled Theopompus Jones, does -he? He’ll find out his mistake before very long; it’ll be Theopompus -Jones has diddled _him_. I wouldn’t trust that man with a bad -halfpenny. He can’t answer a straight question, that’s what he can’t -do--and yet to hear him talk....” - -“I say,” interrupted Tod, “suppose they send in the bill, what’ll we -do?” - -“You don’t propose we should pay it, do you, you young ass?” Peter -returned scornfully. “They never send ’em in till just before term, -sometimes not till after. Don’t you remember how the pater grumbled -last autumn because it _didn’t_ come, and he wanted everything settled -up before he sailed?” - -“So does Mr. Jones want it all settled before he sails,” Tod remarked -gaily. “He ought to write to old Pig-Face to-night.” - -This the dual Mr. Jones did, and, as before, received an answer by -return of post from Mr. Mannock, who, strange to say, had just one -vacancy, and expressed his willingness that Archibald Jones should fill -that same. And Mr. T. Jones, refraining from further researches into -the character of Mr. Mannock, wrote with his own scholarly hand, or -rather hands, a letter which announced the pending arrival of Archibald. - -By this time the holidays were nearly over, and the twins began to be -somewhat anxious as to the termination of Mr. Jones’ correspondence -with the authorities at Harchester School. But their good genius did -not desert them at the last moment, for just the day before they left -Wales, when they were at their wits’ end for a satisfactory ending to -the episode, they came across the “List of Members” of their uncle’s -club; and, idly turning over the leaves, Tod found that there were no -fewer than thirteen members of the same surname as the anxious uncle of -their creation and three of them had “T” for their initial. Instantly -Tod’s resource was stimulated, and he despatched three letters in the -most scholarly of handwritings to his headmaster, to Mr. Mannock, -and to the bursar respectively, announcing his immediate departure -for London and requesting that all future communications might be -addressed to him at the club in question. - -In his letter to Mr. Mannock, he informed him that Archibald would be -sent one day earlier than that given for the return of the other boys, -as he, Mr. Jones, would be so much occupied in arrangements for his -voyage that he would be unable to give the boy the careful supervision -his sensitive disposition and delicate health demanded. - -“We shan’t see their pompous old letters and bills and things,” sighed -Peter, “but it will liven up the Jones fraternity at uncle’s club--it’s -a good thing he’s not going back to town just yet, or he might hear -something--and Pig-Face will simply raise Cain when that precious -Archibald mysteriously disappears. We’re sure to hear about that, -anyway; two of his chaps are in my form, jolly decent chaps they are, -too.” - -“Mind you never _ask_ anything about it,” said Tod warningly. “They -might suspect something, and if we were ever found to have had any hand -in this we’d be sacked, sure as a gun. We’ve had our fun and now we -must jolly well keep it dark. By the time it’s all finished I should -say both the Head and old Pig-Face will have done their thousand lines -apiece, shouldn’t you?” - - * * * * * - -“Curious thing that fellow never turning up, isn’t it?” one of the -“decent chaps” in Mr. Mannock’s house remarked to Peter, some three -days after term had begun. “Pig-Face is in an awful stew about -it--afraid the boy’s been murdered or something.” - -“What boy? What d’you mean?” Peter asked innocently. “Who hasn’t come -back?” - -“No one hasn’t come back; it’s a new chap hasn’t turned up at all. Both -he and his people have mysteriously disappeared, vamoosed, vanished! -Awfully funny thing. There’s no end of a fuss.” - -“P’r’aps he changed his mind at the last minute,” Peter suggested. -“P’r’aps he heard something about old Pig-Face and funked it.” - -“I don’t know,” said the other. “Old Pig-Face looks awfully worried. -Shouldn’t wonder if we had detectives down, and all sorts of games.” - -Peter looked thoughtful for a minute, and then, to the astonishment of -his friend, who was really impressed by the enigma, doubled up with -uncontrollable laughter. - -The assistance of Scotland Yard, however, was not called in; for, on -writing to the Bishop and Admiral given as references by Mr. T. Jones -(boldly lifted, address and all, from “Who’s Who,” by the ingenious -Tod), the headmaster of Harchester received an emphatic disclaimer from -each of these gentlemen of any knowledge of any such person. Moreover, -an inquiry at the post office of the Welsh village from which Mr. -Jones’ letters were dated only elicited the laconic response of “Gone -away--address not known.” - -Katie had received and faithfully followed her instructions. - -Every Jones of the whole thirteen in that club was approached in -vain, and inquiry at the shipping office only elicited the fact that, -plentiful as persons bearing that patronymic appeared to be, no -passenger of that name had sailed by that particular boat. - -The authorities at Harchester came to the unwelcome conclusion that -they had been hoaxed; and all that remained of the incident were -certain letters, treasured, on the one hand for purposes of possible -identification, on the other for more frivolous reasons. - - - - -“TONY” - - -Tony sat in the gutter, wondering what would be the coolest thing to -do. The front doors of all the houses in the dull, quite respectable -street, wherein he dwelt, were close shut, as were also the -white-curtained windows, lest dust should blow in and sully these -hall-marks of houses that possess a front “best room.” The neighboring -children were all away; some at the recreation ground, some to paddle -their feet in the nearest approach to a river the town boasted--a -little muddy stream about a foot deep at the best of times; now a sort -of pea soup. - -But on this August afternoon Tony felt too slack and too sticky to -seek any amusement that necessitated a walk; so, having been thrust -out of the back door by his mother, who was washing and wanted no boys -“clutterin’ round”--he strolled lanquidly to the front, quite sure that -here, at any rate, he would be left in peace, as the dwellers in Eva -Terrace never used their front doors except on Sundays. - -Just then a man carrying a bag came running down the road, which was a -short cut to the station. - -“Here, youngster!” he shouted, throwing the bag to Tony. “Carry this -for me, and I’ll just do it! Run after me for all you’re worth!” - -Tony caught the bag dexterously and ran. He could run faster than the -man, and was soon jogging on ahead of him. At the station Tony got -sixpence for his pains, thrust it deep into his right trouser pocket, -and walked soberly away. - -Infinite possibilities were opened up by this unexpected windfall, and -he had no intention of mentioning it at home. His people were poor, -but not poorer than their neighbors; his brothers and sisters were all -older than he, and in his case Benjamin’s lot was not accompanied by -the advantages with which it is generally accredited. - -A lonely child was Tony, gentle and biddable enough, quick at his -books, and happiest in his school hours, when people let him alone, and -he succeeded in pleasing the clever, testy schoolmaster, whose life -was embittered by a constant struggle with an overwhelming desire to -whack the young demons who tormented him. He had been “summonsed” twice -by irate parents; so now he restrained himself at the expense of his -teaching powers and his nerves generally. - -Tony stopped in the middle of the road and smacked his pocket. - -“I’ll go to the baths to-morrow morning,” he said aloud, “and see them -young nobs swim; it’s only threepence before nine.” - -A great excitement--unshared, unmentioned--had lately come into Tony’s -life. Every morning for the last week, about eight o’clock he had -watched for two boys who went by on bicycles with towels strapped -on to their handle-bars. One was quite a little boy, far less than -Tony himself; the other bigger, and in his eyes less interesting; and -in a few minutes after them came one for whom Tony had conceived the -extravagant, unreasoning admiration children will sometimes lavish on -somebody with whom they have never exchanged, or hope to exchange, two -words; someone unconscious of their existence as they are the richer -for that other’s. - -Everybody in Tony’s locality knew the recruiting sergeant by sight: -“Sergeant” who taught drill and gymnastics to all the “young gen’lemen” -in the neighborhood. But Tony adored him, not only because he was so -tall and good looking--and Tony was strenuously certain that it is a -goodly thing to be upstanding and to have broad shoulders, instead -of the champagne-bottle variety carried by his brothers and their -like--but because he knew that the sergeant wished him well; inasmuch -as that he, even he also, was one of the hundred and fifty odd boys -in the parish schools of St. James’s. For now that the war fever was -somewhat abating, now that Sergeant himself had come back from the -front that he might send more soldiers out there, he had offered to -drill the boys in St. James’s schools twice a week for love. And it -could not be arranged. - -The authorities, while granting the utility of algebra and French to -those in the seventh standard, who were presently to form the bulk and -bulwark of the nation, saw no good reason why an attempt should be made -to give them straight backs and broad chests. So Sergeant, who loved -his country, and was, in his way, something of a philanthropist, sighed -and swore, and “put the question by.” - -But Tony, who had heard the subject canvassed, and listened to the -lamentations of the boys, was filled with a passion of gratitude, which -found no expression save in a constant hanging round corners to see his -idol pass. - - * * * * * - -Tony sat on his bed naked, in a patch of moonlight, admiring his own -legs. - -“My body be whiter nor theirn,” he said to himself, and indeed, his -limbs looked radiantly fair in the mellow light. “But my arms beant so -’ard as ’is’n for all ’e be such little chap,” he continued, pinching -the soft flesh of the upper arm in a dissatisfied way. - -Tony was too excited to sleep just yet--such a great deal had happened -in the last two days. In all his ten years he had never felt as he felt -now--and yet, from an outsider’s point of view, what a little thing it -was! - -The day before he had gone to the swimming bath, intending just to -watch. It was empty, save for Sergeant and the two boys who went with -him every morning. The water looked so clear, and there seemed so much -room in the big bath, that Tony undressed and went in. - -He paddled shyly about in the shallow end, admiring the two boys, who -dived off the spring-board and the pulpit and swam under water, while -Sergeant roared directions at them, and flung them head over heels in -the deep end, in a fashion that filled Tony with surprise. - -The big boy was practising side-stroke, when the little one, whom -Sergeant, for some reason or other, called the “swashbuckler,” swam -down the bath toward Tony, remarking cheerfully: - -“You’ll get rheumatism if you paddle so. Shall I show you the first -exercise?” - -He was such a little boy, but he swam like a frog. His square, freckled -face was so friendly that Tony forgot that he himself was an “oik,” and -therefore his sworn foe, and said, “Please, sir!” in the meekest of -tiny whispers. - -“You must kneel on the edge further down, and let me chuck you in,” was -the next command--and Sergeant stopped in the very middle of a shout to -chuckle and whisper: - -“Blest if the swashbuckler isn’t giving a swimming lesson on his own -account!” - -And now Tony sat on the edge of his bed and remembered two wonderful -mornings, and pondered what it could be that made that friendly little -boy so different from all the other boys he knew. And through all his -thinking, like the refrain of a song, sounded a sentence he had once -heard at Sunday school. He could not remember the whole of it; but -five words seemed to batter at his brain as though demanding instant -comprehension and attention--“_The temple of your body._” - -Tony nodded as though in answer to a spoken word. He pictured Sergeant -cleaving the water with his long arms, the muscles standing out on his -white shoulders. - -“I s’pose,” said Tony softly, as if in answer to that unseen, -persistent voice, “some folks ’as temples for bodies, and some folks -’as on’y tin churches, or, so to speak, a public.... I’d like a temple -myself for ch’ice.” - -He was not very sure what a temple was, but in a vague way he _was_ -assured that it was something large and beautiful; and his conception -was helped out by hazy recollections of Sunday school and Solomon, and -thoughts of a building spacious and white. - -“There used to be a free night,” he continued, reverting again to the -actual, “but the Corpeeration stopped it--I wonder w’y? It’s tuppence -after six, that’s a shillin’ a week--’ow can pore boys get that?--an’ -I promised ’im as I’d learn the others w’en I could get a chanst, when -he’s learned me....” - -Tony’s voice faltered, he was getting sleepy. He gave his smooth white -arms another stroke, slipped into his nightshirt, and got into bed. - -“E’ve give oi a shillin’ to pay for four more mornin’s, till ’e do go -away,” he whispered ecstatically as he laid his head on the pillow, and -Tony fell asleep. - -That evening Tony’s elder brother “Earny,” who cleaned bicycles, and -was ’prenticed to a dealer in the neighborhood, wanted his Sunday -necktie, for he purposed to “walk out with his young lady.” He ran -upstairs to the room he shared with Tony and another brother, to find -the little boy fast asleep, worn out by unusual exercise and varied -emotions. - -Earny could not find his tie, and on lifting Tony’s trousers to see -if by any chance it was hidden beneath them, a shilling rolled out of -the pocket and finished spinning with a clang, just in the very centre -of the patch of moonlight where a quarter of an hour earlier Tony had -decided that he, at all events, “would ’ave a temple for ch’ice.” - -“’Ullo!” thought Earny to himself, “where did that kid collar a bob? -’E bin a’ter no good, I’ll be boun’, so secret-like and sayin’ nothin’ -to nobody. Serve ’im right if I buys some smokes with ’un;” and Earny -departed quietly, without having fulfilled his original intention of -waking Tony that he might look for the missing necktie. - -At nine o’clock the following morning Tony still lay upon his bed, -wide-eyed, white-cheeked, with blank despair writ large upon his face. -Breakfast was over long ago, his family had all departed to their daily -work; his mother was ironing in the kitchen, he could hear the bump of -the iron as she slammed it on the table; the bedroom could wait till -one of the girls came in at dinner-time, so no one interfered with Tony. - -He knew that it was his brother who must have taken the shilling--the -precious shilling that had meant so much to him. He knew that he had -no redress, no one would believe him if he told them how he came by -it, and in his utter misery he was too poor-spirited even to think of -reprisals. His whole imagination centred round the dreadful certainty -that Sergeant and the little gen’leman and the little gen’leman’s -brother would think him a fraud. For a brief space the sun had shone -out on his drab life, discovering hitherto undreamt-of colors in the -landscape, but now.... - -“I can never watch for ’em no more,” he said, with a hard, tearless sob. - -Presently he stood out on the floor and shook his nightshirt about his -feet; he dressed quickly, and did not even wash his face as he was wont -to do. - -“’Tain’t no use for the likes of me to try,” he said bitterly. - -Then he went to his brother’s drawer and stole the bundle of cigarettes -he found there, and went out and smoked under the railway bridge till -his body was as sick as his heart. - - - - -A SQUARE PEG - - -“I told him plainly beforehand that if he did not get a scholarship -this term he must go into business. He has not won a scholarship, and, -situated as you are, any other course would be absurd.” - -Uncle Henry shut his mouth with a snap, while he stared fixedly over -his sister’s head that he might not see the pleading in her eyes as she -said timidly: - -“But fourteen is so young, Henry, and Rodney is so small for his -age----” - -“I fail to see that his size has anything to do with it; and you, -Felicia, must learn to face things as they are, not as you would have -them. If you defer for one moment the chance of Rodney’s making his -own living, you are doing an injustice both to him and to his sisters. -Pardon my plain speaking, but he is the son of an exceedingly poor -widow and must be dealt with accordingly.” - -Through the open windows came the sound of a boy’s laughter and the -ring of a smartly struck cricket ball. Uncle Henry waved his hand in -the direction of the sound, saying: - -“There, you see; that’s what his education at present amounts to; he’s -a pretty bat, and doubtless looks forward to a life all flannels and -cider-cup and yells of admiration when he makes a few runs; the sooner -all that nonsense is knocked out of him the better.” - -“But Rodney is not idle, Henry,” his mother pleaded; “his form-master -and the Head both speak well of him and say that he has a very good -chance next year, although he has missed this; you know the exam. came -on just after his father’s death, when the boy was dreadfully upset.” - -“I have made you an offer, you may take it or leave it. You can put -him into one of my businesses; there will be no premium, and I’ll -pay for his board at a thoroughly good boarding-house I know of in -Mecklenburg Square, where he will be well looked after. In the meantime -you must try to let this house, and then you can come up and live in -the suburbs, and he can live with you and go to business every day by -train; the little girls can go to a High School. With the many claims -I have upon me, this is all that I can do, and I must serve you in the -way that seems best to me.” - -Uncle Henry sat down and took up the newspaper in token that the -subject was thoroughly threshed out. He had gone into business at -fourteen, and now at little past thirty had a house in Grosvenor -Gardens and a “place down the river.” He had married at six-and-twenty, -“going where money was.” The names of his two sons were down for -Harrow, while his wife already talked of the time when she should -“present” their baby girl. He quite acknowledged that it was his -duty to help his sister now that the collapse of those Australian -banks had practically beggared her; but there was at the back of his -mind a lurking satisfaction that the way he had chosen should be one -calculated to destroy those castles of tradition her husband had been -so fond of building. It was a perpetual annoyance both to his wife and -to himself that Rodney and his sisters should be so very different -in appearance from their own children; that, clean or dirty, these -children without a sixpence should so strongly resemble the old family -portraits that his brother-in-law’s ridiculous will forbade to be sold; -that they should in speech and bearing so unmistakably be gentlefolk, -and yet be his own sister’s children seemed to him a proof of nature’s -ineptitude. - -To be sure he and Felcourt had been on friendly enough terms, but he -had always--though through no fault of Felcourt’s--been conscious that -his brother-in-law and his ancestors for generations belonged to a -class which only of late, and that not altogether with enthusiasm, has -opened its doors to successful men of Uncle Henry’s stamp. - -Rodney’s mother went and stood by the open window. The active white -figures flying between the wickets on the wide lawn seemed all blurred -and indistinct, and she lifted her slim hand to her throat to still its -throbbing ache; she was not a strong-minded woman. All she had asked of -life was the power to make folks happy, and to be loved; and hitherto -her desire had been generously fulfilled. Married at eighteen to a man -who, taking her out of somewhat sordid and uncongenial surroundings, -made her queen of a household where gaiety and good manners had -been vassals for generations, she readily adapted herself to the new -atmosphere, and became a sweet-voiced echo of her husband, and for -fourteen years was absurdly happy. Then Rodney Felcourt died, and six -months afterward came the collapse of the Australian banks. - -Uncle Henry had a way of carrying through any course of action he had -determined upon, and by the beginning of October his nephew Rodney -found himself taking his exercise in the Gray’s Inn Road instead of in -the playing-fields at school. The change of life was so radical and so -sudden that the child hardly understood what had happened. Like the old -woman in the nursery rhyme, he was forever exclaiming, “This be never -I!” in melancholy astonishment. He was learning to tie up parcels, -he stuck on endless quantities of postage stamps, and occasionally -addressed a few envelopes for one of the typists. He did what he was -told as well as he could, the day seemed endlessly long, and by evening -he was so tired that he went to bed soon after the seven-o’clock -dinner. A young boy for his age, he was quite unprecocious and -unformed; hitherto his place in the universe had been clearly defined -and not difficult to fill; to do well in his form, thus pleasing the -“mater” and his form-master, to be “decent” to his little sisters at -home, and “jolly” with the chaps at school, to be good at games and get -into the “house” eleven, and to be absolutely “straight” in word, deed, -and across country--such was Rodney’s conception of the whole duty of -boy, and he had acted up to it with considerable success. Now, life was -not only complicated but unintelligible, and he was too bewildered even -to rebel against a fate that kept him tying up parcels indifferently -well when he felt that by all the ordinary standards of conduct he -ought to have been writing Latin verses. - -Every Sunday he wrote neat, stilted little letters to his mother, which -informed her that he had been to church at the Foundling, was going for -a walk in the afternoon, that he was well and hoped that she was well, -and that he was her very loving son. Felicia crushed the paper against -her cheek in the vain attempt to extract from it something real and -Rodney-like. She thought of the school letters last term, how full of -life they had been, how numerous the requests they contained! Rodney -never asked for anything now, and she knew that the boy was holding -himself well in hand lest any part of the truth might hurt her. - -At the end of October, Cecil Connop came back from Paris. His arrival -was announced in all the papers, for he was of some importance in -literary circles; his great ability was acknowledged on all sides, the -more freely that he was something of a failure. Though his work was -widely read and appreciated by cultivated people, he was not popular. -His appearance was quite ordinary, and he made no attempt to resemble -any historical personage. He abhorred advertisement, considering that -his published writings had no sort of connection with his private life. -His readers were quite ignorant as to whether he had a mother or not, -and his personal friends suffered under no apprehension that their -loves or their bereavements would figure, flimsily disguised, in his -next book. His rooms in Jermyn Street had never been photographed, and -only his servant knew whether he liked his bath hot or cold. The fact -was that Cecil Connop kept one face for the world and quite another -for the old friends who loved him--a proceeding so out of date among -literary people as to be almost medieval. But it has its advantages for -such as like curtains to their windows. According to his own account -he never had any money, and was, when in England, in hourly danger of -Holloway Jail; but he paid his card debts and never seemed to lack any -of the things that go toward making life pleasant. - -Felicia’s letter announcing little Rodney’s apprenticeship was a great -surprise to Cecil. He had, of course, heard of her serious losses, but -he knew that her brother was a wealthy man and “people always manage -somehow”; that in this case they hadn’t “managed” came upon him with -quite an unpleasant shock. - -For some reason which she would not define even to herself, Felicia had -not asked any of her friends then in town to look up Rodney. She was -absolutely certain in her own mind that he had no business there, but -circumstances were too strong for her, and she dared not offend Henry. -When she read in the paper that Cecil had returned to town she felt -distinctly relieved. Here was an understanding person who would ask no -questions and could be depended upon to give a faithful account of the -child. - -Cecil wrote at once to Rodney asking him to lunch at his club on the -following Saturday, and to Felicia, to say how pleased he would be to -do what he could for him while he was in town. - -Rodney sat on the edge of his bed, too tired to undress. His flannels -and “sweater” were spread on the pillow, and from time to time the -boy laid his face down on them, inhaling the clean, woolly smell. He -had of course never worn them since he came to London--Uncle Henry -had not thought it necessary to make any arrangement as to how Rodney -should spend his Saturdays--yet the sight of them comforted him. He was -beginning to employ that saddest of all philosophies, that nothing can -take from us the good times we have had. He had eaten hardly anything -all day, and the ache in his throat was well nigh intolerable. His door -opened, and the maid announced: “A gentleman to see you, sir. Said he’d -come up here.” - -Cecil had come before his letter. As the open door betrayed the -listless little figure with the scattered flannels the whole situation -was revealed to him in a flash, and for the hundredth time in a not -over well-spent life he cursed the folly which had rendered him so -incapable of helping his friends in any material way. When Rodney -realized who was his visitor, he simply flung himself bodily upon him, -and Cecil Connop, who was tender-hearted and easily touched, kissed -him and had been rapturously kissed in return before he had time to -consider whether the boy would be offended or not. Then they both sat -on the bed and for the first time for six weeks Rodney chattered. One -of the boarders, a girl who did typewriting in Chancery Lane, passing -his doorway, stopped and smiled as she heard the ripple of Rodney’s -laughter; she waited for a full minute, enjoying the unwonted sound, -then passed on to her own room unaccountably cheered. People in that -house were too busy and too tired to laugh! - -When Cecil Connop got back to his rooms he sat and smoked for a long -time before he wrote the following letter to Felicia Felcourt: - - “To-night I have spent an hour with Rodney, and find him apparently - well and cheerful. I cannot faithfully report upon his appearance, - as it was candle-light and I did not see him very distinctly. He - talked freely enough about you all at home, about his old school, - about myself; but, when I come to think of it, said nothing about - his business. You will, I know, pardon me if I ask you in all - seriousness--is this necessary? The whole time I was with him I had a - curious sense that he was playing truant and ought to be at school; - and there is one thing that an expression in your letter impels me - to say at the risk of being impertinent: no amount of money in the - world is such a possession as the breeding you and his dead father - have given your boy. Forgive this frankness and believe me that I - feel with you the more keenly that I am so conscious of my own gross - impotence to help.” - -On Saturdays Rodney left business at one, and on this particular -Saturday flew back to “Meck” to change into his “Etons,” when he hied -him on the top of an omnibus to lunch with Cecil Connop at his club. -When he was seated opposite to his host, that gentleman proceeded -to examine him critically. The boy was unmistakably a gentleman: -everything about him, from the long slender hands of which he was so -unconscious, to the way he looked his companion straight in the eyes, -proclaimed him to come of a race who had spent their days otherwise -than in tying up parcels. Men passing in and out looked pleasantly at -the pretty boy who was so plainly enjoying the unwonted experience; -but Cecil noted that he was very thin, that after the first flush of -greeting was past the little high-bred face was pale, and that there -were black shadows under the long-lashed grey eyes. Moreover, although -there was everything for lunch calculated to please a boy, he ate -hardly anything. - -“Are they decent to you at your place of business?” asked Cecil, -carefully pouring cognac into his coffee. - -“You see,” said Rodney slowly, “I don’t seem to know anybody....” Then, -with a twinkle of amusement, “They call me a fool when I make mistakes, -which is pretty often, and if I do things right nobody says anything.” - -During the next week or two Cecil made a point of seeing Rodney from -time to time, and after each meeting he felt more and more convinced -that the boy’s health was failing. He did not complain, but the -sedentary life was beginning to tell upon a constitution that had never -been so tried. He began to stoop, and even with Cecil his laugh was by -no means so ready or so frequent as it had been. - -Felicia, although at first much comforted by Cecil’s account of Rodney, -longed after him as only widowed woman can long for her son; but she -had promised her brother that she would not attempt to see the boy for -three months lest it should unsettle him, and it only wanted three -weeks of the stipulated time. - -Rodney had not seen Cecil for a fortnight; he was out of town, but -this Rodney did not know. It was Saturday, and a smell of onion curry -pervaded the boarding-house, the Square garden looked hopelessly -uninviting, and he felt that he could endure neither the one nor the -other a moment longer. So he hied him to Pall Mall to see if he could -catch a glimpse of his friend. A conspicuously forlorn little figure, -he strolled slowly past the many clubs, when a man coming hastily down -some steps stared hard at Rodney, and, fixing his eyeglasses more -firmly on his nose, turned and walked swiftly after him. - -“Felcourt! Felcourt! What are you doing here?” asked a sharp, nervous -voice, and Rodney started violently as his house-master, “Fireworks -Fenton,” caught him by the shoulder and shook him. - - * * * * * - -“You young ass! Why didn’t you write and tell me all about it?” said -“Fireworks Fenton” an hour later, as he angrily thumped a tea-table in -“Stewart’s” till the cups jumped off their saucers. “We all thought -you’d gone to another school, and here have you missed a whole term, -and lost flesh and muscle, and forgotten everything you ever knew. -I’ve no patience with you; it’s preposterous, and must be put an end -to at once! Give me your uncle’s address and your mother’s----” and -“Fireworks” glared at Rodney through his eyeglasses, and Rodney sat -swallowing uncomfortable things in his throat, while his heart felt -lighter than it had been for many a long week. It was so good to be -bullied in that particular fashion once more. Now he dared to look -forward. He didn’t in the least know how it was to be managed, but his -old master had told him he was to come back to school next term, and -_he_ always got his own way even with the Head himself. “Fireworks” -was not afraid of twenty Uncle Henries--“Worthy but mistaken, worthy -but mistaken,” he had muttered more than once during his late pupil’s -explanations. Rodney went with him to Paddington to see him off, and -it was only as the train steamed out of the station that “Fireworks -Fenton” recollected that he had omitted the special business he -had come up to town to do. But he only frowned and muttered: “That -ridiculous little Felcourt put it out of my head, but I’m glad I found -him--glad I found him. What fools these dear women are! What fools! -What fools!” and whenever he turned over a sheet of newspaper (of which -he didn’t read a line), he frowned again, exclaiming: “What fools!” - -The particular fool Mr. Fenton had in his mind found two letters -beside her plate on the following Tuesday morning. She knew both the -handwritings, and gave a little sigh as she opened that from Rodney’s -house-master: it would be to ask how Rodney was getting on: he had -always been fond of the boy, and she had told him nothing. - - “You will, I hope, acquit me of frivolous interference,” ran the - letter, “in matters that do not concern me, when I tell you that I - have seen Rodney and heard from him of the very great change it has - been necessary to make in his life. I greatly wish that I had known - sooner your reasons for taking him away from school, as I think one - of the chief obstacles could have been, and still can be, easily - removed. Dear Mrs. Felcourt, it is with considerable diffidence that - I venture to ask you to do me a great favor, namely, to allow me - to undertake Rodney’s education; my one stipulation being that he - should come back to my house. You know that where there are twenty - to thirty boys, one more or less makes but little difference, and - in becoming responsible for the school fees, I am doing no more - than my headmaster did for me. My mother was left a widow with five - children and very little of this world’s gear. I am fully aware how - much I shall be the gainer if you allow me to have Rodney, for, - young as he is, he had a distinct influence upon that mysterious and - fluctuating commodity, the ‘tone of the house,’ and I have not the - slightest doubt that he will be able to make his own way by aid of - scholarships, ultimately earning his own living nearly as soon as if - he had remained in business. - - “Forgive me where I have expressed myself clumsily, and believe me, - - “Faithfully yours, - “REGINALD FENTON.” - -It was a long time before Felicia took up the other letter, which was -from Cecil Connop, and of this one sentence stood out in letters of -fire to the exclusion of everything else: - -“I don’t believe the boy’s health will stand it, Felicia; come and see -for yourself.” - -Felicia packed her smallest box and went. - -When Rodney came back from business that evening Selina, the -parlormaid, informed him that a lady was waiting in the drawing-room to -see him. Selina, usually so grim, was all “nods and becks and wreathed -smiles”; she liked Rodney, though he did “throw about his clothes -something shameful.” - -He was very tired and his head ached, as it always did in the evening -lately, but something in the maid’s tone made him forget his weariness, -and he raced up the stairs certain that only one lady could have -produced such unwonted geniality on Selina’s part. But he paused on the -mat outside the door; suppose it should only be his aunt! She had never -come yet, but she might, and how was Selina to know that he did not -care particularly for his aunt? - -The door opened suddenly from the inside. - -“I _knew_ nobody else would come upstairs like that. What were you -waiting for, you dear goose?”--and Rodney’s mother inspected her boy -for herself. - -Next day she went to see her brother at his office, and told him that -she had decided to accept Mr. Fenton’s offer. She rather surprised -Uncle Henry, she was so decided and so cool; he did not know that -Cecil Connop had got up two hours earlier than usual, in order to have -plenty of time to fortify Felicia for the interview, only leaving her -at the office door. - -“Do you think he will refuse to have anything more to do with us?” she -had asked timidly. - -“He couldn’t be so absurdly unjust,” answered Cecil stoutly; “but, even -if he were, you have Rodney to think of. It is a chance in a thousand; -it would be worse than madness to throw it away. He’s a square little -peg, is Rodney; you’ll never fit him into that hole.” - -Uncle Henry gave in quite graciously, though he was not best pleased. -Had he but known it, he revenged himself upon Mr. Fenton for his -interference by writing him a solemn letter of thanks, in which he -spoke of his “generous, nay munificent offer.” “Fireworks Fenton,” very -red and uncomfortable, rolled the letter into a ball and dropped it -into his waste-paper basket, exclaiming: - -“Pompous idiot!” - -When Rodney went home his little sisters found him more delightful -than ever, but he was reticent as regarded his experiences in London, -describing it briefly as “a beastly hole.” - -On his return to school “Fireworks Fenton” sent for him the very first -evening. - -“A row already, Felcourt!” exclaimed his best friend in dismay. - -But Rodney ran along the passage and knocked at the study door without -any fears on that score. As he closed the door behind him it was the -master who looked embarrassed, as he jerked out: - -“I’m pleased to see you back, Felcourt. Remember that if you are in -any way perplexed, or get into trouble ... or ... do you want any -pocket-money, by the way?” and “Fireworks” bent anew over the letter he -was writing. - -“No, sir, I have the usual pocket-money, thank you; but please I would -like to----” - -“Now, Felcourt, don’t you see that I’m busy? Go away, go away!” - -“But please, sir----” - -“I know perfectly well all the absurd and ridiculous things you would -say, and I very much prefer that you should not say them. One thing -_I_ have to say, attend to your English prose! I have a distinct -recollection that your spelling of English is revolting--positively -revolting. Attend to it!” - - - - -A TWENTIETH-CENTURY MISOGYNIST - - - What a place to be in is an old library! It seems as though all the - souls of all the writers that have bequeathed their labors to these - Bodleians were reposing here, as in some dormitory, or middle state. - I do not want to handle or profane the leaves, their winding sheets. - I could as soon dislodge a shade. I seem to inhale learning walking - amid their foliage; and the odor of their old moth-scented coverings - is fragrant as the first bloom of those sciential apples which grew - amid the happy orchard.