MOTHER COMES TO SCHOOL.

You will have noticed ere this what a dear old soul my mater is. How tender her love! How trusting in all things! To an artist she is a dream-picture. So quaint, yet so dignified; so innocent, yet so human. When dressed in black brocade, with white collar and cuffs, with her silver-haired ringlets hanging on each side of her head, she looks a charming Victorian. Just the sort of old lady you see stepping out of an ancient picture-gallery. She is of the past—the beautiful past—when life was slow, yet kind and true.

She lives in a rustic manor in sleepy old Berks. There she is sheltered from the storms. Her four interests in life are The Times, the Tory Party, her Wyandottes, and—ME. Whatever our modern Delanes say, my mater endorses with emphasis. When Lloyd George was appointed Premier, she had no sleep for four nights; and had it not been for the reassuring leader in The Times, the mater might have been tempted to stuff a bomb in a highly flavoured dead Wyandotte and send it to 10 Downing Street. However, I did my best to assure her that David was thoroughly respectable, and that his Conservative colleagues would look after him. That ended all opposition.

She has implicit faith in me. I am the idol of her heart. This devotion is really embarrassing. I am not worthy of it. At school I had learnt more than the classics. Now, the mater loathes liquor, and she has a dread of girls. Her boy must be kept from the hussies at all costs. In this age—indeed, in all ages—that has been impracticable. But it made me a sort of hypocrite, for I would not have shattered that dear old lady’s illusions for all the wealth of Carnegie. Yet, somehow, I also felt that her sweet faith always kept me within bounds. A man could not be a bounder with a mother like Mrs John Brown. Still, like all youths, I was having my ‘fling,’ and out of your ‘fling’ comes strength or ruin. Life is a series of temptations. The man who can taste and leave them goes forward. The man who is ensnared is damned.

We have all got to go through the mill.

As I have said, the mater is innocent in affairs of the world, especially in military matters. She mixes things up. For example, an ‘offensive’ she thought was a nasty smell at the Front. One day she inquired, ‘John, when are they going to make Douglas Haig a sergeant-major? I am sure he deserves it. Don’t you think I should write to The Times?’

‘You mean a field-marshal, mater.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Oh, field-marshal is the highest. He carries a baton.’

‘What a common thing to do!’

‘Why, mater?’

‘Well, I thought it was only stupid policemen who did that. The army is very strange, my boy.’

I did my best to enlighten the dear old lady, but I had no success. When colonels and majors came to tea, she called them corporals or sergeants, to the enjoyment of all. They never disillusioned her. She was such a kind old soul. And now that I am a military cadet, she had got the idea that I am a most important person. She confided in Aunt Jane’s ear that I should soon be a ‘brass hat.’

‘What’s that?’ asked Aunt Jane.

‘Oh, the pretty men who ride in front of the band and give orders.’

‘How nice!’

Aunt Jane was mater’s youngest sister. She was almost forty-five, unmarried, quite a fine woman to look at, and a good soul. When I was at school she used to send me mince-pies, plum-puddings, and cigarettes. (Mater didn’t know about the cigarettes.)

The greatest weakness the old lady has is jumping to conclusions. Like a silly ass, I had written and said I had caught a cold on a route march, owing to the awful weather.

She replied:

‘My dearest Boy,—How shocked I was to hear you had got a cold on such a day! It is abominable to think that boys are taken out on a wet day. You might have died! I am so annoyed about this that I have asked our Member to put a question in the House. I have also written to The Times. It is shocking!—Your loving

Mother.’

When I got this I almost had apoplexy. Something had to be done. I wired the Member: ‘For Heaven’s sake don’t put mother’s question! Writing.’ And I also wired to The Times. That saved the situation.

The mater couldn’t understand war; nor did she realise that soldiers are not mollycoddles. She didn’t mind my dying at the Front, but she did object to my getting a cold at home. Rather a mixed-up point of view, but quite motherly. And there are lots of mothers like that, as I have since discovered.

This route march incident apparently decided her visit to our school. Aunt Jane was invited to accompany her. She was delighted. The two old dears simply wired: ‘Coming to see you. Ask the rector to let you off.’

The rector! How the old ‘com.’ would have laughed if he had seen the telegram! The mater gave me no clue as to how she would come, or when I might expect her. However, I knew Aunt Jane would look after her. Meantime I asked all my pals to have tea with the ladies at the local hotel. I insisted particularly on Nobby’s coming, for I knew she would like to see the Radical.

There was going to be fun.

Unfortunately I was not about when they landed. They came from the junction by motor-car, and were deposited at the gate.

‘I don’t see John,’ said the mater.

‘Never mind! We’ll soon find him.’

The first man they saw was the commandant. He was looking well that day—the picture of a powerful mandarin. The old ladies got a little nervous. They wondered whether the ‘com.’ was a fierce sergeant-major or a regimental policeman. He was so impressive! But they tackled him.

