Date: 1924-12-31T15:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Fantasy; Humor; Manners and Morals; Social Life and Customs; Literary Crititcism
Description: An eclectic collection of short pieces. “Sparkling Biacrene” tells of an “alcohol substitute” that has remarkable effects. In “The Changelings” a conjurer casts a curious spell on some children. “The Breaking Point” is a poignant, haunting Ghost story; and “Ferdie” is the gem of the collection: a classic Weird tale in which Lionel Alchin Filleter meets a Mandrake. ~ ~ ~ ~ Thirteen additional pieces include several small “playlets” with a sharp satirical flavor, and a bit of literary criticism as well. (— adapted from publisher’s blurb)
Publisher: MobileRead.com
Rights: Public domain where copyright is “Life+80” or less, and in the USA.

THE  LAST  LOAD
STORIES  &  ESSAYS

F. ANSTEY
(1856–1934)

MobileRead Edition
2021

An eclectic collection of short pieces.

“Sparkling Biacrene” tells of an “alcohol substitute” that has remarkable effects. In “The Changelings” a conjurer casts a curious spell on some children. “The Breaking Point” is a poignant, haunting ghost story; and “Ferdie” is the gem of the collection: a classic Weird tale in which Lionel Alchin Filleter meets a Mandrake. Thirteen additional pieces include several small “playlets” with a sharp satirical flavor, and a bit of literary criticism as well.
(— adapted from publisher’s blurb)

Thomas Anstey Guthrie (8 August 1856 – 10 March 1934) was an English author (writing as F. Anstey), most noted for his comic novel Vice Versa about a boarding-school boy and his father exchanging identities. His reputation was confirmed by The Tinted Venus and many humorous parodies in Punch magazine. Guthrie became an important member of the staff of Punch magazine, in which his “Voces Populi” pieces and his humorous parodies of a reciter’s stock-piece (“Burglar Bill,” etc.) represent his best work. Other familiar titles include The Black Poodle and The Brass Bottle. Many of Anstey’s stories have been adapted into theatrical productions and motion pictures.

This collection was first published in 1925. This ebook is in the public domain where copyright is “Life+80” or less, and in the USA.

CONTENTS

- Author’s Note

- “Sparkling Biacrene”
- Fawkes — Et Praeterea Nihil
- The Changelings
- Our War-Wedding Present
- Jillings
- On An Old-Fashioned Children’s Book
- A Convenient Conscience
- An Ill-Used Author

- Mrs. Sherwood’s Notion
of a Model Youth

- Dogs’ Delight
- The Treacherous Son
- The Cinema Habit!
- A Saunterer in Siena
- The Breaking-Point
- The Marmamoochy
- Ferdie
- Points of View

Author’s Note

This book contains all the short stories and most of the essays by me that have not been republished in volume form till now.

As I regard it as unlikely that my literary holding will yield a sufficient crop to be carried in future, I call this volume “The Last Load.”

The chief reason for which the two articles, “Fawkes—et Praterea Nihil” (November, 1886) and “Points of View” (June, 1925) have been included in this collection is that the former was my first and the latter my latest (though not, I hope, the last) contribution to “Punch.”

July, 1925

“Sparkling Biacrene”

“No bad news, dad?” Nora Laverack inquired with some anxiety. It was a hot morning in July and, as they sat at breakfast together in the dining-room at Martley Hall, she was struck by the cloud on her father’s usually cheerful countenance as he read one of his letters.

“No, my dear, no. At least, not exactly. A letter from your Cousin Arthur, that’s all.”

“Arthur!” And Nora’s short upper lip curled disdainfully. “What has he been boring you about?”

“Oh, well, he wants me — But you’d better read it for yourself.”

Peter Laverack was a widower, and Nora was his only child. He had been in business as a cotton spinner, but had retired some years since to lead an easy and pleasant existence as a country gentleman.

From Nora’s manner and appearance one would have taken her to be at least nineteen, but in reality she was eighteen months younger. She was a willful and rather spoilt young person, and on the departure of the last of her much-enduring governesses had persuaded her easy-going father that she was competent to take charge of his establishment. This had not affected his comfort, for though she could do as she pleased with Mellish, the elderly butler, and the other menservants, from Burt, the chauffeur, down to the stable-boy, who were her willing slaves, the housekeeper and cook continued to manage their own departments with only a very nominal and casual supervision from Nora.

So her father was quite contented; he was proud of his pretty daughter, and in the habit of confiding his affairs to her. As may have been inferred, Nora has no particular affection for her cousin Arthur. He was some years older than she, and she had hardly seen him till recently, but she had heard quite enough of his industry and his many other admirable qualities to be prepossessed against him. Then, after a course of study at the Leeds College, in the chemistry department, he had come to live at Norchester, having obtained a post there as chemist in the dyeworks of Josiah Waghorn & Co. Norchester was about eight miles from her father’s home, and Arthur had a general invitation to spend his weekends there, though he had seldom taken advantage of it. When he did, Nora had found him distinctly dull. It was true that he would not have been by any means bad-looking if he had not worn such large round spectacles; but he neither rode nor danced nor played games, and did not seem to care for anything much beyond his chemical work and his lectures to artisans on popular science and social reform. She had a suspicion that, in spite of the fact that her hair was “put up,” he considered her still a “flapper” and beneath his notice. But here she did him an injustice; Arthur, like most people, thought her older than she was, and with a little more encouragement would gladly have paid court to his charming but somewhat brusque young cousin. Nora did not know this, and if she had, it might not have conciliated her. So it was with a very languid interest that she began his letter, which was as follows:

21, Market Square
Norchester
July 21st, 1913

Dear Uncle Peter, — As I may have mentioned to you, I have for some months past devoted all my leisure to experiments with a view to discovering a formula for a non-intoxicating beverage that would surpass all those at present in favour, and I am sure you will be glad to hear that I have at last succeeded.

Waghorn, who is in warm sympathy with my object, allowed me the use of the laboratory after working hours, but at first all my efforts ended in failure. It was not till I happened to hear of the pipuana plant that I began to get on the right track. This plant grows on the banks of the Amazon and in other parts of Brazil. Its seeds contain an alkaloid similar to theine and caffeine, only far more powerful, and after procuring a supply of them, I commenced operations. My great difficulty was to neutralize the natural flavour of the seeds, which is somewhat acrid and pungent, but this I have now quite surmounted, and the result is a drink which is not only most invigorating but exceptionally agreeable.

It is, of course, an aerated beverage, and I have called it “Sparkling Biacrene,” a name suggested by a classical scholar, and derived from two Greek words meaning “Fountain of Strength.”

Waghorn was so delighted that he forwarded a sample to an old friend of his — a Mr. Polesworth, who has a large mineral-water factory in the South of London. He has not positively decided as yet to take up my invention, but has given Waghorn to understand that he might be prepared to do so if I could provide a certain share of preliminary expenses. This I could not do until I come into the money father left me on attaining twenty-five, which will not be for another year. But I believe that, as my trustee, you have power to advance any sum if you think it would be for my advantage. Now, Mr. Polesworth will be passing through Norchester next Friday, and stays the night with Waghorn, who has kindly arranged to bring him to dine with me here that evening. He thinks it would be more politic for me and not himself to be the host. Well, I want you, if you possibly can, to come and meet them. It would be a great pleasure and honour to me, and also to them, if you do, and besides, it would give you an opportunity of hearing any proposal Mr. Polesworth may have to make.

The feature of the entertainment will naturally be my “Sparkling Biacrene,” of which I am having a quantity bottled expressly, and I am in great hopes that, after giving it a trial, you will be convinced that it is quite as pleasant and infinitely more wholesome than any alcoholic liquor.

We dine at 7.15, which will give us a longer evening. Quite informal, so don’t dress.

With love to Nora,

Your affectionate nephew,

Arthur Capron

“Of course you’re not going!” said Nora.

“Yes, I am. I must. Can’t hurt the boy’s feelings by refusing. Besides, I consider it a positive duty to go.”