--CHARLES LAMB. - - -I - -Every Easter holidays the schoolmaster went back to Oxford. Head of a -flourishing preparatory school in the north, a bachelor, absorbed in -his boys, strenuous, matter-of-fact, he yet retained after some twenty -years of monotonous grind a romantic affection for the dear city of his -youthful dreams. - -He always put up at the King’s Arms, that ancient hostel with the -undulating floors, where the ale is brown and strong, and the cold beef -tender and streaky. On his very first day he hied him to a solitude he -loved, paid his modest threepence, and mounted to a favorite haunt of -his--the picture-gallery of the Bodleian Library. - -It was always empty; it almost always is empty. Undergraduates know -it not; artistic and intellectual residents appear to scorn its -prosaic portraits of bygone poets and college benefactors, its humble -curiosities. Visitors seldom trouble themselves to mount the few -extra steps leading to it from the world-famed library below. But -the schoolmaster loved to wander up and down the second gallery. He -loved the double archway with the traceried roof, where the statue -of William, Earl of Pembroke, stands in the centre, and the two wide -bay windows are filled with pale stained glass, and one has a deep, -comfortable seat. - -As usual, the gallery seemed deserted, and the schoolmaster let -the peace of its solitude slide into his soul, till his spirit was -compassed about with a great calm. He strolled slowly through the -gallery, his hands, holding his straw hat, clasped behind him. He -always uncovered the instant he entered the little modest door in the -corner of the great quadrangle that leads to so many wonders. Presently -he reached the archway where he was wont to sit and dream. - -With a start of surprise he discovered that it was already tenanted. - -Under the portraits of Ben Jonson and Joseph Trapp, curled up in -a corner of the deep window-seat, his muddy boots reposing on the -sacred oak, was a boy--a small, thin boy in Norfolk jacket and -knickerbockers, apparently about twelve years old, who read absorbedly -a popular illustrated magazine. He never looked up as the schoolmaster -approached. Apparently he neither heard his footstep nor realized that -the newcomer had paused to stare at him in speechless astonishment. - -Amazement, accompanied by extreme annoyance, was the schoolmaster’s -predominant emotion. There seemed to him something incongruous to the -verge of irreverence in anyone daring to read a modern magazine under -the very roof of the building that contained so much of venerable -scholarship. - -It is true that the boy was perfectly quiet. Beyond the turning of -his page, he made no sound of any sort, and the schoolmaster found -himself watching this reader with a sort of dreadful fascination. He -longed that the child should reach the bottom of his page and look -up. He even gave a little cough to attract his attention. But the boy -seemed absolutely unconscious of either the stranger’s presence or his -scrutiny, and read on unmoved, smiling occasionally at what he read. - -The schoolmaster fussed to the end of the gallery, pausing at every -window to look out over the roofs at the towers and spires of Oxford. -Then he fussed back again along the other side, where the view consists -of the grey-walled quadrangle, a veritable “haunt of ancient peace.” -The peace that had enveloped him on his first entry spread her wings -and fled. Irritation and curiosity had taken her place, and as he -reached the archway again he stopped and looked at the motionless -little figure in the window. - -The boy was no longer reading. - -The magazine lay on the window-seat beside him. His knees were drawn up -to his chin, his arms clasped about them, and he stared unblinkingly -at the portrait of Abraham Cowley on the wall that faced him. - -The schoolmaster walked round the statue of William of Pembroke -till he, too, faced the boy. This time the child certainly glanced -in his direction, but the glance was of the most cursory order, and -wholly without interest. In an instant he had returned to his grave -contemplation of the poet, and the schoolmaster might himself have been -the statue of William of Pembroke for any interest he excited. - -The boy was pale and thin-faced, with large, hollow eyes and a tall, -wide forehead--a scholar’s forehead, as the schoolmaster, accustomed -for years to the observation of boys, had already noted. But what -latent scholarship was displayed in the reading of that obnoxious -magazine? And what business, the schoolmaster asked himself angrily, -had a boy of that age to be boxed up indoors on a fine afternoon in the -Easter holidays? - -The schoolmaster was a conscientious man in the pursuit of his -calling. From the very first he had taught himself to look upon boys -as individuals. He loved them; he whole-heartedly wished them well. -They were to him of most absorbing interest; but he liked to get away -from them sometimes, and nowhere had he been able to pass so completely -from his ordinary life of a hundred petty duties and anxieties as in -the high solitude of that deserted gallery, set in the very centre of -the scenes he held most dear, now spoilt and desecrated by this young -interloper with his horrid modern magazine. Why on earth did he choose -to come here? - -The schoolmaster could bear it no longer. “Boy,” he exclaimed, “why do -you come and read here?” - -Slowly the boy turned his melancholy eyes upon his questioner. -“Because,” he answered, civilly enough, but without any enthusiasm, “it -is generally perfectly quiet here.” - -There was the faintest perceptible emphasis on the “generally,” not so -much impertinent as gently reproving. Having answered, he turned his -eyes again upon the chubby, smiling countenance of Abraham Cowley, and -silence fell upon them like a pall. - -The schoolmaster was baffled, but more curious than ever. He was quite -conscious of the implied reproach in the “generally,” and he noted the -absence of the courteous “sir” with which any properly constituted boy -would conclude a remark made to an elder. But he could not feel that -the boy had been willfully rude. He would try again. “May I ask,” he -said pleasantly, “why you are so fond of looking at the portrait of -Abraham Cowley?” - -Again the boy shifted his gaze from the smug charms of the poet to the -worn and somewhat homely features of his questioner. - -“I like him cos he’s so good-tempered--in this one,” was the brief -reply. - -The schoolmaster came and stood beside the boy, and looked at the -portrait. Above it was another, also by Kneller, but representing him -as thin and severe-looking. - -“They’re very different, aren’t they?” the schoolmaster remarked. -“You’d hardly think they were the same man, would you?” - -“I expect,” the boy said solemnly, “in the top one he’s been married.” - -This startling supposition fairly took away the schoolmaster’s breath. -He racked his brains to remember all he had ever heard or read of -Abraham Cowley, and couldn’t for the life of him recollect whether he -was married or not. It is not in the nature of a true schoolmaster to -leave a youthful mind in the darkness of ignorance if he can be the -bearer of a torch whose light may pierce that gloom, so he said: “I -expect it was his political troubles that caused so marked a change in -his appearance. Do you know anything about him?” - -“No, but I like him.” - -“Shall I tell you about him?” - -“No, thank you,” the boy answered politely, but with firm finality. - -He took up his magazine again, opened it, spread it upon his knees, and -in one instant was absorbed in its pages. - -The schoolmaster sat down on the window-seat and gazed alternately -at the boy and at the portraits of Ben Jonson and Joseph Trapp above -his head. Since he had been a little boy himself he had never felt -so snubbed. He was wholly unaccustomed to be a cypher in the eyes of -boys, and suddenly with devastating force there was flung upon him -the conviction that he never saw a real boy at all--that the boys -he saw were all carefully expurgated editions arranged to suit his -sensibilities. - -A wild spirit of enterprise seduced the schoolmaster. He felt himself -as one who after long sailing in smooth, familiar waters suddenly -sights an unknown and precipitous shore. - -He had come to Oxford to get away from the boys he thought he knew. -What if, at Oxford, he received real enlightenment with regard to a boy -he did not know? The sunshine faded and the gallery grew dark. Outside, -he heard the soft patter of a heavy April shower. - -“You ought not to read in this light,” he said suddenly, “you will hurt -your eyes.” - -The boy looked up surprised at this fresh interruption, but he -obediently closed his book: there is something almost irresistible in -the commands of those accustomed to exert authority. - -“Do you come here often?” asked the schoolmaster. - -“Yes, whenever I’ve got threepence to get in.” - -“Has no one ever told you that when you are talking to an older man it -is considered polite to say ‘sir’?” - -“No. I don’t know many old men, nor men at all, for the matter of that.” - -“Why, Oxford is full of men.” - -“That may be. I don’t know ’em. I only wish I did.” - -The boy spoke bitterly and his eyes were full of gloom. - -“Don’t you go to school?” this “older man” asked anxiously. - -“No, I’m too delicate, so they say.” - -“Who teaches you, then?” - -“A guv’ness. I say, do you think we _ought_ to talk here?” - -“I see no reason why not. This isn’t the library, there is no notice -enforcing silence.” - -The boy looked as if he wished there was. He sat perfectly mute, with -his eyes fixed on the placid portrait over the schoolmaster’s head. - -“Wouldn’t you like to come downstairs with me and see some of the -curiosities in the library?” the schoolmaster suggested beguilingly. - -“No, thank you.” - -Really it was most difficult to make any headway with this boy. But the -schoolmaster possessed to the full the necessary perseverance of his -craft, so he continued his catechism: - -“Do your parents live in Oxford?” - -“I haven’t got any parents, they’re dead.” - -“Dear me, how sad! With whom do you live, then?” - -“Aunts.” - -Written words can in nowise express the snappiness with which the boy -ejaculated this monosyllable. The schoolmaster felt unaccountably -chilled and worsted, and silence fell upon them once more. - -The black cloud had passed over the Bodleian, the rain ceased, and the -sun shone out again. The boy swung his feet off the window-seat, put on -his cap and picked up his magazine, and without a word of farewell, -strolled nonchalantly out of the gallery, leaving the schoolmaster to -exclaim when he had finally vanished, “Well, of all the curmudgeony -boys it has ever been my lot to meet, there goes the most curmudgeony!” - - -II - -Yet he found it difficult to dismiss the ungracious youngster from his -thoughts. Next afternoon he sought the gallery again, but there was -no little figure curled up in the deep window-seat. The poet Cowley -smiled serenely, the gallery was deserted, dignified, reposeful as -of yore: with all its mellow charm of faded coloring, that even the -luminous stillness of that April afternoon could not burnish into real -brightness. But the usual sense of pleasant well-being, and ordered -peace, failed to enwrap the soul of the schoolmaster. Even as the day -before he had found the presence of the reading figure in the window -irritating and incongruous, so to-day he found its absence singularly -disturbing. He walked once round the gallery, sat a few minutes looking -at the portrait of Cowley and wondering what mysterious charm it -held for the queer child who loved it, and so into the dear familiar -irregular streets, where he scanned every boy who passed, in the hope -of coming across his small acquaintance of the day before. He went -every day to the gallery, but no boy was there. He almost gave up hope -of ever seeing him again, but he did not forget; and when, eight days -after their first meeting, he mounted to the gallery and saw the -little figure crouched in the window as before, with a gaily covered -magazine open on his knees, the schoolmaster’s heart beat a little -faster, and he hurried forward, exclaiming: “Where have you been all -these days?” - -The boy started at his greeting, looked up, and a smile of recognition -changed his face so absolutely that the schoolmaster felt a queer -tightening in the muscles of his throat. - -“I don’t get my pocket-money till a Friday,” the boy explained. “I -couldn’t come before.” - -“Well, now you are here, let’s have a chat together,” the schoolmaster -said genially. “We both like this place, let’s tell each other the -reasons why, and see if they’re the same.” - -He sat down beside the boy, just out of reach of the muddy boots. The -boy, his magazine still held open on his knees, surveyed his neighbor -with dark, mournful eyes. Now that the smile had ceased to lighten -his face, the schoolmaster was shocked at the sharpness of the thin -cheekbones, the hollows and the blue shadows under the solemn eyes. - -“I can’t tell you why I like it,” said the boy, “’cept p’r’aps because -it’s so quiet, no one ever talks here, and there’s no women.” - -“But women can come here if they like,” the schoolmaster objected. - -“They never _do_ like, not when I’m here,” the boy exclaimed eagerly. -“I’ve been here every week for months and months and I’ve never seen -one.” - -“But why do you object to women?” the schoolmaster persisted. “We -should be in a poor case without them, most of us.” - -“_I_ don’t object to them,” the boy said wearily; “it’s them objects to -us, and they do talk so--talk and talk and talk about their sufferings.” - -“Sufferings?” the schoolmaster repeated. - -“_You_ know,” said the boy impatiently, “women’s sufferings and votes -and things, and Parliament and injustice and that.” - -“Suffrage, suffrage, you mean suffrage!” cried the schoolmaster. - -“It’s all the same, that’s what they talk about, and inferiority and -that. One can’t help being born a boy, can one?” - -“_Help_ it!” exclaimed the schoolmaster. “Why, who’d be born anything -else if they had their choice?” - -The boy’s pale cheeks flushed. “Do you really mean that?” he asked -eagerly. - -“Of course I do. It’s a glorious thing to be a boy who’s going to be a -man.” - -“_They_ don’t think so, they say it’s much better to be a girl; they’re -sorry I’m a boy.” - -“Oh, come,” the schoolmaster said chaffingly. “You can’t expect me to -believe that. They may say so in a kind of joke, but they don’t really -mean it.” - -“Do you know my aunts?” - -“Well, no; but I expect they are very like other ladies, who often say -what they don’t mean.” - -The boy gave one scornful glance in the direction of the schoolmaster, -lowered his eyes to the printed page, and was instantly absorbed. - -The schoolmaster felt that he was dismissed. He had been weighed in -the balance, and found wanting in sympathy and insight, a mere stupid -looker-on at the outside of things. Five minutes ago the boy had -welcomed him. Now, it was as though the child had risen with the royal -prerogative, and closed the interview. The schoolmaster sighed deeply. - -The boy looked up. His eyes were the color of a still pool in a -Devonshire trout stream, brown, with olive-green shadows, suggesting -depths unfathomable. The schoolmaster instantly seized upon the small -concession, exclaiming: “I came here every day in the hope of seeing -you again, and now that you are here, you sit and read. Don’t you think -it’s rather unkind?” - -The boy flushed hotly, and once more the transforming smile illumined -his face as he said: “You came here on purpose to see me? Why?” - -“Well, you see, I’ve known a good many boys in my time, and I thought -you seemed a bit lonely....” - -The hungry eyes devoured him, and the schoolmaster stopped in the -middle of his sentence, for, like all Englishmen, he dreaded any -manifestation of feeling, and the boy looked as if he were about to -cry. His fears were groundless, however, for the child only said: “How -many boys have you known?” - -“Rather over a thousand, I fancy. You see, it has been my business to -have to do with boys for over twenty years.” - -“Over a thousand boys--and I don’t know one! How unfair things are, and -beastly.” - -The boy looked enviously at the grizzled man who had known so many -boys; and the man looked pityingly at this boy who seemed to have been -somehow cheated of all that makes youth joyous. - -“How is it you have no friends of your own age?” he said presently. -“Why don’t you beg your aunts to send you to school? You’d probably get -stronger directly you got there, with the regular games and busy life.” - -“My aunts don’t like schools. They say boys learn to be tyrants and -bullies at school.” - -“Oh, do they? You couldn’t have fifty tyrants in one place, or they’d -be the death of one another, like the Kilkenny cats.” - -“My aunts say,” the boy continued, “that I’m to be a result. I won’t -be a result. It’s beastly to be a result. I’ll be a policeman when I’m -grown up. Just you wait. I’ll stand outside Parliament, and if a woman -comes near I’ll carry her to jail. You see if I don’t.” - -The boy spoke with such vindictive bitterness that the schoolmaster was -shocked. - -“I have no doubt,” he said soothingly, “that your aunts have good -reasons for many of their views. You cannot possibly judge of such -questions for many years to come.” - -“You’d judge if you heard it all day long like I do,” the boy retorted. -“It’s only here I get away from it. Here in this nice quiet with that -fat, contented chap smiling at me; and now you’ve been and made me -talk about it, so even _he_ will know. You’ve gone and spoilt my -place--it’s too bad.” - -The boy looked as if he was really going to cry this time, and the -schoolmaster felt dreadfully guilty. - -“Tell me about your parents,” he said hastily. “Do you remember them?” - -“My father died before I was born, and my mother just after--she always -was very unwise.” - -“My dear boy, you ought not to speak about your mother like that. You -shock me.” - -“Well, _they_ say so.” - -“If anyone was to say to me that my mother was unwise, I’d--I’d knock -him down!” the schoolmaster exclaimed. - -“P’r’aps you knew her?” - -“Thank God, yes!” - -“Ah, I didn’t, you see--and I don’t think I could knock Aunt Amabel -down--she’s very strong.” - -“Of course not, of course not,” the schoolmaster said hastily. “I never -suggested such a thing for a moment. I expect you misunderstand your -aunts, and it is possible that they don’t quite understand you.” - -The boy said nothing. He no longer stared at Cowley’s portrait. He -stared at the schoolmaster, and in his melancholy gaze was concentrated -all the bitterness and disappointment of his twelve short years. - -“Let us come out and walk by the Cher,” said the schoolmaster. - -The boy followed him obediently, and as they turned into Catharine -Street, slipped his hand into that of his new acquaintance. - -“Twelve years old,” thought that worthy, “and he takes a fellow’s hand. -Poor little chap!” Aloud he said: “Boys generally take each other by -the arm, you know.” - -Instantly his companion seized him by his, and arm in arm they sought -the sheltered walk loved well by Joseph Addison. - - -III - -After that they met every day in the quadrangle of the Bodleian by -appointment, and together mounted to their favorite seat in the -picture-gallery. The boy no longer read a magazine; instead, he asked -questions--endless, anxious, exhaustive questions--as to the usual -doings and habits of boys who lived with each other and were brought up -by men. All his ideas on the subject were gathered from school stories, -and in consequence were crude and chimerical in the extreme. It was -undoubtedly a shock to him when this kindly friend of his frankly -admitted that he had frequently caned boys, and that he was supposed -to have “rather a heavy hand.” And the schoolmaster was still more -shocked at the bitterness of soul he discovered in this queer, quiet -boy. He gathered that the aunts--generally spoken of as “they”--were -ladies wholly absorbed in politics and every kind of movement for the -emancipation of women, and the schoolmaster pictured them as members -of the shrieking sisterhood, ill-favored and ill-dressed, oblivious of -the fact that feminine political opinions do not necessarily march in -elastic-sided boots. When the boy did condescend to mention one of his -aunts by name it was always of “Aunt Amabel” he spoke. She appeared -to be the guiding spirit of the trio, busy, strong, and energetic, -spending what time she could spare from politics in the pursuit of -all those games from which the unfortunate boy was debarred by lack -of comrades, and the schoolmaster found himself thinking with quite -unusual enthusiasm of the sister who kept house for him. At times he -had regretted her exclusively domestic talents. Now he even began to -share her serene conviction that women were, on the whole, so much -superior to men that only the very foolish could wish to resemble them. - -In the course of their long talks the schoolmaster had enlightened -his companion as to what constituted, in his simple creed, the whole -duty of boy; and so far as his ideals related to honor and courage and -truthfulness, he found the child singularly receptive and responsive; -but when he touched on the chivalry that should be shown to women, when -he tried to arouse the protective instinct that is generally so deeply -rooted and spontaneous in even the most rough and tumble average boy, -he was met by blank incomprehension, or a veiled hostility that puzzled -and depressed him. “If this,” thought he to himself, “is the result -of the feminist movement on the rising generation of men, God help the -next generation of women!” - -The men had come up, and the schoolmaster’s holiday was nearly ended. -In two days more he would need to return to his duties in the North, -to look after the cricket pitches in the playing-fields, and to see -that all was shipshape for the boys’ next term. For the last time he -met his sad-faced little friend in Catharine Street. This time they did -not go up to the picture-gallery. It was a sunny day in late April, -when Oxford seems to burgeon and blossom in a riotous ecstasy of youth -and gladness. River and playing-fields were gay with lithe, flannelled -figures, and everywhere the air was sweet with the scent of opening -lilacs. - -“We’ll go on the river this afternoon,” cried the schoolmaster when he -spied the little figure waiting for him; “it’s far too fine to be boxed -up indoors. I’ll take you in a Canadian canoe. You must sit very still, -you know. You don’t think your aunts would mind, do you?” - -“They’re in London. Aunt Amabel comes back to-night, but she’ll be off -again in a day or two; she’s always going to meetings. I’m jolly glad -she’s been away this week; she might have wanted to interfere----” - -“I don’t think she would mind your coming out with me, or I wouldn’t -take you. You must tell her all about it this evening. I’ll give you my -card to show her, and you can explain how we met.” - -The boy’s dark eyes were mutinous as he took the proffered card and -put it in his pocket, but he said nothing. On the river in the bright -sunshine the schoolmaster noticed how very ill he looked, and a great -desire possessed this kindly soul to make things easier for the boy. -The sight of the black shadows encircling the sombre eyes that should -have been so bright with youth and hope decided the schoolmaster to do -what he most hated doing--to interfere in another’s affairs, where he -had no possible excuse or even reason for so doing. - -He walked back with the boy to his home, one of the large, ugly, -comfortable houses “standing in its own grounds,” that have sprung -up on the outskirts of beautiful old Oxford: a house that looked -excessively well-to-do and trim and neat. “Nothing of Mrs. Jellyby -here,” thought the schoolmaster. - -“Shan’t I see you again?” asked the boy in a husky whisper, as they -reached his gate. “It’ll be awful when you’re gone.” - -“We’ll see, we’ll see,” the schoolmaster said hastily. “I can’t make an -arrangement now. Good-bye, my boy. God bless you!” - -The boy’s wistful eyes were more than he could bear. The man turned -hastily and walked away, nor once looked back at the watching figure by -the gate. - -Next morning he called upon Aunt Amabel about ten o’clock. The less -conventional the hour, the more possible did he feel it might be -to explain his errand. She was at home and would see him. The boy -had evidently done his bidding. As he followed the maid from the -drawing-room to the study, he prayed that some Pentecostal gift of -tongues might be vouchsafed to him. - -Aunt Amabel was seated at a large knee-hole table covered with -papers. She rose as he came into the room and held out her hand. -The business-like table, the litter of papers, was exactly what the -schoolmaster had expected, but the lady was wholly unlike the lady of -his dreams. Tall, well-dressed, good-looking, and by no means old, she -made things harder for him by her welcome. “You are the gentleman who -has been so good to Reginald? It is kind of you to call. I am most -pleased to meet you. He is a somewhat unusual boy, is he not? We rather -pride ourselves on his taste for old buildings, and things that do not -generally appeal to boys.” - -The schoolmaster mumbled some vague politeness and seated himself upon -a chair which faced the knee-hole table. Aunt Amabel’s eyes were dark, -like the boy’s, but they were bright and lively, and she turned them -now upon her visitor with full inquiring gaze. - -“I came,” the schoolmaster said bluntly, “to see you about your nephew. -He is not well, and I think his state of health arises largely from the -fact that he has no companions of his own age, nor suitable interests. -Why don’t you send him to school?” - -As he spoke he was perfectly conscious that this self-possessed -young woman was misjudging him, and the knowledge made him even less -diplomatic than usual. - -“We have never considered him strong enough for school life. He is an -unusual child of difficult temperament. He would be extremely unhappy -at school.” - -There was a superior finality in the lady’s tone that roused all the -fighting element in the schoolmaster. “He could hardly be more unhappy -than he is at present,” he said sharply. “I know that this must appear, -as indeed it is, a piece of unwarrantable interference on my part, but, -having become really interested in the boy, I could not reconcile it to -my conscience to leave Oxford without warning you that if you persist -in keeping your nephew away from the natural companionship, amusements, -and employments of his age, he will wither away as surely as a plant -withers when light and air are withheld from it. That boy will die.” - -He shook a thick forefinger at her, and the scorn died out of her eyes. -The men who most countenance the woman’s movement are seldom masterful. -Aunt Amabel began to like this dictatorial man. It was a new, and not -altogether disagreeable, experience to be rated. - -“You have a school, haven’t you?” she asked, sweetly. - -The schoolmaster’s dun-colored face crimsoned. “My dear young lady,” -he answered hotly, “if you imagine that I came to see you because I -was touting for another pupil, pray dismiss the idea from your mind.” -This time it was Aunt Amabel who blushed. “I came because, knowing a -good deal of boys, I feel sure that your nephew is delicate because -he is lonely and unoccupied; he is a very boyish boy, a boy who needs -the companionship of his own kind. You have an excellent preparatory -school quite near here. Try for a term--see what it does for Reginald.” - -“To be quite candid,” said Aunt Amabel, “we do not care for the -training, mental or moral, that boys receive at the average preparatory -school.” - -“Try one that’s not average,” he interrupted. “There are plenty of -them, all fads and flannel shirts and girls thrown in. He won’t learn -anything, but what does that matter? It’s health and youth and gladness -that you want for him, and a normal point of view; at present that -child’s a perfect misogynist.” - -The lady started at the word, and at this critical moment her nephew -came into the room. At first he did not see his friend of the Bodleian; -when he did he stopped short, looking from his aunt to her visitor with -puzzled, timid eyes. - -“Reginald,” said Aunt Amabel, “this gentleman says you are lonely and -unhappy, and that you would really like to go to school. Is this so?” - -“Yes.” - -The timid look faded from the boy’s eyes to be replaced by one that was -almost stern, so earnest was it. - -“Why have you never said anything to me about it? You have never -complained.” - -“What was the use?” - -“But how could we know you were not happy if you never said anything?” - -“He knew, without my never saying anything.” The boy pointed at the -schoolmaster, who sat with downcast eyes. - -“So it appears,” the lady said somewhat tartly, “although you seem to -me to have said a good deal. That will do, Reginald; you may go.” - -But Reginald did not go. He looked at the schoolmaster, and he looked -at his aunt. He took a step forward, exclaiming earnestly: “If you will -let me be like other boys, Aunt Amabel, I won’t be a policeman when I’m -grown up; I’ll give it up; I’ll truly be something else.” The boy spoke -as one who promises to part with some long-cherished and imperishable -ideal. - -“Oh, child!” exclaimed poor, puzzled Aunt Amabel, “I can’t imagine what -you are talking about. _Do_ run away.” - -“You see,” said the boy sadly to the schoolmaster, “she never _can_ -understand,” and he hastened from the room. - -The schoolmaster rose. “Believe me,” he said gently, “I do not want -your nephew for a pupil. I’d far rather keep him as a friend--I don’t -mean to say that a master can’t be a friend to his boys, but the -relationship must necessarily be a little different, and it has been a -pleasant experience to come across a boy under quite new circumstances. -I wouldn’t spoil it for the world.” - -Aunt Amabel looked down, and the schoolmaster noticed that her -eyelashes were long and very black. “I am sure you mean kindly,” she -said gently, “and you may be sure I shall give every consideration to -what you have said.” - -When her strange visitor had gone she sat for a long time quite still -in front of her table, staring with unseeing eyes at the many papers -scattered upon it. She knitted her black eyebrows and thought and -thought, but apparently to no purpose, for presently she said to -herself: “What _could_ he mean by calling that little boy a misogynist, -and what on earth could the child mean about not being a policeman?” - -The boy was waiting for the schoolmaster at the gate as he went out. -“Well, was it any use?” he cried eagerly. - -“My dear chap,” said that gentleman, “you are a little noodle. That’s -what you are.” - -And the boy, as he trotted by the schoolmaster’s side, found something -vaguely comforting in this cryptic speech. - - - - -PART II - -CHILDREN OF LAST CENTURY - - - - -A SMALL EVENT - - - All service ranks the same with God: - If now, as formerly He trod - Paradise, His presence fills - Our earth, each only as God wills - Can work--God’s puppets, best and worst, - Are we; there is no last nor first. - - Say not “a small event”! Why “small”? - Costs it more pain than this, ye call - A “great event” should come to pass, - Than that? Untwine me from the mass - Of deeds which make up life, one deed - Power shall fall short in or exceed! - - _Pippa Passes._ - -Every night the Alfresco Entertainers gave their performance on a -little platform set right under the shadow of the great cliff; while -in front of them, not a dozen yards away, the rhythmic wash of the sea -on a rocky shore seemed a sort of accompaniment to their songs, much -softer and more tuneful than that of the poor, jingly, rheumatic piano, -which had nothing between it and every sort of weather save an ancient -mackintosh cover. - -The village itself was but a shelf of shore with one long, straggling, -lop-sided street: cottage and shop and great hotel set down haphazard, -cheek by jowl, all apparently somewhat inept excrescences on the side -of the green-clad cliffs rising behind them straight and steep, a sheer -five hundred feet, and just across the narrow line of red road lies the -Bristol Channel, with, on a clear day, the Welsh coast plainly in view. - -At ten years old, people are generally found more interesting than -scenery, and Basil took a great interest in the variety entertainers. -They looked so smart and debonair, he thought, in their blue reefers, -white duck trousers, and gold-laced yachting caps--though they none -of them ever put out to sea. There were five of them altogether, two -ladies and three men. Basil did not care so much about the ladies, in -spite of the rows of Chinese lanterns that outlined the little stage -and shone so pink in the darkness; there seemed no glamor or mystery -about them. They were not transcendently beautiful like the gauzy good -fairy of pantomime, or the peerless, fearless circus lady in pink and -spangles: neither did they possess the mirth-provoking qualities of the -dauntless three clad in yatching garb. One always sang sentimentally of -“daddies,” or “aunties,” or “chords,” that had somehow gone amissing; -and the other--Basil almost disliked that other--sang about things he -could in nowise understand, in a hoarse voice, and danced in between -the verses, and she didn’t dance at all prettily, for she had thick -ankles and high shoulders. - -But the three “naval gentlemen,” as Basil respectfully called them, -sang funny songs, and acted and knocked each other about in such -fashion as caused him almost to roll off his chair in fits of ecstatic -mirth. Nearly every fine night after dinner, if nobody wanted him, -Harnet, the tall man-servant, would take Basil, and they sat on two -chairs in the front row and listened to the entertainment. Sometimes -grandfather himself would come, but he generally went to sleep in his -chair at home; for when a man goes peel-fishing all day, walking half -a dozen miles up the rocky bank of a Devonshire trout stream to his -favorite pool, he is disinclined to move again, once he has changed and -dined. - -The bulk of the audience attending the Alfresco Entertainment sat on -the wall separating shore from road, or on the curbstone, but there -were always a few chairs placed directly facing the stage, which were -charged for at sixpence each. Harnet was far too grand and dignified to -sit on either wall or curbstone, and as grandfather always gave Basil a -shilling to put in the cardboard plate, Harnet preferred to spend it in -this wise. - -Now all that company had high-sounding, aristocratic names, except -one, who was called, as Basil said, “just simply Mr. Smith.” There -was Mr. Montmorency, the manager, whose cheeks were almost as blue -as his reefer, and his wife, the lady who danced in the evening, but -in the daytime affected flowing tea-gowney garments and large flat -hats; there was Mr. Neville Beauchamp, who sang coster songs, to whom -the particular accent required for this sort of ditty really seemed -no effort, as all his songs were given in similarly pronounced and -singular fashion. The lady of the melancholy ballads was called De -Vere; she looked thin and young and generally cold, as well she might, -for she played everyone’s accompaniments, and never wore a coat, -however cold the night. But it was for Mr. Smith that Basil felt most -enthusiasm. In the first place, his speaking voice was as the voices of -“grandfather’s friends.” In the second, he was, to Basil’s thinking, an -admirable actor--changing face and voice, even his very body, to suit -the part he happened to be playing; and thirdly, he was funny--funny in -a way that Basil understood. Even grandfather laughed at Mr. Smith and -applauded him, and when the cardboard plate went round, he sent Basil -with the first bit of gold they had had that season. - -“Clever chap that,” he said as they strolled homeward under the quiet -stars. “Reminds me of someone somehow--looks like a broken-down -gentleman; got nice voice, and nice hands--wonder what he’s doing with -that lot?” - -Basil, however, was quite content to admire Mr. Smith without -concerning himself as to his antecedents. He forthwith christened him -“the jokey man,” and it rather puzzled him that, except at night, the -jokey man was hardly ever with the others, but went wandering about by -himself in an aimless and somewhat dismal fashion. Could it be that -Mr. Montmorency and Mr. Neville Beauchamp were proud, Basil wondered, -because they had such fine names. - -Basil’s face was as round as a full moon, and fresh and fair as a -monthly rose. Tall and well set up, he was good at games, and keen -on every kind of sport. Long days did he spend up the river with his -grandfather fishing for trout--he was to have a license for peel -next summer, but had to be content with trout during this. He went -sea-fishing, too, in charge of a nice fisherman called Oxenham, and -caught big pollock outside the bay, and every morning Oxenham rowed -Basil and Harnet out from the shore that they might have their morning -swim, for the coast is so rocky and dangerous that bathing from the -land is no fun at all--though the rocks are very nice to potter about -on at low tide, when energetic persons can find prawns in the pools. - -One day as Basil was busily engaged in this pursuit, who should come -up behind him but the jokey man, looking as melancholy as though there -was no sunshine, or blue water, or pleasant pools full of strange sea -beasts. Indeed, although he was by profession such an amusing man, he -had by no means a cheerful face. Tired lines were written all round his -eyes, his shoulders were bent, and his long slim hands hung loose and -listless at his sides, yet it was plain that he was by no means old. -Moreover, he had changed his smart yachting suit for an old tweed coat -and knickerbockers, and a grey billycock dragged over his eyes bereft -his appearance of all traces of the jokey man. So that for a minute or -two Basil did not know him, even although he sat down on a rock close -by and lit his pipe. - -Basil was standing bare-legged and knee-deep in water in pursuit of a -particularly active and artful shrimp, so that it was only when he at -last lifted his head with an emphatic “bother,” that he noticed the -stranger; then he beamed, for chance had tossed plump into his lap the -opportunity he had long been seeking. - -“How do you do?” the little boy inquired politely, taking off his -muffin cap with one wet hand while he grasped his net with the other. -“I am so pleased to have met you; I’ve wanted to for ever so long.” - -“That’s very nice of you,” said the man, and when he smiled he looked -quite young. “I am sure the pleasure is mutual.” - -“I’ve something most pertickler to ask you,” continued Basil eagerly, -scrambling out of the pool to sit on the rock beside him, “and it -seemed as if I was never to get a chance. It’s not for myself either, -it’s for Viola--you know Viola by sight, I daresay?” - -Now it happened that the jokey man, like most other people in that -village, knew Viola by sight very well indeed. In fact, Viola, and the -General, and Basil, were as speedily pointed out to every stranger who -arrived as though they had been bits of scenery. For they came every -summer and the village was proud of them. - -“Is she your sister?” asked the jokey man, suddenly taking his pipe out -of his mouth. - -“Yes, and she’s two year older than me, but she doesn’t go to -school--I’ve been for a year--she has a ma’mselle. I daresay you’ve -seen us with her. It’s been such a bore having her here, but she’s -going to-morrow, and then we shall do just what we like, for there -will be only Harnet and Polly, and we like them. Grannie had to go off -quite suddenly to nurse Aunt Alice, and won’t be back for a week, so -there’ll be nobody but grandfather and us; it’ll be simply ripping,” -and Basil paused breathless, beaming at the pleasant picture he had -conjured up. - -The jokey man put his pipe back into his mouth and waited; but it had -gone out, so he just laid it on the rocks beside him, saying: - -“What was it you wanted to ask me?” - -“It’s rather difficult to explain,” Basil began, turning very red and -rumpling his hair. “It’s Viola, you know; she wants so dreadfully to -come to your entertainment. I’ve told her about it, you know, but -grandfather says----” Here Basil paused, and turned even redder than -before: “One has to be so particular over one’s girls, you know,” he -interpolated apologetically, “and she’s the only girl in our family. -Grandfather never had any sisters or any daughters, so he thinks no end -of Viola, and father and mother are in India, and he says----” - -“That some of the songs are vulgar,” said the jokey man shortly. “So -they are; he’s perfectly right.” - -The jokey man looked at Basil, and Basil looked at the jokey man for a -full minute. Then the little boy said very earnestly: - -“Do you think that you could persuade them--those other gentlemen, I -mean--to leave out one or two songs one evening? There’s that one about -the ‘giddy little girl in the big black hat’ that Mr. Montmorency -sings. Grandfather doesn’t like that one, and it’s not very amusing, is -it? And Viola _does_ want to come so dreadfully.” - -The jokey man made no reply, but stared straight out to sea with a -very grave face. Perhaps he was thinking of all those other Violas who -listened night after night to the songs the General objected to, and -were perhaps, unlike his Viola, not “cared about, kept out of harm, and -schemed for, safe in love as with a charm.” - -Basil waited politely for some minutes, then, as the jokey man didn’t -speak, he continued earnestly: - -“You see she can just hear that there is music and singing when the -windows are open, and it’s so tantalizing, and you see it would be rude -to walk away when we’d heard you, and come back next time you sang, -wouldn’t it? It doesn’t matter for boys----” - -“I’m not at all sure of that,” said Mr. Smith hastily; “it matters very -much for boys, too, I think--especially if they don’t happen to have -wise grandfathers with good taste. I’ll see what can be done, and let -you know.” - -“Oh, thank you so much!” cried Basil; “that is kind of you. Viola will -be so pleased; she’s up the village now with Polly, or I’d fetch her to -thank you herself.” - -Now while Basil was talking he noticed that the jokey man’s coat had -got leather on the shoulders, and that the leather looked as worn as -the coat, so he rightly deduced that at some time or another his new -friend must have been something of a sportsman, and asked: - -“D’you fish at all?” - -“Not here,” said the jokey man, “but I’ve done some fishing in my time. -Have you had good sport?” - -Then immediately ensued a long discussion on the relative merits of -flies, and Basil gave forth his opinion, an opinion backed up by the -experience of numerous natives, that the “Coachman” was the fly for -that neighborhood, but that there were occasions, especially early in -July, when exceedingly good results might be obtained by using red -ants. They told each other fishing stories. Basil confided to the -jokey man that he had just got a beautiful new split cane rod from -“Hardy Brothers,” promised to show it to him at the earliest possible -opportunity, and they speedily became the best of friends. For it is -a curious fact that although the actual sport itself is a somewhat -taciturn pursuit, there are no more conversational sportsmen in the -world than ardent followers of the gentle craft. - -Another thing--they are always courteous listeners, and generally full -of good stories themselves, yet have the most delicate appreciation -of other people’s anecdotes. You can nearly always tell a member of a -fishing family by this rare and pleasing trait. - -Next morning the jokey man called at the hotel and asked for Basil -at the door. He wouldn’t come in, and when Basil, greatly excited, -appeared, only waited to say hastily: “If you like to bring your -sister to-night, I think I can promise you that it will be all right.” -Then fled before Basil could thank him, and was soon pounding up the -steep hill that ends abruptly at the hotel door, as though he were -training for a mountaineering race. - -Basil tore back into their sitting-room to lay the case before his -grandfather, who, for once, was lunching in the hotel. - -“He promised, you know,” he concluded jubilantly, “so she _can_ come, -can’t she?” - -Grandfather pulled his moustache and laughed. Then Viola came and laid -her fresh soft cheek against his, murmuring pleadingly: “Darling, -it would be so lovely,” till he pinched Viola’s cheek and made -stipulations about heavy cloaks, and the children knew the day was won. - -And the end of it all was that, at half-past eight that evening, -grandfather, Basil and Viola were seated on three chairs in the very -middle of the road that ran past the Alfresco Entertainers’ stage; -but as the road ends abruptly in a precipitous rock some thirty yards -further along, there is no fear of being run over by traffic. - -What an evening of delight that was! How Basil and Viola