It is a hard thing to be the younger son of an ancient but impoverished family. The fact that your brother Thomas is taking most of the dibs restricts your inheritance to a paltry two thousand a year, while pride of blood forbids you to supplement this by following any of the common professions. Impossible for a St Verax to be a doctor, a policeman or an architect. He must find some nobler means of existence.
For three years Roger St Verax had lived precariously by betting. To be a St Verax was always to be a sportsman. Roger's father had created a record in the sporting world by winning the Derby and the Waterloo Cup with the same animal—though, in each case, it narrowly escaped disqualification. Roger himself almost created another record by making betting pay. His book, showing how to do it, was actually in the press when disaster overtook him.
He began by dropping (in sporting parlance) a cool thousand on the Jack Joel Selling Plate at Newmarket. On the next race he dropped a cool five hundred, and later on in the afternoon a cool seventy- five pounds ten. The following day found him at Lingfield, where he dropped a cool monkey (to persevere with the language of the racing stable) on the Solly Joel Cup, picked it up on the next race, dropped a cool pony, dropped another cool monkey, dropped a cool wallaby, picked up a cool hippopotamus, and finally, in the last race of the day, dropped a couple of lukewarm ferrets. In short, he was (as they say at Tattersall's Corner) entirely cleaned out.
When a younger son is cleaned out there is only one thing for him to do. Roger St Verax knew instinctively what it was. He bought a new silk hat and a short black coat, and went into the City.
What a wonderful place, dear reader, is the City! You, madam, who read this in your daintily upholstered boudoir, can know but little of the great heart of the City, even though you have driven through its arteries on your way to Liverpool Street Station, and have noted the bare and smoothly brushed polls of the younger natives. You, sir, in your country vicarage, are no less innocent, even though on sultry afternoons you have covered your head with the Financial Supplement of The Times in mistake for the Literary Supplement, and have thus had thrust upon you the stirring news that Bango-Bangos were going up. And I, dear friends, am equally ignorant of the secrets of the Stock Exchange. I know that its members frequently walk to Brighton, and still more frequently stay there; that while finding a home for all the good stories which have been going the rounds for years, they sometimes invent entirely new ones for themselves about the Chancellor of the Exchequer; and that they sing the National Anthem very sternly in unison when occasion demands it. But there must be something more in it than this, or why are Bango-Bangos still going up?
I don't know. And I am sorry to say that even Roger St Verax, a Director of the Bango-Bango Development Company, is not very clear about it all.
It was as a Director of the Bango-Bango Exploration Company that he took up his life in the City. As its name implies, the Company was originally formed to explore Bango-Bango, an impenetrable district in North Australia; but when it came to the point it was found much more profitable to explore Hampstead, Clapham Common, Blackheath, Ealing and other rich and fashionable suburbs. A number of hopeful ladies and gentlemen having been located in these parts, the Company went ahead rapidly, and in 1907 a new prospector was sent out to replace the one who was assumed to have been eaten.
In 1908, Roger first heard the magic word "reconstruction," and to his surprise found himself in possession of twenty thousand pounds and a Directorship of the new Bango-Bango Mining Company.
In 1909 a piece of real gold was identified, and the shares went up like a rocket.
In 1910 the Stock Exchange suddenly woke to the fact that rubber tyres were made of rubber, and in a moment the Great Boom was sprung upon an amazed City. The Bango-Bango Development Company was immediately formed to take over the Bango-Bango Mining Company (together with its prospector, if alive, its plant, shafts and other property, not forgetting the piece of gold) and more particularly to develop the vegetable resources of the district with the view of planting rubber trees in the immediate future. A neatly compiled prospectus put matters very clearly before the stay-at-home Englishman. It explained quite concisely that, supposing the trees were planted so many feet apart throughout the whole property of five thousand square miles, and allowing a certain period for the growth of a tree to maturity, and putting the average yield of rubber per tree at, in round figures, so much, and assuming for the sake of convenience that rubber would remain at its present price, and estimating the cost of working the plantation at say, roughly, 100,000 pounds, why, then it was obvious that the profits would be anything you liked up to two billion a year—while (this was important) more land could doubtless be acquired if the share- holders thought fit. And even if you were certain that a rubber-tree couldn't possibly grow in the Bango-Bango district (as in confidence it couldn't), still it was worth taking shares purely as an investment, seeing how rapidly rubber was going up; not to mention the fact that Roger St Verax, the well-known financier, was a Director … and so on.
In short the Bango-Bango Development Company was, in the language of the City, a safe thing.
Let me hasten to the end of this story. At the end of 1910 Roger was a millionaire; and for quite a week afterwards he used to wonder where all the money had come from. In the old days, when he won a cool thousand by betting, he knew that somebody else had lost a cool thousand by betting, but it did not seem to be so in this case. He had met hundreds of men who had made fortunes through rubber; he had met hundreds who bitterly regretted that they had missed making a fortune; but he had never met any one who had lost a fortune. This made him think the City an even more wonderful place than before.
But before he could be happy there remained one thing for him to do; he must find somebody to share his happiness. He called on his old friend, Mary Brown, one Sunday.
"Mary," he said, with the brisk confidence of the City man, "I find I'm disengaged next Tuesday. Will you meet me at St George's Church at two? I should like to show you the curate and the vestry, and one or two things like that."
"Why, what's happened?"
"I am a millionaire," said Roger calmly. "So long as I only had my beggarly pittance, I could not ask you to marry me. There was nothing for it but to wait in patience. It has been a long weary wait, dear, but the sun has broken through the clouds at last. I am now in a position to support a wife. Tuesday at two," he went on, consulting his pocket diary; "or I could give you half an hour on Monday morning."
"But why this extraordinary hurry? Why mayn't I be married properly, with presents and things?"
"My dear," said Roger reproachfully, "you forget. I am a City man now, and it is imperative that I should be married at once. Only a married man, with everything in his wife's name, can face with confidence the give and take of the bustling City."
"Is that you, uncle?" said a voice from the nursery, as I hung my coat up in the hall. "I've only got my skin on, but you can come up."
However, she was sitting up in bed with her nightgown on when I found her.
"I was having my bath when you came," she explained. "Have you come all the way from London?"
"All the way."
"Then will you tell me a story?"
"I can't; I'm going to have my dinner. I only came up to say Good-night."
Margery leant forward and whispered coaxingly, "Will you just tell me about Beauty and 'e Beast?"
"But I've told you that such heaps of times. And it's much too long for to-night."
"Tell me HALF of it. As much as THAT." She held her hands about nine inches apart.
"That's too much."
"As much as THAT." The hands came a little nearer together.
"Oh! Well, I'll tell you up to where the Beast died."
"FOUGHT he died," she corrected eagerly.
"Yes. Well—"
"How much will that be? As much as I said?"
I nodded. The preliminary business settled, she gave a little sigh of happiness, put her arms round her knees, and waited breathlessly for the story she had heard twenty times before.
"Once upon a time there was a man who had three daughters. And one day—"
"What was the man's name?"
"Margery," I said reproachfully, annoyed at the interruption, "you know I NEVER tell you the man's name."
"Tell me now."
"Oswald," I said, after a moment's thought.
"I told Daddy it was Thomas," said Margery casually.
"Well, as a matter of fact, he had two names, Oswald AND Thomas."
"Why did he have two names?"
"In case he lost one. Well, one day this man, who was very poor, heard that a lot of money was waiting for him in a ship which had come over the sea to a town some miles off. So he—"
"Was it waiting at Weymouf?"
"Somewhere like that."
"I spex it must have been Weymouf, because there's lots of sea there."
"Yes, I'm sure it was. Well, he thought he'd go to Weymouth and get the money."
"How much monies was it?"
"Oh, lots and lots."
"As much as five pennies?"
"Yes, about that. Well, he said Good-bye to his daughters, and asked them what they'd like him to bring back for a present. And the first asked for some lovely jewels and diamonds and—"
"Like mummy's locket—is THAT jewels?"
"That sort of idea. Well, she wanted a lot of things like that. And the second wanted some beautiful clothes."
"What sort of clothes?"
"Oh, frocks and—well, frocks and all sorts of—er—frocks."
"Did she want any lovely new stockings?"
"Yes, she wanted three pairs of those."
"And did she want any lovely—"
"Yes," I said hastily, "she wanted lots of those, too. Lots of EVERYTHING."
Margery gave a little sob of happiness. "Go on telling me," she said under her breath.