“Oh, I shouldn’t bother about that if I didn’t want to do it,” remarked Nora, with perfect accuracy. “It doesn’t sound a very rollicking party. Wasn’t this Mr. Waghorn Mayor of Norchester, or something?”

“Yes. Pompous fellow — bit of a windbag — but well-meaning enough. Earnest Radical, and all that. However, I don’t mind meeting him.”

“Well, if you stayed at home you’d have to dine all alone next Friday, as I’ve promised to go to tennis with the Stapletons and stay to supper. And, at all events, you won’t get a bad dinner at Arthur’s. You always say Mrs. Perkin isn’t a patch on Martha.”

Martha had left Martley to marry a grocer of the name of Dimes, and it was over their shop in Market Square that Arthur Capron had taken lodgings.

“It isn’t the food I’m worrying about, it’s the drink — this beastly what-you-may-call-it of Arthur’s. But it’s got to be faced — no getting out of it. No, my dear, no more coffee for me, thanks. I’d better go and write to him at once and say I’ll come.”

“I said we’d ride at eleven this morning. Shall you be ready by then?”

“I don’t know. Perhaps — if I feel up to riding at all. He’s spoilt my morning for me, confound it!”

“I wonder,” Nora thought to herself, as her father went off to his study in very low spirits, “if Martha knows dad’s coming. I think I’ll run over tomorrow and see her. She may have forgotten how he likes things. He shall have a good dinner, poor old darling!”

Nora found time to go to Norchester on the following afternoon, and that evening at dinner she endeavoured to cheer her father by remarking, “I’ve been to see Martha today, dear. She was frightfully bucked about your dining there tomorrow.”

“Was she?” said Peter, grimly.

“She took me up to see Arthur’s sitting-room,” continued Nora. “He was out. She showed me the Biacrene. It was under the sideboard, all ready. Four bottles of it!”

“Four bottles!” It was all he could do to suppress a groan. “Good God!”

“Well, two bottles and two siphons. I tasted a little; and really, dad, it was much better than I should have expected from Arthur. Deliciously sweet!” — which, to Nora, was a powerful recommendation — “and such a pretty pale straw colour!”

“I shall be a pretty colour on Saturday!” said Peter, with a visible shudder. “But I don’t want to hear any more about the stuff. Let me forget it while I can.”

He returned to the subject himself the next morning, while he was getting ready to drive over to the Petty Sessions at Clodfield. “You’ll be gone by the time I’m back,” he said, “so I shall have nobody to see me off this evening. That infernal Biacrene will be the death of me. I know it will!”

Nora laughed. “You’re really too funny about it, dear! When I’ve told you it’s quite nice!”

“Nice! You’re not old enough to understand yet!” he said, pettishly. “But I may tell you that the slightest thing upsets my liver the next morning. And here’s your cousin expecting me to swallow this unholy chemical preparation for a whole evening!”

“You can ask for wine instead,” suggested Nora. “Dimes is sure to have some.”

“I shan’t trouble him for any of it,” said Peter. “Why, I’ve almost given up dining out because there’s hardly a house in the county where they give you wine that’s fit for a pig to drink. May get it from Dimes, for all I know! But Arthur isn’t likely to provide anything but his own brew, and if I am to be poisoned, it may as well be by one of the family!”

“I didn’t know,” cried Nora, with sudden concern. “Dad, dear, if you feel like that about it, don’t go! Look here, write a note to say if you can’t, and I’ll go round in the car and leave it_at Arthur’s rooms for you.”

“No,” said Peter, heroically. “I’ve promised, and I’m not going to back out of it now. If I’m laid up afterwards — as I fully expect I shall be — I must put up with it.”

“Poor dear!” said Nora to herself, as she watched him drive off in the dog-cart with an air of one resigned to martyrdom. “He’s going to make himself ill, and all to please that wretched Arthur!”

Peter had, certainly, in his anxiety to impress her with his self-sacrifice, rather exaggerated his danger than otherwise, but he felt it acutely, nevertheless. The prospect of having to sit through an entire meal with no other liquid sustenance than what he privately termed “Arthur’s devil’s brew” had been a kind of nightmare to him.

It weighed on his mind as he sat on the bench, and at lunch with his fellow-magistrates; it haunted him after his return that aftemoon to a home where there was no Nora to console him; and it was only as the time drew near when he must start for Norchester that a very simple and obvious expedient occurred to him. He would save himself from drinking any more of this Biacrene than was absolutely necessary by taking with him a hunting-flask with a little whisky in it.

So, provided with this antidote, he was feeling comparatively calm when his car deposited him at the grocer’s shop in Market Square as the Town Hall clock struck the quarter-past seven. Dimes, in his Sunday best, opened the private door and ushered him up the narrow stairs to Arthur’s sitting-room, where his fellow-guests were already assembled.

It was a pleasant bow-windowed room, furnished in the homely Early Victorian manner that characterizes most lodgings.

Arthur, a fresh-coloured young fellow, with untidy chestnut locks and enthusiastic eyes, magnified by a pair of powerful lenses, welcomed his uncle with grateful effusion. Mr. Josiah Waghorn, ex-mayor, alderman, and eminent citizen and dyer of Norchester, was a portly, florid personage, whose brindled hair rose in an imposing crest; a small spade beard touched with grey grew close up to his lower lip, the upper being clean-shaven. His greeting showed a happy mixture of deference and condescension. “You and I, Mr. Laverack, belong, politically speaking, to opposite camps,” he remarked, “but I welcome this opportunity of meeting you on what I may term neutral ground and shaking you by the hand. Indeed, I may say that it was at my suggestion that our young friend here gave us the pleasure of seeing you.”

Peter expressed his gratitude for so happy an inspiration as wanly as was possible, and was then presented to Mr. Polesworth, a spare, colourless man, with thin, sandy hair parted in the middle, a small, querulous mouth, and a little nose like a parrot’s bill, on which he wore a gold pince-nez.

“An old school-chum of mine,” said the Alderman, clapping him heartily on the shoulder. “And a right good sort. As good as they make ’em!” he added.

Mr. Polesworth looked as though he regretted he had come, but he said little till they had sat down to table, when he requested, in a high-pitched voice, that the windows might be closed, as he felt a draught.

The windows were shut accordingly, which, the evening being oppressively warm, Peter thought an unnecessary precaution. He noticed that there were hothouse flowers and fruit on the table, and also the two syphons he had already heard of from Nora. They were a generous size, and contained a pale yellow gaseous fluid, which he eyed with the gloomiest apprehensions. Sooner or later he would have to take some of that, but the recollection of the hunting-flask in his breast-pocket gave him comfort and courage.

Arthur, however, perhaps from an author’s diffidence, refrained from drawing any attention to his beverage, and it was not until the joint had been served that Mr. Waghorn made an opening. “Deliciously tender lamb, this, and admirably cooked! Like the salmon! Capron, my boy, you’re giving us a banquet fit for the gods, sir; fit for the gods! But even the gods, we are told, were in the habit of taking nectar with their meals — and this is thirsty weather. I should like a little of that Biacrene of yours, if Mr. Laverack will kindly help himself and pass the siphon.”

The dreaded moment had come at last. Peter, with a sinking heart, pressed the trigger of the siphon, which, fortunately for him, proved so free that only a modicum of the Sparkling Biacrene remained in his wineglass.

“I’m afraid, sir,” said Arthur to Mr. Waghorn, after having drenched the tablecloth in his turn, “this siphon is rather out of order. Try that one instead.”

The other siphon, however, was even less satisfactory, as it could only be induced to part with a very little of its contents at a time, and that with protesting splutters and gurgles. Still, as Mr. Waghorn tolerantly remarked, there was enough to give an idea of it.

“Capital, Capron!” he declared, with a smack of the lips. “Even better than I thought. It has more bouquet. I shall be interested to hear how it strikes your good uncle.”

It struck the good uncle — though he was doubtless prejudiced — as perhaps the sickliest and most mawkish liquid it had ever been his ill-fortune to encounter. But, in consideration for Arthur’s feelings, he hastened to pronounce it excellent, and owned that its bouquet was unfamiliar to him.