laughed, and -how pleased was grandfather! Another thing is quite certain--that the -Alfresco Entertainers in no way lost by the alterations they had made -in their programme; the rest of the audience seemed as pleased as Basil -and Viola, and no one appeared to miss the “giddy little girl in the -big black hat” the least little bit in the world. - -“Really, it’s vastly civil of Mr. Thingummy,” said grandfather on their -way home. - - * * * * * - -Grandfather and Harnet had gone fishing for the whole day. Mademoiselle -had departed, only Polly was left in charge, and she had so bad a -headache--she put it down to the close, cloudy weather--that she was -fain to go and lie down directly she had waited upon Basil and Viola -at their lunch, having given the children permission to go for a walk -along the beach. - -It was a grey day, humid and still, and, being low tide, there seemed -no fresh wind blowing in from the sea as usual. The children scrambled -over the rocks, very happy and important at being, for once, left to -their own devices, and they decided to make an expedition to a little -sandy bay that can be reached from the shore at low tide, and to come -back by a steep winding path up the cliffs which terminates in the -coach road just above the village. They had not considered it necessary -to confide their intention to Polly, who would certainly have objected. -They reached the bay all right, paddled for a little time on the hard, -smooth sand, and then set out to climb the path which winds in and out -of the side of the cliff for all the world like a spiral staircase up -to some nine hundred feet above the sea. This path is so narrow that -travelers can only walk in Indian file. On the one side is the steep -face of the heather-clad rock, on the other a sheer drop on to the -rocks below. - -When the children had climbed about a third of the way they found -themselves enveloped in white mist--a mist so thick, and fine, and -clinging, that you cannot see your own hand held before your face. It -was no use to go down again; the tide had turned, and soon the sea -would be lapping gently at the foot of the pathway. There was nothing -for it but to go on slowly, carefully, step by step, feeling all the -time for the rocks on the inner side; by and by the path would widen. - -“Don’t be frightened, Viola,” said Basil cheerfully. “It’ll take us a -goodish while, but a bit higher up we can walk together.” - -“I’m not exactly frightened,” said Viola in a tremulous voice, “but I -rather wish we hadn’t come.” - -“So do I,” Basil answered fervently. “If I hadn’t been such a juggins -I’d have looked up and seen the mist on those cliffs long ago. Probably -you can’t see that there _are_ any cliffs in the village now.” - -On they toiled, slowly and painfully. It is really a most unpleasant -mode of progression, walking sideways up a hill with your back against -a very nubbly sort of wall. - -“Hark!” cried Basil presently. “Didn’t you hear a call?” - -The children paused, leant against the cliff, and listened -breathlessly. Sure enough someone was calling. It sounded very muffled -and far off; but it was plainly a man’s voice, and he was calling for -help. - -“Do you think it’s above or below?” Basil asked anxiously. “I can’t -seem to tell in this fog.” - -“It must be above, or we should have heard it before. Call out that -we’re coming.” - -Basil shouted with all the force of his young lungs, and again the -faint, muffled voice answered with a cry for help. - -“Come on,” exclaimed Basil in great excitement; “we’ll find him!” and -sure enough in another bend of the path Basil nearly fell over the -prostrate figure of a man lying right across it, for here it suddenly -grew wider. The man raised himself on his elbow, exclaiming: - -“I say, do you think that when you get to the village you could send -help? I’m very much afraid that I’ve broken my leg. I can’t stand, and -moving at all hurts it no end.” - -“Why, it’s the jokey man!” Basil cried out in dismay. “However did you -do it?” - -“Oh, dear! oh, dear!” added Viola. “This is sad.” - -None of them could see the other, but nevertheless, the jokey man knew -in a minute who had come to his rescue, and forgot his injuries in his -surprise, exclaiming: - -“Whatever are you two doing here? Is the General with you?” - -“Oh, dear, no,” said Viola proudly; “we’re _quite_ alone, or we -shouldn’t be here, but isn’t it a good thing we _are_ here? How did you -fall?” - -“I was mooning along, not thinking where I was going, when down came -the mist. I made a false step and went bang over the edge, but only -fell on to the path below, not right over, as I might have done.... -Perhaps it would have been better if I had,” he added to himself. - -“You’d better go and get help, Basil,” said Viola decidedly, “and I’ll -stay and take care of Mr. Smith till they come.” - -But Mr. Smith wouldn’t hear of this. The children helped him to crawl -as near the inner side as possible, and when they left him he nearly -fainted with the pain of moving. It began to rain, the cold, soft, -wetting rain of a Devonshire summer, and Mr. Smith groaned and shivered. - -“I am so sorry for you,” said a soft voice close beside him. “Is there -nothing I could do? Wouldn’t you be more comfortable if you were to -rest your head in my lap? It would be a sort of pillow. Daddie used to -go to sleep like that sometimes out on the moors last summer, when they -were home.” - -“Oh, Viola, Viola!” exclaimed the jokey man, with far more distress -than he had yet shown, “why did you stay? You will get cold. It’s -raining already, and they will be ages.” - -“There’s no use worrying about that,” said Viola, edging herself -nearer. “We couldn’t leave you here all alone and hurt, and Basil -wouldn’t let me go on to the village ’cause of the fog, so of course I -stayed. I hope you won’t mind very much; I won’t talk if you’d rather -not, but I think I’d like to hold your hand if you don’t mind. It would -be comforting.” - -The kind little hand was curiously comforting to the jokey man: he -insisted on taking off his coat and wrapping Viola in it, in spite -of all her protests. Presently the white pall of mist lifted a little -and they could see one another, and it certainly was a great pleasure -to the man lying against the cliff to watch the little high-bred face -with the kind blue eyes turned in such friendly wise toward him. -Viola was so like Basil, and yet so entirely individual. Basil’s -face was round, hers was oval; Basil’s nose was broad and indefinite -as yet, Viola’s nose was small and straight and decided, with the -dearest little band of freckles across the bridge. Basil’s manner was -extremely friendly, Viola’s was tender and protecting, and it was such -a long time since anyone had taken care of the jokey man, that he -almost crooned to himself in the delight of being so tended. She was -very tender in her inquiries after his aches and pains, expressed a -pious hope that he always wore “something woolly next him,” and being -reassured on that head, proceeded to suggest that he should smoke if he -found it comforting. Then she told him a great deal in very admirative -terms about daddy, and grandfather, and Basil, for Viola was of that -old-fashioned portion of femininity that looks upon her own mankind -as beings of stupendous strength and wisdom. The man lay watching her -very intently, but it is not certain that he heard half of what she -was saying. He had the look of one who was trying to make a difficult -decision. The voices of habit and tradition called very loudly to him -just then--dared he listen? - -Presently Viola’s voice ceased. She was evidently waiting for an -answer, and none came. - -“Have you any sisters, Mr. Smith?” she repeated. - -Mr. Smith shook his head, then he raised himself on his elbow, saying -earnestly: - -“Look here, Viola! I want you to tell me exactly what you think -about something. Suppose Basil--of course it’s utterly impossible, -but still--suppose that when he was grown up he did something that -annoyed you all very much, something disappointing and entirely -against his father’s wishes”--he paused, for Viola looked very grave -and pained--“and then,” he continued, “if he went right out of sight, -and you, none of you, heard anything more about him for nearly a -year--supposing _then_ he was sorry, said he was sorry----” - -“We should never lose sight of Basil,” said Viola decidedly, her eyes -dark and tragic at the mere thought. “At least, I’m sure I shouldn’t; -whatever he did I should love him just the same. You don’t love people -for their goodness--you love them because they’re _they_.” - -“Are you sure?” asked the jokey man earnestly. - -Viola looked hard at him, turned very red, and said shyly: - -“Do you think you could tell me just what you did? I know it’s you.” - -The man leant back against the wall again. - -“It’s not an interesting story,” he said wearily, “but it may pass -the time. I was at the ’varsity, Cambridge. I was always very fond of -acting, and I was extravagant and lazy, too. The very term I went in -for my degree I was acting in the A.D.C., and--I was plucked. My father -was furious. Then came a whole sheaf of debts. He said I must go back -to a small college, live on next to nothing, work, and take my degree. -Instead of taking my punishment like a man, I quarreled with everybody, -vowed I’d go on to the stage, and came to this. I have kept body and -soul together, and I don’t think I’ve done anything to be ashamed of -since, but I’m sick and sorry at the whole business. Yet now that -I’m all smashed up and useless, it seems somehow mean to go back. My -father’s a parson, you know, not over well off, and there are a good -many of us.” - -All the pauses in his story, and there were a good many, had been -punctuated by Viola with reassuring little pats, and now that the pause -was so long that he seemed to have finished his story, she turned a -beaming face toward him. - -“How _glad_ they will be!” she exclaimed. “You must write to-night -directly you get back. How _glad_ your mother will be!” - -A spasm of pain crossed his face. “My mother died just before I left -school,” he said. - -Viola’s eyes filled with tears, and she had just exclaimed, “And -you have no sisters either, you poor dear?” when the rescue party, -accompanied by Basil and the nearly frantic Polly, appeared just -below them. They carried the jokey man to the foot of the cliff and -took him back to the village in a boat, and as his ankle proved to be -very badly broken he elected to go into the cottage hospital on the -hill. The long wait in the wet, that had not in the least hurt Viola, -proved altogether too much for the jokey man. That night he became -feverish and delirious, and when the children and the General went to -ask for him next day, they were told that he was very ill indeed, and -that the broken ankle was quite a small matter in comparison with the -pneumonia. That evening the doctor called on the General, and directly -the performance was over, the General went to see the Alfresco Players -at their lodgings. - -“Do you happen to know who his people are?” the General asked Mrs. -Montmorency. - -“He never let on that he’d got any folks, poor fellah,” she answered -with a sob. She had a kind heart if her ankles were thick. “He was -never one to talk about himself, and he’s never had so much as a -postcard by post since he’s been here, that I do know. His real name’s -not Smith at all; all his linen--beautiful and fine his shirts are -too--is all marked ‘Selsley.’” - -“Have you no idea what part of the country he came from?” the General -asked. “Then we could look in a directory. It would be a horrible thing -if----” - -“He joined us in London,” Mrs. Montmorency gasped between her sobs, -while her tears made little pathways on her painted cheeks. “He hadn’t -any references, but I persuaded my husband to take him. He carried his -references in his face, I said, and so I’m sure we’ve found it, for a -nicer, more obliging, gentlemanly----” - -“Do you think, sir,” Mr. Montmorency interrupted, “that he told the -little lady anything about himself when they were up on the cliff -together?” - -“God bless my soul!” exclaimed the General in great excitement. “Of -course he did; I have it. Who has got a clergy list?” - -Naturally none of the Alfresco Players possessed such a work, and it -was already too late to knock up the vicar of the parish. But next -morning the General called on the vicar very early, and then despatched -an exceedingly long telegram to the post office and several bottles of -champagne to the cottage hospital, where Polly, Basil and Viola hung -about the doors all the morning hoping for better news. The Alfresco -Players got out a green leaflet to the effect that there would be that -night a benefit performance for that talented artist, Mr. Smith, who -had been suddenly stricken down by serious illness. The General seemed -to send and receive a great many telegrams, and did not go fishing all -that day. At sundown there was no better news at the hospital, and it -seemed exceedingly probable that the jokey man would joke no more. The -General met the last train, and drove away from the station accompanied -by an elderly, severe-looking clergyman. They stopped at the hospital -and the clergyman went in. - - * * * * * - -The jokey man was so noisy and talked so continuously that the hospital -authorities had him moved from the men’s surgical ward into a little -room by himself. As the matron showed the strange clergyman into this -room, a nurse rose from the chair at the bedside. The jokey man’s -voice was no longer loud, but he kept saying the same thing over and -over again. - -“All day long he keeps repeating it,” she whispered. “I’m so thankful -you’ve come, for he can’t possibly last if this restlessness continues.” - -“I’m sure he’ll come if you send,” the weak, irritable voice went on. -“Why don’t you send? I want my father--‘father, I have sinned’--that’s -it--‘father, I have sinned’--but I know he’ll come if you send. I want -my father, I tell you--why won’t you send? I want my father.” - -The whispering voice persisted in its plaint, the hot hands plucked at -the sheet when other hands closed over them, holding them firmly, and -the voice he was waiting for said quietly: - -“My dear son, I am here.” - -As the sick man raised his tired eyes to the grave grey face bent -over him, his troubled mind was flooded with an immense content, his -poignant restlessness was calmed. - -“Good old father!” he said softly, and lay quite still. - -The jokey man thought better of it, and didn’t die after all. In -another week Basil and Viola were allowed to go and see him. They stood -very hushed and solemn on either side of his bed, for he looked very -thin and white, and was still lying right on his back, which made him -seem more ill somehow. For quite a minute nobody said anything at all, -till Basil, who held a large folded bracken leaf in his hand, laid it -down on the jokey man’s chest and spread it out. A fish speckled with -brown reposed in solemn glory in the midst. - -“It’s for your dinner,” whispered Basil. “It’s only four ounces off the -pound. I caught it myself two hours ago. Viola saw me do it. I think a -‘Coachman’s’ the best fly after all.” - - - - -IN DURANCE VILE - - -Gabrielle always remembered the day that the ringmaster of the circus -came to see her pony jump. She was proud of her pony, who was dapple -grey and Welsh, and could jump nine inches higher than himself. - -Gabrielle was five, and had ridden without a leading rein for two -years, but her father never let her jump Roland, the pony. So the pony -jumped by himself, greatly to the edification of the ringmaster who had -been bidden to see the feat. - -While all this was going on, Nana called her to nursery tea, and as she -trotted down the long yard, past the stables, and towards the drive, -the ringmaster turned to Jack Ainslie, Gabrielle’s father, and said: -“Has the little Missie hurt her foot? She’s a thought lame.” - -Jack Ainslie looked hastily after the idolized little figure, and noted -that the ringmaster was right. She _was_ a thought lame. - -Hastily excusing himself, he ran after the child. “Have you hurt your -foot, darling?” he asked anxiously. “You’re limping a little. Did you -twist your ankle?” - -“Oh, no, Daddy dear, I’m not hurt. I’m going to tea.” Gabrielle put -up her face for the ever-expected kiss and ran after her nurse. Jack -Ainslie dismissed the subject from his mind and showed the ringmaster -the rest of the horses. - -From that day, however, things changed for Gabrielle. Other people -noticed the little limp, and her parents, terrified and distressed, -sent for the family doctor. He discovered that in some way, probably -at birth, her hip had been dislocated, and had formed a new socket for -itself, and that henceforth she would limp--unless--and here all the -mischief began--something could be done. Her father was frantic. Of -course something must be done. That his Gabrielle, his dainty little -lady with her pretty face, her quick intelligence, and her gracious -ways, should be lame--oh, it was intolerable! He was broken-hearted -and rebellious, and even his wife’s steadfast patience and unchanging -tenderness could not make him resigned. Then began for Gabrielle a -series of visits to London. She was taken from one great doctor to -another till she grew quite used to marching about on thick piled -carpets, clad in nothing but her sunny hair, while they discussed her -interesting “case.” - -“Doctors are chilly men,” said Gabrielle; “their hands are always cold -to my body.” - -An operation was arranged, but at the last moment Jack Ainslie drew -back, for the surgeons would not guarantee success, and the family -doctor said grave things about Gabrielle’s constitutional delicacy. -So it was decided that more gradual means must be tried to bring -about the desired result. The “gradual means” assumed the shape of -an instrument, hideous to behold and painful to wear. It broke Jack -Ainslie’s heart to see his little lady cabined and confined in such a -cruel cage, and for the little lady herself it blotted out the sunshine -and made life very grey and terrible. One thing was quite plain to -Gabrielle, and that was that evidently Nature was very much to blame -in having provided a new “socket” for the poor little dislocated bone. -This impertinence must be interfered with at all costs--the doctors -seemed to agree upon that. And Gabrielle wondered why it was so wrong -to have no pain, to be perfectly unconscious of her “affliction,” as -her nurse called it, and so interesting (to the doctors) and right, -to be uncomfortable and to wear a hideous high-soled boot and an iron -cage, with crutches under the arms that pushed her shoulders up to her -ears. - -As for the instrument, it was designed and ordered by three famous -surgeons, and it cost the price of many ponies. Gabrielle tried to be -brave. She was curiously conscious that the pain her parents suffered -was far greater than her own. The instrument was adjusted in London, -and on the way home in the train her mother asked her many times, “Does -it hurt you, my darling?” And Gabrielle always answered bravely, “I can -bear it, mother dear; I can bear it!” - -When she got home that night, the poor little leg was black from the -cruel pressure, and Mary Ainslie broke down and cried till she could -cry no longer. Gabrielle tried to walk bravely in her cramping irons, -and to smile at her parents when she met their troubled eyes. At -first she broke the thing continually, for she was an active child, -much given to jumping off chairs and playing at circus on the big old -sofa. But by and by all desire to jump and run left her. She grew -high-shouldered, and would sit very still for hours, while her daddy -told her stories or drove her behind Roland in a little basket-carriage -he had bought for her. Truly the iron entered into her soul, the cruel -iron that cramped the child’s soft body; and Gabrielle’s eyes grew -larger and larger, and her chin more pointed, while the once plump -little hands were white as the petals of the pear-blossom outside the -nursery window. - -“I wish people wouldn’t ask me about it; they are kind, but I wish they -wouldn’t,” Gabrielle would say. “I’m tired of telling them about the -socket, and I’m not ‘a poor little soul’--I’m daddy’s little lady!” - -There came to Jack Ainslie a very old college friend, a doctor, -Gabrielle’s godfather, and devoted to her, and he was supremely -dissatisfied with her treatment and implored them to take her to see a -young surgeon, a friend of his own, who was making a great name, and -doing wonders for everyone who came under his care. Jack Ainslie and -his wife needed but small persuasion, and it was decided that Gabrielle -should go to London as soon as possible. - -What hastened the visit was this: Gabrielle was devoted to fairy lore, -and a favorite play of hers was to be the beautiful princess who is -freed from giants and dragons and lions by the gallant “Boots” of the -Norse tales. Her father always enacted the part of that redoubtable -third son, and was wont to kneel before her, making extravagant -protestations of his devotion, which she accepted with gracious -condescension. On this particular afternoon, just after tea, her father -proposed to play the favorite game, but Gabrielle would have none -of it. “I can’t be a princess any more, Daddy; I’m sure no princess -ever wore an instrument!” she said. “I don’t feel like a princess any -more at all.” Her father caught her up in his arms, with a great hard -sob, which frightened her, and she stroked his face, saying tenderly: -“Don’t be sorry, dear, dear Dad! I didn’t mean to hurt you. I’ll be a -princess, I will, indeed! I _will_ feel like a princess really!” The -next day Jack Ainslie and his wife took Gabrielle up to town. They did -not even take the faithful Nana, for Gabrielle’s mother could hardly -bear to let any hands but hers touch her darling, ever since the day -that the ringmaster had made his sad discovery. - -Mary Ainslie took Gabrielle to the new doctor the following morning, -while Jack sat in the smoking-room of the hotel, lighting innumerable -cigars which he did not smoke, and turning over illustrated papers -which he did not see. Then he turned out of the hotel and walked down -Piccadilly, blundering into the passers-by, and when he crossed the -road, was nearly ridden over by an omnibus, so blind and stupid was -he in his heavy sorrow. Poor Jack! his honest heart was very full of -grief, for he loved his little lady dearly, and he felt that unless -something were done quickly, he would soon have nothing but a tender -memory to love. - -Gabrielle and her mother were shown into the new doctor’s -consulting-room at once. He was a tall young man, with red hair -and keen green eyes. Her mother undressed Gabrielle, all but the -“instrument,” which clasped the tender little body, and seemed so -cruelly unnecessary. The young doctor frowned when he saw it, then he -took it off himself, and Gabrielle noticed that his touch was as gentle -as her mother’s, and that his hands were warm. She gave a happy little -shake when she was free of it, a little wriggle and jump of relief. -Then the doctor made her walk, and felt her all over, after which he -rolled her up in a big fur rug, to sit in front of the fire, while he -went into the next room with her mother. They were not long away, and -on their return Gabrielle looked up at the doctor with bright, curious -eyes. - -“Does the instrument hurt you?” he asked. Gabrielle looked at it, as it -leaned feebly against a chair, and said: “It does, rather; but it does -its best not to. I think...!” - -“Well, any way, you’re not going to wear it any more. Are you glad?” - -“But what will the socket do?” - -“Bless me, child; they’ve talked about you far too much. The socket -will do beautifully--much better without it than with it!” - -“May I wear shoes like other little girls?” - -“Certainly; the prettiest shoes that can be got!” - -“Not compensatum shoes?” - -“No; ordinary shoes, exactly alike!” - -By this time Gabrielle had been arrayed in some clothes. She noticed -that her mother’s hands trembled, but that her eyes were glad. The -child looked up at the tall young doctor, who was watching her with his -keen green eyes, and said: “My Daddy will be so glad. He will look at -me, and not look so sorry, and there will be no hard things to stick -into him when he cuddles me! He will be so glad!” - -The doctor made a queer little sound in his throat; then he lifted -Gabrielle in his arms and carried her to the window. - -“Do you see the end of this street,” he asked, “where the roar and the -rumbling sound comes from? That’s Oxford Street. Well, in that street -is a beautiful shop full of shoes--shoes for little girls--and you are -going there directly, to get the prettiest pair that mother can find -for you!” - -“May they have silver buckles?” Gabrielle asked eagerly. - -“I think it extremely advisable they should have big silver buckles. -You will walk both fast and far in buckles shoes, and you must learn to -dance the _tarantella_, and all the dolls will sit in a row to watch -you!” - -Gabrielle gave a delighted laugh. “Will the leg that wore the irons get -fat again, like the other?” - -“Oh, dear, yes! You mustn’t think about that leg any more, but you must -do all the exercises mother is going to show you, and when you can -hang on a trapeze for twenty minutes, without falling off, you must -write and tell me.” - -Then Gabrielle’s mother finished dressing her, all but her boots. The -boot with the “compensatum” sole lay near the instrument. Gabrielle -looked at it with great aversion. “It’s a very dry day,” said she. “May -I go to the cab in my stockings, and not put on no shoes till I have my -new ones?” - -The doctor pushed the little boot out of sight, under the chair, with -his foot, and said: “I’ll carry you to the cab, and mother or the -cabman will carry you to the shop across the pavement, and you shall -never see that iron horror or that boot again!” - -As the doctor carried her across the hall, Gabrielle put her arms round -his neck, and kissed him on both his eyes. - -“Your eyes taste very salt!” she said, “But you are the best doctor in -the world!” - - - - -THE SURRENDER OF LADY GRIZELL - - -Geordie had found the world a rather draughty place since that March -morning when his mother went out hunting and was brought back in a -strange secret fashion, and he saw her face no more. - -“Your poor Ma’s met with a haccident, Master Geordie--poor lady she’ve -broke her back and now she’s gone to ’Eaven.” - -So Nana explained things to him. New black clothes came from the -tailor’s, and Geordie went with Nana to lay flowers upon his mother’s -grave. - -At five years old discomfort is felt, rather than defined; Geordie -was conscious of a difference, an uncomfortable difference in his -surroundings, but by no means directly traced its cause to the loss of -his mother. Nor was he actively miserable. It is true that he sometimes -wondered why Nana so often omitted his bath in the morning, and why he -was never dressed to go down in the evening; but in some respects he -had quite a dissipated time. So many people asked him out to tea, and -amusement of which Nana distinctly approved, for she went too. - -Geordie regarded his father with immense admiration, he was so tall, -and handsome, and jolly. But since that day when everything was -altered, the Hon. Donald Cochran found less time than ever to devote to -Geordie. It is true he did not go out hunting any more, but he seemed -always to be shut up in that hitherto almost unused room--called the -“study,” sorting papers and interviewing stout gentlemen, who wore -aggressive watch-chains, and whose footsteps were much lighter than -those of the hunting friends who used to come about the house. - -After a month of vague loneliness and discomfort there came a change in -Geordie’s fortunes. His aunt, Lady Grizell Fane, who had been abroad at -the time of Mrs. Cochran’s death, appeared upon the scene. - -A tall woman, with keen grey eyes, a woman who observed much and said -little--Lady Grizell after three days realized the exact position of -affairs. On the fourth day she went back to the Towers, taking Geordie -with her. - -Lady Grizell was one of those women, so often childless, in whom the -maternal instinct is passionately alive. The love of children was a -religion with her, and all the love she would have lavished on her own -child had the fates bestowed one on her, she lavished upon Geordie. - -The world suddenly became a sunny, sheltered place for the lonely -little boy. Baths were plentiful and nursery tableclothes were clean, -as meals were regular. Above all, somebody wanted him, somebody took -an interest in his doings, and a great warm human love “enwheeled -him round.” A new experience this for Geordie--no one had ever been -actively unkind to him, his mother had looked after his creature -comforts thoroughly. He was always well dressed and well tended, but -she had never found his society particularly interesting, nor did she -manifest any desire to see him often during the day. Though a fine -strong child, he was too like the Cochrans to be pretty. Big nose, -grey eyes, thin face, high cheekbones, and dogged mouth, may be well -enough in a man, but in a child are apt to be all indefinite and out -of proportion. No, Geordie was not a pretty child. Neither was he very -clever; but he was honest and kind-hearted, and he worshipped those who -were kind to him, Aunt Grizell most of all. - -Uncle Fane was a philanthropist, absorbed in blue books and statistics. -When Parliament was sitting he went to London, while Aunt Grizell not -infrequently preferred to remain with Geordie at the Towers. - -Geordie learned to ride with his aunt (his father had never been -able to afford a pony for him, it takes such a lot of money to keep -hunters), he did gardening with her, and with her he learned to read -indifferently well. But he learned many things more important than -these. - -He learned to be immensely proud of “the family,” to hold the reigning -house in due respect certainly, but with reservations in favor of one -Charles Edward, and his descendants, for whose sake “the family” had -greatly dared and suffered. He learned that he must be courteous and -deferent in his manners, true and just in all his dealings, and that he -must control his temper, which, like that of the rest of the family, -was inclined to be hasty. Moreover, he quickly discovered that his aunt -_was_ herself all she would have him be. To know that a thing grieved -her was enough with Geordie to prevent its happening again, so they -were very happy. - -His father came from time to time to spend a few days at the Towers, -praised his improved appearance, and his seat in the saddle, took him -out shooting on occasions, and was always profuse in his thanks to his -sister for her care of the boy. - -But this happy and peaceful state of things was not to last. A cloud -came over the horizon. Lady Grizell went about with red eyes and a -harrassed look, and Geordie found Uncle Fane regarding him with an -expression, kindlier than of yore certainly, but in which he discovered -so large a proportion of pity that he resented it, without knowing why. - -Then Lord Lochmaben, his father’s eldest brother, came to the Towers. -During his visit, the child was always hearing scraps of conversation -in which the words “madness,” “that woman,” and “social suicide” -occurred with bewildering frequency. He felt that in some mysterious -way these irrelevant remarks had some bearing on his own fortunes. Lord -Lochmaben also regarded him with that strange pitying expression, and -during his lordship’s visit, Aunt Grizell’s eyes were redder, and her -manner more perturbed than ever. - -At last, one morning at the end of May--Geordie will always hate the -scent of the lilacs--Lady Grizell called him from his play to come to -her in the morning room. - -He came, running through the open French window, and when he reached -his aunt’s chair she put her arm round him, saying huskily: “Geordie -dear! your father wants you at home, until September--and then you are -to go to school!” - -Lady Grizell made the announcement abruptly. To her surprise it was -received in absolute silence. Geordie was, as his aunt herself would -have said, “utterly dumbfoundered.” To go to school some day was -natural and proper--but to go home.... “Why does father want me now?” -asked Geordie in a shaky voice. The Hon. Donald never betrayed any -distress at parting from him when he left the Towers--what could it -mean? - -The child was very like “the family,” he was not at all demonstrative, -and he “thought shame” to cry. - -He flung his arms round his aunt, holding her so tight that the buttons -of his Norfolk jacket made deep dents on her cheek, and Lady Grizell -could hear how painfully the little heart was thumping. - -There was silence for a minute between these two who understood each -other so well; then Geordie asked: “When am I to go, Aunt Grizy?” - -“In a week--oh, what shall I do without you, my bonnie man?” - -“But I shall come to see you often, shan’t I? Papa won’t want me all -the time, and you will ask him to let me come often, won’t you, Aunty?” - -Lady Grizell stroked his hair tenderly, but she could not deceive even -a child, and she shook her head. - -“I’ll ask him, my dear, you may be sure. But I fear he may not be able -to grant my request. Unfortunately, there is a subject upon which your -father and I cannot agree, and he is vexed with me, and naturally wants -his son for himself.” - -“Is it that ‘suicide woman’ that is the subject?” asked Geordie -breathlessly. - -Lady Grizell gazed at him in thunderstruck amazement. “What _do_ you -mean, child?” - -“Well, whenever I was out walking with Uncle Lochmaben and Uncle Fane, -I kept hearing little bits about ‘that woman’ and ‘suicide’ and papa, -so I thought it might be that. I didn’t listen, truly--I couldn’t help -hearing, and I didn’t understand.” - -Lady Grizell put back the hair from the boy’s square forehead and -looked into his honest grey eyes, then she spoke: - -“Geordie dear, there are always things in life that we cannot -understand, and things we cannot help; what we must do is to be as -brave and honest as we can, and leave the rest to God. Your dear father -is very lonely and he has recently married a lady who will be your new -mamma. You must try to be as good and courteous and obedient to her as -you are to me--and Geordie, son! don’t forget me!” - -Here Lady Grizell broke down, and Geordie thought it no shame to cry -too. - -That week was terribly short. At the end of it Geordie went out into -the draughty world again, while Lady Grizell went about saying like -her more famous namesake: “Oh, werena my heart lecht I wad dee!” - -Geordie could never be induced to speak much about the three months -that followed. During those three months Lady Grizell grew thin and -pale. - -One morning she received a letter from the Hon. Donald in which he -informed her that he and his wife had made arrangements for Geordie to -go in September to an excellent school in the Forest of Dean where boys -received board and education for the modest sum of twenty guineas a -year. - -Lady Grizell gave a little cry, and stared at the letter in her hand as -though it had been some horrible phantom. Then she flew downstairs and -into her husband’s study, where he sat writing a report for the Society -of Agriculture. - -“Augustus, read this! I am going to see Donald to-day, and tell him -that I will receive his wife--I can’t let my pride stand in the way of -that child any longer--read this!” and she thrust the letter under her -husband’s aristocratic nose. - -Mr. Fane put on his glasses, read the letter, took them off, folded -them up and put them in the case--a methodical, deliberate man, Mr. -Fane--then he said slowly: - -“Have you considered what people will say? Have you forgotten that -everybody knows her most unpleasant story?” - -“I cannot help it. People must say what they please. I will not have -Geordie go to such a school, even if I have to receive half the fallen -women in London to prevent it. If Lochmaben never marries, Geordie -will be head of our house.” - -Lady Grizell spoke with passionate excitement. Mr. Fane felt that he -hardly knew his wife, always so gentle and dignified, in this woman -with the pale face and blazing eyes. He expostulated forcibly and at -his usual length. If he was somewhat less conscious of the dignity -of the House of Cochran than was Lady Grizell, he was keenly alive -to the dignity of the House of Fane. But all his exhortation, all -his arguments were of no avail. He could not shake Lady Grizell’s -determination; and the afternoon saw her speeding in the express toward -the interview with her brother. - -The journey was not long, but the August day was hot. Lady Grizell felt -faint and shaken when the omnibus (she had been too excited to wire for -a cab) deposited her at her brother’s door. - -The parlormaid looked curiously at the tall lady who asked so pointedly -for _Mr._ Cochran, and showed her into the study. No ladies ever -called, and here was an undoubted lady--“my lady” to boot--as the sharp -girl discovered on reading the card. - -She carried the card to her master in the garden, where he was sitting -with his wife. He flushed as he read it, and tossed it to the woman -beside him, exclaiming: “Grizie, by Jove!