"Well, the third daughter was called Beauty. And she thought to herself, 'Poor Father won't have any money left at all, if we all go on like this!' So she didn't ask for anything very expensive, like her selfish sisters, she only asked for a rose. A simple red rose."
Margery moved uneasily.
"I hope," she said wistfully, "this bit isn't going to be about—YOU know. It never did before."
"About what?"
"Good little girls and bad little girls, and fings like that."
"My darling, no, of course not. I told it wrong. Beauty asked for a rose because she loved roses so. And it was a very particular kind of red rose that she wanted—a sort that they simply COULDN'T get to grow in their own garden because of the soil."
"Go on telling me," said Margery, with a deep sigh of content.
"Well, he started off to Weymouth."
"What day did he start?"
"It was Monday. And when—"
"Oh, well, anyhow, I told daddy it was Tuesday."
"Tuesday—now let me think. Yes, I believe you're right. Because on Monday he went to a meeting of the Vegetable Gardeners, and proposed the health of the Chairman. Yes, well he started off on Tuesday, and when he got there he found that there was no money for him at all!"
"I spex somebody had taken it," said Margery breathlessly.
"Well, it had all gone SOMEHOW."
"Perhaps somebody had swallowed it," said Margery, a little carried away by the subject. "By mistake."
"Anyhow, it was gone. And he had to come home again without any money. He hadn't gone far—"
"How far?" asked Margery. "As far as THAT?" and she measured nine inches in the air.
"About forty-four miles—when he came to a beautiful garden."
"Was it a really lovely big garden? Bigger than ours?"
"Oh, much bigger."
"Bigger than yours?"
"I haven't got a garden."
Margery looked at me wonderingly. She opened her mouth to speak, and then stopped and rested her head upon her hands and thought out this new situation. At last, her face flushed with happiness, she announced her decision.
"Go on telling me about Beauty and the Beast now," she said breathlessly, "and THEN tell me why you haven't got a garden."
My average time for Beauty and the Beast is ten minutes, and, if we stop at the place when the Beast thought he was dead, six minutes twenty-five seconds. But, with the aid of seemingly innocent questions, a determined character can make even the craftiest uncle spin the story out to half an hour.
"Next time," said Margery, when we had reached the appointed place and she was being tucked up in bed, "will you tell me ALL the story?"
Was there the shadow of a smile in her eyes? I don't know. But I'm sure it will be wisest next time to promise her the whole thing. We must make that point clear at the very start, and then we shall get along.
II.—THE LITERARY ART
MARGERY has a passion for writing just now. I can see nothing in it myself, but if people WILL write, I suppose you can't stop them.
"Will you just lend me your pencil?" she asked.
"Remind me to give you a hundred pencils some time," I said as I took it out, "and then you'll always have one. You simply eat pencils."
"Oo, I gave it you back last time."
"Only just. You inveigle me down here—"
"What do I do?"
"I'm not going to say that again for anybody."
"Well, may I have the pencil?"
I gave her the pencil and a sheet of paper, and settled her in a chair.
"B-a-b-y," said Margery to herself, planning out her weekly article for the Reviews. "B-a-b-y, baby." She squared her elbows and began to write….
"There!" she said, after five minutes' composition.
The manuscript was brought over to the critic, and the author stood proudly by to point out subtleties that might have been overlooked at a first reading.
"B-a-b-y," explained the author. "Baby."
"Yes, that's very good; very neatly expressed. 'Baby'—I like that."
"Shall I write some more?" said Margery eagerly.
"Yes, do write some more. This is good, but it's not long enough."
The author retired again, and in five minutes produced this:—
B A B Y
"That's 'baby,'" explained Margery.
"Yes, I like that baby better than the other one. It's more spread out. And it's bigger—it's one of the biggest babies I've seen."
"Shall I write some more?"
"Don't you write anything else ever?"
"I like writing 'baby,'" said Margery carelessly. "B-a-b-y."
"Yes, but you can't do much with just that one word. Suppose you wanted to write to a man at a shop—'Dear Sir,—You never sent me my boots. Please send them at once, as I want to go out this afternoon. I am, yours faithfully, Margery'—it would be no good simply putting 'B-a-b-y,' because he wouldn't know what you meant."
"Well, what WOULD it be good putting?"
"Ah, that's the whole art of writing—to know what it would be any good putting. You want to learn lots and lots of new words, so as to be ready. Now here's a jolly little one that you ought to meet." I took the pencil and wrote GOT. "Got. G-o-t, got."
Margery, her elbows on my knee and her chin resting on her hands, studied the position.
"Yes, that's old 'got,'" she said.
"He's always coming in. When you want to say, 'I've got a bad pain, so I can't accept your kind invitation'; or when you want to say, 'Excuse more, as I've got to go to bed now'; or quite simply, 'You've got my pencil.'"
"G-o-t, got," said Margery. "G-o-t, got. G-o-t, got."
"With appropriate action it makes a very nice recitation."
"Is THAT a 'g'?" said Margery, busy with the pencil, which she had snatched from me.
"The gentleman with the tail. You haven't made his tail quite long enough…. That's better."
Margery retired to her study, charged with an entirely new inspiration, and wrote her second manifesto. It was this:—
G O T
"Got," she pointed out.
I inspected it carefully. Coming fresh to the idea Margery had treated it more spontaneously than the other. But it was distinctly a "got." One of the gots.
"Have you any more words?" she asked, holding tight to the pencil.
"You've about exhausted me, Margery."
"What was that one you said just now? The one you said you wouldn't say again?"
"Oh, you mean 'inveigle'?" I said, pronouncing it differently this time.
"Yes; write that for me."
"It hardly ever comes in. Only when you are writing to your solicitor."
"What's 'solicitor'?"
"He's the gentleman who takes the money. He's ALWAYS coming in."
"Then write 'solicitor.'"
I took the pencil (it was my turn for it) and wrote SOLICITOR. Then I read it out slowly to Margery, spelt it to her three times very carefully, and wrote SOLICITOR again. Then I said it thoughtfully to myself half a dozen times—"Solicitor." Then I looked at it wonderingly.
"I am not sure now," I said, "that there is such a word."
"Why?"
"I thought there was when I began, but now I don't think there can be. 'Solicitor'—it seems so silly."
"Let me write it," said Margery, eagerly taking the paper and pencil, "and see if it looks silly."
She retired, and—as well as she could for her excitement—copied the word down underneath. The combined effort then read as follows:—
SOLICITOR SOLICITOR SOLCTOR
"Yes, you've done it a lot of good," I said. "You've taken some of the creases out. I like that much better."
"Do you think there is such a word now?"
"I'm beginning to feel more easy about it. I'm not certain, but I hope."
"So do I," said Margery. With the pencil in one hand and the various scraps of paper in the other, she climbed on to the writing-desk and gave herself up to literature….
And it seems to me that she is well equipped for the task. For besides having my pencil still (of which I say nothing for the moment) she has now three separate themes upon which to ring the changes—a range wide enough for any writer. These are, "Baby got solicitor" (supposing that there is such a word), "Solicitor got baby," and "Got baby solicitor." Indeed, there are really four themes here, for the last one can have two interpretations. It might mean that you had obtained an ordinary solicitor for Baby, or it might mean that you had got a specially small one for yourself. It lacks, therefore, the lucidity of the best authors, but in a woman writer this may be forgiven.
III.—MY SECRETARY
When, five years ago, I used to write long letters to Margery, for some reason or other she never wrote back. To save her face I had to answer the letters myself—a tedious business. Still, I must admit that the warmth and geniality of the replies gave me a certain standing with my friends, who had not looked for me to be so popular. After some months, however, pride stepped in. One cannot pour out letter after letter to a lady without any acknowledgment save from oneself. And when even my own acknowledgments began to lose their first warmth—when, for instance, I answered four pages about my new pianola with the curt reminder that I was learning to walk and couldn't be bothered with music, why, then at last I saw that a correspondence so one-sided would have to come to an end. I wrote a farewell letter and replied to it with tears….
But, bless you, that was nearly five years ago. Each morning now, among the usual pile of notes on my plate from duchesses, publishers, money-lenders, actor-managers and what-not, I find, likely enough, an envelope in Margery's own handwriting. Not only is my address printed upon it legibly, but there are also such extra directions to the postman as "England" and "Important," for its more speedy arrival. And inside—well, I give you the last but seven.
"MY DEAR UNCLE I thot you wher coming to see me to night but you didn't why didn't you baby has p t o hurt her knee isnt that a pity I have some new toys isnt that jolly we didn't have our five minutes so will you krite to me and tell me all about p t o your work from your loving little MARGIE."