“I used soluble essence of bananas, uncle,” said Arthur, proudly. “I thought of pine-apples at first, but this is more delicate.”

“Bananas, is it!” said Peter, beginning to see his way to the whisky and soda. “Bananas? H’m!”

“Merely the flavouring, Mr. Laverack,” put in Waghorn, who seemed to have appointed himself advocate-in-chief for his young chemist’s invention. “But of course, the main ingredient is the pipuana — a most valuable herb, Polesworth. Marvellous restorative and stimulant, as Capron can tell you.”

“Well, it’s said,” Arthur informed him, “that natives of Brazil who chew pipuana seeds require no solid food for days afterwards.” (This Peter thought not at all improbable.) “They also make a sort of drink of it, which is not only extremely exhilarating, but enables them to resist the miasma of the swamp districts.”

Mr. Polesworth’s only reply to this was “Indeed!”

“The fact is, Capron, my boy,” said Waghorn, after wrestling once more with the reluctant siphon, “the fact is, this is something that can’t be appreciated by driblets, which seems to be all we can get out of these precious siphons!”

This Arthur was compelled to admit. But, he said, reassuringly, there was a further supply of the “Biacrene” on the sideboard in patent-stoppered bottles. These, as he had slightly varied the formula by increasing the percentage of pipuana, he was proposing to reserve till dessert.

The Alderman being distinctly of opinion that there was no time like the present for them, Dimes was ordered to substitute the two bottles for the refractory siphons, and each — with the exception of Peter — filled his tumbler and drank — but not much.

“Y — yes,” said Waghorn, with an effort. “Yes. Most refreshing. Perhaps it’s not quite so — A little too much on the dry side.”

Arthur owned that it might have been improved by adding a little more syrup.

“Still, when all’s said and done,” Waghorn conceded, after taking a few more sips, “there’s a quality about it that — that’s quite out of the common. What do you say, Polesworth?”

“Is it supposed to be a sparkling drink?” inquired Mr. Polesworth, drearily, “because there doesn’t seem to be much sparkle in it.”

There was none whatever, and Arthur, looking crestfallen, said he had certainly expected his system of aeration would have proved a greater success.

“A little foam powder would have corrected that,” Mr. Polesworth observed, in a thin, dispassionate voice; “given it the rich, close, sparkling head, that, for trade purposes, is the first essential.”

“Well, well,” said Waghorn, diplomatically, “a few little improvements like that — which could easily be done in a thoroughly up-to-date factory like yours, Polesworth — and this will be an ideal table beverage. There’s absolutely no saying what a demand you’d have for it!”

“Quite so,” agreed Mr. Polesworth, guardedly. He seemed to Peter to have decided already that there was no money in “Sparkling Biacrene,” and he felt more drawn to him in consequence. He was not likely now to suggest that any of Arthur’s capital should be entrusted to him for so unpromising a speculation, which would relieve Peter himself from the painful necessity of refusing.

“Why, halloa, Mr. Laverack, how’s this?” said Waghorn, suddenly. “You haven’t filled your glass yet! Allow me, my dear sir — allow me!” Peter was resolved that no persuasions should induce him to risk a second trial of so uninviting a mixture.

“Thanks, thanks,” he said, as he shielded his tumbler, “but I daren’t. It’s the bananas I’m afraid of. Never could touch a banana. Always disagree with me!”

“Nonsense!” cried Waghorn, after drinking a little more of the “Biacrene.” “There’s hardly any banana in this — only just the slightest soupçon. It can’t possibly do you any harm!”

Peter knew better. “Very good of you,” he said, “but I won’t trouble you. If you’ll allow me, Arthur, my boy, I’ll take a little whisky and soda instead. No, no,” he protested, hurriedly, as Arthur was ordering Dimes to bring up a bottle of both from the shop, “not whisky! Only soda. Got some whisky with me.”

After the soda-water had been brought and he had produced the flask, he observed grim disapproval in the Alderrnan’s expression.

“Hope I’m not shocking you, Mr. Waghorn,” he said; “but at my time of life, you know, a man gets to know what suits his constitution — and I feel this is better for me.”

“I should be sorry indeed to interfere in the slightest degree with any man’s constitution,” said Waghorn, with impressive solemnity. “A man’s constitution lies between himself and his Creator, and I’m content to leave it there. But allow me to say to you, as I’ve said on the platform hundreds and hundreds of times, that it’s the greatest mistake and delusion and fallacy to suppose for a single instant that any man on the face of this earth is ever the better for alcohol. On the contrary, the shoe, as the vulgar say, is entirely on the other foot — he’s better without it. Take myself; I’ve always enjoyed the most robust health — and not a drop of spirituous liquor has passed my lips since the day I was born. I believe there are several others in this hall — I mean room — who can tell you the same.”

“Certainly,” cried Mr. Polesworth briskly — he seemed to be brightening up. “By all means. Never touched it in all my life!”

Arthur said he had once or twice drunk a glass of beer, and it had made him wonder how people could really enjoy it.

“Mind you,” continued the Alderman, “I’ve taken no pledge. There was no occasion in my case. Whether I’m differently constituted from other persons, or whether I’ve got more strength of mind and principle, I don’t know. Fact remains that intosh — that is, intox — icating stimulants never had slightest temptation or attraction for me. I’m total abstainer, Mr. Laverack, not because I’m bound by any oath, but by temerament, sir; by temerament. That’s a thing any man alive might be proud being able say, but I can say it, and I do say it, and—” here he struck the table — “I challenge any person present to contradict me!”

He was so flushed and excited that it occurred to Peter that Arthur might have been a little over-lavish with so unknown an ingredient as this pipuana. It certainly seemed to be quite a powerful stimulant.

By this time dinner was over, and Dimes, with orders to serve coffee in half an hour, had left the party to enjoy their dessert. Peter brought out a cigar-case, which he was about to hand round; but Arthur and Waghorn were nonsmokers, and Mr. Polesworth gave such a moving description of the effect of other people’s tobacco on a sensitive throat that Peter had no alternative but to forgo his cigar.

“Bad habit, smoking,” observed Waghorn, as he refilled his tumbler. “What’s more, it leads to drinking, and drinking to intemerance. Intermerance,” he proceeded, with a noticeably thicker articulation, “is thing I’ve never been able unnerstand. No patiensh with man who givesh way to it — I don’ care if it’s first time or five hunreth time, it’s all the same. Man who does shows he’s utterly lacking in self-respect and self-control and norroby trusted. Still,” he added, more tolerantly, “I can make ’lowances for him as not a — not a” — he took great pains over the next word — “reasolable being. I’ll tell you sort o’ man I can not make ’lowances for — man who is a reasolable being; or conshiders himself one, and despises wholesome nollalcolic bev’rage like this. Man who’s so degraded he prefers whisky ’n soda. Yes,” as Peter stared in blank surprise at this wholly unexpected attack, “it’s you I’m referring to, Laverack, and I tell you, as man to man, you ought be ’shamed set such bad example!”

“My good sir,” said Peter, mildly, “I’ve already explained that I’m taking this for reasons of health.”

“I know berrer!” retorted the Alderman. “I can shee through you, Laverack. I’ll tell you why you’re ’fraid of this — this — what rest of us are drinking. As Conservative and friend of the liquor traffic, you know well’s I do this — this bev’rage is going to deal smashing blow to all strong drink!”

“Knock whisky into a cocked hat!” cried Arthur, with a rather foolish laugh. “Make beer take a back seat! That’s what ‘Sparkling Biacrene’s’ going to do!”

“And that,” said the indignant Waghorn, addressing Peter, “that’s why you’ve been trying your best to run it down and set berrer men than you against it! I’ve always had greatest contempt for you, Laverack. One o’ the idle rich, that’s what you are, sitting on bench and sending poor men to prison for picking up rabbits! But I didn’ know before you were such a mariglant enemy to teetoralism—”

“I’m not,” said Peter, anxious to avoid a scene. “So we needn’t quarrel over it.”