‘Can you tell me where to find the rector? I want to see my son,’ said the mater.

‘I’m afraid, madam, there’s no rector here,’ the old man said with a smile on his face.

‘Oh, well, the manager, or whatever you call him. I really don’t know the right terms.’

‘Well, I’m the commandant.’

‘Then you must be the head-master.’

‘Exactly!’ The colonel blinked. He loathed these civilian terms.

‘My boy’s name is John Brown.’

‘Indeed! He is a very bright boy. I am delighted to meet you. Will you ladies kindly come into the anteroom?’ The old sport took them into the mess and gave them afternoon tea. Mother and Aunt Jane enjoyed this immensely.

‘I hope you see my boy wears flannel next his skin. He’s rather delicate, you know,’ ventured the old lady.

‘Oh yes. The boys have a platoon commander who acts as a sort of mother. He spanks them when they are naughty, and tucks them up at night.’

‘Does John ever give you trouble?’

‘Not a bit! He has never been before me. Your boy is a great credit to you. I’m awfully proud of him. Do have some more tea.’

Wasn’t the old ‘com.’ playing the game?

Meantime a dozen officers were scouring the school for me. They discovered me in the gym., having a bayonet-fight with Beefy.

‘Come along, Brown. Look smart! Your mother and a friend are here.’

‘Oh, thanks, sir.’

I was across at the mess door in a jiffy. As the tea-party was over, the ‘com.’ and the ladies came out.

‘Here’s your boy, Mrs Brown. Now, off you go. He may have leave for the day. Good-bye.’

I led them away, and all I could get out of them was, ‘What a delightful old gentleman!’ Aunt Jane was quite struck with the commandant, and bluntly asked if he was married.

‘He’s a widower.’

‘How interesting!’ That was all she said, but I wondered! I wondered!

‘Here’s our hut, mater.’

As we entered Ginger and Beefy hurriedly pushed some liqueur-bottles under the blankets, while Tosher discreetly flung a rug over a series of wall pictures taken out of the Sketch and the Tatler.

‘This is the Reverend Billy Greens.’

‘How pleasant to meet you, Mr Greens! I am so glad you and my boy go to prayers so often.’

‘Yes, we are great friends,’ said Billy, tactfully evading discussion of what really was a ‘terminological inexactitude’ invented by myself.

Ginger and Tosher were next introduced, and then came Nobby.

‘Ah! I wanted to meet you, Mr Clarke. You really don’t look like a Radical at all. You are much too nice for that.’

‘I’m being converted, Mrs Brown,’ said Nobby maliciously.

‘How splendid!’

‘What do you think of our happy home, mater?’

‘Well it does look untidy. And what a lot of papers and books!’ She picked up the Tatler. ‘John! Do you read this?’ she said, pointing to a wonderful picture by ‘Fish.’

‘Well—no, mater. The Red Cross send us old magazines to use for shaving-papers.’

‘I am so glad,’ she returned.

I did feel a rotten hypocrite.

‘Now, do all of you sleep in those little wooden things?’ pointing to the trestle-beds.

‘Oh, yes.’

‘Dear me! I thought you only got those things in jail. Oh! What’s that?’ she exclaimed, spotting Adela’s photo over my bed. She went nearer, and put up her pince-nez. ‘Dear, dear! A girl! A girl, John!’

‘An old friend, mater. She’s—she’s really quite nice. Her uncle is a vicar.’

‘Does she live near here?’

‘Well—not quite.’

‘I must speak to you about this later.’ Then she turned to the boys again, and had a pleasant chat. Meanwhile I had got two cars, and pushed the party into them. We sailed off to the local hotel, where we had a ripping tea. Poor Aunt Jane wasn’t in the piece; mother had so many things to ask my friends. They gathered round her, and she simply treated them as her own little boys. Even Ginger enjoyed it. It was so natural, so human, so much like his own dear mater, who was—dead. Her whole concern was about their boots, their clothing, and their spiritual welfare. And did they write every day to their mothers, like her own dear John? Tosher, the materialist, fell head over ears in love with the dear old mater. She taught him to appreciate this fact, that the strength of the Old Country lies in the wonderful women who have suckled a manly and virile race. The party was all too short, and the ladies were sorry to go. We escorted them to the station. Tosher, with true Canadian generosity, bought a huge box of chocolates; Beefy presented some flowers to Aunt Jane; and Ginger, Nobby, and Billy loaded them up with magazines and books.

‘You dear, dear boys!’ said mother.

‘Good-bye, mater.’

‘Good-bye, Aunt Jane,’ they all shouted as the two dearest women in the world were whirled away on the south express.

‘Good-bye, dear boys.—And, John’—— mother shouted.

‘Yes, mater?’

‘Button up your collar—it’s cold!’

‘Dear John,—Will you thank all your friends for such a delightful time? They are such nice boys. By the way, I’ve found out that your commandant has a sister in the next village.

‘We are going to call next week.

‘Aunt Jane.’