I always think that footnotes to a letter are a mistake, but there are one or two things I should like to explain.
(A) Just as some journalists feel that without the word "economic" a leading article lacks tone, so Margery feels, and I agree with her, that a certain cachet is lent to a letter by a p.t.o. at the bottom of each page.
(B) There are lots of grown-up people who think that "write" is spelt "rite." Margery knows that this is not so. She knows that there is a silent letter in front of the "r," which doesn't do anything but likes to be there. Obviously, if nobody is going to take any notice of this extra letter, it doesn't much matter what it is. Margery happened to want to make a "k" just then; at a pinch it could be as silent as a "w." You will please, therefore, regard the "k" in "krite" as absolutely noiseless.
(C) Both Margery and Bernard Shaw prefer to leave out the apostrophe in writing such words as "isn't" and "don't."
(D) Years ago I claimed the privilege to monopolise, on the occasional evenings when I was there, Margery's last ten minutes before she goes back to some heaven of her own each night. This privilege was granted; it being felt, no doubt, that she owed me some compensation for my early secretarial work on her behalf. We used to spend the ten minutes in listening to my telling a fairy story, always the same one. One day the authorities stepped in and announced that in future the ten minutes would be reduced to five. The procedure seemed to me absolutely illegal (and I should like to bring a test action against somebody), but it certainly did put the lid on my fairy story, of which I was getting more than a little tired.
"Tell me about Beauty and the Beast," said Margery as usual that evening.
"There's not time," I said. "We've only five minutes to-night."
"Oh! Then tell me all the work you've done to-day."
(A little unkind, you'll agree, but you know what relations are.)
And so now I have to cram the record of my day's work into five breathless minutes. You will understand what bare justice I can do to it in the time.
I am sorry that these footnotes have grown so big; let us leave them and return to the letter. There are many ways of answering such a letter. One might say, "MY DEAR MARGERY,—It was jolly to get a real letter from you at last—" but the "at last" would seem rather tactless considering what had passed years before. Or one might say, "MY DEAR MARGERY,—Thank you for your jolly letter. I am so sorry about baby's knee and so glad about your toys. Perhaps if you gave one of the toys to baby, then her knee—" But I feel sure that Margery would expect me to do better than that.
In the particular case of this last letter but seven I wrote:—
"DEAREST MARGERY,—Thank you for your sweet letter. I had a very busy day at the office or I would have come to see you. P.T.O.—I hope to be down next week, and then I will tell you all about my work; but I have a lot more to do now, and so I must say Good-bye. Your loving UNCLE."
There is perhaps nothing in that which demands an immediate answer, but with business-like promptitude Margery replied:—
"MY DEAR UNCLE thank you for your letter I am glad you are coming next week baby is quite well now are you p t o coming on Thursday next week or not say yes if you are I am p t o sorry you are working so hard from your loving MARGIE."
I said "Yes," and that I was her loving uncle. It seemed to be then too late for a "P.T.O.," but I got one in and put on the back, "Love to Baby." The answer came by return of post:—
"MY DEAR UNCLE thank you for your letter come erly on p t o Thursday come at half past nothing baby sends her love and so do p t o I my roking horse has a sirrup broken isnt that a pity say yes or no good-bye from your loving MARGIE."
Of course I thanked Baby for her love and gave my decision that it WAS a pity about the rocking-horse. I did it in large capitals, which (as I ought to have said before) is the means of communication between Margery and her friends. For some reason or other I find printing capitals to be more tiring than the ordinary method of writing.
"MY DEAR UNCLE," wrote Margery—
But we need not go into that. What I want to say is this: I love to get letters, particularly these, but I hate writing them, particularly in capitals. Years ago, I used to answer Margery's letters for her. It is now her turn to answer mine for me.
CHUM
IT is Chum's birthday to-morrow, and I am going to buy him a little whip for a present, with a whistle at the end of it. When I next go into the country to see him I shall take it with me and explain it to him. Two days' firmness would make him quite a sensible dog. I have often threatened to begin the treatment on my very next visit, but somehow it has been put off; the occasion of his birthday offers a last opportunity.
It is rather absurd, though, to talk of birthdays in connection with Chum, for he has been no more than three months old since we have had him. He is a black spaniel who has never grown up. He has a beautiful astrakhan coat which gleams when the sun is on it; but he stands so low in the water that the front of it is always getting dirty, and his ears and the ends of his trousers trail in the mud. A great authority has told us that, but for three white hairs on his shirt (upon so little do class distinctions hang), he would be a Cocker of irreproachable birth. A still greater authority has sworn that he is a Sussex. The family is indifferent—it only calls him a Silly Ass. Why he was christened Chum I do not know; and as he never recognizes the name it doesn't matter.
When he first came to stay with us I took him a walk round the village. I wanted to show him the lie of the land. He had never seen the country before and was full of interest. He trotted into a cottage garden and came back with something to show me.
"You'll never guess," he said. "Look!" and he dropped at my feet a chick just out of the egg.
I smacked his head and took him into the cottage to explain.
"My dog," I said, "has eaten one of your chickens."
Chum nudged me in the ankle and grinned.
"TWO of your chickens," I corrected myself, looking at the fresh evidence which he had just brought to light.
"You don't want me any more?" said Chum, as the financial arrangements proceeded. "Then I'll just go and find somewhere for these two." And he picked them up and trotted into the sun.
When I came out I was greeted effusively.
"This is a wonderful day," he panted, as he wriggled his body. "I didn't know the country was like this. What do we do now?"
"We go home," I said, and we went.
That was Chum's last day of freedom. He keeps inside the front gate now. But he is still a happy dog; there is plenty doing in the garden. There are beds to walk over, there are blackbirds in the apple tree to bark at. The world is still full of wonderful things. "Why, only last Wednesday," he will tell you, "the fishmonger left his basket in the drive. There was a haddock in it, if you'll believe me, for master's breakfast, so of course I saved it for him. I put it on the grass just in front of his study window, where he'd be SURE to notice it. Bless you, there's always SOMETHING to do in this house. One is never idle."
And even when there is nothing doing, he is still happy; waiting cheerfully upon events until they arrange themselves for his amusement. He will sit for twenty minutes opposite the garden bank, watching for a bumble-bee to come out of its hole. "I saw him go in," he says to himself, "so he's bound to come out. Extraordinarily interesting world." But to his inferiors (such as the gardener) he pretends that it is not pleasure but duty which keeps him. "Don't talk to me, fool. Can't you see that I've got a job on here?"
Chum has found, however, that his particular mission in life is to purge his master's garden of all birds. This keeps him busy. As soon as he sees a blackbird on the lawn he is in full cry after it. When he gets to the place and finds the blackbird gone, he pretends that he was going there anyhow; he gallops round in circles, rolls over once or twice, and then trots back again. "You didn't REALLY think I was such a fool as to try to catch a BLACKBIRD?" he says to us. "No, I was just taking a little run—splendid thing for the figure."
And it is just Chum's little runs over the beds which call aloud for firmness—which, in fact, have inspired my birthday present to him. But there is this difficulty to overcome first. When he came to live with us an arrangement was entered into (so he says) by which one bed was given to him as his own. In that bed he could wander at will, burying bones and biscuits, hunting birds. This may have been so, but it is a pity that nobody but Chum knows definitely which is the bed.
"Chum, you bounder," I shout as he is about to wade through the herbaceous border.
He takes no notice; he struggles through to the other side. But a sudden thought strikes him, and he pushes his way back again.
"Did you call me?" he says.
"How DARE you walk over the flowers?"
He comes up meekly.
"I suppose I've done SOMETHING wrong," he says, "but I can't THINK what."
I smack his head for him. He waits until he is quite sure I have finished, and then jumps up with a bark, wipes his paws on my trousers and trots into the herbaceous border again.
"Chum!" I cry.
He sits down in it and looks all round him in amazement.
"My own bed!" he murmurs. "Given to me!"
I don't know what it is in him which so catches hold of you. His way of sitting, a reproachful statue, motionless outside the window of whomever he wants to come out and play with him—until you can bear it no longer, but must either go into the garden or draw down the blinds for the day; his habit, when you ARE out, of sitting up on his back legs and begging you with his front paws to come and DO something—a trick entirely of his own invention, for no one would think of teaching him anything; his funny nautical roll when he walks, which is nearly a swagger, and gives him always the air of having just come back from some rather dashing adventure; beyond all this there is still something. And whatever it is, it is something which every now and then compels you to bend down and catch hold of his long silky ears, to look into his honest eyes and say—
"You silly old ass! You DEAR old SILLY old ass!"