“We will not qu’oll,” said Waghorn, “but you’ll ’low me to say that after the mean, unnerhanded way you’ve behaved, you’re norra gerrilman. Norra gerrilman in any sense of the word!”

“He’s my uncle!” struck in Arthur, his pebble spectacles flashing fiercely. “I can’t permit even you, Mr. Waghorn, to insult my uncle at this table. And unless you ’pologize immediately, I shall — I shall feel very much ’noyed.”

“I don’ rememmer saying anything that could poshbly be taken as offensive,” said Waghorn, and his glazed eye showed some surprise. “I cerrainly hadn’t slightest intention in the world to insult any uncle of yours. Mush be mishtake. I haven’t shingle word shay ’gainst you, Mr. Laverack. Norr a man living I ennertain higher reshpec and regard for. Gimme your hand!”

Peter gave it to him, and he retained it in his, repeating, “You’re goo’ fellow, Laverack. God bless you, Laverack. Less say no more about it!” for a much longer time than was at all necessary or desirable.

He let it go at last, and then, to Peter’s dismay, rose unsteadily.

“Gerrelmen,” he said, “charge your glashes. Both borrels empty? My mishstay!”

He had the pleasant task of proposing the health of their young host (which set the dear young host giggling helplessly). A better fellow and a better chemist never breathed. His extraordinary scientific knowledge had not only introduced improvements in dying processes, but led him to invent the truly marvellous beverage, the name of which he need not repeat, and which had been set before them that evening.

“I’ve enjoyed it immenshly myself,” he added, “and I b’lieve I may say my dear ole friend Polesworth here appreciated it as highly as I did!”

Peter had concluded from the repressed smile on Mr. Polesworth’s face and his studious abstention from taking part in the proceedings of late that he was not only aware of the insidious effect of “Biacrene,” but proof against it. But that was before he discovered that Polesworth was absorbed in a futile atempt to peel a peach with the nut-crackers. He looked up from it now, still smiling. “If you want to know what I think,” he said, “I don’t think much of it. No body in it — wishy-washy stuff.”

Waghorn sat down heavily. “You’ve used ’zactly the ri’ expression,” he said. “You’re perfelly c’rect — it ish wishy-washy. I’ve been feeling all along it wasn’t as ’xilarating as I expected. But you can put somebody in it, Polesworth. He’s desherving young chap — worked so hard for ’Cause! Give him a chance. You are going give him chance, aren’t you, Poleshworth?”

“It won’ do, Josiah!” Mr Polesworth replied, with an expression that was intended to convey consummate shrewdness, but merely achieved imbecility. “You don’ get at me like that, ole boy!”

“It may be my last requess, Polesworth,” said the other. “You may never see me again — I’m not feeling s’ well as usual. When I’m dead and gone he won’t have a fren’ in the world — his uncle’s no fren’ to him.” Waghorn was very nearly overcome by his own pathos here. “And you’ll be sorry then, Polesworth; sorry you refused last requess of dying man!”

“Well, well,” said Mr. Polesworth, apparently touched by this appeal. “Time enough to decide whether I refuse or not when I’ve talked it over with Laverack there and heard what he’s got to say. Not jus’ now, though, I want listen to the music.” A piano-organ, which had entered Norchester that aftemoon, had just struck up in the Market Square. “Dance-music!” he remarked, beating time, “makes me feel uncommonly lively. Use to be beautiful dancer in my young days. Dare say I haven’t forgotten all ’bout it even now. Lemme see if I remember step.” He got up with this intention, but shot almost immediately into a sitting position on the floor. “Qui’ imposs’ble dance,” he said, resignedly. “Carpet too beas’ly slippery. It doesn’ marrer — talk businesh instead.”

Mr. Waghorn had also risen. “No wonner you couldn’ dance, my dear Polesworth,” he said, as he held on to his chair. “Why, floor’s all on a slope! While you’re talking business with good fren’ Laverack, I think I’ll have lil’ snooze.” And with this he fell on the sofa and was soon wrapt in profound slumber.

Meanwhile Mr. Polesworth had made himself quite comfortable on the carpet, with his head resting on the elbow of an easy-chair. “Do you know, I’ve taken qui’ a fancy to you, Laverack,” he murmured, beaming affectionately at the disgusted Peter. “Pleased to go into businesh marrers with you in a fren’ly spirit. But you must come and sit on floor by me, ’cause I can’t raise my voice above whisper.”

“Excuse me,” said Peter, impatiently, as he rose and walked to the window, “I’m afraid that, under the circumstances, it’s useless to discuss any business at present.”

“Why won’ you go into it with him, uncle?” said Arthur, joining him. “You ’pear to me to be delib’rately trying dish my proshpects!”

“You’ve done that for yourself, sir!” said Peter, indignantly. “How the devil you could have the impudence to represent this ‘Biacrene’ of yours as a temperance beverage is beyond me!”

“You’re prejudished ’gainst my ‘Biacrene’ — you can’t see any good in it!” complained Arthur. “But I’ve had the pipuana an’lysed — an’lysed it myself, and it’s wonnerful plant — no harm in it wharrever!”

“I judge by results. I don’t suppose your friends can have had much more than a pint apiece — and look at the condition they’re in!”

“They’re all ri’! Perhaps you haven’t noticed it, but it’s warm evening. They’re shimply bit overcome by the heat.”

“Humbug, sir; humbug! You’re almost as bad as they are. I should be sorry indeed for your cousin to see you like this!”

“I shouldn’t,” said Arthur. “I like seeing Nora. Wish I’d been in when she called, this afternoon. She brought me all these,” and he indicated the fruit and flowers on the table. “Do you know, uncle, I think Nora’s beginning to be fond of me at last. She warrered my winnow-boxes. Must ha’ been Nora, Mrs. Dimes said. Now I ashk you, ash man o’ the world, would any girl who wasn’t fond of a fellow go and warrer his winnow-boxes? And she left a lerrer for me too — such a nice, ’fectionate lerrer, uncle!”

“Affectionate, eh?” said Peter, with a sudden wonder whether Nora’s disdain for her cousin might not after all have been assumed.

“She wanted me to do something for her. What was it? I r’memmer now. I wash to give you note from her d’rectly you arrived. I purrit on mantelpiece so’s to be sure I shouldn’ forget, and I very nearly forgot it after all! Here is is. Joll’ lucky I ’memmered it in time!” Peter took the letter from him. The envelope was marked in big letters, “Important. Read at once.” Probably some impertinence of Nora’s, but he had better see what it was, and he opened it by the window, where the dying light just enabled him to read it with difficulty. It ran:

Cheer up! You’ll be as right as rain if you only take what is in the two bottles with screw stoppers. I’ve filled them with champagne and poured Arthur’s stuff into the window boxes. Nobody knows. Don’t touch the siphons. Say you prefer it to the others.

Yours in haste,

Nora.

He thrust this communication hurriedly into his pocket with a strangled oath, but it was some time before he grasped the full horror of the situation. So it was not the “Biacrene” after all — it was champagne of some unknown brand which these irreproachable persons had been led to consume to their own undoing! And the champagne had been secretly supplied by his own daughter! How could he allow the unfortunate Arthur to be held responsible? On the other hand, how could he clear him without incriminating Nora? His head whirled as he tried in vain to think it out. .

If Waghorn, Polesworth, and his nephew were discovered in their present deplorable condition, nothing could avert a scandal. They would be humiliated — most undeservedly humiliated. What the consequences might be to himself he could not trust himself to think. And Dimes would be here very soon now. After he had once entered and seen the party it would be hopeless to hush it up. It was hopeless now — unless he could think of something. But what could he do?

All this rushed through his mind as he stood staring blankly at the unlighted gaselier which hung from the ceiling, as though he were looking to it for inspiration. It did not seem likely to be suggestive, but an idea came to him nevertheless. A desperate idea enough; he could not hope it had more than the faintest chance of succeeding, but it might be just worth trying. If it were to be done at all it must be done at once, and he must do it alone.