--can she be coming round?” - -The woman caught the card, reading the name aloud in an eager, excited -voice, then said, a little bitterly: “She only asks for _you_.” - -“She wouldn’t come here to insult you. I know Grizie. It’s something -about the boy, and she wants to be friends. You wait here till I send -for you.” - -He strode across the lawn, and entered the study by the open French -window. - -“Now this is really good of you, Grizie; Geordie will be in -raptures--it’s kind and friendly!” - -Lady Grizell was pale, and the cheek she turned to his kiss was very -cold. She clasped her hands to stay their trembling and began in a low -voice: - -“Donald! you said that if I would receive Mrs. Cochran----” - -“Nelly, you mean!” interrupted the Hon. Donald. - -“If I would receive your wife--you would let me keep Geordie. If I -promise to ask you both to the Towers--twice every year--will you let -me have him, instead of sending him to that horrible school--will you, -Donald? I’ll educate him, he shall cost you nothing--I have a little -money, you know, and Augustus is very generous to me--will you let him -come to me?” - -Donald looked rather shamefaced as he muttered: “Isn’t it rather like -selling the little chap?” - -“But it’s selling him into happiness, Donald: he is such a dear lad, -and he loves me, and ... it isn’t very easy for me!” - -There was silence for two minutes. Lady Grizell’s heart thumped in her -ears. - -Overhead there was a sudden patter of little feet, and Lady Grizell -sank upon her knees, sobbing: “Oh, give him to me, Donald, for God’s -sake, give him to me! I cannot bear it!” - -Donald’s eyes were red as he raised his sister and gently put her in an -easy chair. He patted her shoulder soothingly, and his voice trembled -as he said: “Look here, Grizie! you shall have the boy. There shall -be no bargain between us; I never meant to send him to that beastly -school. I tried it on to fetch you--as it has--but I can’t play the -game so low down as that--I don’t set up for a model parent. I know -you’ll bring him up better than we should. You can leave this house -without meeting my wife if you prefer it, and I’ll send Geordie to you -to-morrow. But, if you like to do a kind and generous thing to a woman -who has known little but unkindness, and shame, and sorrow all her -life, and who is a good and loyal wife to me, then I say, God bless -you, Grizell Cochran, for you are a good woman!” - -Donald was not given to the making of long speeches. His voice broke -many times in the course of this, and the tears were running down Lady -Grizell’s pale cheeks. She held out her hands to him, saying simply, -“Take me to her!” and the two tall figures went out across the grass -together. - - - - -A CLEAN PACK - - -Basil sat alone in the schoolroom, although it was past bedtime. Nurse, -like everybody else, had apparently forgotten him, but Basil, absorbed -in his own thoughts, sat on by the dying fire. There were always fires -in his grandfather’s house whenever it was in the least cold, and that -August it was very cold, so cold that grandfather, getting wet through -out shooting, somehow got a chill, was ill only three days, and now -was lying dead in the big bedroom over Basil’s head. So Basil had a -good deal to think about. It was not that death was new to him--from -his earliest infancy it had been impressed upon him that his father -was dead--but that he could not by any stretch of fancy imagine what -life would be without grandfather--grandfather who was lying with his -beautiful hands crossed on his breast in that long, light-colored -wooden box upstairs. - -Basil resented the fact that grandfather’s coffin should be made of -light wood. It seemed incongruous and impertinent, somehow, that -anything used by grandfather should be otherwise than old--old and -rich-colored and seemly; and the child found himself wondering whether -grandfather was annoyed. There were many things in that bedroom -calculated to annoy him, Basil reflected. In the first place, when -mother took him in that afternoon that he might lay the asters gathered -in his own garden at his grandfather’s feet, he remarked that all -the blinds were down, and grandfather would have hated that, and the -windows were shut, and there was a heavy scent of hot-house flowers. -“I fear he’s very uncomfortable,” whispered Basil to himself. “He’ll -be glad to get to heaven out of that stuffy room.” For grandfather had -loved air as much as he liked fires. - -The horizon of Basil’s experience was somewhat limited. It consisted -of mother and grandfather, and of “other grandfather,” who lived at -Altringham in Cheshire, and was mother’s father. - -Every year Basil and mother went to Altringham for six weeks, and life -there was so utterly different from what it was with grandfather that -Basil never ceased to puzzle over it and to wonder why mother always -cried when she came away, and why “other grandfather” always said: “You -moost bear with the old heathen, Sophia; he’s been generous enough as -regards mooney, and, remember, you can be _in_ the world but not of it.” - -There were aunts, too, at Altringham, who made a great fuss of Basil -for about three days, and then seemed to find him greatly in the way; -while “other grandfather” had a most embarrassing way of suddenly -demanding: “Well, yoong mon, and how’s the ciphering?” - -Basil loved his mother very dearly, but he could have wished that she -took life a little less sadly. A gentle melancholy characterized her -every thought, and the child felt rather than understood that her -mental attitude toward her father-in-law was that of a deprecating -disapproval. Grandfather felt it too, for only a week before Basil had -heard him say to one of the gentlemen who were tramping the stubble -with him: “We shall never understand each other, my poor little -daughter and I, though we’ve lived together seven years. She’s as good -as gold, and I don’t think I’m particularly _difficile_, but there it -is--we can never get the same focus for anything.” Basil was walking -just behind with the keeper, who blushed up to the roots of his hair as -he called out: “I’m here, you know, grandfather.” - -Grandfather pulled up short and turned to look at Basil. Then he gave -a queer little laugh. “There’s not much Manchester about the boy,” he -said, and tramped on. - -They all went to London from November till the end of March, and there -grandfather generally dined at his club and played whist afterward, -while Basil’s mother had supper with him or had friends of her own to -dinner, just as she liked. Grandfather could not get on without his -rubber. Even in the country, three times a week three broughams drove -solemnly up the drive, and three old gentlemen descended therefrom to -dine with grandfather and play whist afterwards. - -In London on fine nights he walked to his club, and Basil used to watch -him go from the nursery window just as he was going to bed; and at the -lamp grandfather always stopped and looked up at the curly head pressed -against the pane, then he would lift his hat with a grand sweep and -walk on, while Basil hugged himself with the delighted conviction that -_his_ grandfather was the very handsomest old gentleman in the whole -world. And sometimes grandfather would crush his hat over his eyes, -while a spasm of pain crossed his clean-shaven, stately old face, and -he’d whisper to himself: “My God! how like he is to my poor boy.” - - * * * * * - -Among the very first things that Basil ever learned were the different -“suits” in cards. Grandfather taught him and gave him a shilling for -every suit as he knew them and the values of the cards, as in whist. -Then he taught Basil whist, playing double-dummy, and explaining as -they went along: “I wish you, Basil, to play whist as a gentleman -should, carefully and with due consideration, with the intelligence and -respect that the game deserves, not like a counter jumper for penny -points.” - -It must be confessed that Basil took to this instruction much more -kindly than to that included under the heading of “ciphering,” or even -of reading and spelling. At six he could play a “fair hand,” at which -he was somewhat puffed up, the only drawback being that mother did -not seem to take any interest in his achievements. She never played -herself, though grandfather impressed upon her that she was preparing -for herself an unhappy old age; in fact, she did not seem to like cards -at all. - -One very wet Sunday grandfather had arranged four “hands” on the -library table, and was proceeding to play a game out of “Cavendish” -for Basil’s instruction, when his mother suddenly came into the room. -She gave one quick glance at the table with the cards, and came forward -and stood beside it, saying very quietly: “I do not wish Basil to play -cards on Sunday.” - -Grandfather had risen to his feet as Basil’s mother entered the -room. It would never have occurred to him to sit down while his -daughter-in-law was standing; he swept the cards into a little heap -with one swift movement of his beautiful white old hands, and said, -with a grave little bow: - -“I apologize, my dear. I had for the moment forgotten -your--er--convictions on this question. What _may_ we play at?--for -I’ve made a bet with myself to keep Basil amused till teatime, and I -don’t want to lose it.” Then, turning to Basil--who, conscious of the -thunder in the air, felt very unhappy indeed: “It’s not your fault, my -boy. You’ve not been naughty. It’s I who was forgetful.” - -Basil’s mother looked from one to the other a little piteously. She -had no weapons wherewith to meet her father-in-law’s smiling courtesy. -She might have liked him better had he sometimes been rude. “Other -grandfather” was not uniformly courteous. - -On Sunday mornings they all three went to church together, and -grandfather sat under the big carved tablet which set forth how Basil’s -father had died at Ulundi, “aged twenty-nine.” Grandfather always -carried his daughter-in-law’s prayer book for her up to the house, -discussed the sermon with her, and was, as he himself would have put -it, “vastly agreeable.” - - * * * * * - -A piece of coal fell out on the hearth and startled Basil out of his -reverie. He had evidently come to some decision, for he nodded his head -emphatically, muttering: “I’d better do it. I’m sure he’ll be bored if -I don’t, and I mayn’t get another chance.” - -The room was quite dark but for the flickering firelight, which had -brightened since that big piece of coal fell apart. Basil went to -his own special cupboard and took from it a pack of cards, which his -grandfather had given him only last week. Grandfather never used the -same pack on two consecutive evenings, and gave one to Basil nearly -every week with the instruction: “Never use dirty cards, even to build -castles with.” The child had never played with the ones he held in his -hands, and his big grey eyes filled with tears as he wrapped them up in -a leaf torn out of his copy-book. Then, laboriously, for Basil was no -scribe, he wrote on the packet, a proceeding which took a considerable -time. He gave a sob as he kissed his message, but there was no time to -be lost. Slipping off his shoes, he opened the door very softly, raced -across the hall and up the stairs. The staircase was quite dark, for -Chapman had forgotten to light the lamps. - -When he reached his grandfather’s bedroom door he paused with his hand -on the handle. His heart was pounding in his ears, and for a full -minute he could not hear whether all was quiet in the room or not. -Opening the door very softly, and as softly shutting it after him, he -ran across the room and pulled up the blind of the big window that -faced the bed. The moon came out from behind a bank of cloud, as if to -aid him in his task, and shone full on that strange last couch at the -foot of the bed in which grandfather lay so still under his coverlet -of flowers. Basil pushed at the heavy window, but it was fastened far -out of his reach, and he could not let in the fresh night air that -grandfather loved. As his eyes grew accustomed to the lighter room, he -came and stood by that light-colored box that he hated so, lifted the -white cloth covering his grandfather’s face, and looked at him long and -earnestly. - -Basil had very vague notions as to what heaven was like; but, on -reviewing all that he had heard of it, he came to the conclusion that -if there was no whist there grandfather would be dull, and he had -often heard him say: “There’s only one thing that I dread, and that’s -boredom.” So Basil had decided that at all costs such a contingency -must be avoided, and grandfather must teach the angels to play whist. -“They can p’obably make more cards when they’ve seen them,” said Basil -to himself, and pushed his little packet underneath the folded hands, -kissed them, and turned to go as softly as he had come. - -But the door opened at that moment, and his mother, candle in hand, -stood on the threshold gazing at the little figure standing full in the -strand of moonlight thrown across the carpet. - -“What are you doing here, Basil?” she asked breathlessly. - -“I came to give something to grandfather. Oh, don’t take it away from -him!” - -The passionate distress in the child’s voice moved her. - -“I will take nothing away from him that you wish to give him. But what -is it? Is it flowers?” - -“No, mother, it is not flowers.” - -She came into the room, closing the door after her. - -“I must see what it is,” she said very gently. - -Basil stood where he was as though turned to stone. Would she take it -away--or would she put it back? He could not see her, for he stood with -his back to her, and seemed incapable of turning round. His mother, -noting the disarrangement of the flowers, drew out the little packet, -and, holding her candle close, read the inscription in the large -uncertain writing: - - “DEAR GRANDFATHER, - - “I’m sory it’s not a cleane pak, but I don’t know where they are. - - “Your loving boy, - “BASIL.” - - - - -AN IRON SEAT - - -He sat at one end of the seat, she at the other, and the seat was on -the cliffs overlooking the sea at Wolsuth on the Suffolk coast. They -say that if your eyes were strong enough you could see the coast of -Holland; but even with telescopes no one has yet succeeded in doing -that. - -At first he hardly noticed her--she was so small and still and read her -book so assiduously; but she could have passed a searching examination -as to his appearance, for she had studied it carefully. She would -have told you that he was tall, and thin, and dark, and “rather old”; -that his beard was grey, though his hair was black and decidedly thin -on the top; that his spectacles had gold rims and the eyes behind -them were very kind; that his manner struck you as extremely grave -and decorous: what impressed her most, however, was that big, dull, -paper-covered book he was always reading. She was sure it was dull, for -_she_ couldn’t read a word of it; it was in German--she knew that much, -and she had tried to pronounce the title to herself in bed at night, -but never came near it at all, for it looked like this: “Mendelejeef -Chemie,” and it would take a very sharp little girl of ten to make much -out of that. - -No one ever came to sit between them on that iron seat; it was far from -the esplanade, and overlooked a lonely part of the beach where there -were no “entertainments.” When they had sat there for several days, -the man who read “Mendelejeef Chemie” looked up suddenly to find that -his companion at the other end of the seat was wiping her eyes with -the absurdest little red-bordered handkerchief. She held her book in -one hand--a somewhat large and heavy book for such a little hand--and -wiped her eyes with the other, and yet the man was sure that she was -not unhappy, for her thin brown cheeks were flushed, and though her -mouth was tremulous it wore a proud and happy smile. He was devoured by -curiosity. What book could it be that had the power to move a little -girl in so complex a fashion? - -He shifted down the seat toward her; but she was so absorbed in what -she was reading that she never looked his way, and he found that the -book she held in her hand was “From London to Ladysmith via Pretoria.” - -Suddenly she looked round and saw him. Quite simply and naturally she -offered him a share of her book, saying enthusiastically: - -“Isn’t it splendid? And my daddie was there through it all.” - -“Are you ready?” she said presently. - -The man nodded, and she turned the page. Then, with tears still shining -on her cheeks, she began to read aloud: - - “It was a procession of lions. And presently, when the two battalions - of Devons met--both full of honors--and old friends breaking from the - ranks gripped each other’s hands and shouted, everyone was carried - away, and I waved my feathered hat and cheered and cheered until I - could cheer no longer for joy that I had lived to see the day....” - -Here she stopped, and, turning her radiant face to the man beside her, -cried: - -“Aren’t you glad you weren’t born in any other century? Isn’t it a good -thing to be in the world when there are such splendid things happening?” - -The man smiled down at her, saying heartily: “It is, indeed!” And -straightway they were friends. - -Ever afterward they sat in the middle of the seat quite close together, -and although Winny--that was her name--continued to read “From London -to Ladysmith,” she read it aloud, and “Mendelejeef” lay neglected on -the far end of the seat. - -They talked a great deal about the war, and the man found that this -little girl knew all about it, from the battle of Glencoe to the relief -of Ladybrand, the name and whereabouts of every regiment, the result of -every single engagement big or little. - -He learned that last year her father had been home on long leave -and had brought them all to Wolsuth, “and oh! we did have a lovely -time!” but that this year mother couldn’t afford it, “War risks are so -expensive, you know,” that she--Winny--had been silly enough to get -influenza in July, and an aunt had consented to let her come with her -own family. - -“Mother and the boys--there’s three boys younger than me: I’m the -eldest--have got to stay at home this year. I’m so sorry, though I’d -far rather be with them, only I’ve _got_ to get strong. Daddie said so -in his last letter.” - -The man gathered that her aunt and cousins were not altogether -_simpatica_, though Winny never said so; still, every day she came -and sat on the iron seat after her bath and talked of her book, for -which she had unbounded admiration, and of her own small affairs. -Being an excellent listener, the man found himself well amused, for -he was one of those people who keep the best part of themselves for -old friends and little children, and are always quite misunderstood -and unappreciated by casual acquaintances, which lack of appreciation -doesn’t trouble them in the least. - -He learned that one of the “boys” was going into the Royal Engineers, -“because there you can live on your pay from the first if you’re -careful,” another into the Artillery, “and we may spare one for the -Navy.” - -“And what are you going to be?” he asked one day, after they had -exhaustively discussed the futures of the three boys. - -“Oh, I’m going to be a mother,” she replied, with immense decision. -“You see, you have such a lot of people to take care of you and love -you, if you’re a mother.” - -“But you have to take care of them first, haven’t you?” he asked. - -“Oh, yes, just at first--but afterwards---- You should just see the -care we take of mother, daddie and all.” - -The man looked out to sea and tried to picture the eager little figure -at his side as a large comfortable mother of many children. He tried so -hard that he forgot to answer her last remark, and she asked anxiously: - -“Don’t you think it’s a good thing to be?” - -“Excellent!” he answered heartily. “It is one of the oldest and most -honorable professions; mothers are people we can in nowise ever do -without.” - -“That’s what I thought,” said Winny, in a satisfied voice, “and that’s -what I’m going to be; I made up my mind years ago.” - - * * * * * - -One day as he arrived at their trysting place he discovered that Winny -was crying in right down earnest, and not for joy that Ladysmith had -been relieved. The little red-bordered handkerchief was screwed up -into a tight, wet ball, and the small figure in blue serge looked very -woebegone indeed. She had taken off her fisherman’s cowl, and cast -it on the ground beside her; and when she saw her friend, instead of -waving him a gay welcome as he came up, she shook her curly brown hair -round her cheeks to hide her face. - -All this was so unlike Winny that the man immediately reflected with -dismay that he had not read the morning paper at all carefully. It was -possible that some disaster had happened to her father. In those days -we were apt to trace all sorrows to South Africa. - -“No bad news, I hope?” he said in rather a hesitating way as he came up. - -Winny shook her head till her face was entirely hidden by her hair; but -she did not answer otherwise. - -“You may as well tell me what’s the matter,” said the man; “it may not -be past mending.” - -Now there was something about this man that inspired confidence; -moreover, he offered Winny his own handkerchief, which was large and -clean and comforting. So she accepted it, mopped her wet face, shook -back her hair, and began: “I don’t bathe with the others, you know.” -Here she paused so long that the man said, “Well?” though it was -against his principles to interrupt anybody’s narrative. - -“I bathe at Herrington’s machines,” she continued, “where we always -bathed last year--daddie too--right far away at the end of the beach. -My aunt and cousins bathe where the niggers are, and the concert, and -such crowds of people you have to wait ever so long for a machine. So I -asked if I might bathe with Herrington like last year, for he’s such a -nice man, and he takes such care of me, and daddie liked him awfully. -There’s been Herringtons in Wolsuth since 1400!” - -Winny paused after this announcement, evidently expecting comment of -some sort. - -“That’s a long record,” said the man, rising to the occasion. “And what -was Mr. Herrington before he took to keeping bathing-machines?” - -“He was mate on a schooner, and one of his sons is a captain of a -merchantman; he’s raised himself tremendously. Then there’s two -sons who help Herrington, and are fishermen in winter; and Mrs. -Herrington does washing. Oh, they’re such a nice family!” she exclaimed -ecstatically. - -The man looked out to sea, wondering what on earth all this had to do -with her tears. But he was a patient person; so he waited. - -“I go home to-morrow,” she continued, “and I’ve had one of Herrington’s -bathing-machines ever since I came--going on for three weeks now--and -he’s taken me out in the boat and let me dive and swim, and been so -kind and jolly, and to-day, when I asked my aunt for the money to pay -him--it’s fourpence each time--she wouldn’t give it me, and laughed and -said that it wouldn’t hurt him to take me for nothing this year, he -made such a lot out of us last. Think of it!” she exclaimed, clasping -and unclasping her hands. “It’s his living! It’s like taking a leg of -mutton from a butcher for nothing. I told auntie that mother would send -it to her if she’d let me have it, but she only laughed and said it was -nonsense. Of course mother will send it to _him_, but that’s not the -same. He’ll have to think me shabby and ungrateful for nearly three -days, for I can’t go and say good-bye to him when I’ve nothing to give -him. I’ve only sixpence. Isn’t it dreadful?” - -The man reflected that there were people who had no objection to -accepting legs of mutton from their butchers, who rather resented the -fact that these same butchers ventured on occasion to send in a bill; -but evidently the soldier who had been shut up in Ladysmith brought up -his children with a different view of their obligations. He was very -sorry for Winny, but he didn’t dare to offer her the money. There are -people to whom one cannot offer money. - -“Can’t you tell Herrington how you are placed?” he feebly suggested. - -“Of course not,” the child answered scornfully. “He’d say I was ‘more’n -welcome’ to my baths, and that it didn’t matter a pin. It’s just -because I know he’d gladly give me my baths that it hurts so. It’s his -_living_,” she repeated. As she spoke she stood up and stuffed the -little wet handkerchief into her pocket. - -The man was sitting with his hands thrust deep into his own, as men -will when perplexed or troubled. Winny stood with her back to him, -gazing sorrowfully at Herrington’s bathing-machines on the distant -beach. - -The little pocket gaped, and the man succumbed to temptation. Very -gingerly he dropped a crown piece into the opening which displayed the -drenched handkerchief. Then he stood up. “I’m going by the afternoon -train,” he said, “so I fear I must say good-bye. But I hope we shall -meet again some day.” - -“I hope so,” sighed Winny, as she held up her face to be kissed, and -wondered why he seemed in such a hurry and never even asked her to walk -back with him. - - - - -LÉON - - I would have our children taught, so far as teaching can go, to love - and admire France, that glorious nation which has done so much and - suffered so much for humanity.--WILLIAM ARCHER, 1898. - - -We did not believe it possible that a boy of nine could wear -high-buttoned boots, a pale blue sash, and long hair like a girl’s, -and yet possess a character unaffected by these deplorable externals. -That, in addition to this, he should be French, speaking that -“_nimini pimini_” language with perfect ease; and, in further proof -of his mental slipperiness, speak English almost equally well--but -for a curious roll and rumble of the letter “r” in the back of the -throat--was another serious stumbling-block in the way of our liking. -It was not natural. Had he been puny, or sallow, or in any way -physically “Frenchy” as we supposed it, we should have found him less -bewildering. But he was sturdy, ruddy, and fair-haired; tall for his -age, and of a frank cheerfulness that was rather engaging. Absolutely -unashamed of his inferior nationality, unconscious, seemingly, of those -elongated buttoned boots, he would shake back his tawny hair and look -you squarely in the face with big blue eyes that smiled. He didn’t -look a “Molly,” somehow, in spite of his hair; but we children were -convinced that he “must be one, really,” and that what the twins called -his “false French smile” was a sort of cloak for the innate cowardice -of his disposition. - -What induced Aunt Alice to marry a French officer, we could not -think! That she and her husband were what mother called “devoted to -one another” seemed to us an insufficient explanation. Not only did -she marry this foreigner and desert her native land, but she became a -Roman Catholic--nurse minded this most and called her a Papist--and -she seemed perfectly happy in her exile. She was supposed to be a very -beautiful person, but what most impressed us during her rare and brief -visits was the quality and quantity of the sweets she brought us; -sweets in gorgeous boxes which bore the mystic device _Gouache_. France -was, we were convinced, a poor sort of place, but exception must be -made in favor of her sweets. - -In reflecting upon our general attitude toward France and the French at -this time, I am reminded of the man who scornfully held up to ridicule -a country so far left to itself as to speak of bread as “Pain.” - -“But,” suggested a more tolerant friend, “we call it bread.” - -“Ah! it _is_ bread, you see.” - -But to return to Léon. His father’s regiment had been ordered to some -place in Africa, where they could not take Léon, and as Aunt Alice was -going with her husband for at least six months, Léon was sent to us. - -Eric and I decided that it was a bore. Jennie, who is queer and -contradictory at times, said nothing. She adores Aunt Alice. The twins, -who had just been doing the Battle of Waterloo in history, and were -rampantly patriotic, expressed grave doubts as to whether it was quite -loyal to Queen Victoria to receive Léon at all. - -“No one likes to go about all day with a mountebank!” grumbled Eric. - -“If only he’d had fewer clothes!” I sighed. - -But even the most sanguine destroyer of garments could hardly hope that -Léon would wear out the quantity of which he was possessed in less than -six months. - -The twins and Léon came toward us from the tennis lawn; the twins red -and triumphant, Léon red and evidently perturbed. Jennie followed, -lingering in the rear; she is lame, not a cripple, you know, but -noticeably lame. - -“England won!” shouted the twins. They always seemed to speak in a sort -of chorus. - -Léon sat down on the bank beside us and shook his hair back from his -face. He evidently intended to appeal to Eric about something; but just -as he opened his mouth to speak, he noticed Jennie. - -“Come, my cousin,” he called, patting the bank beside him; “we shall -have good fortune another time!” - -“England won!” chanted the twins again. “We always do!” - -“That is not so!” cried Léon angrily. “Why do you speak to despise -my country? If you were in France, my guest, we speak not forever of -Hastings?” - -“Oh, that was ages ago,” said Eric judicially; “but you were not fairly -matched.” - -“Léon had me, you see,” put in Jennie. - -“Not so, my cousin, your play was beautiful,” said Léon, and he took -her hand and patted it. He had queer affectionate ways, and never -seemed to mind showing that he liked people. “We beat them next time.” - -“I wonder what makes Léon so chummy with Jennie?” I asked Eric half -an hour later, as we rested after a hot “single.” “Do you think it’s -because she’s the only one of us that couldn’t lick him?” - -Eric raised himself on his elbows and stared at me. - -“Well, of all the chuckle-headed ideas I ever heard! Really, for -downright wrong-headedness, give me the average girl. Can’t you see, -you silly, that it’s because she’s lame, and the little beggar’s sorry -for her? He’s a good-hearted kid if he is Frenchy, and as to licking, -just you wait----” - -I felt very much snubbed and rather aggrieved, for only that afternoon -Eric had grumbled about Léon’s clothes and called him a “mountebank.” -Boys seem to keep things separate somehow, in a curious way. - -One day Jennie and Léon had been sent to the Home Farm to fetch eggs. -It was really the twins’ turn, but they hid so that they shouldn’t -have to go, for it was a very hot afternoon. Eric and I went for a -stroll through the fields in the same direction to look at a nest of -young yellow-hammers in the big paddock. There’s a sort of hill in the -big paddock, and we saw Jennie and Léon coming down the cart road from -the farm; they went by the road because Jennie hates climbing gates--it -hurts her. Léon was carrying the eggs and they came very slowly, -because Jennie was tired. Toward them came one, Fred Oram, a village -boy, not a nice boy at all. He hates us because the head groom gave him -a thrashing when he caught him throwing stones at the thoroughbreds. - -Fred Oram began to limp like Jennie, and called out: - -“’Ullo, Frenchy! Shall I plait your ’air for ya?” - -Eric, who happened to be at home because two-thirds of his school got -measles and mother was nervous, began to run, and I ran after him; -but we were a good way from the gate, and the hedge is too thick to -get through. We ran alongside of it, and heard Léon say in his funny, -stilted English: - -“Please hold the eggs, my cousin!” Then, evidently to Fred: “How dare -you to mock at my cousin and insult me?” - -As we reached the gate Eric pulled me back. - -“Let the kid alone!” he whispered. “He’s not afraid.” - -It reminded me of old King Edward, and “Let the boy win his spurs.” - -None of the three saw us. Jennie was standing on the grass at the side, -looking very red and excited; Fred Oram was pulling Léon’s hair and -dancing round him, making derisive remarks. Léon wrenched his head -away, and with a bound stood in the middle of the road, facing his -enemy. In spite of his buttony boots--in spite of his blue sash and his -long hair--Fred seemed rather afraid of him, for Léon looked, and was, -furious. - -For about half a minute they stood looking at each other. Léon shouted, -“Lâche! Lâche!”--he forgot to speak English, he was so excited--then, -“En garde!”--and there seemed a thousand _r_s in that _garde_--and he -sprang on Fred, who went down like a ninepin. - -Eric vaulted the gate, yelling excitedly, “By Jove! the kid can box.” - -Jennie laid down the eggs on the grass, and hid her face in her hands. -But she looked through her fingers. I saw her. - -In another minute Fred was upon his feet. He was bigger than any of -us--even Eric. Léon went at him again, calling out what we supposed to -be battle-cries in French, and I do believe that the French alarmed -Fred as much as the pommelling. Anyway, down he went again, with Léon -on the top of him. - -“Time!” shouted Eric, picking upon Léon and wiping his face, which was -hard to see, for his nose was bleeding and one eye was swollen. - -But Fred got up and began to walk away, remarking with surly dignity: - -“I don’t care for to fight with no French tiger-cats.” - -Léon broke away from Eric, and ran after his late foe. Fred stopped and -took up a defensive attitude, but Léon went up with his grubby right -hand held out. - -“Shake!” he cried. “We have foughten; it is over. Shake with me?” And -Fred shook. “That was quite English?” asked Léon anxiously, as he came -back to be cleaned. - -Eric looked at him very kindly. “It was all right,” he said; and Léon -squared his shoulders with modest pride. - -“I never saw such a nose to bleed!” exclaimed Eric, ten minutes later, -as the last available handkerchief had been reduced to a crimson, pulpy -ball. “There’s one sash done for, anyway. I suppose the suit’ll wash, -which is a pity.” - -On the way home Eric carried the eggs, and Jennie walked hand in hand -with Léon. They rather lagged behind, and presently I heard Jennie -whisper--I have very sharp ears: - -“Léon, am I so very lame?” - -“My little cousin, I do not see you lame at all, except when you are -fatigued; and we all of us walk badly when we are fatigued;” and he -stopped and kissed Jennie on both cheeks. - -I had often heard that the French say what is pleasant at the expense -of what is true; but just then I wondered if it was always such a bad -thing, for when I turned and looked at my little sister her face was -perfectly radiant, and she was hardly limping at all. - -“I’ll tell you what it is,” said Eric, when Léon had been carried off -by the authorities to have keys put down his back, his eye bathed, and -to be generally cleaned up; and we were all five sitting in solemn -conclave on the largest wheelbarrow--the twins had joined us, much -excited by recent events--“I’ll tell you what it is: you kids must drop -that Waterloo business, and we must none of us mind his queer clothes -any more. He’s a ripping good sort, and, after all, he can’t help being -French!” - -“And he wouldn’t help it if he could!” cried Jennie. “France is a great -country.” - -For a wonder nobody contradicted her. We were all busy readjusting -preconceived ideas. - - - - -THE OLD RELIGION - - God is above the sphere of our esteem, - And is the best known, not defining Him. - - ROBERT HERRICK. - - -It’s a far cry from a busy street in Leith to a village in the -loveliest part of wooded Gloucestershire; but, at eight years old, -vicissitude is borne with a calm philosophy seemingly unattainable in -later years, and Maggie McClachlan expressed no great wonder at her new -environment, rather to the disappointment of her worthy aunt, who was -fully aware of her own extreme good nature and condescension in “taking -the lassie for the whole summer, and paying her fare _both_ ways.” - -Measles followed by an obstinate “hoast,” was the commonplace cause -that transported Maggie to this strange new country. The long, roaring, -whirring, bewildering journey--in which she was passed by a kindly -official into the varied guardianship of such passengers as were going -her way--left her dazed and puzzled, but not unhappy. Her childless -uncle and aunt were kind, and there were the woods. - -The first thing that struck Maggie about these woods was the singular -absence of bits of paper; neither did she come upon any broken bottles -in the course of her wanderings. This lack seemed even more wonderful -to her than the presence of innumerable foxgloves. She had spent an -occasional afternoon in the woods at Aberdour, but always in a crowd. -Here the spaciousness and peace attracted her, even as it filled her -little soul with an awe that was a thing apart from fear. If in after -years Maggie should read what Mr. Henry James has written of “a great, -good Place,” she will understand it better than most people. - -For the first week she met with no adventures. Her aunt, a bustling, -busy, thrifty Scotswoman, worked a great deal up at the big house; her -uncle assisted in the manufacture of the “superfine broadcloth” for -which the little village used to be famous, and Maggie was left to do -much as she pleased. Her cough left her, and the color came into her -pale cheeks, and the sun set his mark upon the bridge of her nose in -the shape of a band of the dearest little brown freckles. - -Hitherto she had not gone far into the woods, but with returning health -came a spirit of adventure. One afternoon she wandered on and on, -singing softly to herself a ditty relating that “Kitty Bairdie had a -coo,” going on to describe minutely, and at length, the various animals -owned by this worthy lady, and concluding each verse with the cheerful -injunction, “Dance, Kitty Bairdie!” - -Everything seemed to want to sing that afternoon, and did sing, too, -lustily and long. Unconsciously Maggie raised her voice till the -final “Dance, Kitty Bairdie!” had quite a rollicking sound, and she -found herself doing a sort of double shuffle among the ground ivy and -foxgloves. - -It is not easy to dance in and out of ground ivy and brambles, and -Maggie paused for breath, only to catch it again in a perfect agony -of fear, as, not five yards from her, she beheld a big white figure, -apparently just risen out of the ground. - -Paralyzed with terror, she stood staring at the vision. A tall man it -was--she was sure it was a man, and no ghost--clad in curious flowing -robes of soft whitey flannel, falling to his feet in innumerable folds, -while in his hand he held what Maggie took to be some instrument of -torture. It was a butterfly net; but Maggie did not know this, for -people did not catch many butterflies in Commercial Street, Leith. - -The whole dreadful truth flashed upon her. This was one of the monks! -Had she not read in a guide to the neighborhood that “The Dominican -Priory of the Annunciation is a large and handsome building; here -candidates for the priesthood pursue a course of study in divinity and -philosophy. It is under the government of a Prior.” This, then, must -be one of the priests, and having been very well brought up in the -strictest sect of the Free Kirk, she was sure that if only he succeeded -in “catching her,” she would be put to unspeakable tortures, or forced -to recant her faith. - -Had she not with her own eyes seen her mother hastily slam the door of -their flat in the face of a woman wearing a queer head-dress and long -cloak, who had come to beg for money? - -“I’ll ha’e none o’ they Papishes here!” her mother exclaimed angrily, -and then--for it was just before Maggie came south--“and you, Maggie, -if you see ony o’ them when you’re wi’ your aunty, just turn and flee. -I’m told there’s a whole clamjamfray o’ them there, an’ ye can never -tell what they Jesuits will be at.” - -So, having found her breath sufficiently to give a wild cry, Maggie -turned and fled. - -The queer white man, who, as she afterward remembered, looked -astonished, called something after her. But Maggie’s heart was thumping -in her ears to the exclusion of every other sound, and she ran blindly -on till one treacherous little foot, more used to pavements than rough -forest ground, gave under her with a horrid wrench, and she fell -forward in a terrified little heap just as she reached a footpath -leading she knew not whither. - -There she lay shivering with pain and fear, with her eyes shut, for she -heard the soft swish of long garments through the undergrowth. Then a -shadow fell upon her, and she was lifted up into a pair of strong arms, -while a voice that even her excited imagination could not construe as -unkindly exclaimed: - -“I do believe I frightened you, and I’m awfully sorry. I don’t suppose -you ever saw such a funny frock before!” - -There was something human and disarming about the “awfully” and “funny -frock”; moreover, the owner of the voice did not hold her as though she -were a captive. He sat down at the foot of the big tree whose gnarled -roots had tripped Maggie up, and set her on his knee. Besides, the -voluminous flannel garment had a most reassuring and workaday smell of -soap. But she could not bring herself to open her eyes just yet. She -screwed them and her courage up very tight, and whispered: - -“I’ll no recant! Ye may burn me, but I’ll no recant!” - -The big, queer man threw back his head and laughed, and his laugh was -even more inspiring of confidence than his speaking voice. But he -pulled himself up short in the very middle of his laugh to ask: - -“I say, though, did you hurt yourself when you fell?” - -Maggie opened her eyes the tiniest little bit, and for the first time -saw this queer man’s face. It was a kind face, a handsome face, with -large merry brown eyes and an exceedingly straight nose. His mouth was -well cut and firm, and when he smiled as he did then, he showed two -rows of admirably white and even teeth. And the good smell of soap was -in no way deceptive, for there was about this queer man’s appearance a -radiant cleanliness that was by no means merely physical. All this did -Maggie gravely take in through half-shut eyes, and though the pain in -her ankle was horrible, and her heart still danced a sort of breakdown -against her ribs, she was no longer afraid--only very, very curious. - -The queer tall man, looking down at the face resting against his arm, -noticed that it was small and white, with long-lashed closed eyes set -rather far apart, and that the little freckles looked pathetically -prominent across the thin small nose; and even as Maggie was comforted -by the good smell of clean flannel, so he recognized approvingly that -he held in his arms a very clean little girl, even though her pinafore -was patched and her shoes worn at the toes. - -“Are you hurt, you poor mite?” he asked again. - -For answer Maggie stuck out the painful foot, and behold! there was a -big lump on the ankle, and it looked twice as big as the other one. - -“Here’s a pretty kettle of fish!” cried the queer man. “You’ve sprained -your ankle.” - -As he spoke he set Maggie on the ground beside him very gently, and -diving into the folds of his habit produced a large handkerchief, which -he proceeded to tear into strips. Then, very gently and deftly, he -bandaged up the poor swollen foot. By this time Maggie’s blue eyes were -wide open, and as he stooped over her foot she found time to wonder why -he wore such “a wee, wee roond cappie” on the back of his head. The -pain was bad, but she tried hard not to flinch, and when it was all -done and the bandage fastened with a little pebble brooch that she had -worn at her neck, he said gaily: - -“And now to carry you home, for that foot must have hot fomentations as -soon as possible.” - -Here, however, Maggie demurred. “I can walk fine,” she announced with -great dignity, and tried; but it was no use--she couldn’t even stand, -the pain was so bad. - -So the “papist man” picked her up in his arms and set off toward the -village. - -Now, Maggie was just a little anxious at this, for she had wandered a -good way into the park, and the path he took seemed quite unfamiliar. - -With unprecedented courage she took hold of his chin with her hand and -turned his face that she could see it. - -“You’re sure you’re no takin’ me to your convent?” she asked gravely, -as one who begs to know the worst at once. She still had fleeting -visions of a dungeon followed by stake and faggots if she proved leal -to the faith of her fathers. - -“My dear child, they wouldn’t have you there. We don’t allow any women -to come in--not even little girls--where I live.” - -Maggie was silent for a minute; then, because every Scotsman, woman, or -child loves an argument, and a theological argument best of all, she -said slowly: - -“But you worship a woman--images of a woman.” - -“Ah, that’s rather different. I don’t think we’ll discuss that, -because, you see, we look at everything from rather different points of -view. How’s that poor foot of yours? You’re a regular Spartan to bear -pain. Am I carrying you comfortably?” - -Here was another facer for Maggie; he did not want “to discuss that.” - -“I thought,” she said, “that you liked to burn everybody wha’ didna -’gree wi’ you--when ye got the chance,” she added. - -“Oh, we’re not quite so black as we’re painted, and the world is big -enough for us all nowadays, even though there are so many more people -in it. Isn’t that a good thing?” - -Maggie’s honest little heart yearned over this mistaken man, who -carried little girls so tenderly, who seemed so kind and gay. - -“I wish that you were no a papish,” she said softly, “for I’m sorely -afraid that ye’ll no win Heaven if you worship graven images.” - -The papist in question stopped short in the middle of the woodland -path. The sunlight shining through the leaves painted fantastic -patterns on his white draperies, and his eyes were very kind as he said -gently: - -“Don’t you think there will be even more room in Heaven than there is -here for all sorts of people, provided they are kind, and brave, and -honest, and do their best?” - -And Maggie agreed that it might be possible, and was something -comforted. By and by he asked her what the nice song was that she had -been singing when he first met