BETTY
THE HOTEL CHILD
I WAS in the lounge when I made her acquaintance, enjoying a pipe after tea, and perhaps—I don't know—closing my eyes now and then.
"Would you like to see my shells?" she asked suddenly.
I woke up and looked at her. She was about seven years old, pretty, dark, and very much at ease.
"I should love it," I said.
She produced a large paper bag from somewhere, and poured the contents in front of me.
"I've got two hundred and fifty-eight," she announced.
"So I see," I said. I wasn't going to count them."
"I think they're very pretty. I'll give you one if you like. Which one will you choose?"
I sat up and examined them carefully. Seeing how short a time we had known each other, I didn't feel that I could take one of the good ones. After a little thought I chose quite a plain one, which had belonged to a winkle some weeks ago.
"Thank you very much," I said.
"I don't think you choose shells at all well," she said scornfully. "That's one of the ugly ones."
"It will grow on me," I explained. "In a year or two I shall think it beautiful."
"I'll let you have this one too," said she, picking out the best. "Now, shall we play at something?"
I had been playing at something all day. A little thinking in front of the fire was my present programme.
"Let's talk instead," I suggested. "What's your name?"
"Betty."
"I knew it was Betty. You look just like Betty."
"What's yours?"
Somehow I hadn't expected that. After all, though, it was only fair.
"Orlando," I said.
"What a funny name. I don't like it."
"You should have said so before. It's too late now. What have you been doing all day?"
"Playing on the sands. What have you been doing?"
"I've been playing in the sand too. I suppose, Betty, you know nearly everybody in the hotel?"
"Oh, I play with them all sometimes."
"Yes; then tell me, Betty, do you ever get asked what time you go to bed?"
"They ALL ask me that," said Betty promptly.
"I think I should like to ask you too," I said, "just to be in the movement. When is it?"
"Half-past six." She looked at the clock. "So we've got half an hour. I'll get my ball."
Before I had time to do anything about it, the ball came bouncing in, hit me on the side of the head, and hurried off to hide itself under an old lady dozing in the corner. Betty followed more sedately.
"Where's my ball?" she asked.
"Has it come in?" I said in surprise. "Then it must have gone out again. It noticed you weren't here."
"I believe you've got it."
"I swear I haven't, Betty. I think the lady in the corner knows something about it."
Betty rushed across to her and began to crawl under her chair. I nervously rehearsed a few sentences to myself.
"It is not my child, madam. I found it here. Surely you can see that there is no likeness between us? If we keep quite still perhaps it will go away."
"I've got it," cried Betty, and the old lady woke up with a jerk.
"What are you doing, child?" she said crossly.
"Your little girl, madam," I began—but Betty's ball bit me on the head again before I could develop my theme.
"Your little girl, sir," began the old lady at the same moment.
"I said it first," I murmured. "Betty," I went on aloud, "what is your name, my child?"
"You've just said it."
"I mean," I corrected myself quickly, "where do you live?"
"Kensington."
I looked triumphantly at the old lady. Surely a father wouldn't need to ask his own child where she lived? However, the old lady was asleep again. I turned to Betty.
"We shall have to play this game more quietly," I said. "In fact, we had better make some new rules. Instead of hitting me on the head each time, you can roll the ball gently along the floor to me, and I shall roll it gently back to you. And the one who misses it first goes to bed."
I gave her an easy one to start with, wishing to work up naturally to the denouement, and she gave me a very difficult one back, not quite understanding the object of the game.
"You've got to go to bed," she cried, clapping her hands. "You've got—to go—to bed. You've got—to go—to bed. You've—"
"All right," I said coldly. "Don't make a song about it."
It was ten minutes past six. I generally go to bed at eleven-thirty. It would be the longest night I had had for years. I sighed and prepared to go.
"You needn't go till half-past," said Betty kindly.
"No, no," I said firmly. "Rules are rules." I had just remembered that there was nothing in the rules about not getting up again.
"Then I'll come with you and see your room."
"No, you mustn't do that; you'd fall out of the window. It's a very tricky window. I'm always falling out of it myself."
"Then let's go on playing here, and we won't go to bed if we miss."
"Very well," I agreed. Really there was nothing else for it.
Robbed of its chief interest, the game proved, after ten minutes or so, to be one of the duller ones. Whatever people say, I don't think it compares with cricket, for instance. It is certainly not so subtle as golf.
"I like playing this game," said Betty. "Don't you?"
"I think I shall get to love it," I said, looking at the clock. There were still five minutes, and I rolled down a very fast googly which beat her entirely and went straight for the door. Under the old rules she would have gone to bed at once. Alas, that—
"Look out," I said as she went after it, "there's somebody coming in."
Somebody came in. She smiled ruefully at us and then took Betty's hand.
"I'm afraid my little girl has been worrying you," she said prettily.
"I KNEW you'd say that," said Betty.
CINDERELLA
(BEING AN EXTRACT FROM HER DIARY—PICKED UP BEHIND THE SCENES)
TUESDAY.—Sometimes I think I am a very lucky girl having two big sisters to look after me. I expect there are lots of young girls who have nobody at all, and I think they must be so lonely. There is always plenty of fun going on in our house. Yesterday I heard Sister Fred telling Sister Bert something about her old man coming home very late one night—I didn't quite understand who the old man was, or what it was all about, but I know Sister Bert thought it was very funny, and I seemed to hear a lot of people laughing; perhaps it was the fairies. And then whenever Sister Bert sits down she always pulls her skirt right up to her knees, so as people can see her stockings. I mean there's always SOMETHING amusing happening.
Of course I have a good deal of work to do, and all the washing up, but my sisters are so big and strong that one can't expect them to bother themselves with niggling little things like that. Besides, they have so many other things to do. Only this morning, when Sister Bert was just going to sit down, Sister Fred pulled away her chair, and she sat on the floor and her legs went up in the air. She said it was a "grand slam," which some of us thought very funny. I didn't laugh myself, because I never go out anywhere, and so I don't understand topical remarks, but I do think it is nice to live in such an amusing house.
(LATER.)—A wonderful thing has happened! Two messengers came from the Prince an hour ago to invite us to the ball to-night! I'd never seen a messenger in my life, so I peeped out of the chimney corner at them and wondered if they would stay to tea. But instead of that my sisters put up what they call a "trapeze" (I never knew we had one before), and the messengers did some EXTRAORDINARY things on it, I thought they would kill themselves. After it was over, Sister Fred told them a lot of stories about the old man, and altogether it was quite different from what I expected. Ours IS a funny house.
As soon as the messengers had gone, my sisters began to get ready for the ball. I knew I shouldn't be able to go, because I haven't got a frock, and I simply COULDN'T wear anything of theirs, they are so much bigger than I am. They finished dressing DOWNSTAIRS for some reason, where anybody might have seen them—they are so funny about things like that—and we had a lot of laughter about the clothes being too tight and so on. I think anything like that is so amusing. Then they went off, and here I am all alone. It is getting dark, and so I am going to cheer myself up by singing a little.
(LATER).—I AM GOING TO THE BALL! My Fairy Godmother, whom I had often heard about, suddenly came to see us. I told her my sisters were out, and she asked where they had gone, and wouldn't I like to go too, so of course I said I should LOVE it. So I am going, and she has got a frock for me and everything. She is very kind, but not quite so FAIRY-LIKE as I expected.
WEDNESDAY.—I have had a LOVELY time, and I think I am in love. I got to the Ball just as the juggling and the ventriloquism were over—it must be a delightful Court to live in—and there was SUCH a sensation as I appeared. The Prince singled me out at once. He has the pinkest cheeks and the reddest lips of any man I know, and his voice is soft and gentle, and oh! I love him. One wants a man to be manly and a woman to be womanly, and I don't think I should love a man if he were at all like Sister Fred or Sister Bert. The Prince is QUITE different. We were alone most of the time, and we sang several songs together. My sisters never recognized me; it was most surprising. I heard Sister Fred telling a very fine-looking gentleman a story about a lodger (whatever that is) who had a bit of a head; it sounded very humorous. Wherever Sister Fred goes there is sure to be fun. I am indeed a lucky girl to have two such sisters and to be in love with a Prince. Sister Bert sat down on the floor twice—it was most amusing.