“Does Nora say anything ’bout me? Aren’t you well, uncle?” said Arthur. “I’m feeling rather queer myself.”

“It’s the heat of the room, my boy,” said Peter. “But Mr. Polesworth seems to feel it most. We’d better get him into your bedroom.”

It was not easy to prevail on Mr. Polesworth to rise, but eventually Peter manoeuvred him and Arthur into the adjoining room, where he shut them in with the recommendation to place their heads in a basin of cold water.

Then, feeling secure from observation, as Waghorn was still peacefully snoring on the sofa, Peter went to the gaselier and turned every burner full on. He waited till the air was impregnated with the fumes, and then, as he heard Dime’s step on the stairs, he turned every tap off but one, and that he left slightly askew. He had just time to do this and throw himself into an armchair as Dimes opened the door.

“Air!” gasped Peter. “Open the window, quick! I’m choking!”

Dimes set down the tray and threw open the window, after which he did his best to resuscitate his wife’s former employer. Peter took as long a time in coming round as he could. There were sounds of stumbling and splashing from the bedroom which indicated that the other two were not completely themselves as yet. At length he permitted himself to remark feebly that he “felt as if he had been all but suffocated.”

“And good reason, too, Mr. Laverack,” said Dimes. “When I come in there was a smell o’ gas enough to knock you down! Must be a leakage somewhere, though I dunno ’ow that can be. Seems to come from the gaselier…. Well, there, now! If one o’ them taps ain’t got turned accidental! … Were the other gentlemen took bad too, sir?”

“I — I can’t say,” said Peter, sitting up. “Ah, there’s Mr. Waghorn on the sofa, I see. You’d better attend to him next. I’m better now, but — but I think I’ll be going. Must have air. Thanks,” as Dimes gave him his hat and coat. “Never mind about seeing me out, and — and don’t forget to explain to Mr. Arthur and his friends how you discovered the cause. They’ll be most grateful to you, I’m sure.”

He knew he ought to have waited and explained it himself, but he simply had not the nerve to stay in the house another moment. His car was not outside, having first had to take Nora home from her party, and, as he could not stand about in the Market Square till the motor returned for him, he went to the “Crown” and ordered a conveyance, but even then there was some delay before it was ready for him. So it was fairly late before he reached the Hall, boiling with rage and impatient to have it out with Nora, who had already gone to bed. Peter was thus obliged to bottle up his wrath till the morning. He passed a sleepless night, tormented by harrowing doubts whether, by tampering as he had with the gaselier, he might not have fastened suspicion more surely on himself. Altogether, it was in no very fatherly mood that he met Nora at the breakfast table. Miss Nora, however, was provokingly unconscious of being in disgrace.

“Morning, daddy!” she cried, cheerfully. “How are you feeling after Arthur’s dinner? You’re not looking very bright.”

“I’m feeling infernally annoyed, if you wish to know,” he retorted. “No, I don’t want to be kissed. I wonder you can expect it — after what you’ve done.”

“Do you mean about the champagne? Darling, you’re not going to be stuffy about that, are you?”

“What on earth induced you to play such a silly trick?”

“It wasn’t a trick,” she said. “I wasn’t going to let you be poisoned if I could prevent it.”

“Poisoned? Nonsense! Who said anything about my being poisoned?”

“Why, you did, if you had to drink that stuff of Arthur’s. And I knew champagne wouldn’t do you any harm.”

“Oh, you did, did you? I should like to know where you bought it.” It had just occurred to him that such a purchase by her could hardly have escaped remark.

“I didn’t buy it. I got it out of Mellish. It was some you had put out — a big bottle and a small one. I thought that would be enough.”

“Enough? I should think it was enough!” said Peter, snappishly. (“So it was my Pol Gautier, 1916, they were lapping up last night!” he thought.) “Then you must have told Mellish what you wanted it for,” he said, aloud. “You told me nobody knew!”

“I told him I wanted it for a poor man who couldn’t drink anything else,” she replied. “I meant you, really, but he thought it was one of my invalids.”

“You can’t have carried two bottles of champagne into Arthur’s lodgings without being noticed!”

“But I did. I smuggled them in in a box of flowers and told Martha I would arrange the table myself. I was afraid she’d give me away if she knew.”

“She must have suspected if she heard the corks pop,” said Peter.

“There wasn’t any ‘pop.’ I knew I couldn’t open champagne bottles, so I made Mellish do it for me and put in screw corks. You see, dad,” concluded Nora, triumphantly, “I’m not so silly as you supposed. I thought all that out very carefully.”

“It doesn’t seem to have occurred to you that it might be drunk by the others.”

“I thought after you’d read my note you’d see they didn’t get any. I had to leave something to you, ducky!”

“As it happened,” he said, “I never read your note till too late. I drank whisky and soda myself — and those unfortunate devils got the champagne!”

“Oh!” cried Nora. “But I don’t see why they were unfortunate!”

“Don’t you? Didn’t you know they were all total abstainers?”

“No. How could I know? But if they are, why did they drink it?”

“They thought it was ‘Biacrene.’ And — it’s as well you should know this, Nora. When people are unaccustomed to wine, a very little will — er — go to their heads.”

“Dad!” she exclaimed. “You don’t mean to tell me that it made them — drunk?”

“It did indeed — deplorably so,” he said, gravely. “I shouldn’t have told you if I wasn’t sure that, for your own sake, you will never repeat it. And you see now the mischief you’ve done!”

“What? Arthur! And Mr. Waghorn! Oh!”

And it must be reluctantly stated that this impenitent young woman went off into peals of unseemly mirth, which revived her father’s exasperation.

“You may laugh,” he said, bitterly, “but I can tell you it will be no laughing matter for me if they ever find out. There’ll be the deuce and all of a row — they’ll be furious. I shall be lucky if I don’t have to leave the county. And it will be all your doing!”

Till then Nora did not seem to have realised the seriousness of her indiscretion, but now she was instantly reduced to penitence, and almost to tears.

“Oh, dad!” she cried remorsefully. “I’d no idea it was so bad as this. But they shan’t blame you. I’ll tell them it was me!”

“Do you suppose they’d ever believe I’d nothing to do with it?” he said. “No, no — that won’t mend matters. There, there,” he added, more mildly. “There’s nothing to cry about. Fortunately, I hope I’ve managed to put them on the wrong scent.” And with some pride in his own resourcefulness, he described how he had employed the gaselier for that purpose. “A good deal will depend on Dimes,” he concluded. “Still, I believe we are fairly safe. Why, who can that be?” he broke off, suddenly, as a large covered car swept into the drive and past the dining-room windows. “I — I hope to goodness it isn’t—” The next moment Mellish entered.

“Mr. Arthur, Mr. Waghorn, and another gentleman have called to see you, sir,” he announced. “I’ve shown them into the study.”

“Quite right,” said the wretched Peter. “Say I’ll be with them in a minute or two.” He turned to Nora with a ghastly face as soon as they were alone. “It’s all up!” he said. “They wouldn’t have all come over like this if they hadn’t found us out. I always knew they would! And now I — I suppose I must go and have it out with them.”

“Not without me!” said Nora.

“No, no — stay where you are. If you come, you’ll give yourself away. I know you will!”

“No, I shan’t, dear. Not unless I’m obliged. And I’m not going to let you go in alone — so there!” And, as it was not easy at any time to prevent Nora from doing anything she had a mind to, Peter allowed her to accompany him. He crossed the hall to his study with a painful sensation of giving at the knees, and it was a relief on entering to find himself greeted by his visitors with cordiality instead of the storm of reproaches he had expected.

“We must apologise for so early a call, Mr. Laverack,” began the Alderman, after Peter had introduced Nora, “but my friend Polesworth has to get up to London this morning, and was most anxious to see you first, and so was Capron here. So I motored them over. I was anxious myself to hear that you are none the worse for last night. Able to get up, I’m glad to find, though not looking as well as I could wish to see you. No doubt, Miss Laverack, your worthy father has told you of the unfortunate contretemps that marred what was otherwise a most enjoyable evening?”