her, and she sang it again for him all -through, till he, too, learned the tune; then she taught him the words, -and although his Scotch left much to be desired, they made a very -considerable noise between them, and the woods resounded to the strains -of “Dance, Kitty Bairdie.” - - * * * * * - -“They monks seem different to the ordinary sort,” said Maggie that -night, when, after much fomentation of the injured ankle, her aunt -tucked her into bed. - -“They’re just harmless haverals,” said her aunt indulgently; but -Maggie “added a wee thing” onto her prayers, and whispered under the -bed-clothes: - -“Please make room for yon clean man at--any--rate.” - - - - -COMRADES - - -He was called Bunchy because, when a very little boy, his clothes -_would_ bunch; the tiny petticoats were short for their width, and -everything stuck out all round him like a frill. - -Now that he was five, and wore breeches with four little buttons at the -knee, the name still stuck to him, though it was no longer appropriate. - -Bunchy was lonely. - -If Pussy had been there it would have been very different; but she had -been sent for quite suddenly to go and nurse dad, who had incontinently -fallen ill with influenza just three days after mother (Bunchy always -called her Pussy), Nana, and he had settled down for a fortnight’s -holiday in a Cotteswold village. - -It was a delightful village! It had a green with noisy geese upon it, -a stream that gurgled and splashed and told fairy tales on sleepy -September afternoons, and real woods surrounded it. - -The cottage where Pussy had taken rooms was ever so pretty, and had a -garden full of currant-bushes and celery. - -For three days they had a lovely time. They sought giants in the -woods, finding squirrels instead--which were prettier and only less -exciting; they paddled their feet in the stream and caught minnows in -a bottle; they pretended that the geese on the green were “Trolls,” and -routed them with great slaughter; and they had found mushrooms before -breakfast in a neighboring field. - -Then Pussy had to go away, and for Bunchy the face of Nature was -changed and clouded. Only Nana was left, and, although very kind, she -was not an exciting companion. She knew nothing of giants, and seemed -to care very little about Trolls. Moreover, on this particular morning -she sat indoors making a cotton dress, and told Bunchy to “run and play -in the garden like a good little boy, and not worry.” How can people, -he thought, sit in a room and sew when all the beautiful out-of-doors -seems clamoring for them to come and admire it? - -However, he played in the garden for a while; but it was rather a small -garden, and he grew tired of being a “third son” all by himself, with -no one to admire him, so he came in again and climbed the steep little -staircase. Finding the door of his mother’s room open, he went in. The -dressing-table faced the door, and the first thing he saw was a pair -of Pussy’s slippers standing in front of it. They had tall curly heels -and buckles, such as she loved, and he remembered how, even with the -tall heels, she did not reach to daddy’s shoulder. Somehow the sight of -those slippers made him want her so dreadfully that he couldn’t stay -in the room or in the garden. He went out into the road to walk and -walk until he should come to Yorkshire, where daddy was laid up in the -house of a bachelor friend with whom he had gone to shoot. - -It was a very straight road, with a trim path by the side. By and by -he came to some big gates. There was a little house inside them, all -covered with purple clematis. The gate stood open, and as Bunchy was -rather tired of the neat, straight road, he turned in, and went down a -very broad gravel path. A little way inside the gate stood two little -churches, one on each side of the path; beyond them, as far as Bunchy -could see, it was all garden. There were flowering shrubs, and trees, -and lots of grass, but it was unlike any garden he had ever seen -before, for it was full of little mounds, and there were crosses, and -slabs of stone, and marble angels dotted about among the mounds. - -He turned down a side-path to investigate further in this strange -garden. Nobody was in sight, and he wandered on by himself till, -turning a corner suddenly, he came upon a man. - -The man was dressed in black, and was sitting on a big stone slab--a -very grew old slab; but close at his feet there was one of those -curious mounds that puzzled Bunchy, and although this one had no grass -upon it, you could hardly see the brown earth, for it was almost -covered with scattered flowers--all of one kind. - -Bunchy knew the flower by sight, for Pussy always wore a bit in her -tam-o’-shanter when she came back from Scotland. The man did not move -as Bunchy came up to him. The little boy regarded him with grave brown -eyes, and something in his expression made Bunchy sure that the man -was sorry. - -Now, in Bunchy’s house, when people are sorry, Pussy talks about -something else, and she does it so beautifully that they straightway -forget their sorrow in the interest of her remarks. Bunchy felt that he -ought to talk about something else to this man who looked so sorry; but -how can you change a subject when no subject has been broached? - -So the child went up to the sorry man and lifted his tam-o’-shanter, -saying politely: - -“Can you, please, tell me whose garden this is?” - -Now it is an easy thing to take off a tam-o’-shanter, but when you try -to put it on again it has a shabby way of curling up and sitting on -the top of your head so insecurely that it topples off again directly. -Pussy generally put Bunchy’s on again for him, and as she wasn’t there -he left the matter alone and held it in his hand. The man started a -little as Bunchy spoke, then he said slowly: - -“I think it is God’s garden.” - -Bunchy was not surprised. He felt that he knew God very well indeed. -When you say prayers morning and evening, and know that there is a -benevolent Somebody somewhere, who gives you your home, and your -parents, and your little white bed, who likes you to be truthful and -courteous, and to have clean hands at meals, it is quite natural to -hear that this benevolent Person has a garden. All nice people ought to -have gardens, so Bunchy said: - -“Why does God have so many little rockeries in His garden? Why are -there all these stones, and figures, and little mounds?” - -“When people die they are buried in this garden, and their friends put -up the crosses and stones----” - -“And angels?” interrupted Bunchy admiringly; and as he looked up in the -man’s face he noticed that his eyes were very kind, but that there were -big black shadows round them, and their lids looked red and heavy. - -“They put up the crosses, and stones, and angels to show where their -friends are sleeping,” continued the tall man. - -“Then it’s a funeral,” said Bunchy solemnly, and there was silence. - -The man looked sorrier than ever, and Bunchy felt that now was the time -to talk of something else, so he said: - -“Can you tell me the nearest way to Yorkshire?” - -The man seemed to give himself a shake, as though he were trying to -wake up. He held out his hand to Bunchy, who placed his own in it -confidingly; then he drew the child toward him and set him on his knee, -asking: - -“Why do you want to go to Yorkshire, old chap?” - -“Because Pussy is there and I am so lonely,” Bunchy’s voice broke. -“I went into her room, and I saw her shoes--the ones with the curly -heels--and they made me want her so bad. They’re such tall heels.” - -“She had such little feet,” murmured the man. - -And Bunchy saw that he had gone to sleep again, so he sat very still -for a minute or two, then he said mournfully: - -“I’m so lonely!” - -“So am I,” said the man. “My Pussy has gone to sleep. She is not coming -back any more. She is sleeping under the heather here.” - -Bunchy felt the man’s shoulder heave as he leant against him, but he -said nothing. He felt that this was not a time to talk of something -else; this sorryness was something beyond him; so he stroked the man’s -face with a soft, sticky little hand, and the corners of his mouth -drooped, but he did not feel quite so lonely. - -The man seemed to like the feel of the little hand, for he bent his -head, and, laying his cheek against Bunchy’s, said in a queer broken -voice: - -“How is it that you understand, you quaint little boy?” - -“Sorry people always understand, and I feel to love you! Will you come -to Yorkshire too? We should be such nice company.” - -The man seemed to consider; then he said: - -“It’s a long way. I’m afraid we shouldn’t get there by candle-light. -You’d be very tired, and your shoes would be quite worn out.” - -“Couldn’t you carry me a bit sometimes? Daddy does when I’m very tired.” - -“Well, I might do that; but even then we shouldn’t get there to-day. -How is it you are here all alone?” - -The man seemed waking up, and waited quite anxiously for Bunchy’s -answer. - -“Well, you see, Nana was busy sewing, and I was lonely wivout Pussy, so -I thought I’d walk to Yorkshire just to see her.” - -“Suppose you come to lunch with me instead. It’s not so far as -Yorkshire; still, it’s a good way, and we’ll go and tell Nana you’re -coming, then she won’t be anxious. I don’t think Pussy would like you -to walk all that way to-day. She’ll come back as soon as she can, you -may be quite sure. Will you come? We’d be nice company, as you say.” - -Bunchy looked up into the man’s eyes; then he slid off his knee, saying: - -“I’ll come, thank you.” - -The man got up off the big flat stone and held out his hand to Bunchy; -but the little boy had knelt down by the mound all covered with -heather. He stooped his curly head and kissed the flowers, saying in -his sweet child’s voice: - -“Good-bye, man’s Pussy! I hope you are happy in God’s garden.” - -Then he took the man’s hand and they walked away together. - -But the man had gone to sleep again, for he said: - -“Nay! And though all men, seeing, had pity on me, she would not see.” - - - - -LITTLE SHOES - - -The Vicarage stands at the bottom of the market place, inside high -walls and entered by wooden gates which generally stand open. Thus the -passer-by can, for a moment, feast his eyes upon the perfect garden -within. - -The Vicaress was dead-heading her roses. She does this carefully every -summer afternoon just after lunch. She had reached the bush of cabbage -roses close to the gate, and her long lath basket lay on the drive -beside her. - -The market place was empty and still; nobody was shopping, for all the -world rested preparatory to attending the Earl’s garden-party later -on. Road and houses alike glared white in the hot June sunshine, while -in contrast the Vicarage garden seemed doubly cool and shady. The yew -hedge just inside the gates threw long green shadows on drive and lawn. -Such a lawn it was! Plantains or dandelions were a thing unknown. Other -lawns might get brown or worn in a drought, but the Vicarage lawn was -watered every night by a specially constructed hose, that the beauty -of its velvet turf might never vary. The Vicar was wont to excuse his -exceeding pride in his lawn by quoting: “The green hath two pleasures: -the one, because nothing is more pleasant to the eye than green grass -finely shorn; the other, because it will give you a fair alley in the -midst.” It was a sunken lawn surrounded by smoothly shaven banks and -reached by broad stone steps. - -The Vicar and like-minded clerics occasionally played bowls upon it; -but to think of lawn tennis or croquet in connection with such grass -were little short of sacrilege. - -Presently the Vicaress became aware that a woman stood in the doorway, -a woman carrying a baby, while a little girl of some three years clung -to her skirts. - -They stood gazing wistfully into the garden. As both mother and child -wore red kerchiefs instead of hats, the Vicaress looked for the -inevitable organ, but could not see it. - -As she strongly disapproved of indiscriminate charity she shook her -head at them, saying: “We never give at the door!” - -Wearily shifting the baby to her other arm, the woman answered, with a -touch of gentle dignity: “I have not ask the senora for money, but if -she permit that we rest on the seat in the shade; we do no harm.” - -Her voice was soft, and her English refined by its foreign accent. The -Vicaress pointed to a rustic seat under the yews, saying: “You may -certainly come in and rest.” Then she continued to deadhead the cabbage -rose--it was an untidy bush that cabbage rose. - -As the child toddled past her to climb into the seat the Vicaress -noticed that the little feet made red marks on the gravel. The woman -pointed to them with an apologetic shrug: “The little Zita she wear out -her shoes, her feet bleed. The senora has a pair of old shoes of her -children? Yes?” - -The Vicaress shook her head, and a spasm of pain crossed her face. -There were no children at the Vicarage now. But shoes? Yes! there were -shoes. She bent down to look at the ragged little feet, and very gently -took off Zita’s shoes. “Her feet must be washed,” she announced. “Will -she come with me?” - -Zita shook her curls out of her eyes, but on further inspection of the -senora declined to budge. “Then I must bring the water here,” said the -Vicaress, marching away to fetch it. - -She was a tall, thin woman, with keen grey eyes and a lined, hard face, -framed in hair that Nature had intended to break into fluffy rings of -sunlight round her brow. But the Vicaress coerced her hair with some -abomination that kept it flat and close to her head. It was only when a -shaft of sunlight struck the tight braid at the back that one realized -it was of the true Titian color. She went up the wide oak staircase -into her cool, sweet-scented bedroom, where the _Gloire de Dijon_ -roses nodded into the windows. Stopping in front of a big Chippendale -wardrobe, she pulled out one of the deep drawers. - -“I can’t bear to do it!” she murmured, “but I never give money, and her -little feet were cut and bleeding.” - -In that drawer lay many pairs of half-worn little shoes--shoes that had -pattered gaily down the Vicarage stairs and danced across the sacred -lawn. Her eyes were very soft as she chose out a pair of little strap -shoes and some woollen socks. Had the Murillo cherub, chattering in -her sweet jargon of Pyrenean Spanish under the shade of the yew trees, -seen the face of the Vicaress just then, she would not have refused -to go with her. But the Vicaress kept what Mr. Barrie tenderly calls -her “soft face” for solitary places. The best that people could say -of her was, that if her manner was hard her deeds were often kindly. -She filled a basin with warm water and went through the silent house -into the garden again. Zita laughed and showed her white teeth as -she dabbled her feet in the water, becoming quite friendly; then the -Vicaress dried her brown legs and arrayed her in the new shoes and -socks. On the party being regaled with Vicarage cake and milk, the -mother informed her hostess that they purposed to go on to Gloucester -that day--a fifteen-mile walk. - -“Have you no money to go by train?” asked the Vicaress. - -“Oh, no, senora! My ’usban’ sell ze ice cream there, he cannot send me -large money.” - -“But you can’t get there to-night; where will you sleep?” - -The woman shrugged her shoulders, turning her unoccupied hand outward -with an expressive gesture. “In the hedge, senora, it is cool and dry.” - -“But the children?” - -“Oh, zay sleep--and Zita, she walk well till her foots come to ze -ground.” Then turning to the child she said something rapidly in -Spanish, adding: “She sing for you, senora, you so kind for her.” - -“_A la puerta del cielos, venden zapatos_,” crooned Zita in her funny -little nasal chant, and sang the lullaby right through. - -“What is it all about?” demanded her hostess with a queer little catch -in her voice. - -“Senora! it is that zay sell shoes at ze doorway of heaven, to ze -ragged little angels who have none!” - -The woman rose, and shouldering the brown baby, prepared to depart. But -the baby, who approved of Vicarage cake, choked alarmingly, and delayed -matters for a while. - -The baby’s equanimity restored, they bade their hostess farewell. They -had not gone very far, however, when hearing hasty footsteps behind -them, they turned. It was the Vicaress. She thrust something into -little Zita’s hand, exclaiming breathlessly: “I wish you to go by -train; it is not safe for such babies to be out all night!” Then she -turned and fairly ran home. - -An hour later, as she stood in front of her looking-glass, smoothing -her hair till it looked like a yellow skull-cap, she said to herself: -“To pay for a person’s railway journey is not indiscriminate charity!” -and her eyes grew tender as she thought of the little shoes. - - - - -“PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN” - - -“You sent for me, mother?” - -“Yes, child; I sent for you to say good-bye. I am going away for some -time.” The woman spoke deliberately in the monotonous voice of one -giving a piece of information tedious to give. - -Angus did not express any surprise, or regret. The nine years he had -spent with his mother had not helped him to know her. Without in the -least understanding wherein lay her strange aloofness, he was conscious -that he was supremely uninteresting to her. He wondered why it should -be so, and his honest boyish soul was sometimes troubled. But children -submit readily to the inevitable, and Angus had his compensations. - -Vera Warden looked at her son with more interest than was usual with -her. He was certainly a handsome lad, tall and well built, with blue -eyes that were both kind and honest. She had been long in making her -decision. Now that it was made she did not regret: she only wondered -if, somehow, she had missed something that more commonplace women find -easily. - -“Angus, dear, you must take care of father. You and your father are so -much alike--understand each other so well--that it will be easy for -you. You must be especially good to him, now.” - -There was a curious little catch in Vera’s voice as she said the “now.” - -“Why are you going, mother?” questioned Angus, feeling that here was -something even more puzzling than usual in his mother’s manner. “When -are you coming back? Father will miss you.” - -“Will he?” asked Vera wistfully. “And you, Angus, will you miss me at -all?” - -Angus was profoundly astonished. He would like to have kissed his -mother just as he kissed dad, but he did not dare. He only grew red, -and fidgeted awkwardly, as he answered: “Of course I shall miss you, -mother--at meals.” - -It was not greed that prompted the child’s definition, but the fact -that he seldom saw his mother, except at breakfast and lunch. - -Vera Warden did not care for children, and said so--frequently. - -The carriage came to the door, good-bye being said without much emotion -on either side. As she was driven out of the big stone gates, Vera gave -herself a little shake, saying: “And now for life!” - - * * * * * - -An hour later Thomas Warden returned from a fishing expedition on the -other side of the Dale. The oak trees in the avenue had burst into -gold-green leaf. The big chestnut on the lawn--the only chestnut on the -estate--was covered with cones of pinky blossom. The May sunset touched -the grim grey house with rosy light, and Thomas Warden felt a welcome -in it all. - -Laying down his rods and fishing-baskets in the hall, he went straight -to his study. There on his blotting-book lay the letter he had both -dreaded and expected. - -His sunburnt face looked grey as he took it up. He sat down heavily; -then, with shaking hands, opened the letter and read: - - “I have burnt my boats; there is no going back. I warned you that - it would come to this: that I would bear the monotony no longer. I - have given you ten years of my life--the ten best years. Now I owe it - to myself to live--it may be ten years more--but anyway, to _live_. - Marriage and maternity have, for me, proved uninteresting; but I have - endured them for your sake, and for the sake of the boy--while he was - quite young. Had he been in any way an unusual boy I might have found - life more tolerable. To develop his mind would have been an interest - for me; he might have shared, in some degree, my aspirations after - a fuller intellectual life. But he is a healthy, handsome, quite - commonplace boy, who will grow into what you would call ‘an honest, - God-fearing man’ without my help. He has an excellent governess, and - your good mother will doubtless come frequently to worship you both. - I wish I could free you of me altogether, and that you could marry - again and be happy. But you are not the sort of man to bear with - equanimity any sort of scandal or publicity, and you have my promise - that the life I lead shall be such as can give you no cause for - offence other than the fact that I lead it away from you. For your - never-failing courtesy and kindness I thank you. Believe me, I shall - always have the sincerest affection and respect for you. The fact - remains, however, that I cannot lead your life, and you can lead no - other. Let us then separate, and go our different ways in peace. - - “In every conventional and actual sense, I am and will be your - faithful wife, - - “VERA WARDEN.” - -There was nothing in the letter that she had not said to him, many -times, during the last six months. - -Now, she had actually carried out her so often announced intention, and -was gone; and the realization stunned him. He felt cold and numbed. The -roar of the beck, in which he had stood all morning, was in his ears, -and he gazed out into the gathering twilight, seeing nothing--only -conscious that it was dark and chill everywhere. - -There was a knock at the door, and a servant came in, saying: “Please, -sir, Master Angus is ready, and would like you to come to him, if you -are not too tired.” - -Dragging himself out of his chair, he passed his hand across his -dazed, strained eyes. Then he went out of the room and up the wide old -staircase to his dressing-room, where Angus slept. - -“I’ve got a new nightsuit, dad, just like yours. Look--pocket and -trowsies, and all!” exclaimed the child, displaying the latter garments -with great pride. “Miss Taylor had them made for me in York. Aren’t -they nice?” - -“Yes, my boy, yes--very!” but the voice was absent, and Angus felt that -there was a something lacking, something that he generally found there. - -The child felt frightened. Was dad, too, going to hold himself “aloof”? -Would he, too, take to looking over people’s heads, and answering in a -far-away voice? The thought was one full of omen. - -Angus gazed into his father’s face, as he sat wearily on the edge of -the little bed. The child, if commonplace, was quick to understand -those who loved him. In a moment he acquitted his father, and came and -knelt beside him, rubbing his curly head against his knees. He said his -prayer with devoutly folded hands, as Grannie had taught him. Then, -climbing into Warden’s arms, put his own round his neck. - -“Shall I sing my psalm, dad? Or are you too tired?” - -His father held him very close. “Sing it, laddie. Sing Grannie’s psalm.” - -Grannie was Scotch. When she came she taught Angus the psalms in metre. -She taught him other things that he learned more easily than the -psalms; chief among them a great love and trust in her, and through -her, for everything Scotch. - -Shortbread was Scotch, and it was good. Scones were Scotch, and they -were good, especially with currants. Edinburgh rock was excellent; -therefore the psalms, too, were probably superior in the Scotch -version. Angus learned all Grannie’s favorites, the first of which was -the twenty-third: - - My table thou hast furnished, - In presence of my foes. - -The child always pictured a long table, covered with a fair white -cloth, and plentifully plenished with plates piled high with scones and -shortbread. He wondered what “foes” were, for he hadn’t any; he thought -they must be the servants who handed round the plates. - -“Goodness and mercy all my life shall surely follow me.” The sad, -patient tune Grannie had taught him sounded almost triumphant, as the -child’s strong treble voice rang out. When he had finished, his father -leant his head against the little rounded shoulder, and there was -silence save for the man’s quick breathing. - -“Good-night, dad!” said Angus at last, turning himself to see his -father’s face. - -Thomas Warden rose hastily; he laid the boy in his little white bed, -kissed him, and blessed him, and went down and sat in the study again. -But a man cannot dine in his fishing boots; so he went upstairs, had a -bath, and while he dressed, Angus discoursed cheerfully to him through -the half-open door. - - * * * * * - -The silence was unbearable; it was so lonely. Thomas Warden could not -sleep. He got up and walked about his room. Only one o’clock! The night -had hardly begun. - -The moon shone brilliantly, but the wind blew shrewdly through the open -casement. May nights are cold in the North country. - -He went into the dressing-room and looked at Angus. “If she had only -loved the boy--if she had only loved the boy.” He could have forgiven -her all the rest. A just and tolerant man, he knew his own limitations. -He granted to the full his wife’s intellectual superiority; but she -might have loved the boy. - -“Goodness and mercy all my life shall surely follow me.” Why did those -lines ring in his head? and then, there always followed the sentence in -his wife’s letter: “I cannot live your life, and you can live no other.” - -It was true: _he_ could live no other. But the boy--why did she not -love the boy? - -He drew up the blind, and the mellow moonlight fell on the sleeping -child. Surely he was a goodly child, so comely, and kindly, and honest. -As he looked at the boy his heart went out to him. He did not stoop and -kiss him as a woman would have done; he reverenced too much this fair -sleep which wrapped him round. He went back to his own room and got a -pillow. Then, laying his long length on the floor beside the little -bed, and with the child’s psalm still sounding in his ears, he too -slept. - -The room was flooded with moonlight when Angus awoke. There was a sound -of regular and heavy breathing. Angus felt puzzled; puzzled, but not in -the least afraid. Such breathing must come from a man, or a dog; from -men and dogs the child had experienced nothing but kindness. - -He sat up, and listening, looked about to see where the sound came -from. He shook his hair back from his forehead, and rubbed his eyes. -Yes! he was not mistaken, it _was_ his father who lay there on the -floor beside his bed. - -Angus rose softly, and touched his father’s bare feet; they were very -cold. “Poor dad,” he said to himself--“and him so tired!” - -Then suddenly he remembered his mother’s words: “You must take care of -father.” It was bad to sleep without a covering, Grannie had told him -that. He pulled his little quilt off his bed, and laid it lightly on -his father. To his delight the sleeping figure never stirred, but the -quilt was short, and Thomas Warden was long--by no amount of stretching -would it cover both his shoulders and his feet--poor cold feet! Then -Angus was seized by an inspiration, which even his mother could not -have called quite commonplace. He lay down at his father’s feet, and -unbuttoning the jacket of the new sleeping suit, he cuddled up so that -the cold feet rested on his own warm breast. Then he, too, fell asleep. - -The kindly moon shone in upon them, and it was very still. - -When Thomas Warden awoke the moonlight had changed to pearly dawn. He -was no longer cold, and when he realized why, he was no longer lonely. - - - - -A THROW BACK - - -Nana had at last gone out and left the coast clear. Kit seized her -little brother’s hand, and they sped down the long passage to the red -baize door which swung heavily but did not latch, shutting off the -nursery quarters from the house. - -Kit was a person of dramatic instincts, and as they ran down the -passage she quoted in a deep and awful voice, “The tiger is a fearful -beast, He comes when you expect him least.” Addison gazed fearfully -over his shoulder, and ran at the top of his speed. - -At last by a mighty effort they pushed open the heavy red door, and -the staircase and the house lay before them for exploration. It was a -very wide staircase, black and shiny and slippery, and as they went -down their little feet made a pattering noise which seemed to echo -and multiply in the silent house. Kit turned and said, “Hush!” in a -reproving voice to Addison, who was, like Agag, walking delicately, on -the banister side. “I can’t hush any more than I’m doing!” he replied -in an injured tone. “I must put my feet down firm or I’d skate!” - -“Come on!” said Kit. “Let’s go and see if Jakes is in the dining-room, -and he’ll tell us what’s for lunch.” - -They crossed the stone-flagged hall, and Kit opened the dining-room -door and marched boldly in. There was no one there; the big room was -wrapped in silence, and Addison felt very small and timid as he stood -on the threshold. Not so Kit; she walked boldly up to the table, which -was laid. There was a great deal of old silver on the table, and many -flowers; but its appearance was evidently most displeasing to Kit, for -she exclaimed angrily: - -“Look here, Addison, just look here! Jakes has only laid lunch for -_one_!” - -Even the mild and gentle Addison was roused to something like -indignation at this tremendous intelligence. To have breakfast and tea -in the nursery is an understood thing; but lunch--whoever heard of a -well-conducted child having lunch anywhere but in the dining-room, once -he or she could hold a spoon and fork? It was abominable; it had to be -seen into at once. - -Kit gave an indignant sniff, saying: “I know it isn’t Jakes; it’s Nana. -She’d go and say we could have lunch with her till Miss Mercer came; -but I’ll go and speak to grandpapa at once; it’s a shame; I won’t stand -it. Come on!” - -The obedient Addison trotted after Kit across the hall with some -alacrity. He hadn’t seen much of grandpapa; but what he had seen he -liked. How still the old house was, no sound to be heard but the drip, -drip of the rain on the ivy outside the windows and the sizzle and fiz -of the big logs in the great stone fireplace. - -The children looked upon “Nanas” and their like as necessary evils. -They divided mankind into two classes, which they called respectively -“the dears” and “the deafs.” To the “dears” belonged father and mother, -all father’s friends and most of mother’s; Gaffer and all Gaffer’s -servants; orderlies--particularly orderlies--and grooms. To the “deafs” -belonged nurses, governesses, cross gardeners, and a great many young -ladies who wore smart frocks and were affectionate in public. These -latter were called “deafs” not because of any defect in their aural -arrangements, but simply because the children considered them incapable -of discussing anything interesting. “Stupid people!” Kit was wont to -observe, “who ask you how old you are, and who fetch stale cake out of -tin boxes, and one’s got to eat it for politeness’ sake. Oh, I hate -deafs!” - -When Kit reached the study door she knocked, but there was no answer. -“Mother says he never hears if he’s writing,” she whispered. “Let’s -go in--come on!” So she turned the handle of the door and went in. -Grandfather was writing. His great knee-hole table was piled with open -books, and he had on his gold-rimmed spectacles. He never looked up as -Kit shut the door softly behind her. For one thing, doors never creaked -in grandfather’s house. - -The children stood inside the door and waited, but he never looked -up. “Come on,” said Kit, as, holding Addison by the hand, they walked -leisurely across the room, till she stood close by their grandfather; -then she said in a loud and cheerful voice: - -“Good-morning, Gaffer; we’ve come to see you!” - -“We’ve come to see you!” echoed the ever-obedient Addison. Grandfather -was fond of old-fashioned things, and the name “Gaffer” was so -delightfully inappropriate that he encouraged the children to use it -when they spoke to him. - -“Oh, you’ve come, have you?” he said, taking off his spectacles and -turning himself in his heavy revolving chair toward the children. “And -how are you, my dears? Did you sleep well after your long journey?” - -It did not take long to install a child on each knee. Addison gazed -at him in adoring silence, but Kit hastened to unbosom herself of her -wrongs. “I’ve come to complain!” she began with dignity. “They’ve -only laid lunch for you in the dining-room. Now I know you’d like our -company. Mother said we were to keep you company--will you give orders -about it?” - -Gaffer seemed duly impressed, as he said: “I will give orders at once. -Of course you are to have lunch with me while you are here. It’s a pity -it’s so wet for your first day, but it’s nice to think that those dear -people are going further and further away from the fogs and damp. It -will do mother so much good to be in a warm climate, and you must try -not to feel dull without them.” - -“I wish they’d taken me!” said Kit. “I love hotels!” Gaffer looked at -her and laughed: “What a traveled little person you are! I never slept -in a hotel till I was seventeen.” - -“Ah, but that’s long ago. People go about more now, and, you see, we -have to go with the regiment.” - -“To go with the regiment,” echoed Addison. - -Kit conversed affably with her grandfather for some time; she told him -who were her favorite officers, and which her favorite puddings. She -carefully explained that, as she was four years older than Addison, she -went to bed an hour later, and that she intended to spend that hour in -her grandfather’s society. She expressed her approval of the study as -a room, but thought it was a pity that, owing to the large number of -books, there was no space for any pictures on the walls. Addison stared -about him in solemn silence, till at last Gaffer suggested that, as he -had got to write to mother, they had better go back to the nursery till -lunchtime. Then they trotted across the room together, but when they -reached the door and Kit had gone out, Addison raced back and stood -by his grandfather’s chair, whispering breathlessly: “Will you let me -see some of the books some day--wivout Kit?” There was a passionate -eagerness in the question which startled Gaffer. He looked down at the -imploring, upturned face. - -And then “a strange thing happened.” It was no longer Addison, his -namesake, that he saw; it was himself. Himself of sixty years ago. -There he stood, the quaint, serious-eyed boy, whose portrait hung in -his dead wife’s dressing-room. The boy who longed for books, and who -had asked the same question of a scholar in an Oxford library, on a -long-forgotten morning all those years ago. With a sudden rush of -gratitude he remembered how the question had been answered, and though -his smile was very pleasant, his voice was a trifle husky as he said: - -“Assuredly!” - -“Wivout Kit?” persistently questioned the little boy. - -“Without Kit, I promise,” repeated Gaffer. Then he and Addison shook -hands, and Addison followed Kit. - -She was waiting in the hall. “What did you say to Gaffer?” she asked -inquisitively, but Addison shook his head. He could keep his own -counsel even when coerced by pinches. - -At lunch Gaffer inquired: “Addison, can you read?” - -“Not well!” answered Kit. “He can’t read well; he’s only doing -‘sequel,’ and he’s six. He’s very backward!” - -“I asked Addison, my dear,” said Gaffer, in gently reproving tones. - -Addison blushed and held down his head; then he said: “I don’t like -what I read; it’s so uninteresting. They ask such silly questions, over -and over again.” - -“He knows heaps of poetry!” said Kit magnanimously. “He can learn -anything when he’s heard it once, and he knows pages of verses, and -psalms, and that, but he’s no good on horseback. He’s got no nerve. Dad -says he’ll never be any good across country! And he’s afraid of the -dark!” - -“Are you not nervous?” asked Gaffer. - -“Me nervous!” said Kit with great scorn. “I can ride dad’s chargers!” - -“Ah, you’re like your mother,” said Gaffer, smiling at her. “Now I, I -was never any good across country; but yet I haven’t found that it has -alienated my friends, or done me any great damage in life. Has Addison -begun Latin?” - -“Oh, no; Miss Mercer doesn’t teach Latin, and he’s far too backward in -other things to begin.” - -“I began Greek when I was his age,” said Gaffer dreamily; “but there’s -no reason why Addison should not begin Latin. He shall begin it with -me.” - -Addison flushed up to the roots of his hair; then he scrambled off his -seat--a most unheard-of proceeding in the middle of lunch--and ran -round to his grandfather. He threw himself upon him, exclaiming: “I -love you; oh, how I love you!” - -Kit regarded him with astonished eyes. That Addison, who never kissed -anybody but mother, who was so undemonstrative, so slow to show -feeling, should behave in this extraordinary manner, because he was -told he might have Latin lessons, was to her incomprehensible; and -Gaffer seemed to approve, for he lifted Addison on to his knee, and -said in such a queer voice: “I think we’re rather of a kidney, you and -I; we’re going to understand each other uncommonly well,” and Addison -sat enthroned on Gaffer’s knee all the rest of lunch, and shared his -cheese. Kit felt injured. - -When Gaffer went back to his study he sat down before the fire, and he -pondered for a long time over his queer little grandson. Then he gave -his shoulders a shake and sighed: “I was a disappointment to my father, -and he’ll be a disappointment--he is a disappointment--poor little -chap, to his. He is unaccountably like me.” - -A lonely child was Addison. The fact that he was always called Addison -from the time he ceased to be baby was proof enough. A child who is -understood gets a nickname. Kit had fifty. Addison was always called -by his baptismal name. It was Gaffer’s name, and Gaffer’s grandfather -had been called after a gentleman who wrote poetry and things. Little -Addison knew that much, and he wondered if the writings of that -far-away Mr. Addison were more interesting than “Step by Step.” Addison -was called an “old-fashioned child”; he was not very sure precisely -what that was, but that it was something a child ought not to be, he -was convinced. Kit was pretty, very pretty; so the officers said, not -infrequently to Kit herself. Kit was never afraid of anything by day -or by night. Kit always spoke the truth; Addison had been known to -prevaricate when he was frightened, and he was often frightened--at -nothing at all, Kit said. - -But the worst and most unforgivable thing about Addison was this: he -had no wish to be a soldier--and said so. The sound of a pop-gun caused -his heart to thump against his breast in an unpleasantly violent -manner, and a review was to him a prolonged agony that made him ill for -days. - -His mother--whom he worshipped--and who loved him tenderly, was quite -unconscious of his many sufferings. She was absolutely devoid of nerves -herself, and thought that Addison would grow out of his “delicacy,” -as she called it. She was proud of his remarkable resemblance to -her father, whom she admired above all mortal men--but she was -disappointed; and poor Addison, with the quick intuition of childhood, -was perfectly aware of it--at his being what her husband called “such a -Molly.” - -So it came about that Kit was always brought forward, and Addison kept -in the background--to his own satisfaction certainly, but very much to -the detriment of Kit. - -Edinburgh, where the regiment was stationed, was too cold for mother, -and dad obtained leave to take her to the Riviera for the worst months; -so Kit and Addison were sent to Gaffer, and for Addison it was the -turning-point of his life. - -To most people, their initiation into the accidence of the Latin -language is not a very happy recollection. To Addison it is a -recollection little short of rapturous. - -To him the first pages of a Latin grammar call up the picture of a -large, old-fashioned room, flooded with a mellow light like that of -the sun through a veil of yellowing beeches. There is a goodly smell -in the room, the smell of dressed and well-kept leather. The walls are -lined with books, books bound in calf and russet-colored Russia, and -in the middle of the room stands a knee-hole table both deep and wide. -It, too, is covered with books; but here they lie open, one upon the -other, a crowd of witnesses to the tastes of the owner of the room. -That gracious owner! Addison’s eyes grow dim as he thinks of the spare -upright figure seated in the revolving chair; the keen scholarly face -and noble white head. He hears again the kind, cultivated voice ever -ready to answer questions, to answer them so fully and so beautifully, -with such a tender sympathy for the eager childish questioner. And then -Addison goes down on his mental knees and thanks his God that as yet he -had brought no look of sorrow into those kind eyes, but many a look of -pride and joy. - -Is there not one shelf in that library devoted to Addison’s prizes? -And the row is lengthening by leaps and bounds. Yet they wonder at -Winchester why he should be so fond of classics. - - - - -THE INTERVENTION OF THE DUKE - - -I - -ENTER WIGGINS - -The Reverend Andrew Methven stood at his study window gazing out to -sea. The sea was very blue, the sands yellow and smooth, but it was not -the sea that the Reverend Andrew saw. - -Elgo, on the Fife coast, is growing fashionable. In summer every house -is let, and there are sometimes as many as fifty bathers at once in -the bay. At Elgo the bathers usually wear blue serge, adorned it may -be by red or white braid. Pale blue silk with white facings and short -sleeves is not the usual uniform. It impressed the Reverend Andrew, -and consequently he stood and stared. Moreover, the wearer of this -wonderful creation--he felt it was a “creation,” though he had never -heard the word so used--came out of the house next door to the Manse, -the house being that of his most worthy parishioner, Mrs. Urquhart, -Baker and Confectioner, who let her rooms during the summer months. - -Elgo streets are somewhat one-sided, the town being built upon the -cliff with a railing near the outer edge for the protection of the -unwary. - -The vision in pale blue silk tripped down the steep steps cut in the -rocks, and ran across the sands. She was followed by a small thin boy, -whose freckled face was broad and good-natured. On the sands they took -hands and danced into the water together. - -The vision was tall and slim, with wonderful arms that flashed white -in the June sunshine, and the minister remarked that she could swim -magnificently. The little naked boy splashed after her, looking like a -terrier as he shook the water from his crop of curly hair. - -The minister’s window was open, and across the sunlit sands came the -sound of a woman’s voice, crying: “Come on, Wiggins, get on my back, -and I’ll swim with you to the Cock’s-tail Rocks!” - -The Reverend Andrew swung his telescope into position; he had the grace -to blush as he did so, but none the less did he eagerly follow that -swimmer by its aid. She did it, there and back; then she and the small -boy ran dripping over the sands and vanished through Mrs. Urquhart’s -side door. - -An hour later the minister (he was the Free Kirk minister really; there -is an Established Church in Elgo, but as its pews are empty and its -incumbent of small account, he was “the minister” to Elgo) strolled -into Mrs. Urquhart’s shop to buy cookies. Mrs. Urquhart herself bustled -forward to serve him. - -“You’ve let your rooms, I see, Mrs. Urquhart! And early in the season, -too!” - -“Yes, sir! I’ve let my rooms, and to my own young lady that I was -nurse to; you’ll mind my telling you of Sir John Penberthy and his -bonny family. Well, Mrs. Burton is just my Miss Mary, married and -widowed too, poor lamb, and she and Master Wiggins have come all the -way from London to be with me, and it’s proud I am to have them!” Mrs. -Urquhart paused breathless. - -The minister murmured something sympathetic, and taking up his bag of -cookies strode back to the Manse. “Mary, mother of names,” he thought, -as he turned over the information he had received. “Widowed! She -doesn’t wear much mourning anyway!” as he thought of the blue silk -bathing-dress. Then he said with a sigh, “She is very beautiful!” and -sat him down to write his Sunday sermon. - -In the afternoon he met Wiggins on the beach: that gentleman was -digging while a French _bonne_ kept guard in the rear. - -“Do you like Elgo?” asked the minister. He had a kindly way with -children; he was rather childlike himself, and they knew it. - -“Awfully,” answered Wiggins, patting his castle walls, and barely -looking up. - -“Have you ever been to the sea before?” - -“Oh, dear, yes; haven’t you?” - -“I live here,” said the minister, rather discomposed by this -exceedingly cool child. - -“I wish I did!” sighed Wiggins. “I hate Kensington.” - -“Ah, that’s London! I’ve never been there,” said the minister simply. -“I wish I had.” - -“It’s not a very nice place. There’s gardens and busses, and sometimes -we ride in a hansom, and you always have to wear your shoes and -generally gloves, it’s beastly.” Wiggins spoke bitterly, as one who had -tasted the hollow shams of Kensington. - -The minister sat down on the sand. - -“Isn’t there a museum there, and an Art Gallery?” he asked. - -“Oh, yes, but you mayn’t touch anything, and you have to wear your hat!” - -“You seem to object to clothing,” remarked the minister. - -“Don’t you?” responded this discomposing child. - -“Well, no, I can’t say I do. It’s warm, and----” - -“Oh, it’s warm enough in Kensington, if that’s what you want!” and -Wiggins turned to dig a fresh channel from his castle to the sea. - -“M’sieu Wiggins, il faut aller à la maison pour le thé. Faites vos -adieux à M’sieu le Curé!” and Madeleine, the pretty French _bonne_, -folded up her crochet, and rose. - -But Wiggins was smitten with deafness, and waded deeper into the water, -with a seraphically unconscious look. - -Madeleine went down to the water’s edge, where she discoursed volubly -for about five minutes. The minister sat watching; he wondered why -French people speak so fast, and whether Wiggins understood. He -evidently did, for he answered derisively, and sat down suddenly in -the water. Then he came out, and grinning at the minister, remarked -gleefully as he took his dripping way homeward: - -“That’s the third pair to-day, soon shan’t have any left to wear. What -a rux!” - -“So that’s a London child!” mused the minister. “He’s a fine frank lad; -I must call upon his mother.” - - -II - -A NEW ATMOSPHERE - -But the days went on, and the minister did not call. He was a sociable -fellow, much beloved by his fisher folk, and by such summer visitors -as knew him. Elgo was his first “charge.” Had he been small, instead -of six-foot-three, he would doubtless long ago have been dubbed “The -Little Minister,” after Mr. Barrie’s immortal hero, for he was young as -a minister can be. - -He did not call on Mrs. Burton because he had conceived for her an -extravagant admiration, or rather adoration. He met her constantly on -the beach and in the village street, and on these occasions gravely -lifted his hat. Had he followed his impulse, he would have gone down -on his knees and begged leave to kiss her feet. We do not follow our -impulses in these matters nowadays, and Mary Burton never wondered why -he did not call, for she thought about him not at all. - -She did not go to church that first Sunday, but played with Wiggins on -the beach all the morning. Mrs. Urquhart was scandalized and suggested -the Episcopalian church at Pittenweem; but Mary only put her arms round -her old nurse and laughingly promised to come and sit in her pew next -Sunday. - -The minister progressed in his friendship with Wiggins; while Mary was -scouring the country on her bicycle, Wiggins and his new friend played -on the beach or fished for poddlies from the rocks. - -Madeleine with the inevitable crochet sat on the beach and beamed at -them. - -“You’re a Presbyterian, aren’t you?” asked Wiggins abruptly of the -minister one afternoon. - -“Yes, I’m a member of the Free Kirk.” - -“Oh, you’re Free Kirk, and Madeleine’s a Roman Catholic, and mother and -me is Pagans!” - -“Pagans?” echoed the minister in astonished tones. - -“Well, mother says so. It means that you love the sun, and the sea, and -bare feet and meringues and music-halls and things!” - -“Pagans, music-halls!” The minister gazed in horror at the unconscious -but breathless Wiggins. “Do you mean to say,” he asked solemnly, “that -you do not know anything about our Saviour who died for us?” - -Wiggins turned and looked at him with something of reproachful scorn on -his broad freckled face; then he said slowly: “Of course, I know, but -we never talk about _that_ to strangers, mother and me. It is bad form, -like the people who give you tracts in busses.” - -“I beg your pardon, I misunderstood,” said the minister. - -They were silent for a few minutes, during which the minister digested -this, to him, new view of confessing your faith before men. - -Although he himself never gave tracts either in busses or anywhere -else, he had certainly in a sort of hazy fashion considered that to do -so was praiseworthy, if mistaken. - -“There’s mother!” announced Wiggins suddenly. “Let’s come and talk to -her.” - -The minister scrambled to his feet, and in another moment he had shaken -hands with Mrs. Burton, and they all sat down on the beach together. - -Wiggins did most of the talking, and then it began to rain. - -“Will you come in and have a cup of tea with Wiggins and me?” asked -Mrs. Burton. - -The minister felt that no words at all expressed the rapture with which -this proposal filled him. - -Mrs. Urquhart’s parlor looked so different that afternoon. Many -photographs stood on the mantelpiece, books other than albums or Family -Bibles were scattered on the table, papers and magazines strewed the -horsehair sofa, while on the mantelpiece among the photographs and -the little vases full of roses were the ends of many half-smoked -cigarettes. Another shock was in store for the minister. - -They had tea; he drank three cups and ate endless scones in order to -prolong the meal. To sit opposite to Mary and watch her white, heavily -ringed hands flit in and out among the cups as she made tea was a -wonderful thing. To listen to her as she praised Elgo, and Scotland -generally, in her soft Southern voice was wonderful; but most wonderful -of all was to gaze at her unrebuked, to drink in the beauty of her -face, to note the gracious line of cheek and chin as she turned her -head, and lose himself in the depths of her eyes, brown as the trout -stream beyond Glen Dynoch. When at last some small consciousness of -material things awoke in him and he rose to go, Mary reached to the -chimneypiece for a slim tin box. - -“Will you have a cigarette?” she asked. “Dear Mrs. Urquhart forgives my -evil habits, and pretends she thinks that I smoke for asthma. I don’t -look asthmatical, do I?” - -“Thank you,” faltered the minister. “I do not smoke now--I gave it -up after my student days, just as I gave up drinking anything, for -the sake of my people. I daresay it was useless, but I thought it was -right--then.” - -He spoke diffidently, humbly, half expecting a flash of amused scorn in -her, such as he not infrequently encountered in Wiggins. But Mary held -out her hand, saying softly: - -“I am sure it was right then, and is now; but don’t judge me hardly, -for I have no flock to influence. My boys will smoke, anyhow, when they -are big.” - -“It is kind of you not to laugh at me,” he said, and with that took his -leave. - -Mary lit her cigarette and smoked thoughtfully for some time. Wiggins -was once more searching for treasure on his beloved beach. She sat at -the open window and watched the boats come in. Presently she rang the -bell for Mrs. Urquhart. When that good lady appeared, breathless from -her ascent of the steep little stairs, Mary pushed her into an armchair -and sat down at her feet, with her head against the old woman’s knees. - -“Amuse me, nursey; tell me about your minister. Where does he come -from? How is it that, without having been anywhere or seen anything, -he is such a perfect gentleman, and why--oh, why is he a Free Church -minister?” - -“And what for no, my dearie? He’s an excellent, well-doing young man. -You should hear him preach; it’s just wonderfu’. His father’s a doctor -near Aberdeen; bein’ douce people they are--a large young family, and -all doing well. He was at the college in Edinburgh, and passed very -high. But it’s no his learning that we care about, it’s his kind, -friendly ways. He’d take his turn nursing a body that’s sick just like -one of the family; and he’s just a wonderful way with young men. To -be sure, he’s young himself--only just twenty-six--but he’s not a bit -bumptious or puffed up, like many young men. He’s greatly set up with -Master Wiggins; they’re grand friends.” - -“He has been very kind to Wiggins. I’ll ask him to dinner. Will you -cook me a very nice dinner, nursey dear, on Thursday evening?” - -“He’ll no come then, my dearie, for it’s prayer-meeting night. I just -wish you’d go yourself.” - -“I’ve never been to a prayer-meeting. What’s it like? What happens?” - -“It’s just beautiful, my dearie; and the gentry go too. Mrs. Braid, of -Elgo House, she always goes.” - -Mary made a little face. “She called upon me yesterday. I didn’t find -her very exciting. I’ve got to dine there to-night, so I suppose I must -dress. You might send Madeleine to do my hair. Dear nursey, I’d far -rather stay with you than go to Elgo House.” - - -III - -“ALL SECRET SHADOWS AND MYSTIC SIGHTS” - -Dinner parties at Elgo House were not, as a rule, exciting. The -conversation generally vibrated between the harvest prospects and the -game prospects, with somewhat numerous flashes of silence, during which -each guest madly racked his brain for a fresh topic of conversation, -only to fall back finally upon the weather. - -Andrew Methven did not expect to enjoy himself much on that particular -evening. His presence at Elgo House was something of an anomaly, for -the family were “established” by conviction, yet Mrs. Braid attended -the Free Kirk because she liked Andrew’s sermons. - -He felt rather as though he were poaching on his neighbor’s preserves -when he went there. He liked his brother cleric (as he liked most -people), who, if old and somewhat dull, was kindly and human. So long -as his evening pipe and toddy were forthcoming with regularity the -“established” minister recked little if he preached to empty benches. -Andrew Methven felt the blood rush to his face as on entering the -Braids’ drawing-room he heard that voice which had been ringing in his -ears ever since his parting with Mary that afternoon. - -Daylight lasts long in the North Country, and there were no candles -needed at Elgo House for dinner. Mary sat opposite the minister, and -had he been given to cursing he would have cursed the tall epergne of -fruit that hid her from his sight, especially as the majority of her -remarks were addressed to him. - -The only other guests were an elderly colonel and his wife, who were -staying at the hotel. The colonel, whenever he looked at or spoke -to Mary, seemed by his very atmosphere to ejaculate “Monstrous fine -woman,” and Andrew felt an insane desire to choke him there and then in -his own high white collar. - -Dinner over, they all strolled into the garden, and then that happened -which made an epoch in Andrew Methven’s life. - -When they had all duly admired the roses and the goodly promise of -peaches on the south wall, someone brought a guitar out of the house -and Mary sat down to sing. - -Her dress, some soft transparent blackness over white, faded into the -shadows among which she sat. Somehow it reminded Andrew of the silver -birch trees in the copse beyond. She bent her head as she tuned the -guitar, and the throb of the strings seemed an appropriate background -to the sweetness of her profile. Vision and sound became indissolubly -mixed. Andrew could never afterward separate Mary’s face from her -voice, and both were irresistibly a part of the beech copse seen dimly -in the evening light. The whole making a picture, subtle, detached, -vivid; an experience in which all the senses bore an equal part and -were indistinguishable. - -Mary’s voice was a big, soft contralto, as unlike the usual -“drawing-room voice” as it is possible to be, and she sang seriously. -She gave her message to the four winds to be carried where they listed. -She sang to the scented night, to the distant sea, to the flowers and -the moonlight: not to the little handful of human beings, whose chairs -creaked as they sat, and who, saving one, only realized that she was a -beautiful woman who had a fine voice. - -They thanked her when she had finished, all but Andrew, who, -white-faced and dumb, gazed into the deepening shadows as he stood by -Mary’s chair. - -“It’s really most extraordinary to be able to sit out at night in -June in Scotland, is it not?” said the colonel’s wife in his ear. He -started, looking at her stupidly. “A very absent young man!” she said -to herself. - -Truly he was absent, for he had been in heaven. - -Mary, too, was silent, softly beating out a faint melody on her guitar -as it lay across her knees. - -Suddenly she looked up at Andrew, saying under her breath: “The rest -may reason and welcome, ’tis we musicians know!” - -“The rest” did not hear, or hearing did not understand; but Andrew -said: “Thank God!” - -The colonel’s voice was heard declaring that it was “deucedly chilly,” -and everybody made a move to go indoors, except Andrew, who, pleading -work, fled down the drive, only to walk for miles aimlessly in a -direction leading further and further from the Manse. - -Had he but known it, that walk was symbolical of the rest of his life. -When he did get home his rather ancient “evening shoes” were quit worn -out. - - -IV - -THE EDUCATION OF THE MINISTER - -“The Duke is coming at the end of the month,” announced Wiggins to the -minister, as they anchored and fished for poddlies in the bay. - -“What Duke?” - -“My brother; he’s at school at Leamington; he’s going to Eton in three -years. He’s ten, four years older nor me.” Wiggins was a model of -conciseness in the way he imparted information. - -“Why do you call him the Duke?” asked the minister in rather an -abstracted voice; he was watching a tall lady on the distant links. - -“’Cause he is one; his name’s Marmaduke, and he is a tremenjous Duke; -they all say so.” - -“Who are _they_?” - -“Oh, mother, and uncles, and boys, and people.” - -“Is he like you?” - -“Not a bit; he’s handsome; he’s exactly like mother.” - -The minister smiled. Was Mary handsome? he wondered. For many days now -he had forgotten to take her beauty into account. He never compared her -with other women. She was not to him more beautiful, not more clever, -not more kind than other women; she was simply what that Frenchman said -of his lady--she was _mieux femme_. There was no one else. - -“Are you very fond of your brother?” asked the minister, forcing -himself to attend to Wiggins. - -“I’m glad he goes to school,” replied that gentleman guardedly. “He -rather bangs me about.” - -“Is Wiggins a family name?” abruptly demanded the minister. - -“You _are_ a jokey man,” said Wiggins admiringly. “Why, it’s because of -my hair they call me that; my name’s Tregenna--‘Tre, Pol, and Pen,’ you -know. Mother’s Cornish.” - -At this moment Wiggins had a bite, therefore excitement reigned for the -next five minutes, and even the advent of the Duke was forgotten. - - * * * * * - -Did Mary Burton know what she was doing when she admitted this obscure -Free Kirk minister to friendship and intimacy? Did she realize how -contact with her kindness, her simplicity, her gentlehood, was making -him every day more hopelessly her slave? In after years, when he walked -in darkness, with a hunger that nothing appeased, Andrew would ask -himself this question, and whichever way he answered it he blessed -her. He no more thought of blaming her than the sailor thinks of -tracing the storm to the evening star. - -“She shall have worship of me,” he said in those early days of wonder -and happiness. “She still has worship of me,” he said after years of -unsatisfied longing and ceaseless pain. - -There was a song that Mary used to sing, a song he loved, written by a -man for whom and for whose writings in those youthful opinionated days -Andrew felt a hatred that was almost fear. Yet the song dominated him, -and in after years he would repeat it to himself with a curious fierce -sense of possession. - - O brother, the Gods were good to you. - Sleep, and be glad while the world endures. - Be well content as the years wear through; - Give thanks for life, and the loves and lures; - Give thanks for life, O brother, and death, - For the sweet last sound of her feet, her breath, - For gifts she gave you, gracious and few, - Tears and kisses, that lady of yours. - -Again across the silence he would hear Mary’s voice; again would he see -against the evening sky her delicate pale profile and the little head -weighted with its coils of shadowy hair; accompanying it all, the soft -plash of the waves as they rolled over the sands beneath her window and -the sharp salt wind which sighed foreboding things. - - * * * * * - -“No! I won’t sing any more to-night; let us talk,” said Mary. - -The weather had turned unkindly, a bright fire flickered on the -hearth, while the rain outside drove and pattered against the rattling -windows. The minister had come in “for some music” as had become his -habit during the last weeks, but, Mary was in no mood to sing, so she -laid the guitar aside. - -“You told me that you intended to criticize my sermon of yesterday,” -said Andrew deferentially. “I gather that you altogether disagree with -me.” - -Mary lit a cigarette and smiled at him, her own indulgent smile, which -always softened the severity of her remarks. “Yes, I think your view is -narrow, and in some respects unjust. Of course, I know it is the kind -of sermon that is popular; and it is certainly kind to the novelists -to abuse them from the pulpit--it increases the sale of their books so -enormously. But that was hardly your object, was it?” - -“I do not know what was my object, unless it were to deliver a message -that I felt had been entrusted to me. I do feel strongly on this -question. It seems to me so pitiful that people should waste their time -in reading injurious trash, when all the time there waits in silent -patience the great company of the Immortals.” - -“I like Schumann’s view best. He says, ‘Reverence what is old, but -have a warm heart also for what is new.’ Much that is new is true, and -beautiful, and helpful.” - -Mary leant forward, looking eagerly through a little cloud of smoke at -the minister. - -He shook his head. “A great deal is hopelessly false, and ugly and -lowering.” - -“I think you overrate the influence of bad books,” said Mary. “It is -only the great books that live; a meretricious book may have a few -months’ popularity, and then no one reads it any more, it is forgotten -as absolutely as we forget the smell of decaying cabbage when we have -passed the rubbish heaps.” - -“But surely you will allow that there is a great badness as well as a -great goodness. Look at those Frenchmen; you cannot say their work is -good, but it certainly will live, because it is great.” - -The minister spoke earnestly. He hated that she should think him -narrow; but he had the courage of his opinions. - -Mary was silent for a minute, then she looked at him and smiled, saying -frankly: - -“That is true; but I believe that in all genius there must be something -of goodness. We are all going to heaven, and De Maupassant is going -too.” - -“I would like to think they are all going, but it seems to me some of -them have much to answer for. Influence is an awful responsibility. -I believe it is the one thing for which we shall have to give the -strictest account.” - -Mary looked grave. “Do you think that people always realize when they -have influence?” - -“No, not always; they do not certainly realize the extent of their -influence. You, for instance, were you less noble-minded, might do -incalculable harm, for you never think about the effect you produce at -all.” - -“Oh, please don’t be so seriously complimentary,” she exclaimed. “To -pose as ‘a good influence’ would be too dreadful! I should feel like -seven curates rolled into one. Confess now, though, that you always -thought a liking for cigarettes was the sign in a woman of moral -obliquity, now, didn’t you?” - -Andrew blushed. “I have seen very little, and known few interesting -people,” he said modestly; “none from your world.” - -“How far we are getting from your sermon on modern literature; that is -what we were going to talk about.” - -“I spoke as I felt; I daresay I am wrong, but I can’t feel wrong yet. -It may be that I overestimate the influence of books; but you see, in -my case, books have been the only great influences I have known--until -lately,” he added softly. - -Mary looked into the fire in silence for a few minutes, then she said: -“Never judge a man by one book any more than you would judge him by one -single act, but be grateful when you come across any piece of work that -you like. It always seems to me that we render so little gratitude to -the people who give us so much pleasure, and it must be sad for them.” - -She threw the end of her cigarette into the fire, and stood up, holding -out her hand. - -“I must send you away, for it’s half-past ten, and we are early folk -here.” - -Andrew bowed over the fair kind hand, and went back to his study at the -Manse. Here there was no fire, no genial smell of smoke, everything was -orderly, cold, and dull. Andrew sat down by his writing-table, and laid -his head down on his arms. Truly the thoughts of youth are long, long -thoughts. - -A sleepless night is interminable at six-and-twenty. At forty, one -takes it as something that has to be got through, probably with the aid -of chloral. - - -V - -MARY - -There are people who can stir up the worst that is in us; that strange, -inherent moral obliquity, which few are so happy as to be without, but -which most of us bury under our strivings after things lovely and of -good report. When success crowns the efforts of these moral dredgers, -and they are generally as successful as they are persevering, they -stand aside, apparently aghast, and proceed to cry “shame” noisily upon -our depravity. These are they who “compound for sins they are inclined -to” by damning, not “those they have no mind to,” but such sins as at -the time they happen to be tired of. - -There are others, thank God for it, with whom intercourse is a sort -of festival, not merely because their own outlook is so generous and -kindly, but because they rouse what is best in one’s self. One leaves -such friends--they are friends if you have met them once--strong and -gay and full of belief in the infinite possibilities of life. - -Mary Burton was of this latter class. She made no great sacrifices, she -enjoyed her life thoroughly, taking eagerly all pleasure that came in -her way; but her temper was generous, her mind broad, and because she -herself could not understand meanness, she never suspected others. She -was seldom disappointed. It is the narrow little soul who so constantly -encounters other narrow souls. The simple, kindly people meet with -simplicity and kindness. - -Perhaps the fact that their outlook was so similar proved the great -bond between Mary and the minister of Elgo. Their upbringing and -environment were so absolutely dissimilar, their views of life so -unlike, yet beyond it all and through it all sounded the same note, -dominating the discords and making harmony. - -“He’s such a lovable good fellow,” Mary would say to herself. “One -forgives him for always using shall and will in the wrong places, -and for denying himself everything that some people think makes life -endurable.” - -“She is so kind and gracious, so dignified without being haughty, so -absolute an aristocrat in all her beautiful ways; she is a princess. -What does it matter if she does smoke and read French novels? If she -does it, it must be right for her.” So argued the minister, though he -kept his own sturdy Scottish opinion with regard to the unwholesomeness -for ordinary digestions of some of the literature which Mary affected. - -So the days went on and these two lovable good people saw more and more -of one another, worshipper and worshipped, and although the parties -mainly concerned preserved the ostrich-like blindness of people in -their condition, the “summer visitors” of Elgo and the parish itself -took a lively interest in their doings and waited with a somewhat -impatient expectation of the climax. - -One thing struck Andrew Methven as curious: in all their many -conversations Mary had never mentioned her husband. She talked frankly -of her father and her brothers, of the people she had met in India, and -of those she was in the habit of meeting in London, but of her husband, -never. Andrew found himself wondering what manner of man Captain Burton -had been; but it never occurred to him to try to find out anything -about Mary or her surroundings. He never spoke of her to anyone, and -winced if anyone spoke of her to him. About his own family and his own -“past,” if so uneventful life can be said to have a past, he was most -frank. - -“My people are what you would call ‘nice middle-class’ people, perhaps -a little fonder of books than their sort are in England, but you have -never met anybody of that kind except me, and you would not find them -congenial.” - -Mary made a little face. “I’m sure I never spoke of anybody as a ‘nice -middle-class person,’ I shouldn’t be such a snob, and I have met all -sorts of people--people you would think Bohemian and terrible!” - -“I should like to meet literary people,” said Andrew wistfully, “but I -suppose I never shall.” - -“Oh, yes, you will, and you won’t find them any more interesting than -your Fifeshire fisher folk. Epigrams pall upon you when they form the -staple commodity of conversation. The somewhat dingy journalist, who -has a trick of smart talking and who poses to himself as everything -he is not, is just as great a bore as the respectable city clerk who -lives at Hornsey and expatiates upon its advantages. You must not -mistake cleverness for genius. The one is often merely the result of -environment and atmosphere. The other nearly always appears in unlikely -and seemingly impossible places. You know what Swinburne says: ‘There -is only one thing we may reverence, and that is genius. There is only -one thing we may worship, and that is goodness.’” - -“It seems to me,” said Andrew thoughtfully, “that you reverse it. You -reverence goodness and worship genius!” - -“Perhaps I do, certainly and perhaps fortunately, the one is much rarer -than the other. The best things in life are the commonest. There are -flowers, and children, and love, and friendship for everybody, if they -will have them.” - -“And death and disillusion.” - -“You, turning pessimist, _Padre mio_! This will never do. You are -too serious--far too serious. I prescribe a course of Anthony Hope -immediately. I have the ‘Dolly Dialogues’ with me, and you must force -yourself to appreciate them. It’s plain you have met with little real -tragedy in your life, or you would be more cheerful.” - -“Have you a tragic past, that you are always gay?” - -Mary shivered, but she did not answer. She called to Wiggins to come -out of the water, for it was growing cold. - -The minister scourged himself for four hours afterward, for he noticed -that she was pale, and that there were shadows under her brown eyes. -What had he said? - - -VI - -MARY’S HUSBAND - -Mary had gone to play golf at St. Andrews. The minister called on Mrs. -Urquhart anent some parish matters and she detained him, rather against -his will, to talk of Mary and her perfections. She never spoke of her -except as “My Miss Mary,” and it was apt to bewilder the uninitiated. -Suddenly she asked the minister: - -“Does she ever talk to you of the wee girlie who was killed?” - -“What wee girlie? Never!” - -“Eh, it was just an awful thing. Sit down, Mr. Methven, and I’ll tell -you.” - -“But, Mrs. Urquhart, do you think if it is so sad, and if she--Mrs. -Burton never told me herself--that she would like----” - -“Tuts, sir! It’s nothing disgraceful; it’s just fearfully sad. Ye can -only admire her the more for her courage. Well, as I was saying, she -had a wee girlie just three years old when they all came home from -India on long leave. Master Wiggins was the baby, and Miss Molly was -the bonniest creature you ever saw. The Captain--a fine, free-handed -gentleman he was, if a wee thing wild--was just wrapped up in her, -the boys were nowhere; and he would aye go and fetch her out o’ her -cot every evening after dinner and play, and nothing Miss Mary could -say would stop him. Well, that August they had taken a house down in -Cornwall to be near Miss Mary’s father. And one evening Miss Mary had -gone to dine with an old aunt some miles off, and the Captain and a -gentleman staying dined alone. It is thought that the Captain may have -taken rather much champagne--he did whiles--but anyway he went and got -Miss Molly out of bed and wrapped her in a blanket and carried her -out-of-doors. It was no use for the nurse to say anything--he was a -masterful gentleman, and brooked no interference. The other gentleman -had gone to write letters in the study. Well, Miss Mary came home about -ten, and of course went straight up to the night nursery. The little -boys were both in bed asleep, but Miss Molly’s cot was empty, and the -nurse told her the Captain had not brought her up to bed yet. Miss Mary -was rather indignant, for she thought it so bad for the child, and -went down to fetch her. But the Captain was not in the study, and the -other gentleman had not seen him since dinner. He seemed rather alarmed -when he heard that Miss Molly was missing, and everybody went out to -search the garden, for they were nowhere in the house. They sought and -sought, and nothing could they find. Then Miss Mary sent the grooms out -with lanterns, and she and the gentleman took the carriage lamps and -went down to the foot of the garden where the cliff went sharp down to -the sea. There was a steep path cut in the cliff, and down this they -went. At the bottom, lying on the hard rock, they found the Captain, -with Miss Molly in his arms quite dead, and his back was broken. He -lived for three days, and he died with his hand in my dear lady’s. -She never spoke one word of reproach; but he didn’t need it, poor -man; his grief was terrible to see, they say. He must have stumbled -and fallen sheer over. It’s six years ago now; my young lady was only -three-and-twenty. Eh, it was a heavy sorrow for a young thing like -that!” - -Mrs. Urquhart’s voice broke, and she stopped. The minister was very -white, he held out his hand to her, but did not speak. The Scotch -understand each other. They have realized this great truth--that some -things are unsayable. The minister held good Mrs. Urquhart’s hand in -both his for two silent minutes, then he took his hat and went his way. - -“He’s a grand young man yon!” said Mrs. Urquhart to herself, “he’ll -make it up till her.” - -But the young man in question felt that he was further off than -ever from his divinity. The wall of unshared experience is high and -impassable; we may break it down in places, but it stretches its gaunt -length along life’s highway and we each of us must keep to our own -side. - - -VII - -“BESIDE THE IDLE SUMMER SEA” - -“I rather like that minister person,” said the Duke to Wiggins in his -most patronizing voice, “he seems a decent chap.” - -“He is,” ejaculated Wiggins with immense conviction; “he’s a splendid -chap--a bit Scotchy, you know, but he’s awfully kind.” - -“The mater likes him too, doesn’t she?” - -“Oh, yes. He’s always with us, you see, living next door and that. He -knows all the best places to fish, and he can build the most splendid -castles with moats and secret passages and no end!” - -The Duke turned his handsome head and smiled indulgently at Wiggins. “I -bet he can’t shoot or play cricket much, or ride anything but a bike. -You can’t remember father, Wiggins; he was a soldier, you know, and he -used to say: ‘Ride straight, shoot straight, and speak the truth, and -you’ll be a gentleman, sonny.’ An officer and a gentleman. I remember -though it’s so long ago.” - -The Duke’s eyes grew soft. He had loved that big handsome father of his -with the uncomprehending, admiring love of a little-noticed child. The -little daughter had been everything to Captain Burton, yet the Duke -cherished his memory and rendered him a devotion greater than that he -gave to the mother who understood him; a devotion which Mary took care -should never be disturbed by any word of hers. - -As Captain Burton lay dying he had lifted his weak arms and dragged her -head down close to his face. - -“Don’t tell the boys,” he whispered. “Let them think the best of me. -Duke is a fine chap; he’ll make it up to you. I’ve been a beast and a -fool, but I always loved you, Mary. Promise you won’t tell the boys.” - -And Mary promised. - -The Duke was a singularly handsome boy, with grave, beautiful manners. -He never looked untidy or slovenly. Like his mother, he wore his -clothes in such a way that he always seemed better and more suitably -dressed than other people. He was rather a silent person, but gave -one the impression that he was silent from choice, not because he had -nothing to say. - -He was very unmistakably a member of the “classes,” and though -exceedingly urbane and gracious to what he was pleased to call mentally -his “inferiors,” he was so because it would be ungentlemanly to be -otherwise. - -He would gravely assist a fishwife to raise her heavy creel to her -shoulders, and lift his cap to her with a Hyde Park flourish when -she started on her way. But he did so because he considered it the -duty of a gentleman to assist women--not as Wiggins would have done, -from a friendly interest in that particular fishwife. Slim, tall, and -aristocratic, with oval face, straight nose, and big brown eyes, the -Duke was a noticeable boy anywhere, and Mary was immensely proud of him. - -He was good at most games, and quick to learn. He ferreted out a pony -in the next village and rode about the country, to the admiration of -the natives. He golfed on the gentlemen’s links and played a very good -game for his age. He went fishing with the minister and Wiggins, and he -bicycled with his mother. - -Since the advent of her eldest boy, it seemed to the minister that -there was a certain remoteness about Mary. Certainly her time was very -much taken up. The Duke required other amusements than those afforded -by the beach, a bucket, and a wooden spade. He expected and received -the constant companionship of his mother. On several occasions the -minister was allowed to join their bicycling expeditions. To watch -Mary bicycle was a never-ending wonder to him. She never seemed to go -fast; it was only when you rode after her that you found she was hard -to catch. The minister always wondered why her skirts never seemed to -bunch and blow as did those of other women. He knew nothing of tailors -as a great artistic power, but he was keenly alive to the result of -their labors in the grace and symmetry of her appearance. - -The Duke also was a constant surprise, but for him the minister’s frank -admiration was tempered by a subtle but searching discomfort in his -society. - -“Do you know,” he said ruefully one day to Mary, “that the Duke makes -me conscious of my boots, and the lack of trees to keep them on? I -never thought of it before, but I am sure now that it has been a -serious omission.” - -“The Duke is the descendant of generations of dandies, and has all -the faults and the good qualities that belong to the class. In many -respects the dandy is a limited person both for good and evil; certain -social solecisms are, of course, impossible to him, but he generally -is lacking in imagination. The Duke, for instance, is less sympathetic -than Wiggins, but he is harder on himself also.” - -“Can a woman be a dandy?” inquired the minister in a tone of grave -interest. - -Mary laughed. “Every woman of the world is more or less a dandy, but -she takes the position less seriously than does a man. If in some -directions our sense of proportion is undeveloped, it has arrived at -perfection in matters of clothes.” - -“I’m glad I can only wear one sort of clothes; it saves so much -trouble, and I should be certain to get the wrong ones.” - -“I think you would. Be thankful for your uniform; it is becoming!” - -“It’s very hot and uncomfortable in summer. I almost feel I could echo -Wiggins in his abuse of clothing.” - -“Why don’t you wear flannels?” - -“I do for tennis, but one can’t call on one’s parishioners in flannels; -they’d think it casual and disrespectful.” - -“So they would. Well, you must dree your weird!” Mary spoke lightly, -but for the minister her last words had an ominous sound. - -Presently they all halted “to give the bicycles a feed” as the Duke put -it--the fact being that they had arrived at the foot of what was for -Fife a very steep hill. The day was hot, and they had six more miles -to do before they reached the East Neuk, whither they were escorting -the Duke. Grass and the shade of trees looked inviting. Mary and -the minister decided to rest, but the energetic Duke went off on an -exploring expedition in an adjacent wood. - -The minister and Mary sat quite silent for some minutes; then Mary said -slowly: - -“Mrs. Urquhart told you of my great trouble six years ago. I am glad. I -wanted you to know, and I wanted you to know that I am glad.” Her voice -was very soft, her eyes were bent on the grass. - -Andrew Methven looked at her but he did not speak. - -She looked up a little surprised, and saw his face working strangely. -She understood. - -“Don’t try to say anything,” she said, laying her hand on his arm. “You -are sorry. You are a good friend of mine.” - -Somehow the touch of the little gloved hand on his arm made the -minister lose his head. He did not attempt to hold it in his own--his -reverence for her was too great for that--but he told her simply -and forcibly what he felt for her. She did not try to stop him. The -sunshine and the summer had got into her blood, and this worship that -was offered to her was sweet and precious. There was nothing ridiculous -in it, nothing impossible. He did not ask her to be his wife; in his -wildest dreams of happiness he had never reckoned on the possibility -of that. He did not ask to be anything to her; all he told her was what -she was to him. - -And in the very middle of it all the Duke came back, saying: - -“If we are to get to the East Neuk by teatime, we’d better be off; it’s -four already.” - -So they rode off, and very silent companions the Duke found them. - - * * * * * - -Seven years before in Simla, Mary had had a great success. She had been -made much of, and had enjoyed it. Many men had made love to her, and -she had enjoyed it. A beautiful, healthy girl accepts admiration as her -natural right. - -But the men who made love to her did not enjoy it, for many of them had -the misfortune to be serious, and although Mary accepted their flowers -and their compliments and their devotion in