A terrible thing happened just as the clock struck twelve. All my clothes turned into rags, and I just RAN out of the room, I was so frightened. Then I remembered what my Fairy Godmother had said about leaving before twelve o'clock. I suppose she knew what would happen if I didn't. I'm afraid I left a glass slipper behind—I hope she won't mind about it.
Well, I've had a lovely time. Even if I never see the Prince again, I shall always have this to look back to. I don't mind WHAT happens now.
THURSDAY.—I AM GOING TO MARRY THE PRINCE! I can't believe it is true. Perhaps it is only a dream, and I shall wake up soon, but even if it's a dream it's just as good as if it were real. It was all because of the slipper I left behind. The Prince said that he would marry the person whom it fitted, because he had fallen in love with the lady who wore it at the ball (ME!), and so everybody tried it on. And they came to our house, and Sister Bert tried it on. She pulled her skirt up to her knees and made everybody laugh, but even then she couldn't get into it. And Sister Fred made a lot of faces, but SHE couldn't. So I said, "Let ME try," and they all laughed, but the Prince said I should, and of course it fitted at once. Then they all recognized me, and the Prince kissed me, and a whole lot of people came into the house who had never been invited, and we had the trapeze out again, and there was juggling and ventriloquism, and we all sang songs about somebody called Flanagan (whom I don't think I have ever met), and Sister Bert kept sitting down suddenly on the floor. (But the Prince didn't think this was at all funny, so I expect I must have been right all the time when I have only PRETENDED to laugh. I used to think that perhaps I hadn't a sense of humour.) And then the Prince kissed me again, and my Fairy Godmother came in and kissed us both. Of course we do owe it all to her really, and I shall tell Charming so.
I do think I am a wonderful person!
FATHER CHRISTMAS
Outside in the street the rain fell pitilessly, but inside the Children's Shop all was warmth and brightness. Happy young people of all ages pressed along, and I had no sooner opened the door than I was received into the eager stream of shoppers and hurried away to Fairyland. A slight block at one corner pitched me into an old, white-bearded gentleman who was standing next to me. Instantly my hat was in my hand.
"I beg your pardon," I said with a bow. "I was—Oh, I'm sorry, I thought you were real." I straightened him up, looked at his price, and wondered whether I should buy him.
"What do you mean by real?" he said.
I started violently and took my hat off again.
"I am very stupid this morning," I began. "The fact is I mistook you for a toy. A foolish error."
"I AM a toy."
"In that case," I said in some annoyance, "I can't stay here arguing with you. Good-morning." And I took my hat off for the third time.
"Don't go. Stop and buy me. You'll never get what you want if you don't take me with you. I've been in this place for years, and I know exactly where everything is. Besides, as I shall have to give away all your presents for you, it's only fair that—"
An attendant came up and looked at me inquiringly.
"How much is this THING?" I said, and jerked a thumb at it.
"The Father Christmas?"
"Yes. I think I'll have it. I'll take it with me—you needn't wrap it up."
I handed over some money and we pushed on together.
"You heard what I called you?" I said to him. "A thing. So don't go putting yourself forward."
He gazed up innocently from under my arm.
"What shall we get first?" he asked.
"I want the engine-room. The locomotive in the home. The boy's own railroad track."
"That's downstairs. But did you really think of an engine? I mean, isn't it rather large and heavy? Why not get a—"
I smacked his head, and we went downstairs.
It was a delightful room. I was introduced to practically the whole of the Great Western Railway's rolling stock.
"Engine, three carriages and a guard's van. That's right. Then I shall want some rails, of course…. SHUT up, will you?" I said angrily, when the attendant was out of hearing.
"It's the extra weight," he sighed. "The reindeer don't like it. And these modern chimneys—you've no idea what a squeeze it is. However—"
"Those are very jolly," I said when I had examined the rails. "I shall want about a mile of them. Threepence ha'penny a foot? Then I shan't want nearly a mile."
I got about thirty feet, and then turned to switches and signals and lamps and things. I bought a lot of those. You never know what emergency might not arise on the nursery floor, and if anything happened for want of a switch or two I should never forgive myself.
Just as we were going away I caught sight of the jolliest little clockwork torpedo boat. I stopped irresolute.
"Don't be silly," said the voice under my arm. "You'll never be asked to the house again if you give that."
"Why not?"
"Wait till the children have fallen into the bath once or twice with all their clothes on, and then ask the mother why not."
"I see," I said stiffly, and we went upstairs.
"The next thing we want is bricks."
"Bricks," said Father Christmas uneasily. "Bricks. Yes, there's bricks. Have you ever thought of one of those nice little woolly rabbits—"
"Where do we get bricks?"
"Bricks. You know, I don't think mothers are as fond as all that of BRICKS."
"I got the mother's present yesterday, thanks very much. This is for one of the children."
They showed me bricks and they showed me pictures of what the bricks would build. Palaces, simply palaces. Gone was the Balbus-wall of our youth; gone was the fort with its arrow-holes for the archers. Nothing now but temples and Moorish palaces.
"Jove, I should love that," I said." I mean HE would love that. Do you want much land for a house of that size? I know of a site on the nursery floor, but—well, of course, we could always have an iron building outside in the passage for the billiard table."
We paid and moved off again.
"What are you mumbling about now?" I asked.
"I said you'll only make the boy discontented with his present home if you teach him to build nothing but castles and ruined abbeys and things. And you WILL run to bulk. Half of those bricks would have made a very nice present for anybody."
"Yes, and when royalty comes on a visit, where would you put them? They'd have to pig it in the box-room. If we're going to have a palace, let's have a good one."
"Very well. What do your children hang up? Stockings or pillow-cases?"
We went downstairs again.
"Having provided for the engineer and the architect," I said, "we now have to consider the gentleman in the dairy business. I want a milk-cart."
"You want a milk-cart! You want a milk-cart! You want a—Why not have a brewer's dray? Why not have something really heavy? The reindeer wouldn't mind. They've been out every day this week, but they'd love it. What about a nice skating-rink? What about—"
I put him head downwards in my pocket and approached an official.
"Do you keep milk-carts?" I said diffidently.
He screwed up his face and thought.
"I could get you one," he said.
"I don't want you to build one specially for me. If they aren't made, I expect it's because mothers don't like them. It was just an idea of mine."
"Oh yes, they're made. I can show a picture of one in our catalogue."
He showed it to me. It was about the size of a perambulator, and contained every kind of can. I simply had to let Father Christmas see.
"Look at that!" I exclaimed in delight.
"Good lord!" he said, and dived into the pocket again.
I held him there tightly and finished my business with the official.
Father Christmas has never spoken since. Sometimes I wonder if he ever spoke at all, for one imagines strange things in the Children's Shop. He stands now on my writing-table, and observes me with the friendly smile which has been so fixed a feature of his since I brought him home.
"MAY I come in?" said Miss Middleton.
I looked up from my book and stared at her in amazement.
"Hullo," I said.
"Hullo," said Miss Middleton doubtfully.
"Are you going to have tea with me?"
"That's what I was wondering all the way up."
"It's all ready; in fact, I've nearly finished. There's a cake to-day, too."
Miss Middleton hesitated at the door and looked wistfully at me.
"I suppose—I suppose," she said timidly, "you think I ought to have brought somebody, with me?"
"In a way, I'm just as glad you didn't."
"I've heaps of chaperons outside on the stairs, you know."
"There's no place like outside for chaperons."
"And the liftman believes I'm your aunt. At least, perhaps he doesn't, but I mentioned it to him."
I looked at her, and then I smiled. And then I laughed.
"So that's all right," she said breathlessly. "And I want my tea." She came in, and began to arrange her hat in front of the glass.
"Tea," I said, going to the cupboard. "I suppose you'll want a cup to yourself. There you are—don't lose it. Milk. Sugar."
Miss Middleton took a large piece of cake. "What were you studying so earnestly when I came in?" she asked as she munched.
"A dictionary."
"But how lucky I came. Because I can spell simply everything. What is it you want to know?"
"I don't want to know how to spell anything, thank you; but I believe you can help me all the same."
Miss Middleton sat down and drank her tea. "I love helping," she said.
"Well, it's this. I've just been asked to be a godfather."
Miss Middleton stood up suddenly. "Do I salute," she asked.
"You sit down and go on eating. The difficulty is—what to call it?"
"Oh, do godfathers provide the names?"
"I think so. It is what they are there for, I fancy. That is about all there is in it, I believe."
"And can't you find anything in the dictionary?"