Nora, in a very tremulous voice, admitted that she had heard something of it.

“We all had a very narrow escape from being asphyxiated,” said Waghorn. “The room was gradually filled with gas from one of the burners which, as that excellent fellow Dimes discovered, Mr. Laverack, had not been completely turned o?. The surprising thing is that none of us noticed it at dinner, but I suppose our minds were occupied by pleasanter subjects.”

“That must be the explanation, no doubt,” said Peter. He could see that Nora was shaking all over, which he attributed to a very proper sense of her position.

“Your poor father, Miss Laverack,” continued Waghorn, “was the worst sufferer. He was compelled to leave us at an early hour, but we were all more or less affected. I myself was unconscious for a short period, and I understand that Mr. Polesworth and your cousin were quite light-headed.”

“It was the most curious sensation, Nora,” said Arthur: “I felt exactly as if I’d taken laughing gas.”

“I lost control of my legs,” put in Mr. Polesworth, in his high-pitched voice. “But my head was perfectly clear. I was quite able to discuss business matters, as perhaps you remember, Mr. Laverack?”

“Perfectly,” said Peter. He caught an agonised look in Nora’s eyes as she groped blindly for her pocket-handkerchief, and was horrified to discover that the emotion with which she was quivering was not at all what he had imagined.

“You will be glad to hear,” said Waghorn, “that friend Polesworth is now so convinced of the value of ‘Sparkling Biacrene’ that he is going to manufacture and put it on the market, without requiring your nephew to provide a single penny. That’s so, isn’t it, Polesworth?”

“Quite,” said Mr. Polesworth. “I consider it ought to have a great success, not only as a tonic and pick-me-up, but as a pleasant and exhilarating table beverage.”

“I — I suppose, Mr. Polesworth,” Peter’s conscience obliged him to ask, “you are not basing your opinion on” — (he dared not look at Nora here) — “on those two bottles you drank at dinner?”

“If I judged by those, my dear sir,” replied Mr. Polesworth, “I should have declined to take it up at all. I was by no means favourably impressed by them.”

“Nor I,” said Waghorn. “Whether the fumes of the gas had affected it, I don’t know, but it struck me as dull, insipid stuff. But after you left us, Mr. Laverack, we tried the siphons again. They were still recalcitrant, but we managed with a little patience to get a drink out of them. And that, sir, was not only delicious, but it pulled us together! All traces of headache and lassitude from the vitiated air disappeared like magic, and Polesworth and I woke up this morning as fresh as larks. Er — I’m afraid Miss Laverack is feeling a little indisposed,” he added, as Nora, with an incoherent apology, suddenly hid her mouth in her handkerchief and fled through the french window.

“It’s nothing,” said Peter. “She’s rather high-strung, you know; and she — she’s been a little anxious about this business, that’s all.”

“I see,” said the Alderman, with a glance at Arthur. “I see. Very natural, I’m sure.”

Arthur smiled with self-conscious complacency. “Dear little Nora!” he thought, as faint sounds as of hysterical sobbing reached his ears from the direction of the shrubbery. “I’d no idea she was as fond of me as all this!”

“Strand Magazine,” 1914

Fawkes — Et Praeterea Nihil

A Monologue on the Fifth

Wonder who the dickens I am, and what I’m being taken about like this for? A Guy, am I? Well, and what’s that? Seem popular too — odd that I shouldn’t know why — but I don’t … To be sure, I remember, now! I’m a Patriot — discovered a plot, or something of that sort, that’s why they’re all shouting!

“See no reason why Gunpowder Treason should ever be forgot,” do they? They’re quite right — no more do I … Hooray! Keep it up_! gratifying, very.

Attendants, or retainers, or whoever they are, seem rather a shabby lot, undersized, too, and — well, plain. But there — they can’t help that. If I had any nasty pride in me I shouldn’t go about with them like that. Still, they are faithful, and have known me in adversity, probably.

What’s this great ugly beast of a thing coming along? Dear, dear, disgraceful — why do they allow it? He’s got a crowd of his own, too — looks to me like a deliberate insult, that’s what it looks like!

Our crowds are parleying; I and the Insult left alongside. Good mind to ask him what he means by his tomfoolery. I will too. Says it isn’t his fault, he’s in the same line himself, there are dozens of us about; he tells me he just met one driving a donkey. He’s in a barrow, and I’m in a kitchen-chair! I do think they might have given me the donkey — you get more dignity with a donkey.

Don’t think this pitiable object has any intention of annoying me, so I’ll just give him a friendly hint: another time he might turn out decently dressed — more respectable to the public and — ah — to Us.

He nearly falls out of his barrow! Can this dilapidated ass be laughing? When his attendants have slapped him on the back, and he’s got his breath again, he tells me to “look at home.” I look at a plate-glass window opposite.

H’m — well. Might have come out in a better hat, perhaps, and yes, my tailor does want looking after a little. Rather more round-shouldered than I fancied, and that is an awkward trick I’ve got of turning my feet in.

But that’s all — and, confound it, there’s nothing ridiculous about me! Now, you couldn’t say that of the other fellow — he’s grotesque, that’s what he is, poor devil! He can’t help it, but he is.

If he’s going on grinning and giggling like that, I’ve done with him. He says I’m “the funniest he’s seen yet.” And to think that this idiot is a Guy!

Off again. Lovely creature in a shop-window standing between bottles! Ha! she turns slowly and looks at me! … She doesn’t see anything funny in my appearance … Quite an odd thrill her eyes give me. Really, I’ve a good mind to stop and follow this up! But no — better not — can’t be too careful in a position like mine. Ah well! I threw her a smile — she won’t forget me!

How fickle and ungrateful are the populace! Just heard an old gentleman call me a “public nuisance.” And this to me! A man who — It is annoying not to remember what the dooce it was I did do.

Wish I was at home — wherever that is — they do joggle this chair so! …

This is home, I suppose. Well, they’ve put me up in a nice high place where I can see the scenery. Darkness already. Let the sports commence. If there’s much more of this banging and fizzing I shall have to go away — I’ve had a trying day, and I can’t stand it.

I can tell them this; if they’re not more careful, they’ll be setting fire to something presently!

I told them so — just under my chair-now they’ll be sorry!

I wouldn’t come down now if they asked me — it’s splendid! I’ve got a big fire all to myself. Wish that girl in the window could see me now! Think I look rather well in flames … Face getting quite burnt — so becoming, when you don’t freckle.

I’ve dropped one of my boots — awkward thing to do in public. Might I ask you to return that boot? Nobody seems to notice, and, after all — who cares?

What’s this — crowd retiring respectfully? Heard someone say I was “as full of squibs and crackers as I could hold.” Is that what makes this fizzing underneath my waistcoat?

I do feel so peculiar … Something’s going to happen, I know! Well … There now … Think of that! Didn’t know I had it in me! Just one more burst, and I’ve done! Ha! it’s coming, it’s——Bang!!

[Breaks up in much confusion.]

First contribution to “Punch,” 1885.

The Changelings

LETTER No. 1

From Jane Busbridge,
Upper Nurse at 135, Prince’s Gardens.

To the Rev. Adrian Worlingworth,
care of James Allerby, Esq.,
K.C.M.P., 210, Eaton Square.

By Special Messenger — Urgent.

Tuesday Night, Jan. 4th.

Rev. and Dear Sir, — Pardon the liberty I humbly take in writing, likewise the Goliwog at the top of the notepaper, not having no more serious stashonary at present so obliged to borrow some of Miss Stella’s. But indeed I do not know who else to consult in the truely awful trouble I am in, and you when calling the other afternoon to inquier how I was getting on in the situation as upper nurse here obtained by Mrs. Worlingworth’s kind recomendation happening to mention as you was staying for a few days with Miss Mildred [as was] and her husban at Eaton Square, I thought this might find you if sent first thing tomorrow morning.