her own gay, gracious -fashion, she gave nothing in return but that gay graciousness and the -privilege of her society. - -“If she were in love with that card-playing, drinking fool, her -husband, I could understand it,” said Major Molyneux of the 42nd; -“but she isn’t in love with him, not a bit; and yet she’s an icicle -to every other chap. It’s not as if she were one of those cold, -saint-in-a-shrine sort of women; she’s as human as she can be. She’s no -fool, either. What, in heaven’s name, made her marry her husband?” - -“Calm yourself, my dear Molly! Calm yourself,” answered the elderly -civilian to whom he was unburdening himself. “You have yet to learn -that the selective faculty is latest of development in women. Most -women, especially if they are pretty, marry before it has developed -at all. If they are good as well as pretty, they take care it shan’t -develop afterwards.” - -“Burton hasn’t even the grace to be jealous; he lets her do just what -she pleases. He’s so mighty conceited that he never seems to think she -may come across a man capable of understanding her.” - -The commissioner smiled. “I don’t think much of Burton’s intellectual -capacity, but I do give him credit for this--he understands his wife, -and because he understands her, he trusts her absolutely. It’s no use, -my dear boy, Simla will never have the pleasure of discussing Mrs. -Burton in connection with any sort of scandal; she’s not that kind!” - -The commissioner was right. Her husband never had reason to find fault -with Mary, and since his death she had devoted herself to her boys and -to the cultivation of her mind. She took it as a matter of course that -men should fall in love with her; they always did. But her experience -did not make her eager to investigate further the realms of marriage. - -Men made love to her because they wanted to possess her. She was so -tired of hearing, “Don’t you understand? I want you for myself, for my -very own.” - -Mary understood, but as yet she had felt no desire to belong to anybody -in that exclusive fashion. - -Andrew Methven touched her. Here at last was the Princely Giver she -had dreamed of, as women will dream, the man ready to give everything, -asking only for leave to lay his homage at her feet, nothing more. - -When she had first met him, she set him down as one of those who are -destined “to do something.” It was not his fate to remain an obscure -Free Kirk minister, of that she was sure. The more she saw of him the -more she felt the reality of the strange power that lay behind his -apparently commonplace views of men and things. “It is there,” she said -to herself exultingly, and now that he had made love to her in this -strange, unusual way, she was seized with a passionate desire to take -this man into her life, and help him to give form and substance to that -latent force of his. - -So Mary dreamed dreams while she listened to the minister as he -discoursed upon the historical interests of the East Neuk; as they rode -home swiftly and for the most part silently; as, the Duke having gone -to bed, she sat at the open window and watched the moonlight on the sea. - -Then she went and looked at the boys in their two little straight beds -side by side. As she bent over the Duke he smiled, and threw his arm -round her neck, murmuring sleepily, “Dear mater.” - -Shading the candle with her hand, she looked long and greedily at the -sleeping children, and, like all women at such moments, the triumphant -sense of possession swamped every other feeling. - -As she reached her own room and stood before her glass, she looked into -the reflected eyes, saying: “Take ship, for happiness is somewhere to -be had!” - - -VIII - -THE COLONEL INTERFERES - -“There’s little Burton. I’ll ask him if it’s true,” ejaculated Colonel -Colquhoun, as he noticed three or four small red-coated figures coming -down the long slope at the far end of the gentlemen’s links. - -“No, not the child; I would not ask the child if I were you, -Colquhoun.” Mr. Braid spoke earnestly, laying his hand on the colonel’s -arm to detain him. “He may know nothing about it, you know, there may -be nothing to know. In any case I wouldn’t ask the boy.” - -But Colonel Colquhoun had just made an inferior drive, he was in a -bad temper as are many people during the royal and ancient game, -so he bustled off, ignoring his friend’s remonstrance, toward the -putting-green where the Duke was triumphantly holing in after a -specially brilliant placing of his ball. - -The caddie shouldered the colonel’s clubs, and Mr. Braid followed more -slowly. He felt a curious disinclination to join the little group on -the putting-green. His own lad--just home from Fettes--was one of the -players; he had said kind things of the pluck and perseverance of -little Burton. Mr. Braid’s heart was tender, and he himself had not -forgotten the moment when he first heard of a possible stepfather. He -walked more and more slowly. - -The hole that the Duke and his friends were playing was the last on -the links; the boyish figures were outlined sharply against the sky. -Mr. Braid saw the Duke lift his cap as the colonel came up. He could -not hear what passed, but he saw the four boys turn, and one after -another tee their balls and drive. The colonel was left alone on the -putting-green, where his ball was not. The caddie stood grinning, and -the colonel cuffed his ears, declaring that the young ruffian had -stolen his ball. - -Mr. Braid waited in patience till the ball was discovered in some -distant bents, but the colonel did not again mention little Burton or -his mother. - -The Duke was playing abominably. Halfway home he said: “Braid, would -you think me an awful cad if I break up the foursome? I can’t play a -hang.” The child’s lips were quivering, and his sunburnt cheeks looked -white under the tan. - -Braid put his arm round his shoulders affectionately. “You go home, -old chap. You’re hipped, but never mind that old beast Colquhoun, he’s -always making mischief. Don’t you notice him.” - -“I didn’t--much, did I?” the Duke asked anxiously. “I hope I -didn’t--show.” - -“Not you--not a bit. Here, scoot! I’ll bring your clubs.” - -The Duke broke into a run, and regardless of the enraged “fores” which -sounded on every side, made straight across the links to the rocky -shore. There he would be alone--alone with this terrible possibility -that flashed its lurid light across his path. - -Once behind the rocks he sat down and sobbed, even as he did so -wondering when he had cried before. The Duke did not “blub”--never--he -considered tears unworthy of a man, “of an officer and a gentleman,” -had not the father whose memory he adored once said to him: “Curse if -you like, old man, but never cry.” So the Duke never cried, though his -language on occasions would have surprised his mother by its forcible -variety. Before ladies, though, “gentlemen do not swear,” so Mary -remained in blissful ignorance of her son’s proficiency in certain -forms of objurgation. - -Now, however, the Duke sobbed, great tearing, dreadful sobs that racked -his slender body with a pain that was almost physical. - -The colonel had done his work. As he walked across the green to -enlighten Duke, he had said to himself: “I’ll make it hot for Mrs. -Burton, haughty minx; the boy’s a tartar.” - -Mary had found it necessary to snub the colonel on more than one -occasion; so he no longer called her “a monstrous fine woman.” A -fancied slight rankles in the mean and narrow soul; revenge is doubly -sweet if one near and dear to the offender can be made the instrument -of punishment. - -The Duke sat behind the rocks and sobbed until he felt sick and stupid. -Had he not heard of that horrible institution called a stepfather? Had -he not read only last holidays a book called “David Copperfield,” -wherein the iniquities of such an one were set forth with terrible -distinctness. - -He was not a religious child. Mary was not dogmatic in her teaching, -she influenced more by her example and her mental attitude than by -conscious effort. Yet here and now the boy felt that circumstances were -too strong for him, and he prayed in a hopeless, muddled fashion that -if his mother did this thing, God would take him to join the father she -seemed to have forgotten. - -It is a mistake to think that children never come face to face with -despair. They do, more often than the superior, omniscient grown-ups -themselves. There is a finality about every sorrow for children, they -cannot realize that such pain as they feel _can_ pass; they do not -believe it. That saddest of all poets must have thought of sorrowing -children when he wrote: - - We are most hopeless, who had once most hope, - And most beliefless, who had most believed. - -What matter if the grief be short, its poignancy while it lasts is none -the less acute. - -The Duke stopped crying, and looked at the bare wall of rock before -him with hopeless, unseeing eyes. Then as he prayed, a great wave of -tenderness, of longing for his mother, broke over his child soul, and -he got up. Scrambling over the great boulder he had hidden behind, he -set off to run home. If this amazing, this shameful news were true, he -would set a seal on his misery, and uncertainty would be at an end. If -it were false, the Duke set his teeth as he thought of the colonel, -then he squared his shoulders and dropped into the swinging run which -made him such an admirable hare at “hare and hounds.” - -He ran by the beach, a good three miles, and burst into their little -sitting-room, tear-stained and breathless, just as Mary had arranged -her writing-board on her knee. - -She looked up in astonishment at his somewhat noisy entrance. He still -wore his cap in the room, before her, and his face was dirty. Who had -seen the Duke with a dirty face since he arrived at years of discretion? - -“My darling boy, what has happened? Is it Wiggins? Is he hurt?” Mary -stood up in her excitement, and the paper and envelopes were scattered -about the floor. - -The Duke only looked at her, his lips trembling. - -“Speak, Duke, what is it? Don’t keep me in suspense.” - -“No one is hurt, mother, except me, and I’m only hurt in my heart.” The -tears ran down his cheeks as he spoke. “Mother, is it true--are you -going to marry Mr. Methven? Oh, say it isn’t true. It’s so dreadful!” - -Mary drew the boy to her, and sitting down she took him on her knee. He -buried his dirty face in her neck and sobbed. - -“My dearest, who has said that I am going to marry Mr. Methven? Surely -you do not suspect me of telling people--other people--before I would -tell you such a thing as that! Oh, Duke, I thought you trusted me.” - -“But, mother, you might not have _told_ them, they might have guessed, -and it’s not the not knowing that I mind, it’s--it’s--Mr. Methven!” - -“Dear Duke, did it never strike you as possible that I might marry -again?” - -“Never! Never! You belong to Wiggins and me--and father. Have you -forgotten father?” - -“No, sonny, no. I have not forgotten.” - -“Oh, mother, say it isn’t true, say it isn’t true, or I shall die!” - -Mary folded the boy closer in her arms. “It is not true, dear. Mr. -Methven has not even asked me to marry him.” - -As she spoke she remembered her own words as she looked into the glass -the night before. Her face grew very sad. - -“But if he did ask you, mother, you would say no? You would say no?” - -The Duke’s voice, husky with long crying, was very pathetic. - -Mary leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes. She held her boy -very close, and her breath came quickly. - -“I don’t think he will ask me, dear, but if he does, I must say no, for -his sake!” - -The Duke sat up and gazed at his mother in absolute amazement. - -“For his sake,” he repeated in a hushed, almost frightened voice. “Do -you want to marry him, mother?” - -“It does not matter much what I want to do, my little son; it’s what I -must _not_ do that we have to do with. I shall not marry Mr. Methven. -Some day when you are a man you will realize what I have given up for -you--and for him!” And Mary fell a-weeping with her boy clasped in her -arms. - -The Duke felt her hot tears on his short-cropped hair, and he trembled; -then, releasing himself from his mother’s arms, got off her knee and -stood beside her, very pale and grave. - -“Dear!” he said solemnly, “if you want to marry this--gentleman--if it -will make you happier, you shall. Do you hear, darling? You shall.” -And throwing himself into his mother’s arms, they cried together. When -it came to the point, he found that he loved his mother better--than -himself. - -Presently Mary began to laugh. “Oh, Duke, Duke, how funny you are! You -talk as if I were a little girl, as if--but it doesn’t matter--some day -you will understand.... It’s not going to happen, Duke dear. It’s been -a storm in a teacup. You must never listen to what ignorant people say.” - -“May I contradict them, politely?” asked the Duke eagerly, with an -immense relief shining in his eyes. - -“Certainly, if anyone has the impertinence to speak of such a thing -again. It is an insult to Mr. Methven and to me. Oh, Duke, there’s -somebody coming upstairs. Quick, go and say I’ve got a headache and -can’t see people.” - -It flashed across the boy’s mind that he was not very presentable -either. However, the staircase was dark, and he shut the sitting-room -door behind him. A tall, black-coated figure was ascending the stairs. - -“Mother can’t see anyone to-day, Mr. Methven; she’s got a headache.” - -But even as he spoke the door at the top of the stairs opened, and Mary -said: - -“I’ll see Mr. Methven, sonny, but ask Mrs. Urquhart to say I am engaged -if anyone else calls.” - -The sitting-room door closed behind the minister and Mary. The Duke -went to his own room to wash his face, and to ponder over his mother’s -words. - - -IX - -VALE - -Somebody has said that women have no sense of humor. It is one of those -knock-me-down assertions that provoke argument. The sense of humor is -so blessed a gift, it were unjust indeed to deny its benefits to the -larger half of humanity. The gods had bestowed it with no niggardly -hand upon Mary. It had stood her in good stead during many a crisis; -its divine attribute did not desert her now. - -There was a poetic justice in the appearance of Andrew Methven at that -particular moment that appealed to her sense of artistic inevitability; -and as Andrew shut the door behind him, though the tears shone wet upon -her cheeks, she laughed. - -“I am sorry you have a headache,” began Andrew lamely. “Shall I go -away?” - -“No, sit down; I want to talk to you. I’ve just been through a somewhat -trying scene with the Duke, and I long that somebody should horsewhip -Colonel Colquhoun.” - -“I don’t possess a horsewhip, but I have a good stout stick.” The -minister’s manner was most unclerical as his grasp tightened on the -weapon in question. - -“You do not even ask what he has done.” - -“He has annoyed you--that is quite enough; but I wish he was a younger -man.” - -“He is not young enough to thrash, and he is not quite old enough to -ignore; all the same, we shall have to ignore him. But, you Quixotic -person, would you really thrash a man because I asked you to?” - -“If you asked me to thrash a man, I should know he well deserved -thrashing, and I--should enjoy it.” - -“You’re more man than minister, after all,” said Mary, more to herself -than to him. - -“Better man, better minister. Do you think I could have had any sort of -influence over my colliers at Cowdenbeath if I couldn’t fight? I can’t -fence, but I can box. I’ll teach the Duke, if you like.” - -“Why don’t you ask me what Colonel Colquhoun has done?” - -“Because if you want to tell me, you will tell me; and if it is -unpleasant to you to tell me, why should you?” - -“It’s as unpleasant as it is necessary I should tell you, because we -must both publicly contradict a foolish report that has got spread -abroad in Elgo to the effect that we are to be married.” - -Mary did not blush as she spoke, but the minister crimsoned to the -roots of his hair. “I am too sorry you should have been subjected to -this annoyance. You know what my feeling for you is; you also know that -I have not the right to ask a fisher lass to marry me. I am nothing, -and have nothing; but you have let me lay my great love at your feet.” - -Mary made a little sound, half sob, half laugh, and held out her hands -to him in a helpless, unseeing way that went to his heart. He caught -them in his own, and looking into the dear face with purple shadows -painted by tears under the eyes, he knew that she, too, cared. - -What does it avail to tell in words how these two plighted their troth, -that was to be ever unfulfilled? The tenderest and truest of lovers -have generally small literary value. - -For half an hour they went to heaven together. - -Then they faced realities, and Andrew asked: “Will you write to me?” - -Mary shook her head. “No; if we write we shall simply waste our lives -in everlasting watching for the postman. We are very human, you and I, -and how can we hope to be better and wiser than other people?” - -“You are hard,” murmured Andrew. “I can find no comfort in virtuous -soliloquy. A letter would be something tangible.” - -“No, I am not hard; but I am old who once was young, and I know. As it -is we shall have a perfect and unspoiled memory, full of tenderness -and grace and poetry; but if we write we shall be miserable, ever -unsatisfied, hanging, like Mahomet’s coffin, between heaven and earth. -No; let us keep this sweet experience untarnished by impotent tears and -regrets.” - - * * * * * - -Three days after, Mary and her boys had joined some of the numerous -uncles at a shooting-box near Kingussie. The Duke was very happy; but -Wiggins missed his beloved sea. “I think my minister must miss me,” he -said. “I miss him so very much; he’s such a kind man.” - - - - -PART III - -CHILDREN OF THIS - - - - -JEAN, A PORTRAIT - - -She was remarkable in the first place because she never rode in a -perambulator like other children; either she walked--on bare, shapely, -pink feet--or her own personal attendant, Elspeth (a very tall woman -indeed), carried her in a plaid slung over one of her broad shoulders. -Elspeth despised the “bit barrows” of the other nurses, and was quite -strong enough to have carried Jean’s mother as well as Jean. “She will -go barefoot,” Elspeth would say, “till she iss seven, and when she iss -a woman she will walk like a queen, and not like a hen!” - -Jean, if possible, went bareheaded as well as “barefoot,” and perhaps -that is the reason why her hair is so abundant, so curly, so full of -golden light that in the sunshine it almost makes you blink. Moreover, -her eyes are big and blue. Sunshine and rain, and kind fresh winds have -tinted her face with the loveliest warm browns and pinks; she is not -yet five years old, and she can dance the sword dance! It is really a -great sight to see Jean’s pink feet twinkling in and out between two -unsheathed swords of her father’s, and he is a proud man. - -Yet there never was such a “girly” girl as Jean. - -She has an enormous family of dolls--for her adorers all bring dolls, -and _they_ are as the sands of the sea in number--she takes a motherly -interest in them all, both dolls and adorers, but her inseparable -companion is one “Tammy,” an ancient and dirty-faced rag soldier; with -arms and legs resembling elongated sausages, a square body, no feet, -and a head shaped like a breakfast “bap.” Not an attractive personality -to the uninitiated, but he and Jean were as Ruth and Naomi. It is -something of a sorrow to her that the exigencies of Tammy’s figure do -not admit of a kilt, just as she puzzled all last summer in sorrowful -surprise that her father never once donned the uniform she so admires. - -Jean’s people live at a house on the Terrace, which has at the back a -shady old-fashioned garden with a big square lawn in the centre. There -Jean’s brothers, Colin and Andrew, played cricket, while Jean fielded -or drilled her dolls under the trees. In the evening, after dinner, -there would be a sound of men’s voices and an occasional thrum of the -banjo under those same trees, and a cheerful clink of glasses, while -men with brown faces and trim, well-set heads laughed and rejoiced in a -coolness that concealed no malaria. - -Jean’s father had a reprehensible habit of bringing her, wrapped in a -blanket, out into the garden at ten o’clock at night, when she would -be handed about from knee to knee like a superior sort of refreshment. -To be fetched out of bed in this fashion would have been upsetting -to some children, but Jean, with an adorable sleepy smile, would make -herself agreeable for half an hour or so, and when carried back and -tucked into bed--always by her father--fell asleep again directly, -and never seemed a scrap the worse. On such occasions she was always -expected to sing. She never sang anything but Scottish songs--mournful -or martial, mostly Jacobite, and her repertory was enormous. While -other children were learning “Little Jack Horner,” or “Hey diddle -diddle!” Jean, thanks to Elspeth, learned “Hey Johnny Cope,” or “Cam’ -ye by Athol,” and her voice was as the voice of Katherine of France, -“broken music,” for her voice was music, and her English broken. -Sometimes a belated passer-by would wait outside to listen in wonder to -someone singing in the clearest baby voice: - - Sing Hey, my bra’ John Hielandman, - Sing Ho, my bra’ John Hielandman, - -and at the end of each refrain she always kissed her father, for -there was no one in the world to match with him in Jean’s eyes. -She absolutely declined to sing the last verse after that day upon -which she discovered what “hanging” meant, Colin and Andrew having -suspended Tammy from the apple tree. At times, Jean could raise her -voice otherwise than in song, and on that occasion the whole Terrace -resounded with her shrieks. - -Next door there dwelt a very grumpy gentleman. With that easy -confidence in a neighbor’s neighborliness generally manifested by -people who have lived much abroad, Jean’s father, on taking up his -quarters, had written asking permission to put some wire-netting on -the top of the party wall to prevent cricket balls going over. To his -immense surprise he received a curt and discourteous refusal, which -terminated in a warning to the effect that, if balls did come over, -there they would have to stay, as the writer would in no circumstances -have boys running in and out of his house, and there was no back -entrance. Of course balls went over; but Colin and Andrew found an -unexpected ally in Mr. Knagg’s housekeeper, who threw the balls back -again without consulting him; and Mr. Knagg felt rather aggrieved that, -as yet, he had found no cause for complaint. Complaint in some form or -other was as the breath of life to him; he had gone to law with so many -of his fellow-townsmen that his society was no longer sought after, and -his exceedingly clean steps were untrodden by strangers. He intended at -first to complain that the banjo-playing in the garden disturbed him at -his studies, when he happened to hear Jean sing “This iss no my plaid,” -and somehow he gave up the idea. - -Colin and Andrew possessed a “mashie” each, and a game of “putting -golf.” It was reserved for Sunday afternoons as being of a quiet and -decorous nature. - -But one Sunday afternoon Andrew forgot to “putt,” and gave his ball -a drive that lifted it high over the wall into the next garden. Now, -the wall was too high to climb; besides, the fear of Mr. Knagg was -upon them, and the housekeeper was out--they had seen her go. They had -only two balls, and it was yet a long two hours off teatime. Father and -mother were both out. They retired to consult Jean under the trees. - -“If he wasn’t such an old beast, I’d go and ask for it myself,” growled -Andrew. - -“You wouldn’t get it if you did,” said Colin the practical. - -“Why shouldn’t Jean go? He’d give it to her,” suggested Andrew, who had -noted the weakness of his sex where Jean was concerned. - -“Of course he would. You must go, Jean. Hurry up!” - -“What, all on my lonely?” exclaimed Jean in pained astonishment. - -“Oh, we’ll come with you to the door and ring the bell for you, and -then cut away before he can open it. Then you ask him nicely. Come on, -Jean!” - -She seldom long opposed her brothers. She had what Elspeth called a -“tender head,” and strongly objected to having her hair pulled. Between -them they marched her up the flagged path to Mr. Knagg’s front door, -rang loudly, and departed precipitately. - -Maighda, the great deerhound who shared with Elspeth the guardianship -of Jean, rose from amidst the company of dolls, where she had been -reposing, and walking gravely into the front garden, jumped the iron -fence, and joined Jean at the top of the steps. - -Jean clasped Tammy firmly with one arm and coiled the other round -Maighda’s neck as the door opened rather noisily to disclose an -irate-looking little gentleman in gold-rimmed _pince-nez_. - -“If you please,” began Jean, in a still, small voice, “there iss a wee -ball-y wass putted into your garden--will I get it?” - -Mr. Knagg stood staring at his strange visitors, while Jean rubbed one -pink foot over the other and Maighda sniffed at him dubiously. Tammy, -with his customary reserve, betrayed no emotion whatever. - -“Come!” said Mr. Knagg shortly, holding out his hand. As Jean -disappeared Colin and Andrew flew into the back garden and swarmed up -an apple tree, whence they surveyed their sister’s proceedings with -interest. - -“Wonder why men are so much decenter to girls than to us?” mused Andrew. - -“Oh, well; his housekeeper likes us best, anyway. Everyone’s got their -cranks.” - -“Fore,” cried a clear little voice, and the ball fell with a soft -“plop” at the foot of the apple tree. - -“She throws very well for a girl,” said Colin as he dropped onto the -grass. “Let’s finish the game.” - -“What do you mean by ‘fore’?” asked Mr. Knagg. - -“Heads, you know,” said Jean; but her host was more puzzled than ever, -for he had not even a bowing acquaintance with the royal and ancient -game. They stared at each other in silence for a minute, then Jean, -remembering that one of the most important precepts of her clan was to -accept no service without rendering some return, said shyly: “Will I -sing you a song?” - -“Pray do!” exclaimed Mr. Knagg; and his eyeglasses flew off his nose, -he frowned so hard. - -“My love’s in Germanie--send him hame! send him hame! My love’s in -Germanie--send him hame!” Jean only sang three verses. Elspeth never -taught her the last two, and when the last notes full of longing had -died away, she added cheerfully: “But he iss at home just now.” - -“Who is?” - -“My father. Nearly all my songs iss about father.” - -“Really!” ejaculated Mr. Knagg, and blew his nose noisily. “So that’s -Scotch?” - -“All my songs iss Scottish. I promised Elspeth, and I will know them -all some day. Goot-bye!” and Jean, settling Tammy more comfortably on -her arm, prepared to depart. As she spoke she had lifted her face to be -kissed, and Mr. Knagg kissed her. - -“He iss a dull man,” said Jean confidentially to Colin; “but he was -douce enough to me.” - -The man in question sat in his favorite chair and read his Sunday -newspaper upside down. It was thirty-five years since he had kissed a -child! - -Colin and Andrew were at school, father and mother had gone out in the -dog-cart, taking Maighda with them for the run, Elspeth was ironing -frocks, and Jean entertaining Tammy and all the dolls at tea on the -lawn. Suddenly she threw back her head and listened--no one had such -quick ears as Jean--the color rushed to her face, and she scampered -across the grass, round by the side of the house, and out at the garden -gate; bareheaded, with flying rosy feet, she raced to the end of the -terrace, and as she ran the sound which so excited her grew louder. It -was the pipes! - -Would she find “the regiment,” she wondered? Had it come to show what -Elspeth called “this wee stuck-up bit towney” what real John Hielandman -were like? Jean pictured the frowning castle and windy Esplanade, the -steep, stony street, flanked by tall grey houses, down which “the -regiment” “in tartan plaid and philabeg” swept with swinging steps. -That was the setting in which she knew her father’s men. How would they -look in this trim Southern town? And would she dare to stop them to ask -after her friends? - -No, it was not a march the piper was playing, and very soon she -discovered that there was no regiment--only a solitary piper playing -the “Keel Row,” with a crowd of unkempt children following him. - -Jean pushed in among the children, who made way for this hatless, -shoeless person in some astonishment. - -“He iss not the ‘Forty-second,’ nor the ‘Gordons,’ nor the ‘Seaforth,’” -said Jean to herself, “and why will he wear two tartans?” Then, pulling -at the piper’s kilt, she cried shrilly, above the skirl of the pipes: -“Can you play ‘Oran an Aoig’?” - -The piper took the chanter out of his mouth, and smiled down at the -eager, upturned face, asking: “_Wot_, my dear?” - -“‘Oran an Aoig,’” repeated Jean eagerly. - -“Sorry I cawn’t oblige you, but I never ’eard tell of that toon,” and -the “Keel Row” sounded with renewed and aggressive vigor. - -Jean loosed her hold of the kilt and turned to go. There was something -uncanny in the speech of this piper, and as she looked more closely, -a certain incongruity in his uniform which chilled and disappointed -her. The children, however, having recovered from their surprise at her -sudden appearance in their midst, decided to have some fun with Jean, -and she speedily discovered that to be the only shoeless person in a -heavily shod crowd is to be in a most unpleasant minority. Also, she -had never been alone in the street before. - -Mr. Knagg heard the pipes on his way home to lunch, and having the -greatest abhorrence of all street noises, holding that they were, every -one, “disturbing to the peace of His Majesty’s lieges,” was hurrying -across the road to expostulate with the perpetrator of this new outrage -upon his ears, when he caught sight of a familiar shining in the very -middle of that rabble of children. He laid about him with his white -cotton umbrella, presently emerged from the crowd, bearing a very -tearful Jean in his arms, and hailed a cab. The cab and the dog-cart -drove up to Jean’s door at the same moment. Mr. Knagg left Jean on the -pavement and stalked into his house. - -“I said he was a douce man,” sobbed Jean, in the safe shelter of her -father’s arms; “but it wass a pittence piper, not one of ours at all.” -They say that she felt the deception even more than the bruises on her -toes. Her father never managed to thank Mr. Knagg though he called -three times. - - * * * * * - -“Of course the master’s gone to the war with the regiment. He only got -six months’ leave, after all, and Miss Jean talks and sings about him -all day long, and the mistress just listens. But she says if Master -Colin and Master Andrew were older, she’d send them, too; for there’s -aye been some of our family for the men to follow.” Elspeth left -Mr. Knagg’s housekeeper standing at the wire fence, for she “never -encouraged clash.” - -In the wintry days her neighbors saw less of Jean, as play in the -garden was impossible. But even then the pink feet splashed bravely -through the puddles and over the wet stones. - -One evening about six, just as Mr. Knagg was turning into the Terrace, -a newspaper boy, shouting with raucous voice, proclaimed: “Serious -British Reverse!” “’Ighland regiment trapped and cut to pieces!” The -old gentleman darted across the road, crying: “Stop that infernal din, -and I’ll buy every rag you’ve got! Don’t come down here again, mind!” - -He hurried down the Terrace with a great bundle of pink papers under -his arm. Just outside his own house he paused and looked up. Jean’s -nursery window was open at the top, the curtains were not drawn, and -the room was full of rosy light. Suddenly a child’s voice soared into -the stillness: - - He’s as brave as brave can be; - Send him hame, send him hame! - He’s as brave as brave can be; - Send him hame! - -Mr. Knagg took off his hat and bent his head. - - - - -THE DOLL’S-HOUSE FLAGS (1917) - - -To begin with the youngest. - -“Me an’ the war’s the same age,” said Jasper, for Jasper was born on -August 4th, 1914. - -Perhaps that was why he manifested such a decided and independent -disposition almost from his earliest months. - -It may have been that everybody was so busy he was more thrown upon his -own resources than are babies in more leisurely times. But whatever the -reason, he ran about when he was one, talked fluently--if in somewhat -impressionistic fashion--when he was eighteen months old, and by the -time he was two he had attained very definite characteristics. - -Barbara came next, four long years older than Jasper. She had a round, -rosy face and kind brown eyes that readily filled with tears, and her -little heart overflowed with love and pity for the wounded. - -Alison was quite old when war broke out. She could remember times when -sweets “were nothing so very much--everybody eat them,” when “gentlemen -often had _two_ eggs for breakfast and lots of other things as well,” -when “Mummy could buy anything she liked in shops, and nearly everybody -had motors.” - -Alison was six when Jasper was born. - -Tall and pale was Alison, with straight black hair that reached her -waist. She took the war very seriously indeed, and was implacable in -her conviction that nothing else mattered. She was even rather shocked -that mummy could take comfort in the thought that it would probably be -over before Jasper was old enough to join up. - -Then there was George. - -He was an American and the same age as Alison and lived quite near, -though after the unfriendly fashion of London, they might never have -known him but that it happened his mummy and theirs worked at the same -hospital. - -He was an “only,” and when they first knew him went as a day boy to -a preparatory school quite a long way off; but as time went on and -transport of every kind became more crowded and difficult, he came to -do lessons with Alison and Barbara. - -Nothing made Barbara so happy as to be allowed to visit the “dear poor -ones” in the hospital where mummy worked; but when she first saw the -blind soldiers from St. Dunstan’s and they were explained to her, it -seemed as though she really could not bear the knowledge. The children -lived on the south side of Regent’s Park, and Nannie always took them -there for their walks. - -“Will they never be able to see?” she would ask piteously. - -“I fear not in this life,” was Nannie’s invariable answer. - -“Not anything? Ever?” - -“Nothing at all. But they are very brave, Miss Barbara; _they_ don’t -cry.” - -For days after when Barbara met them in Regent’s Park, her mouth would -go down at the corners, and though she did not actually cry she was, -as nurse said, “queer and quiet” for a long time afterward. Their -inexorable doom weighed on her little soul, and even her serene faith -in a kind God and protecting angels and the “tender Shepherd” of her -prayers was somewhat shaken that such a cruel thing could be. Ah! if -they could only have met _Him_! He would have “touched their eyes” -and all would have been well. Perhaps some day---- In the meantime -the fairies--and she believed in them as firmly as in the heavenly -hierarchy itself--came to her aid, and by some process of reasoning she -decided that the blinded soldiers were under an enchantment. That a -wicked ogre, a German ogre, had taken away their sight (even as trolls -and cruel step-mothers and evilly disposed fairies blinded her favorite -heroes in the “Tales from the Norse”), but that some day a kind fairy -or wise, friendly beast would put them in the way of getting their eyes -back again. Surely among all the animals in the Zoo there would be one -who knew exactly under what tree in the Park the healing dew might be -found. - -She never spoke of the St. Dunstan’s men as blind, but as the “poor -enchanted ones,” to distinguish them from the “dear poor ones” of the -hospital, and she would never speak of “Blindman’s Buff,” but always of -“Enchanted Buff.” - -Jasper had learned to salute and was immensely proud of himself. Every -man in khaki or hospital blue that came in his way, from brass-hats to -the most newly joined recruits, received his respectful and ecstatic -salutation. Two-foot-six in a white Persian lamb coat and white gaiters -would stand rigidly to attention and bring up a diminutive hand clad in -a white glove smartly to his forehead. If the man he desired to honor -happened to be in hospital blue, he then kissed his hand to express -affection as well as respect. When the warrior in question perceived -Jasper he invariably returned the courtesy with _empressement_. -Generals were most punctilious in this matter, and when Jasper saw -one coming he would trot forward, plant himself firmly in the line -of vision of the eyes under the brass hat, and, rosy and triumphant, -wait till Nannie came up, announcing proudly: “I t’luted ’im _and_ he -t’luted me.” - -Everyone smiled upon Jasper. He was so small and round and earnest, -and his absurd hair curled around the edge of his cap in the most -entrancing fashion. He knew he was popular and enjoyed it amazingly. - -Therefore was he surprised and chilled when one day, having as usual -trotted ahead of Nannie, he stopped opposite two blue soldiers resting -on a seat in the park and they took not the slightest notice of him. - -They seemed to be looking right at him as he stood at salute, but they -neither “t’luted,” nor did they smile or speak. - -Jasper kissed his hand. - -Still no response. - -He kissed his hand, and blew the kiss right at them. - -Puzzled, he looked from one to the other. They weren’t asleep. Their -eyes were wide open, and their faces kind and patient, but they didn’t -seem a bit glad to see him. - -They just took no notice--no notice at all. And Nannie came up with the -pram. - -“I t’luted ’em,” he said in rather trembling tones, quite unlike his -usual strong treble, “but they don’t seem to like me.” - -“Eh, what?” said one of the men suddenly. “What’s that?” - -Nannie said something hurriedly in a low voice. “He’s only two and a -bit,” she added. Then, “It’s too cold for you to be sitting there. Have -you lost your bearings?” - -“That’s about it,” said the man who had first spoken. “Perhaps you’ll -put us on our way. It’s time we were getting back.” - -“We’ll go with you. Give him your hand, dear, and bring him along.” - -“I _did_ t’lute ’em,” Jasper said again, feeling that an important -ceremony had somehow been scamped. - -Both the men stood up, and the one who had spoken to Nannie jogged his -friend with his elbow, saying: “And so do we salute you, young man,” -and they both did. - -The man put down his hand and touched the top of Jasper’s Persian lamb -cap, and laughed: - -“What a big man!” he said. - -And hand in hand they followed Nannie to St. Dunstan’s. - - * * * * * - -“Now you know what it’s like for the poor enchanted ones,” Barbara -said, taking her hands from Jasper’s eyes. - -Jasper looked very solemn. “Poor ’chanted ones,” he echoed; “I’ll -t’lute ’em and kiss my hand _and_ kirtsey ne’st time I meet ’em.” - -“You talk to them, my dear,” said sensible Nannie; “they’ll like that -better than all your salutin’s.” - -This Jasper was most ready to do at great length in his little high -voice that the poor enchanted ones came to recognize a long way off. -But all the same he never failed to “t’lute and kiss his hand _and_ -kirtsey.” No signs of respect and affection could be too much, Barbara -said. - -“It’s the worst thing of all, so we must love them most.” - -Fairies and angels were inextricably mixed up in Barbara’s mind, and -when her mother came to kiss her good-night on Christmas Eve, she -murmured sleepily: “I simply can’t ’astinguish between God and Father -Christmas, so I mus’ just let it alone.” - -Even the toys were much affected by the war. Jasper’s Teddy Bear wore -an expression not unlike the pathetic puzzled look of his brethren -in the Mappin Circle, now that nobody threw them buns, sat they on -their tails never so pleadingly. Alison had made him the brassard of a -special constable, and he always wore it when he went out with Jasper -in the pram. The lady dolls had all become V.A.D.’s or bus conductors -or window-cleaners, and one quite recent acquisition was a land girl. - -As for the doll’s house, it wore a martial yet festive air, for the -flags of all the allies were stuck in a tight band of string with which -Alison had bound it thrice just under the roof. - -It was not a new doll’s house. In fact as doll’s houses go it was -almost venerable. It had belonged to grannie’s mother, and was built in -the early part of Queen Victoria’s reign. Unlike modern doll’s houses, -it did not open in front. In front it was square and solid, with two -large windows on either side of the door, which had glass panels, and -actually opened and shut, and there were three oblong windows on the -next floor. The roof was made of real little slates, with chimneys at -either end of it. The ground floor was a shop, with two black counters -that could be taken out and dusted, and the walls were fitted with -innumerable shelves and cupboards. It was a silversmith’s shop, and -on the brass plates under the windows were, on one, “David Strachan, -Silversmith and Jeweler,” on the other, “By Appointment to Her Majesty -Queen Victoria.” By which it could be seen that it was a Scottish -jeweler’s shop, for nobody called “Strachan” could be of any other -nationality. Moreover, there were tiny toddy-ladles of various sizes -among the stock-in-trade. - -Daddy used to tell the children an entrancing serial story about the -inhabitants of this wonderful house, whereof most of the plenishings -remained in their original form, though Mr. and Mrs. Strachan, the two -shop assistants, and the baby, had been renewed from time to time, -but always as nearly as possible resembling their predecessors. Thus -it came about that Mr. Strachan had side-whiskers--daddy painted them -himself--a stock and peg-top trousers, and Mrs. Strachan a crinoline -and an amazingly slender waist; while Jenny, the maid, who slept in -a box-bed in the kitchen, had a mob-cap and always wore her sleeves -rolled up. The bedroom of Mr. and Mrs. Strachan was much bemuslined, -and the parlor had green rep chairs and a round table. - -“It’s all of our doll’s house,” Barbara used to say. “It doesn’t belong -to anyone partickler. Grannie said so.” - -“George’s, too,” Jasper always added. He couldn’t bear George to be -left out of anything. - -And perhaps because George was an American he was a little less on his -dignity than an English boy of the same age. He didn’t despise girls, -he treated them in a comradely fashion that Alison and Barbara greatly -appreciated. And Jasper adored him, for George realized that a person -might be not quite three, with nether garments so abbreviated as to -be almost indistinguishable from petticoats, with woolly gaiters and -shoes so small they refused to make a martial tramp, however much one -tried--and yet the said person might possess the most boyish soul in -the world. - -Therefore was George made free of the doll’s house, and assisted Alison -with the serial story which she had taken over since that day, early -in the war, when daddy went with his Territorial battalion to France. - -It was on New Year’s Day in 1917 that George brought Alison the -American flag for the doll’s house. It was a beautiful little silk one, -and he had selected it himself at Selfridge’s. - -“I’d like Mr. Strachan should have it,” he said. “We want the allies to -win. You bet we do.” - -But Alison shook her head. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I hate not to take -it--I’ll have it myself if you like, but it can’t go on the house. Not -yet it can’t. America’s not in, you see.” - -“After all,” said George, “we’ve done a good bit, haven’t we? Look at -my dad--he’s been driving an ambulance--he gave it himself--ever since -the beginning of the war, and he’s been wounded.” - -“I know,” Alison answered, “I know all that, but”--and her grave -little face was set like a flint--“you’re not in it yet, you’re not -_fighting_, and only countries that are fighting _with_ us can have -their flags on the doll’s house. Mr. Strachan’s most partickler about -that. My daddy’s been wounded twice.” - -“Wouldn’t he have it at the back?” Barbara suggested. She couldn’t bear -people to be hurt, and George looked very much hurt. - -“No, thank you,” he said haughtily. “If it can’t be put with the -others, you needn’t have it at all. It’s a great flag.” - -“I know,” said Alison, “and I’m awfully sorry. Mr. Strachan would love -it the minute you’re really in ... but till you are----” - -“We’re in right enough,” George said bitterly, “in up to the neck. -Mother says so. It’s only the President hasn’t said ‘Go’ yet--you know -what Governments are, ‘waiting and seeing,’ and all that rot. Look at -your own! And everybody getting killed all the time.” - -“I know,” Alison said. “But that’s what makes the difference. We _are_ -getting killed, all the time, even here in London.” - -George put the little flag in his pocket. “I came to wish you a happy -New Year, Alison,” he said with an effort to speak pleasantly. “I’ll -have to get you something else. There’s some little silver things for -the shop for you, Barbara, and a machine-gun for Jasper. Perhaps the -partickler Mr. Strachan wouldn’t mind having that on his roof to fire -at the Huns when they come over.” - -“Won’t you let me keep the flag?” Alison asked. “Then if ever -America....” - -“If ever,” George interrupted scornfully. “That’s all you know about -it. If you’ll wait you’ll jolly well see this time. And you won’t wait -long!” - -But he kept the flag in his pocket; and that night he put it in an -envelope to keep it clean. - -George was right. She didn’t have to wait so very much longer, for on -April 6th, America declared war on Germany, and he appeared directly -after breakfast waving a Stars and Stripes large enough to have covered -the doll’s house like a tablecloth, so they hung it out of the nursery -window instead, and Jasper “t’luted” it when he went out in his pram. -And Alison got the little flag from George and put it between that of -England and France on the doll’s house, and he further presented the -Strachans with two little khaki gunners to man the gun on the roof, for -there were rumors to the effect that London would get it particularly -hot that summer. The Huns were so angry about America. - -That very morning great-uncle Jasper came to see the children, and gave -each of them, including George, a bright new half-crown. - -Jasper was much pleased with his, and refused to be parted from it -even after Nannie had dressed him to go out. He declared he would hold -it exceedingly tight and not “jop” it. Nannie had taken him with her -down to the kitchen to get the list of wanted groceries from cook, -and before you could say “knife” he had raced into the scullery, -mounted a chair, and thrust the new half-crown down into one of the -divisions of the knife-machine, proclaiming triumphantly that it was -“a bid money-box.” And there the half-crown remains to this day unless -somebody has been demobilized who understands Kent’s knife-machines. - -Nannie hated to take Jasper to shops instead of the Park, but she -had to do it sometimes because things had to be got and there was no -one else to fetch them; besides, the “pram was handy for parcels.” -He thoroughly enjoyed these expeditions and certainly cheered up the -shopping of other people. - -That morning when they arrived at the grocer’s there was the usual -tired, cross-looking throng of housewives bearing string bags, -irascible old gentlemen with leather ones, and the inevitable slate -with the restrictive announcement: “No Matches. No Jam. No Bacon. No -Tea. No Cheese. No Lard.” - -“Tut, tut,” muttered Nannie. “No cheese again!” - -“No tzeeze adain,” Jasper instantly repeated, but in ringing tones that -might have indicated glorious news, and everybody laughed. - -“Bless his heart,” said Nannie when she got home, “he does his bit as -well as anybody.” - -Alison was always ready enough to take care of Jasper, and was -thoroughly trustworthy as regards letting no harm befall him; but she -looked upon such “minding” in the light of “war work,” and her methods -were somewhat austere. - -She was annoyed that he should constantly interrupt mummy when she -read aloud the latest war news from _The Times_ by frivolous calls for -admiration of his clock-work rabbit, and that mummy never failed to -respond. And Alison was positively shocked that he could go on playing -absorbedly with the said rabbit even when mummy read to them a letter -from daddy in France. - -She forgot that, for Jasper, daddy was chiefly known as a picture in -a frame that stood on a table by mummy’s bed, whereof he kissed the -glass, making a smudge on it, every night when he had said his prayers; -whereas the familiar rabbit was furry and comforting to carry, and went -across the floor in a succession of exciting hops when it was wound up. - -After all, Jasper was but a very little boy. - -As for Barbara, she followed where Jasper led. Barbara was no sort of -use for minding. Yet she could devise most delightful games, and gave -dolls’ tea-parties when all the vanished delicacies that used to grace -such festivities before the war appeared again. So lavish was she with -chocolate éclaires and cream buns and “white and pink sugar cakes” that -Alison, the conscientious, was moved to expostulate, exclaiming: “What -about the rationing, Barbara?” - -“There’s no war in fairyland,” Barbara answered serenely, “and this is -a fairy tea, so you can have as many lumps of sugar as ever you like.” - -Jasper was a cause of anxiety at these functions, because he _would_ -put a whole plate in his mouth at once. The V.A.D. doll fell over -backward, she was so shocked. Such voluptuous gastronomic joys as -chocolate éclaires and cream buns woke no responsive thrill in Jasper’s -breast, for he had never either seen nor tasted one or the other, so -when called upon to pretend to eat something, he seized the nearest -thing of handy size. - - * * * * * - -The children’s house had a basement, but George’s mother lived in a -beautiful Willet house that had none, so that autumn he and his mother -and their maids used to run over “to spend the raid” with Jasper’s -household when the first maroons sounded. - -After the Zeppelin raids the doll’s house had been brought down from -the nursery to a room in the basement where there was a gas fire, -and the children used to play with it and enact many thrilling dramas -while the raids were going on. As George had prophesied, London got it -particularly hot during the harvest moon of 1917, with five raids in -eight nights. - -They had all just got back from a holiday in the country and, with the -exception of Barbara, who was gun-shy and hated the noise, they really -felt the strain far less than the grown-ups. - -Jasper usually slept most of the time in his mother’s arms, but after -a particularly loud crash would rouse himself to murmur with sleepy -complacency: “That was a good one. We got ’em that time.” - -But Barbara, when the barrage was unusually deafening and prolonged, -remarked rather piteously: “How it must ’asturb the poor angels!” - -It was during the very last raid of all, in May of the following -year, that something happened to the doll’s house. It was on a Sunday -night, and the maroons didn’t start till eleven o’clock. George and -his household hurried over as soon as he had got some clothes on, and -Jasper woke up and was very talkative and cheerful. Arrayed in a blue -dressing-gown and bed-shoes, he ran about the room, interfering with -George and his sisters in their arrangement of the Strachan family, and -shouting lustily in concert with the louder crashes. - -He wasn’t often allowed to touch the interior of the doll’s house, -for his methods were too Bolshevist, and he was inclined to instigate -conduct wholly opposed to the characters of so _douce_ and respectable -a family. - -That night Barbara insisted that Jeannie, the maid, and the baby should -take refuge under one of the counters, while Mr. and Mrs. Strachan and -the shop assistants crouched behind the other. - -It happened that just then Jasper had developed a mania for collecting -smooth, round stones, and Alison had suggested he should form an -ammunition dump to supply the Strachans’ machine-gun. This dump he -was allowed to build near the stumpy little low oak table on casters -that had supported the doll’s house from the time it was first built. -Mummy had carefully explained to him that he must on no account throw -the stones _at_ anything, because Jasper came of three generations of -left-hand bowlers, and had already shown that he could throw a ball in -the direction he wanted it to go. So far he had never thrown a stone -either at things or people, for he was a kind little soul and no more -disobedient than the generality of small boys of three. But he carried -a stone in his hand all day long unless Nannie discovered it and took -it from him. He liked the feel of it, its smoothness, its roundness, -its vast potentialities. - -That night he had been shooed away from the doll’s house half a dozen -times, for Alison and George were absorbed in a thrilling play in which -the Strachans captured a German spy who was guiding enemy air-craft by -means of forbidden lights. - -Just as the “Archies” were barking their loudest, and an unmistakable -bomb dropped somewhere, Jasper, on the other side of the room, gave a -whoop and let fly the stone he had in his left hand straight at the -doll’s-house roof. It took one of the wooden chimneys broadside on -and broke it clean off, narrowly missing the massed heads of his two -sisters and George, which were luckily almost inside the house absorbed -in the spy drama. - -It also cracked some of the neat little slates on the roof. - -There was a general consternation and excitement, and Jasper scurried -across the room to secure another stone from the dump, when he would -have undoubtedly had a shot at the other chimney had not Nannie caught -him and held him tight. - -Then it was that Alison astonished her family, for instead of demanding -instant and condign punishment for her destructive little brother, she -danced about the room and burst into poetry, shouting at the top of her -voice: - - The Strachans are in the War Zone, their house has been hit, - They’ve caught a bad spy and they’re all done their bit. - -“She’s a most onaccountable child, Miss Alison,” said Nannie to cook -next day; “she was actually sorry that the stone didn’t go right -through the roof, an’ you’d have thought she’d have gone on ever so ... -anyway, it kept them from caring much about the raid.” - - - - -CONCERNING CHRIS AND EASTER (1916) - - -Easter is the only girl, a sort of happy afterthought at the end of -a long family of five boys, with six years between her and her next -brother. - -Chris is the only precious child, born after a good many years of -marriage to devoted and adoring parents. - -Easter doesn’t think much of boys. They are common as blackberries in -her family and she is keenly sensible of her own distinction in having, -as she puts it, “chosen to come as a girl.” - -Thus it came about that her mental attitude struck Chris with something -of a shock; not wholly unpleasant; stimulating; the tingle of -resentment tempered by a thrill of amused surprise. It was so odd and -new to meet anyone who felt like that. - -Besides, till he came to live in Easter’s village he had been rather -lonely, and she supplied a felt want. Especially had this been so -in the last two bewildering years, for his parents had seemed less -absorbed in him than was quite dutiful. And for the last year his -father had vanished altogether to that mysterious place that swallowed -up so many pleasant and familiar folk; that overshadowing, omnipotent, -vastly extending region known as “the front.” - -Easter, on her part, welcomed the society of Chris. She, too, was -lonely by reason of the very same cause as Chris. Little girls were -scarce in that village and Easter’s mother was busy all day long with -war work of one sort and another, and owing to the same cause Chris’s -governess, Miss Radley, only gave him her society during the bare hours -of lessons, which lessons had for some time been shared by Easter. - -Now Easter was much better at lessons than Chris; much quicker, in -most things far more intelligent and receptive. Only in arithmetic did -Chris shine, and in this subject he had soared away from Easter and did -abstruse calculations in the end of the book all by himself with Miss -Radley. - -Easter was born on an Easter Day, and this year she was eight years -old. Chris was born on Christmas Day, and last Christmas he was eight. -Therefore, in spite of his prowess in arithmetic, he maintains that he -is a year older than Easter. - -“Weren’t you born in 1908?” he demands sternly. - -“Ye-es,” answers Easter, “on an Easter Sunday. They _were_ so pleased.” - -“And I,” says Chris, “was born in 1907. Take seven from eight and what -remains?” - -“One, but it isn’t a real, whole one,” Easter objects. - -No one knows this better than Chris, but he stoutly maintains: “A -year’s a year, and you’re either born in it or you’re not--so there.” - -However, in spite of this and many other differences of opinion, they -had decided to get married when they came to what Easter’s nurse calls -“a suitable age.” - -As a rule Chris follows blindly where Easter leads, giving in to her -stronger will and considerably stronger body, though not always without -protest. - -Easter is tall for her age and very muscular. She has a gentle, -early-Victorian, regularly featured, delicately tinted face, with a -high forehead, abundant curly, fair hair, and large pathetic blue -eyes that are entirely misleading. In fact, her appearance is as -unlike her real character as it is possible for such an extremely -agreeable exterior to be. She looks all softness and gravity and gentle -melancholy. Whereas she is a ruthless and determined young person -who cares nothing for “moral suasion” and less for punishments and -penalties, provided she gets her own way. - -Chris, on the contrary, is soft-hearted and easily ruled through his -affections. He would rather not be disobedient and troublesome unless -such breakings of the law are expressly commanded by Easter. - -But to be called a “muff” is more than he can bear, and rather than -Easter should think this of him he will offend his whole dynasty of -friends. - - * * * * * - -Chris and Easter were sitting under a hedge brilliant with scarlet hips -and cloudy with “traveler’s joy.” The hedge topped a fairly steep -bank, with a ditch full of muddy water at the bottom of the bank. - -A heated argument was in progress as to the names of their eight -daughters. Easter had already chosen the names, and they ran as -follows: Irene, Semolina, Rosalind, Majorca, Minorca, Vinolia, Larola, -and Salonica. Chris objected to Semolina and Vinolia. - -“I hate semolina,” he observed gloomily, “almost as bad as I hate rice.” - -“But it sounds so much nicer.” - -“And Vinolia, too--greasy stuff you smear on chapped legs.” - -“It’s got a lovely smell,” said Easter. - -“And why,” demanded Chris, who was in a bold and captious mood, “should -there be eight of ’em? Why can’t there be some boys?” - -“I won’t have boys, I tell you,” Easter declared firmly. “Girls are far -prettier.” - -“_Are_ they?” asked Chris incredulously. “I’ve never seen any pretty -ones.” - -Instead of asking “Where are your eyes?” Easter said huffily, in -life-like imitation of nurse: “That’s as it may be. Anyway they wear -far prettier clothes.” - -“You don’t,” Chris pointed out. - -Easter looked down at her extremely short and faded navy-blue skirt, -at her long legs stuck out in front of her, at her muddy boots, at the -large hole in the knee of her stocking. Save for the said skirt she -was dressed almost exactly like Chris, in muffin cap, reefer and brass -buttons. - -“Sometimes I do,” she maintained; “but anyway, Irene, Semolina, and -Rosalind, and Majorca, and Minorca, and Vinolia, and Larola, and -Salonica will all have lovely frocks, silk ninon, with sashes. Chris, -they’ll be perfectly sweet, and we’ll make them walk two and two in -front of us to church.” - -“I tell you,” Chris declared, unmoved by this entrancing vision, “that -I don’t _want_ so many daughters. I don’t like them, I don’t want ’em -and I won’t have ’em.” - -“Then,” Easter ejaculated in breathless tones that should have warned -him, “I shan’t marry you.” - -“I don’t care,” the callous Chris announced. “The country wants men. I -heard my daddy say so the last time he was home. There’s far too many -women as it is. They can’t fight.” - -“Can’t they?” the indignant Easter exclaimed ironically, and giving -Chris a vigorous and wholly unexpected push, rolled him down the steep -bank and into the ditch with a mighty splash; and then, adding insult -to injury, she dug her heels into the wet grass, and taking off with -skill and surety, jumped over his prostrate body on to the road, -whereupon she ran away, laughing derisively. - -Chris got most uncommonly wet, for the bottom of the ditch was slimy -and soft. Even after he had struggled to his feet they slipped about -and sank in far over the tops of his boots. And when he did manage to -scramble up the bank to the road, he certainly looked a deplorable -object, covered with mud and green slime and with water oozing from -every bit of him. He stamped his feet and rubbed them on the wet grass -that bordered the road without much visible betterment. - -There was no going back through the village in such a plight, so -he climbed the first five-barred gate he saw and started on a long -cross-country journey that was to bring him home by unfrequented ways. -He found the unfrequented ways, for he didn’t meet a soul, but he lost -his bearings altogether. The wind got up and there followed cold, gusty -showers of rain and hail. He felt chilled and miserable and dreadfully -tired. Field after field he traversed and yet found no familiar -landmarks, till, having toiled uphill over a heavy ploughed field, he -reached a road that stood fairly high, and below him on the far horizon -he recognized the square tower of his own church. He plodded on and on -till at last he trotted wearily up his own drive, and there he saw that -not only Miss Radley but the three maids were all gathered on the steps -of the front door. The moment Miss Radley saw him she ran toward him, -exclaiming: - -“Oh, Chris! Where _have_ you been? We were getting so anxious. Do you -know it’s half-past five? My dear boy, how wet you are! Come in and get -changed at once.” - -The maids went back into the house when they saw Chris, and Miss Radley -hurried him in and upstairs, not even waiting to make him wipe his feet. - -“We’ve been so anxious,” she repeated. “I went to Easter’s, and she -said you’d parted ever so long ago. Why did you go off by yourself like -that?” - -Chris was half in, half out of his sailor blouse by this time, and -mumbled something about having got tired of Easter. - -Miss Radley didn’t worry him much with questions, nor did she comment -severely upon his dirty state. She was extraordinarily kind and got her -hands all over mud in helping him to take off his boots; and it was -not until he was lying luxuriously in a hot bath that it struck him -as odd that his mother didn’t come to him. All the time, too, he had -the feeling that Miss Radley wanted to tell him something and yet she -couldn’t seem to begin. - -“Where’s mummy?” he asked at last. “Isn’t she back yet? I wish she’d -come and talk to me.” - -Miss Radley looked queerly at him, almost as though she were going to -cry. “Chris dear,” she said, and waited for quite a long time, “mummy -has had to go away....” - -“Away! For the night? Where to? Why?” - -“Chris dear”--again Miss Radley seemed to find it difficult to go -on--“she had a telegram, just after you went out, from the War Office, -asking her to go at once. Your father is in a hospital at Boulogne, -very ill ... wounded.” - -“Dangerously wounded?” asked Chris, who was familiar with war terms. - -Miss Radley nodded, and two tears ran down her cheeks. “That’s what it -said.” - -“I think,” said Chris, “I’d like to get out of this bath now.” - -When he was dressed he didn’t seem to want the long-delayed tea, even -though there was a beautiful brown egg and lovely buttered toast. In -spite of the hot bath and a bright fire in the schoolroom he felt -horrid, cold trickles running down his back all the time. He was -extremely tired, too, yet only conscious of one overwhelming want--to -be taken on his mother’s knee and comforted. Miss Radley took him on -hers and sat with him right in front of the fire. She was very kind and -told him how sorry mummy had been to go off in such a hurry without -saying good-bye, but there was just one train that would reach London -that night if she caught it at the junction; and the squire, Easter’s -father, had driven her himself in his motor, and they just managed; and -she was crossing to France that night in charge of a brother officer of -dad’s--she had her passport long ago. - -Every now and then Miss Radley lightly touched his face, which was -very hot, and then she would hold his hand, which was very cold. -Half-asleep, Chris would murmur from time to time, “dangerously -wounded,” but somehow he couldn’t feel about it as he knew he ought to -feel. Though he adored his daddy, all he felt was this overpowering -ache of longing for his mother. - -Easter’s scornful refusal to have any boys in her family had hurt him -very much. He felt lonely and pushed out, somehow; and he badly wanted -the one person who never failed in her appreciation of little boys, -even if they were thin and small and not particularly good looking, and -could not run so fast as ... certain little girls. He was conscious of -being all these undesirable things, and yet he was convinced it was a -great and glorious thing to be a boy, even if Easter didn’t think so. -Once, after a long and acrimonious discussion with her on this very -subject, he had said to his mother: “I choosed to come as a boy, didn’t -I?” - -“God chose,” said his mother gravely. - -“Me and God settled it together,” Chris announced complacently, and his -mother got up suddenly and looked in a cupboard for something she never -found. - -In Chris’s mind God and Father Christmas were inextricably mixed up. -He had no fear of either one or the other. Both were beneficent and -considerate and ready to give people their choice both as to presents -or other things. - -Yet when he was put to bed that night he couldn’t dream of pleasant, -soothing things, but was pursued by eight strong daughters in -embroidered ninon frocks and pink sashes, who formed themselves into -a solid phalanx and drove him to the edge of an awful precipice, and -were just pushing him over ... when he would wake to find Miss Radley -standing beside his bed, looking anxious and troubled, shading a candle -with her hand. - - * * * * * - -The war had not touched Easter very nearly. Her mother had forbidden -nurse to talk about it to her; and her father (judging her -sensitiveness wholly from her gentle, Early-Victorian appearance) was -careful to keep all frightening or depressing news from her as far -as was possible. All her life she had been sheltered and adored and -spared and spoiled. Her brothers, being so much older, had “given -in” to her from the very first, and although the two eldest were -fighting--one in the navy, the other in the army--their doings did not -seem to affect her particularly. And of the three still at school she -had, of late, seen very little, for in the holidays they were always -doing O.T.C. training, or making munitions somewhere. - -Yet one thing had impressed her during the last two years. She was -always hearing that some of their acquaintances had “lost” a son, a -brother, or a husband. They did not talk of “killed” or “missing” to -Easter; but they did speak of this continual and mysterious “loss,” and -with the queer secretive puzzledom of childhood she never asked people -outright what they meant by the phrase. - -It worried her, this continual losing. She never heard that these -lost ones got found again. Suppose she herself got lost in this -irretrievable way? How dreadful it would be. What would her family do? -In justice to Easter one must allow that the thought of her people’s -consternation quite overshadowed any possibly unpleasant consequences -to herself. - -She had never discussed the question with Chris, who knew a lot -about the war and wanted to talk about it to the exclusion of more -interesting topics--such as daughters. But this was easily overruled. -Moreover, Easter’s mother had decided that far too much was said about -the war in Chris’s hearing, and she had asked Miss Radley to warn him -not to talk about it to Easter lest it should upset her. - -Miss Radley had her own opinion of Easter’s sensibility. She had not -taught the children for six months without discovering which was the -more susceptible and imaginative. But she did as she was bid, and Chris -had done his best to obey in his turn. Perhaps in a lofty masculine way -he was rather proud that he should be allowed to know things closely -hidden from the domineering Easter, and was therefore the less anxious -to share his knowledge with her. - -He whole-heartedly admired Easter. She was so strong, so good at -things, so invariably cheerful and well, with a never-failing fund of -good spirits and energy. It is very possible that one of her chief -attractions for him lay in the fact that she seemed so entirely outside -those great and grave anxieties that obsessed everybody else. - -Easter was brought up to understand that any “career” that she -chose was open to her. She should have an equal chance with any of -her brothers; she might be a doctor for a factory inspector, or a -police-woman, or go in for any art or craft she fancied. Literature, -art, music, even the stage, were to be open to her, should she so -wish. But, so far, her sole ambition was centred in the possession of -a husband, a meek husband, and eight meek daughters to move and have -their being at her decree. - -It was the swing of the pendulum with a vengeance. - -No one told Easter about Chris’s daddy that afternoon. In the evening -she prepared her lessons with her customary energy and intelligence, -and giggled cheerfully from time to time at the recollection of Chris’s -comical appearance as he lay floundering in the ditch. - -“That’ll teach him,” said Easter to herself, “whether it’s to be -daughters or not!” - -Next morning at breakfast her mother said: “Miss Radley can’t take you -to-day, Easter dear, so it’s no use your going over. They had very bad -news yesterday, and Mrs. Denver has had to go to France. The major is -very ill.” - -“Has Chris gone?” Easter asked. - -“No, dear; but Miss Radley sent over a note quite early to say he has -got a bad, feverish cold (he got so wet yesterday--it’s a pity he -didn’t come back with you), and we don’t know what it may turn to. So -you must just take a holiday, for I’m due at the hospital supplies at -ten, and shall be away all day.” - -“What’s the matter with Major Denver?” - -“I fear,” said her mother, anxiously watching the earnest, delicately -tinted face upturned to hers, “I fear he is very badly wounded.” - -“Oh!” said Easter, and she looked very grave. - -“Be as happy as you can, my precious,” her mother called to her as she -drove away. “I’ll get home as early as possible.” - -That was a very long day for Easter. - -For one thing, it rained all the morning; for another, her father had -to go a long way off on business connected with special constables, and -couldn’t take her; and Amelia, the usually cheerful housemaid, went -about the house with red eyes and a perpetual sniff, because she had -heard that morning she’d lost a cousin in the “big push on the Somme.” - -Amelia was distinctly depressing. - -Easter knitted a few rows of her scarf--the scarf that was always begun -by her and finished by somebody else because she got tired of it. -She found she was missing Chris far more poignantly than was at all -pleasant. - -After all, even if he didn’t always quite give in to her, he was good -company; and Easter found herself remembering many kind things he had -done. The chocolates he had always shared so generously, the apples so -unequally divided always in her favor. Once when she fell off a wall -and scratched her hands and tore her frock so badly, he hadn’t laughed, -and he was so seldom rough in play, only when unbearably provoked. -Easter was too honest not to admit that even at the time. - -It cleared up in the afternoon and she ran over to the Denvers’ house -to see if Chris was up yet and could play. - -Emma, the parlormaid, was firm in her refusal to admit Easter. - -“Master Chris is that bad, so feverish it might turn to anything, the -doctor says. Miss Radley said no one was to come in, and she haven’t -left Master Chris a single minute herself. It’s dreadful, and us all in -such trouble about the major, too.” - -“You haven’t lost him, have you?” Easter asked. - -“Good gracious! no, not yet, so far as we knows. But he’s as bad as -bad, and,” she added, “if anything was to happen to Master Chris and -his ma away an’ all--but, there! I can’t bear to think of it. You run -along home, Miss Easter. I’ll tell Miss Radley you came to ask.” - -And the door was shut in Easter’s face. - -Next day the news was no better. Even Easter’s mother could not keep -from her the universal anxiety as to Major Denver. He had been their -doctor for a year before the war, and in that time had managed to -endear himself to everybody. - -It was said he had taken a country practice because he thought the -bracing air would be good for Chris. Every soul in the village felt a -special right to know the latest news of the major, and Miss Radley had -the telegrams pinned on the front door as soon as she got them. - -All day long people came up the drive to read these telegrams, and -presently there was a bit of white paper as well, concerning Chris, for -the doctor’s little son lay grievously sick at home, while his father, -they feared, was dying of his wounds in France. A white-capped hospital -nurse had come to help Miss Radley. - -Easter was a very lonely little girl. She felt, too, that in some -inexplicable fashion she was shut out from things, that more was -happening than she was allowed to know; and, worst of all, Chris had so -entirely disappeared that she began to fear that he, too, was lost, and -they were afraid to tell her. - -At the end of nearly a week she felt she could not bear this -furtiveness and suspense a minute longer, and she determined to go to -Chris’s house and find out for herself just what had happened and was -happening. She would not ring the bell. She would go round to the side -of the house and see if the schoolroom window was open, and get in and -find Miss Radley and force her to tell the truth. If Chris was lost, -then she, Easter, must herself set forth to find him without more delay. - -All fell out as she had planned. - -The schoolroom window, which opened like a door divided down the -middle, was open, and Miss Radley, with her back to it, sat at the -table, writing. - -Easter could move quietly as a cat when it suited her. She came in -without making a sound, and stood just behind Miss Radley, who was so -absorbed she noticed nothing. - -“Have you lost Chris, Miss Radley?” Easter asked loudly. - -Miss Radley started violently, and Easter came round to her side, and -she noticed that Miss Radley’s usually round, rosy face was pale and -much less round than it used to be. - -“Oh, Easter dear, how you startled me! Don’t suggest such a dreadful -thing! We’re awfully anxious, with his mother away and all this other -trouble, but ... we must hope always, always hope--for if anything -happened to Chris....” - -“What _has_ happened to Chris?” Easter asked, searching the very soul -of Miss Radley with her large clear gaze. - -“He got so wet after he left you that day last week--I can’t think -how--and he got a real bad chill, and now there are all sorts of -complications--and his temperature keeps up so.” - -“What are complications?” Easter interrupted. - -“You wouldn’t understand.... Oh, Easter, child, don’t stare at me like -that! Aren’t you sorry?” - -“I know how Chris got so wet,” Easter said slowly. “I pushed him into -the ditch.” - -Miss Radley drew back a little from Easter; then she put out her hand -and laid it on the child’s arm. - -“I expect it was only in fun ... you couldn’t know....” - -“Can’t I play with him a bit? Is it catching?” Easter’s voice was still -quite loud and matter-of-fact. “It’s rather dull and lonely for me.” - -“For _you_!” Miss Radley echoed indignantly. “Don’t you understand? -Don’t you care, you hard child? But you never did care for anybody but -yourself.” - -“Does Chris?” - -“Yes, indeed he does. He’s always been a dear, kind boy. Easter, you -must go home. I can’t stop to talk to you now. Try to think about other -people a little....” - -Miss Radley did not finish her sentence, for Easter had gone from her -as silently as she had come. For a minute the governess sat quite -still. Then she sighed and shivered, and went on with her letter. - -Easter fled down the Denvers’ drive and out into the road, but she -didn’t go home. She ran and ran till she could run no more, and -dropping into a walk, turned downhill along a winding lane thickly -bordered by trees so high that they almost met overhead, forming an -arch. The light in this avenue was curiously lurid, for the trees were -beeches, and though rapidly thinning, were still gorgeous in reds and -yellows. The avenue led to a church in the next parish (Easter had run -such a long way), and she had been there quite lately with Chris to -a fruit and flower service in aid of the local hospital. Miss Radley -had taken them both, and now Easter remembered there were very large -vegetable marrows at the base of one of the pillars, and wondered if -they were still there. She and Chris had sat next each other at that -service, and during the sermon he had let her hold his knife. It had a -corkscrew and a thing for taking stones out of horses’ hoofs, as well -as blades, and all were very difficult to open. Chris was good about -lending his things. And he never told of people. What did old Raddles -mean when she called her hard? She did care for Chris, but she wasn’t -going to say so to Raddles. Yet Raddles looked awfully sad. Supposing -they _had_ lost Chris, after all, and were afraid to say? Supposing -she, Easter, got lost, now, to-day? This was a long, lonely, unfamiliar -road, with such a queer light in it. Supposing it were enchanted and -she couldn’t find her way back? Then she would be like all those sons -she had heard about lately. Her heart began to beat very fast. Ah! -somebody was coming up the road. She would ask her way. It would be -dreadful to be lost. - -A very tall lady came toward her walking slowly up the hill. She was -dressed in black, with a long thin veil turned back from her face. -She looked restlessly from side to side, as though trying to find -somebody in the shadows. This seemed quite natural to Easter. Timidity -or shyness with strangers was unknown to her. She was glad to see -somebody, and the tall lady’s face was very gentle. - -“Have _you_ lost anybody?” Easter asked as they met. - -The tall lady stopped, and though she looked straight down at Easter, -the child was uncomfortably conscious that she didn’t really see her. - -“I have lost my only son,” said the lady. - -“You, too!” cried Easter, and what she could not say to Miss Radley -she found it easy to say now to this pale lady who looked at her so -strangely. “Oh, I _am_ sorry!” - -And she took one of the lady’s hands in both her own. - -The lady did not draw her hand away; with her eyes still fixed on -Easter’s face with that queer, unseeing look, she said: “Dear child! -And you?” - -“Not yet,” said Easter. “Not yet--at least, they say so, but I’m -dreadfully afraid.” - -“Don’t be afraid,” said the lady. “Don’t be afraid. That’s what he -always said.” - -“Everyone,” said Easter, and her hard little voice grew soft, “everyone -seems losing sons and people. Won’t you never, never find him again?” - -Into that lady’s face there leapt a sudden radiance as when a clearly -burning lamp is carried into a dark room. Her eyes were luminous and -bright, and Easter felt that she was really seeing her at last. - -“We shall all find them again,” she said almost joyously. “Everyone of -us.” - -“Are you sure?” Easter questioned. - -“In sure and certain hope,” said the lady. - -“In sure and certain hope,” Easter repeated. “I like that. You _are_ -sure?” - -“Absolutely. Tell me, dear, who is it you are anxious about?” - -Hand in hand they had started slowly to mount the hill. - -“It’s Chris,” she said. “He plays with me a lot and we do lessons -together ... and they won’t let me see him, and I want to tell him I’m -sorry.” - -“But why won’t they let you see him?” - -“Because they’re afraid they’ll lose him--I heard _that_, though -Raddles denied it when I asked her.” - -“Then he’s ill?” - -“I suppose so.” - -The lady looked curiously at Easter. There was no doubt whatever that -she was troubled, and yet ... how oddly the child spoke. - -As they walked on, hand in hand, the lady said, more to herself than to -Easter: “Does the road wind uphill all the way?” - -“No,” said Easter; “when we get to the end of this it’s quite flat.” - -When they came to the main road Easter took her hand out of the lady’s. -“I know my way now,” she said. “Good-bye.” - -The lady stooped and kissed her. “I should write to Chris if I were -you,” she said. “He’ll probably like a letter very much when he’s a -little better.” - -Easter nodded and started to run, with that swift, long-distance, -steady running that had so often worn out Chris; that was his -admiration and his despair. And as she ran she repeated over and over -again: “In sure and certain hope” all the way. - -She would write to Chris directly she got in. Her copies were always -neater than his. - -But she couldn’t do it the minute she got in, for tea was ready, and -her mother there to have it with her. Her mother looked pleased, too. -Better news had come from France. There was hope that Major Denver -might pull through, after all; and she had seen Miss Radley, and -Chris’s temperature was nearly down to normal. - -It was a lovely tea; and directly after it Easter sat down at -her mother’s desk and wrote to Chris. Very large, with beautiful -up-and-down strokes: - - “DEAR CHRIS, - - “I’m sory I pushed you. Sum of them shall be boys. The ones with the - names you don’t like. Please don’t get lost. - - “Your loving - “EASTER.” - -She licked the flap of the envelope with copious completeness, and in -one corner of the address, very thick and black, in inch-long printed -letters was the word “EARGUNT.” - - - - -TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES: - - - Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_. - - Obvious typographical errors have been corrected. - - Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized. - -*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE VAGARIES OF TOD AND PETER *** - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the -United States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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