"Well, I don't think the dictionary is helping as much as I expected. It only muddles me. Did you know that Algernon meant 'with whiskers'? I'm not thinking of calling it Algernon, but that's the sort of thing they spring on you."
"But I hate Algernon anyhow. Why not choose quite a simple name? Had you thought of 'John,' for instance?"
"No, I hadn't thought of 'John,' somehow."
"Or 'Gerald'?"
"'Gerald' I like very much."
"What about 'Dick'?" she went on eagerly.
"Yes, 'Dick' is quite jolly. By the way, did I tell you it was a girl?"
Miss Middleton rose with dignity.
"For your slice of plum cake and your small cup of tea I thank you," she said; "and I am now going straight home to mother."
"Not yet," I pleaded.
"I'll just ask you one question before I go. Where do you keep the biscuits?"
She found the biscuits and sat down again.
"A girl's name," I said encouragingly.
"Yes. Well, is she fair or dark?"
"She's very small at present. What there is of her is dark, I believe."
"Well, there are millions of names for dark girls."
"We only want one or two."
"'Barbara' is a nice dark name. Is she going to be pretty?"
"Her mother says she is. I didn't recognize the symptoms. Very pretty and very clever and very high-spirited, her mother says. Is there a name for that?"
"I always call them whoppers," said Miss Middleton.
"How do you like 'Alison Mary'? That was my first idea."
"Oh, I thought it was always 'William and Mary.' Or else 'Victoria and Albert.'"
"I didn't say 'Alice AND Mary,' stoopid. I said 'Alison,' a Scotch name."
"But how perfectly sweet! Why weren't you MY godfather? Would you have given me a napkin ring?"
"Probably. I will now, if you like. Then you approve of 'Alison Mary'?"
"I love it. Thank you very much. And will you always call me 'Alison' in future?"
"I say," I began in alarm, "I'm not giving that name to you. It's for my godchild."
"Oh no! 'Alisons' are ALWAYS fair."
"You've just made that up," I said suspiciously. "How do you know?"
"Sort of instinct."
"The worst of it is, I believe you're right."
"Of course I am. That settles it. Now, what was your next idea?"
"'Angela.'"
"'Angelas,'" said Miss Middleton, "are ALWAYS fair."
"Why do you want all the names to yourself? You say everything's fair."
"Why can you only think of names beginning with 'A'? Try another letter."
"Suppose YOU try now."
Miss Middleton wrinkled her brow and nibbled a lump of sugar.
"'Dorothy,'" she said at last, "because you can call them 'Dolly.'"
"There IS only one."
"Or 'Dodo.'"
"And it isn't a bird."
"Then there's 'Violet.'"
"My good girl, you don't understand. Any of these common names the parents could have thought of for themselves. The fact that they have got me in at great expense—to myself—shows that they want something out of the ordinary. How can I go to them and say, 'After giving a vast amount of time to the question, I have decided to call your child 'Violet'? It can't be done."
Miss Middleton absently took another lump of sugar and, catching my eye, put it back again.
"I don't believe that you've ever been a godfather before," she said, "or that you know anything at all about what it is you're supposed to be going to do."
There was a knock at the door, and the liftman came in. Miss Middleton gave a little cough of recognition.
"A letter, sir," he said.
"Thanks…. And as I was saying, Aunt Alison," I went on in a loud voice, "you are talking rubbish."
. . . . . . .
"Bah!" I said angrily, and I threw the letter down.
"Would you like to be left alone?" suggested Miss Middleton kindly.
"It is from the child's so-called parents, and their wretched offspring is to be called 'Violet Daisy.'"
"'Violet Daisy,'" said Miss Middleton solemnly, trying not to smile.
"Why stop there?" I said bitterly. "Why not 'Geranium' and 'Artichoke,' and the whole blessed garden?"
"'Artichoke,'" said Miss Middleton gravely, "is a boy's name."
"Well, I wash my hands of the whole business now. No napkin ring from ME. Here have I been wasting hours and hours in thought, and then just when the worst of it is over, they calmly step in like this. I call it—"
"Yes?" said Miss Middleton eagerly.
"I call it simply—"
"Yes?"
"'Violet Daisy,'" I finished, with a great effort.
II.—OUT OF THE HURLY-BURLY
"OUR dance," I said; "and it's no good pretending it isn't."
"Come on," said Miss Middleton. "It's my favourite waltz. I expect I've said that to all my partners to-night."
"It's my favourite too, but you're the first person I've told."
"The worst of having a dance in your own house," said Miss Middleton, after we had been once round the room in silence, "is that you have to dance with EVERYBODY."
"Have you said that to all your partners too?"
"I expect so. I must have said everything. Don't look so reproachfully at me. You ARE looking reproachful, aren't you?"
I let go with one hand and felt my face.
"Yes," I said. "That's how I do it."
"Well, you needn't bother, because none of them thought I meant THEM. Men never do."
"I shall have to think that over by myself," I said after a pause. "There's a lot in that which the untrained observer might miss. Anyhow, it's not at all the sort of thing that a young girl ought to say at a dance."
"I'm older than you think," said Miss Middleton. "Oh, bother, I forgot. You know how old I am."
"Perhaps you've been ageing lately. I have. This last election has added years to my life. I came here to get young again."
"I don't know anything about politics. Father does all the knowing in our family."
"He's on the right side, isn't he?"
"I think he is. He says he is."
"Oh, well, he ought to know…. Yes, the truth is I came here to be liked again. People and I have been saying awfully rude things to each other lately."
"Oh, why do you want to argue about politics?"
"But I DON'T want to. It's a funny thing, but nobody will believe me when I say that."
"I expect it's because you say it AFTER you've finished arguing, instead of BEFORE,"
"Perhaps that's it."
"I never argue with mother. I simply tell her to do something, and she tells me afterwards why she hasn't."
"Really, I think Mrs Middleton has done wonderfully well, considering. Some parents don't even tell you why they haven't."
"Oh, I'd recommend her anywhere," said Miss Middleton confidently.
We dropped into silence again. Anyhow, it was MY favourite waltz.
"You did say, didn't you, the first dance we had together," said Miss Middleton dreamily, "that you preferred not to talk when you danced?"
"Didn't I say that I should prefer to do whatever you preferred? That sounds more like me."
"I don't think it does, a bit."
"No, perhaps you're right. Besides, I remember now what I did say. I said that much as I enjoyed the pleasant give and take of friendly conversation, dearly as I loved even the irresponsible monologue or the biting repartee, yet still more was I attached to the silent worship of the valse's mazy rhythm. 'BUT,' I went on to say, 'but,' I added, with surprising originality, 'every rule has an exception. YOU are the exception. May I have two dances, and then we'll try one of each?'"
"What did I say?"
"You said, 'Sir, something tells me that we shall be great friends. I like your face, and I like the way your tie goes under your left ear. I cannot give you ALL the dances on the programme, because I have my mother with me to-night, and you know what mothers are. They NOTICE. But anything up to half a dozen, distributed at such intervals that one's guardians will think it's the same dance, you are heartily welcome to. And if you care to take me in to supper, there is—I have the information straight from the stable—a line in unbreakable meringues which would well be worth our attention.' That's what you said."
"But what a memory!"
"I can remember more than that. I can rememher the actual struggle. I got my meringue down on the mat, both shoulders touching, in one minute, forty-three seconds."
The band died slowly down until no sound could be heard above the rustle of frocks … and suddenly everybody realized that it had stopped.
"Bother," said Miss Middleton.
"That's just like a band," I said bitterly.
"I'll tell it to go on again; it's MY band."
"It will be your devoted band if you ask it prettily enough."
Miss Middleton went away, and came back to the sound of music, looking rather pleased with herself.
"Did you give him the famous smile?" I asked. "Yes, that one."
"I said, 'WOULD you mind playing that one again, PLEASE?' And then—"
"And then you looked as if you were just going to cry, and at the last moment you smiled and said, 'Hooray.' And he said, 'Certainly, madam.' Isn't that right?"
"I believe you're cleverer than some of us think," said Miss Middleton, a trifle anxiously.
"I sometimes think so too. However, to get back to what we were saying—I came here to recover my usual calm, and I shan't be at all calm if I'm only going to get this one dance from you. As an old friend of the family, who has broken most of the windows, I beg for another."
"To get back to what I was saying—I've simply GOT to do a lot of duty dances. Can't you take me to the Zoo or the Post-Impressionists instead?"
"I'd rather do both. I mean all three. No, I mean both."
"Well, perhaps I would, too."