You may reclect me telling you that the Master and Mrs. Dering was away winter-sporting at a place called Grindlewald, Switserland, and the children, Miss Stella, Master Rupert, and Miss Molly, left at home in my charge, and a mercy almost their poor Papa and Mamma is not expected home till next week, though unless some change for the better before then a dreadful blow in store for their return. But I am in hopes that you, clear and Rev. sir, being a clergyman will know what is proper to be done, even if no simular case has ever come under your notice, which is only too likely for had I not beheld it with my own eyes should certainly have said it was beyond a possibility, still happen it has and me at my wit’s end which is the reason I write to you.

I had better give you the ezact narative of what took place so you can judge for yourself how far I am risponsible, which however I may be to blame have been bitterly punished.

This afternoon, Mrs. Dering having accepted for them before her departure, I took the children to a juvenile party at Mrs. Champney’s, Sussex Square, acrost the Park, and as customary helped with the other nurses to give the children their tea in the Dining-Room and looking after my own three in particular.

There were some children there by the name of Posener, who I recognised having seen at another party last week, three in number and similar in age and sizes to mine, but otherwise no resemblance, conducting themselves different in every respect. I was so struck by their manners that I had took occasion to hold them up to mine as examples when more than usual opstropolous, and the Nursery only another name for Beargarden. So I noticed them the more special seeing them again, the two girls dressed artistic with their hair platted so neat in pigtails, and the boy with his hair left long, a frill collar, cream silk blouse, brown velvet nicker suit, and tan stockings, and behaving as beautiful as ever at table, asking if they might have warm milk instead of tea or caufy, and touching nothink as looked the least rich or unolesome. And seeing Miss Stella and Master Rupert taking twice of everythink and reaching out that bold for crackers, I couldn’t help nidging them, and telling them to take pattern by them Poseners. Master Rupert said he’d be sorry to be such a little Rotter as the young Posener boy, and Miss Stella laughed and said, “It’s no use, Nana, we’ll never be like them, not if we tried ever so.” “I know it,” I says, “and more’s the pity!”

Soon afterwards we went upstairs to the drorin-room, where they had a Cunjeror, and the moment that Cunjeror comenced I felt oncomfortable. It wasn’t his tricks, which though clever enough were nothink out of the way, but his eyes were that piercing they went right through you and took in everythink. Master Rupert come forward and asisted him in his performance, and Miss Stella and Miss Molly would nurse a rabit as he took out of their brother’s westcoat, but though I frowned at them not to make themselves so konspicuous, I didn’t like to interfere. The Posener nurse, who was standing next me by the door, said what a treat it was to see children so lively and natural as mine. I will own to feeling proud of them myself, though I kep from showing it. All I said was that you might have too much liveliness and high spirits, and there were times when my head fairly went round with them. Just then the Cunjeror took and made a cake in Mr. Champney’s tall hat, which he cut up and a downright scramble for it, saying it was a Magic Cake, and them as ate a piece and wished would either have their wish granted, or else they wouldn’t — he wouldn’t guarantee which not knowing the gentleman’s hatter.

When I saw Miss Stella the first to get hold of a bit and bring it to me, I had to speak to her. “How can you act so unladylike?” I said. “And after the tea you had, tool You don’t see the little Miss and Master Poseners behaving like that!”

“I got it for you, Nana, not for myself,” she says. “Didn’t you hear that it’s a magic cake? So praps if you eat it and wish, your wish’ll come true.”

“Then,” I says to her, improving the occasion like, “I’ll wish this. I’ll wish you and Rupert and Molly were more like some children that shall be nameless!” And so saying, I swolloed a piece of the cake, and all but choked, for I saw that Cunjeror had heard and had his eye full upon me.

She went back to her seat without a word, but I could see what I’d said had took effect, for she made herself quite friendly to the little Poseners, particularly the boy, who was glad enough to be took notice of by her and small wonder, Miss Stella being far the hansomest child in the room, or any room she goes into for that matter, and she got Master Rupert and Miss Molly to talk to him and his sisters, too, which was more than I expected.

As soon as she had gone that Posener nurse says: “Whyever did you speak to your young lady so harsh? I’m sure you’ve no reason to wish them any different.”

“I may have, or I may not,” I says, “that’s my affair. And I only spoke for her good, and she well knows I don’t mean half I say to her. Not but what I should like to see my three children taking more after yours.”

“If I was you,” she says, “I’d be satisfied with what they are.”

“Thanking you kindly for your advice,” I says, “though not required.”

The Cunjeror had done by then, and there was going to be dancing, so I slipped downstairs to have a chat with the housekeeper, being acquainted and there in the hall was the Cunjeror with his traps in a bag waiting for a taxi. I was meaning to pass him, not caring to meet those eyes of his again even under a bowler hat, but he seemed to know me. “Bright jolly little kiddies those of yours, Nurse,” he says; “just what kiddies ought to be.”

“That’s according,” I says, not desiring compliments from him; “they’re not so good but what they might be better.”

He gave me a sardinic glance. “Take my word for it,” he says, “you’ll be a lucky woman if they’re never no worse.” And with that he took up his bag and went out.

At the time I didn’t think much of what he’d said, beyond the liberty, and I sat talking in the Housekeeper’s room till astonished when told the party was breaking up. I went back to the Drorin-room which was almost empty and my children nowhere to be seen, nor yet the little Poseners, though their nurse was there hunting all about for a mitting which it seems one of her young ladies thought she had dropt.

Passing through the hall I saw them Posener children waiting all muffled up and good as gold, and I was going on to the cloakroom, when informed by Mrs. Champney’s manservant as our motor was at the door and my children already got in, which, as I told them as soon as I was in myself, they didn’t ought to have done without me there, and the little Misses and Master Posener would never have behaved so thoughtless and independent.

They didn’t answer me back beyond making a sort of choke, having their shawls tight round their heads and over their mouths, which I never encourage talking on the way home, motors being catchcoldy concerns of a night, even with the windows up, and for once they kep as still as mice till they got home, going up to the nursery in their wraps and very sedate, instead of two stairs at a step as was their usual habit.

But when their hoods and cloaks and that were off them, “Why,” I says, “you don’t belong to me — you’re the little Master and Miss Poseners. It’s my belief as Stella and Rupert put you up to this, for never would you have done it of yourselves.”

They looks at me as solemn as so many images, and one of them says: “We shouldn’t have come,” she says, “if you hadn’t wished for us instead of them.”

“Wished?” I says, “stuff and nonsense! A nice trick you’ve played me between you. Not as I blame you. You’d better stay here for the present, while I go down and arrange for your being took home.”

Down I went and found Corbyn our butler, and says, “Mr. Corbyn,” always treating him civil though not intamit, “will you oblige me by seeing if there’s any party on the tellephone list by the name of Posener?” Which he ascertained there was at West Hampstead, and give me their tellephone number. “Put me on to Mrs. Posener,” I says, “and I can do the rest myself,” “You seem put out, Miss Busbridge,” he says. “Nothink wrong, I hope?”

Naturally I was not wishful to own how I’d been took in, so I told him I’d brought back some things belonging to her by mistake and wanted it put right, which I’m thankful now I didn’t say no more.

Corbyn he got put on, the cook at the Poseners’ answering that her Missus and Master were both away for the night. “Ask for the nurse,” I told him, but the reply was that she had taken the children to a party in Sussex Square and they hadn’t returned yet. “Tell her to ring me up the minute they’re back,” I said, “and then I needn’t trouble you no further.”

I find I have come to the end of Miss Stella’s paper, so must continue on pages out of one of her copybooks, which of course, dear and Rev. Sir, you will pay no attention to the morrels on the top lines.

Well, I waited there by the instrumint I don’t know how long before being rung up, the four-wheeler of course taking more time than a motor, and Hampstead so to speak in the wilds, but at last I heard the bell, and when I put my ear to the trumpet thing, reconised the Posener nurse’: voice asking who I was.

“I’m Mrs. Dering’s head nurse,” I says, “and as you’re probly aware by now you’ve been and brought home my children in mistake for yours.”