"You know, I think you'd be doing good. I've had a horrible week—canvassing, and standing in the streets, and shouting, and reading leaders, and arguing, and saying, 'My point is perfectly simple,' and—and—swearing, and all sorts of things. It's awfully jolly to—to feel that there's always—well, all THIS," and I looked round the room, "to come back to."
"Isn't that beautiful Miss Ellison I introduced you to just now part of 'all this'?"
"Oh yes, it's all part; but—"
Miss Middleton sighed.
"Then that nice young man with the bald head will have to go without. But I only said I'd SEE if I could give him one. And I have seen, haven't I?"
The band really stopped this time, and we found a comfortable corner.
"That's very jolly of you," I said, as I leant back lazily and happily. "Now let's talk about Christmas."
III.—ANOTHER MILESTONE
"You're very thoughtful," said Miss Middleton. "What's the matter?"
"I am extremely unhappy," I confessed.
"Oh, but think of Foster and Hobbs and Woolley."
I thought of Foster; I let my mind dwell upon Hobbs. It was no good.
"I am still rather sad," I said.
"Why? Doesn't anybody love you?"
"Millions adore me fiercely. It isn't that at all. The fact is I've just had a birthday."
"Oh, I AM sorry. Many happy—"
"Thank you."
"I thought it was to-morrow," Miss Middleton went on eagerly. "And I'd bought a cricketing set for you, but I had to send it back to have the bails sawn in two. Or would you rather have had a bicycle?"
"I'd rather have had nothing. I want to forget about my birthday altogether."
"Oh, are you as old as that?"
"Yes," I said sadly, "I am as old as that. I have passed another landmark. I'm what they call getting on."
We gazed into the fire in silence for some minutes.
"If it's any comfort to you," said Miss Middleton timidly, "to know that you don't LOOK any older than you did last week—"
"I'm not sure that I feel any older."
"Then, except for birthdays, how do you know you ARE older?"
I looked at her and saw that I could trust her.
"May I confess to you?" I asked.
"But of course!" she cried eagerly. "I love confessions." She settled herself comfortably in her chair. "Make it as horrible as you can," she begged.
I picked a coal out of the fire with the tongs and lit my cigarette.
"I know that I'm getting old," I said; "I know that my innocent youth is leaving me, because of the strange and terrible things which I find myself doing."
"Oo-o-o-oh," said Miss Middleton happily to herself.
"Last Monday, about three o'clock in the afternoon, I—No, I can't tell you this. It's too awful."
"Is it very bad?" said Miss Middleton wistfully.
"Very. I don't think you—Oh, well, if you must have it, here it is. Last Monday I suddenly found myself reading carefully and with every sign of interest a little pamphlet on—LIFE INSURANCE!"
Miss Middleton looked at me quickly, smiled suddenly, and then became very grave.
"I appeared," I went on impressively, "to be thinking of insuring my life."
"Have you done it?"
"No, certainly not. I drew back in time. But it was a warning—it was the writing on the wall."
"Tell me some more," said Miss Middleton, after she had allowed this to sink in.
"Well, that was Monday afternoon. I told myself that in the afternoon one wasn't quite responsible, that sometimes one was only half awake. But on Tuesday morning I was horrified to discover myself—before breakfast—DOING DUMB-BELLS!"
"The smelling-salts—quick!" said Miss Middleton, as she closed her eyes.
"Doing dumb-bells. Ten lunges to the east, ten lunges to the west, ten lunges—"
"Were you reducing your figure?"
"I don't know what I was doing. But there I found myself on the cold oil-cloth, lunging away—lunging and lunging and—" I stopped and gazed into the fire again.
"Is that all you have to tell me?" said Miss Middleton.
"That's the worst. But there have been other little symptoms—little warning notes which all mean the same thing. Yesterday I went into the bank, to get some money. As I began to fill in the cheque Conscience whispered to me, 'That's the third five pounds you've had out this week.'"
"Well, of all the impertinence—What did you do?"
"Made it ten pounds, of course. But there you are; you see what's happening. This morning I answered a letter by return of post. And did you notice what occurred only just now at tea?"
"Of course I did," said Miss Middleton indignantly. "You ate all the muffins."
"No, I don't mean that at all. What I mean is that I only had three lumps of sugar in each cup. I actually stopped you when you were putting the fourth lump in. Oh yes," I said bitterly, "I am getting on."
Miss Middleton poked the fire vigorously.
"About the lunges," she said.
"Ten to the east, ten to the west, ten to the nor'-nor'-east, ten to-"
"Yes. Well, I should have thought that that was just the thing to keep you young."
"It is. That's the tragedy of it. I used to BE young; now I KEEP young. And I used to say, 'I'll insure my life SOME day'; but now I think about doing it to-day. When once you stop saying 'some day' you're getting old, you know."
"Some day," said Miss Middleton, "you must tell me all about the Crimea. Not now," she went on quickly, "because you're going to do something very silly in a moment, if I can think of it—something to convince yourself that you are still quite young."
"Yes, do let me. I really think it would do me good."
"Well, what can you do?"
"Can I break anything?" I asked, looking round the room.
"I really don't think you must. Mother's very silly about things like that. I'm SO sorry; father and I would love it, of course."
"Can I go into the kitchen and frighten the cook?"
Miss Middleton sighed mournfully.
"ISN'T it a shame," she said, "that mothers object to all the really nice things?"
"Mrs Middleton is a little difficult to please. I shall give up trying directly. What about blacking my face and calling on the Vicar for a subscription?"
"I should laugh in church on Sunday thinking of it. I always do."
I lit another cigarette and smoked it thoughtfully.
"I have a brilliant idea," I said at last.
"Something really silly?"
"Something preposterously foolish. It seems to me just now the most idiotic thing I could possibly do."
"Tell me!" beseeched Miss Middleton, clasping her hands.
"I shall," I said, gurgling with laughter, "insure my life."
IV.-THE HERALD OF SUMMER
MISS MIDDLETON has a garden of which she is very proud. Miss Middleton's father says it belongs to him, and this idea is fostered to the extent that he is allowed to pay for the seeds and cuttings and things. He is also encouraged to order the men about. But I always think of it as Miss Middleton's garden, particularly when the afternoons are hot and I see nothing but grimy bricks out of my window. She knows all the flowers by name, which seems to me rather remarkable.
"I have come," I announced, feeling that some excuse was necessary, "to see the lobretias; don't say that they are out. I mean, of course, do say that they are out."
"But I don't think we have any," she said in surprise. "I've never heard of them. What are they like?"
"They're just the ordinary sort of flower that people point to and say, 'That's a nice lobretia.' Dash it, you've got a garden, you ought to know."
"I am afraid," smiled Miss Middleton, "that there isn't such a flower—not yet. Perhaps somebody will invent it now they've got the name."
"Then I suppose I must go back to London," I said, getting up. "Bother."
"Stay and inspect the meter," pleaded Miss Middleton. "Or ask father for a subscription for the band. Surely you can think of SOME excuse for being here."
"I will stay," I said, sitting down again, "and talk to you. Between ourselves, it is one of the reasons why I came. I thought you might like to hear all the latest news. Er—we've started strawberries in London."
Miss Middleton sighed and shook her head.
"But not here," she said.
"I was afraid not, but I thought I'd remind you in case. Well, after all, what ARE strawberries? Let's talk about something else. Do you know that this is going to be the greatest season of history? I've got a free pass to the Earl's Court Exhibition, so I shall be right in the thick of it."
"Oh, I thought last season was the great one."
"It was spoilt by the Coronation, the papers say. You remember how busy we were at the Abbey; we hadn't time for anything else."
"What else do the papers say? I seem to have missed them lately. I've had a thousand things to do."
"Well, the Sardine Defence League has just been formed. I think of putting up for it. I suppose you have to swear to do one kind action to a sardine everyday. Let's both join, and then we shall probably get a lot of invitations."
"Do they have a tent at the Eton and Harrow match?" asked Miss Middleton anxiously.
"I will inquire. I wonder if there is a Vice-Presidency vacant. I should think a Vice-President of the Sardine Defence League could go anywhere."
"V.P.S.D.L.," said Miss Middleton thoughtfully. "It would look splendid. I must remember to send you a postcard to-morrow."
Tea came, and I put my deck-chair one rung up to meet it. It is difficult in a horizontal position to drink without spilling anything, and it looks so bad to go about covered with tea.
"This is very jolly," I said. "Do you know that my view during working hours consists of two broken windows and fifty square feet of brick? It's not enough. It's not what I call a vista. On fine days I have to go outside to see whether the sun is shining."
"You oughtn't to want to look out of the window when you're working. You'll never be a Mayor."
"Well, it all makes me appreciate the country properly. I wish I knew more about gardens. Tell me all about yours. When are the raspberries ripe?"
"Not till the end of June."
"I was afraid you'd say that. May I come down and see your garden at the end of June—one day when I'm not at Earl's Court? You can give all the gardeners a holiday that day. I hate to be watched when I'm looking at flowers and things."
"Are you as fond of raspberries as all that? Why didn't I know?"
"I'm not a bit mad about them, really, but they're a symbol of Summer. On a sloshy day in November, as I grope my way through the fog, I say to myself, 'Courage, the raspberries will soon be ripe.'"
"But that means that summer is half over. The cuckoo is what I'm listening for all through November. I heard it in April this year."
I looked round to see that nobody was within earshot.
"I haven't heard it yet," I confessed. "It wasn't really so much to see the lobretias as to hear the cuckoo that I came to have tea with you. I feel just the same about it; it's the beginning of everything. And I said to myself, 'Miss Middleton may not have a first-rate show of lobretias, because possibly it is an unfavourable soil for them, or they may not fit in with the colour scheme; but she does know what is essential to a proper garden, and she'll have a cuckoo.'"
"Yes, we do ourselves very well," said Miss Middleton confidently.
"Well, I didn't like to say anything about it before, because I thought it might make you nervous, and so I've been talking of other things. But now that the secret is out, I may say that I am quite ready." I stopped and listened intently with my head on one side.
There was an appalling silence.
"I don't seem to hear it," I said at last.
"But I haven't heard it here yet," Miss Middleton protested. "It was in Hampshire. The cuckoos here are always a bit late. You see, our garden takes a little finding. It isn't so well known in—in Africa, or wherever they come from—as Hampshire."
"Yes, but when I've come down specially to hear it—"
"CUCK-OO," said Miss Middleton suddenly, and looked very innocent.
"There, that was the nightingale, but it's the cuckoo I really want to hear."
"I AM sorry about it. If you like, I'll listen to you while you tell me who you think ought to play for England. I can't make it more summery for you than that. Unless roses are any good?"
"No, don't bother," I said in some disappointment; "you've done your best. We can't all have cuckoos any more than we can all have lobretias. I must come again in August, when one of the pioneers may have struggled here. Of course in Hampshire—"
"CUCK-OO," said somebody from the apple tree.
"There!" cried Miss Middleton.
"That's much better," I said. "Now make it come from the laburnum, Lieutenant."
"I'm not doing it, really!" she said. "At least only the first time."
"CUCK-OO," said somebody from the apple tree again.
There was no doubt about it. I let my deck-chair down a rung and prepared to welcome the summer.
"Now," I said, "we're off."
EPILOGUE
You may believe this or not as you like. Personally I don't know what to think. It happened on the first day of spring (do you remember it? A wonderful day), and on the first of spring all sorts of enchantments may happen.
I was writing my weekly story: one of those things with a He and a She in it. He was Reginald, a fine figure of a man. She was Dorothy, rather a dear. I was beginning in a roundabout sort of way with the weather, and the scenery, and the birds, and how Reginald was thinking of the spring, and how his young fancy was lightly turning to thoughts of love, when suddenly—
At that moment I was called out of the room to speak to the housekeeper about something. In three minutes I was back again; and I had just dipped my pen in the ink, when there came a cough from the direction of the sofa—and there, as cool as you please, were sitting two persons entirely unknown to me….
"I beg your pardon," I said. "The housekeeper never told me. Whom have I the—what did you—"
"Thanks," said the man. "I'm Reginald."
"Are you really?" I cried. "Jove, I AM glad to see you. I was just—just thinking of you. How are you?"
"I'm sick of it," said Reginald.
"Sick of what?"
"Of being accepted by Dorothy."
I turned to the girl.
"You don't mean to say—"
"Yes; I'm Dorothy. I'm sick of it too."
"Dorothy!" I cried. "By the way, let me introduce you. Reginald, this is Dorothy. She's sick of it too."
"Thanks," said Reginald coldly. "We have met before."
"Surely not. Just let me look a moment…. No, I thought not. You don't meet till the next paragraph. If you wouldn't mind taking a seat, I shan't be a moment."
Reginald stood up.
"Look here," he said. "Do you know who I am?"
"You're just Reginald," I said; "and there's no need to stand about looking so dignified, because I only thought of you ten minutes ago, and if you're not careful I shall change your name to Harold. You're Reginald, and you're going to meet Dorothy in the next paragraph, and you'll flirt with her mildly for about two columns. And at the end, I expect—no, I am almost sure, that you will propose and be accepted."
"Never," said Reginald angrily.
"That's what we've come about," said Dorothy.
I rubbed my forehead wearily.
"Would one of you explain?" I asked. "I can't think what's happened. You're at least a paragraph ahead of me."
Reginald sat down again and lit a cigarette.
"It's simply this," he said, trying to keep calm. "You may call me what you like, but I am always the same person week after week."
"Nonsense. Why, it was Richard last week."
"But the same person."
"And Gerald the week before. Gerald, yes; he was rather a good chap."
"Just the same, only the name was different. And who are we? We are you as you imagine yourself to be."
I looked inquiringly at Dorothy.
"Last week," he went on, "you called me Richard. And I proposed to Phyllis."
"And I accepted him," said Dorothy.
"You!" I said. "What were YOU doing there, I should like to know?"
"Last week I was Phyllis."
"The week before," went on Reginald, "I was Gerald, and I proposed to Millicent."
"I was Millicent, and I accepted him."
"The week before that I was—Good Heavens, think of it—I was George!"
"A beastly name, I agree," I said.
"You gave it me."
"Yes, but I wasn't feeling very well that week."
"I was Mabel," put in Dorothy, "and I accepted him."
"No, no, no—no, don't say that. I mean, one doesn't accept people called George."
"You made me."
"Did I? I'm awfully sorry. Yes, I quite see your point."
"The week before," went on Reginald remorselessly, "I was—"
"Don't go back into February, please! February is such a rotten month with me. Well now, what's your complaint?"
"Just what I said," explained Reginald. "You think you have a new hero and heroine every week, but you're mistaken. We are always the same; and, personally, I am tired of proposing week after week to the same girl."
There was just something about Reginald that I seemed to recognize. Just the very slightest something.
"Then who are you really," I asked, "if you're always the same person?"
"Yourself. Not really yourself, of course, but yourself as you fondly imagine you are."
I laughed scornfully. "You're nothing of the sort. How ridiculous! The hero of my own stories, indeed! Myself idealized—then I suppose you think you're rather a fine fellow?" I sneered.
"I suppose you think I am."
"No, I don't. I think you are a silly ass. Saying I'm my own hero. I'm nothing of the sort. And I suppose Dorothy is me, too?"
"I'm the girl you're in love with," said Dorothy. "Idealized."
"I'm not in love with any one," I denied indignantly.
"Then your ideal girl."
"Ah, you might well be that," I smiled.
I looked at her longingly. She was wonderfully beautiful. I went a little closer to her.
"And we've come," said Reginald, putting his oar in again, "to say that we're sick of getting engaged every week."
I ignored Reginald altogether.
"Are you really sick of him?" I asked Dorothy.
"Yes!"
"As sick of him as I am?"
"I—I daresay."
"Then let's cross him out," I said. And I went back to the table and took up my pen. "Say the word," I said to Dorothy.
"Steady on," began Reginald uneasily. "All I meant was—"
"Personally, as you know," I said to Dorothy, "I think he's a silly ass. And if you think so too—"
"I say, look here, old chap—"
Dorothy nodded. I dipped the pen in the ink.
"Then out he goes," I said, and I drew a line through him. When I looked up only Dorothy was there….
"Dorothy!" I said. "At last!"
"But my name isn't really Dorothy, you know," she said with a smile. "It's Dorothy this week, and last week it was Phyllis, and the week before—"
"Then what is it really? Tell me! So that I may know my ideal when I see her again."
I got ready to write the name down. I dipped my pen in the ink again, and I drew a line through Dorothy, and then I looked up questioningly at her, and…
Fool, fool! She was gone!
II faut vivre. You'll see the story in one of the papers this week. You'll recognize it, because he is called Harold, and she is called Lucy. At the end of the second column he proposes and she accepts him. Lucy—of all names! It serves them right.
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