“I’m not aware of having done nothink of the kind,” I heard her say rather stiff. “Whyever should I do a thing such as that for?”

It wasn’t till then that I began to feel realy uneasy. “You may have done it unbeknown,” I says. “Anyway, those I’ve brought back are the living images of yours, so for mercy’s sake see if it isn’t mine as you’ve got.”

“They’ve run upstairs now,” she says, “and I certainly haven’t noticed any difference. But just to ease your mind, I’ll go and take a look at them, and you hold on to the line till I come back.” I didn’t see no line, but I held on to that trumpet, and hours it seemed before I heard her voice again, though less distinct. But I made out, though even then I couldn’t hardly credit it, that it was her children all right, and she’d just given them their supper, and didn’t see no reason for worrying.

“My good woman,” I says, “how am I to help worrying? Can’t you understand my position? If your children are all right, it’s more than mine are. They’re turned into reglar little charikter cures!”

She anserd back rather short that, whatever they were, it didn’t lay with me to find fault, having ony myself to thank for it. I says, “What do you mean?”

“Didn’t you say yourself,” she says, “as you wished you had children more like mine? Now you’ve got ’em, so you’d better make the best of them.”

“Anser me,” I says, “you don’t think that Cunjeror’s cake had anythink to do with it? It wasn’t more than just a morsel I took.”

It may have been somethink inside that tellephone, but it sounded like her laughing, and then she said somethink about parties not always liking to be took at their word. “You might have some feelinks,” I said, “instead of ony jeering, and me in such a state of mind as I am! I don’t know who or what these children are now, and however I’m to break it to their poor Pa and Ma, I can’t think!”

The instrument began buzzing and popping louder than ever, but as far as I could hear, she advised me to keep calm, and put up with it, as it was too late now, and if they came round next morning no need to tell their parents anythink, and I was just telling her what I thought about her taking it so heartless — for how did she know if the poor children would ever “come round” as she called it, when she rung off sudden, and not another word could I get through to her.

I was more dead than alive when I got up to the Day Nursery, and none of the usual racket there, but them three setting wispering together as wierd as whiches. “For goodness sake,” I says, “don’t stare at me so owlish! Can’t you beyave more like yourselves, even if you don’t look it?”

For my idea was that they were still my Miss Stella and Molly and Master Rupert, in spite of being altered so, but as I stood there it come upon me all of a sudden that it was worse even than that. Those three were nothink else but changelings, sent to fill their places as a judgment on me, and what is more they knew it, and the thought of it set me a-trembling from head to foot. They feature the little Poseners, it is true, and dressed much the same though more fantastickle — but, even if I did not know that the real little Poseners were safe at home, I could tell by the unearthly looks and ways of them that they were never no human children!

Their names are enough, for not knowing what to call them, I asked, and the eldest girl’s, according to her, is “Mellysand,” and the other’s “Easold,” and the boy’s “Sintrim,” which I could have sworn they had never been cristened, and they own to it.

I tried to get out of them where my poor Stella and Rupert and MoHy had been sperited away to, but it was no good, they ony snickered and asked if I wasn’t pleased to have them instead, being more what I liked children to be, which made me downright shudder.

Nor yet they wouldn’t say when the change was made, but my belief is it was while we were in the motor on the way home; for I remember noticing them quiver while I was scolding of them, but being so wropt up, their cloaks and that prevented me discovering the alteration till later.

In what had been Master Rupert’s overcoat I found a quantity of rings and pins and broaches off the crackers, but that Sintrim and his sisters wouldn’t have nothink to do with them, saying they were ony shams, and shams was bad art, which of course it is not likely that changelings would care for innercent things such as crackers, which Master Rupert and Miss Stella and Molly had used to think a deal of.

I knew Dorcas the undernurse would be up soon with the supper-tray, so I slipped out and waited for her at the top of the servants’ stairs. “Dorcas,” I says, “if the children aren’t quite what you’d expect, remember it’s not your place either to show surprise nor yet pass remarks. Above all, as you value your place, not a word below-stairs.”

Which she promised faithful — but all the same, when she came in and see them three looking that old at her, I thought she would have dropped the tray. But to do the girl justice, she said nothink, though it would have made your blood run cold as it did ours to hear the way they went on about their food, asking if the milk had been sterialised, and talking of basilisks and microbuses as seem to be a sort of imps that they know quite familiar. Aperently Changelings are brought up on some stuff called Protides, and their drink Snattergin, which spirits may suit them but would be poison for any human children.

Next they took notice of Dorcas wearing large round spectacles, as the being that calls himself Sintrim told her was caused by aridity, and her Pa and Ma both having poor sight. “They never ought to have married one another,” he says, and seeing the poor girl put out of countenance, I told him to hush and not talk about subjects that were not fit for the likes of him. But he declared that it was a subject he’d been taught to know all about. “If I’m not careful about my elth,” he says, nodding at me like some little gobling, “I can’t expeck when I grow up to have elthy children.”

They wouldn’t say no grace after meals, as they told me they hadn’t been brought up to believe in it, being little Acrostics, which it upset me to hear at the time, though after all ony to be expected from such.

After supper I told Dorcas she could put the youngest of them to bed, letting the other two stay up half an hour, and amuse themselves. But all they did was to set down by the fire-guard and talk mysterous below their breath, and when in their bedrooms would have the windows wide open — why, unless for convenence if the fancy took them to fly off wherever they came from, I can’t think. It was against all my prinsiples, but I let them have their way, for indeed it would be a relief to find them gone by morning, if only Miss Stella and Molly and Master Rupert could be sent in their place.

Having written so far, I have just been into the night nurseries, hoping against hope to find they had changed, but no difference at present, except that when asleep anyone who did not know might almost have took them for the real little Poseners, ony a very little salower and more wisend like in the face.

But after reading this account you, dear and Rev. Sir, cannot doubt that whichcraft in some shape and form have been employed, as it cannot be denied there are whitches in the Old Testament, so why not in these days if less frequent? I know for a fact from Mamsell Berth, the French maid, as Mrs. Dering herself, who was educated most expensive, ocashunaly consults soothsayers and such in Bond Street, though never did I expect myself to be brought in contack with Powers of Darkness, least of all, in the form of Changelings!

It may be that you have never been called upon to deal with a simular case before, but being a clergyman, Rev. Sir, you will certainly know some way of exercising these unwholy little creatures, for it cannot be any more difficult than laying ghosts, which has often been performed by bishops when required. But if that is too much to ask, I shall be thankful for your advice and suport in this aweful triall, if you will kindly step round tomorrow as soon as you can and see these changelings with your own eyes if still to be seen. I shall endevor to keep the matter quiet as long as possible, and not write to Mrs. Dering till I see or hear from you, but I feel that I cannot stand the strane of it much longer, being half distracted as it is, so do not delay a moment longer than you can help.

Yours respecfully with Duty,

Jane Busbridge

LETTER No. 2

From the Same to the Same.

Wednesday Morning, Jan. 5th.

Rev. and Dear Sir, — Percy the knifeboy have just returned with the news that you had returned to the Rectory yesterday aftemoon, which it came as a dreadful blow, though promised my letter would be sent on immediate for there have been no change for the better since I last wrote. The three are now up, and I have made them put on Miss Stella’s and the others’ morning clothes, which sights is no word for them, yet I must say they do not look quite so unhuman as overnight, leading me to believe that they may praps not be changelings as I thought, but my Miss Stella and Molly and Master Rupert, ony altered like them little Poseners as I was wicked enough to wish for.

I have done the girls’ hair loose, though thin compared to what it was, which was lions’ manes for quantity, and at times I half think I ketch a look of their old selves. And I’d sooner it was so than think they were somewheres else, but otherwise small comfort. If it is realy Master Rupert, he certainly does not look the little gentleman he did in his tweed Norfok jacket and nickers. But they won’t own to any other names but the ones they give themselves last night, and my apinion is that they have no reelection of what they once were. Not a mouthful would they eat at brekfast of their nice olesome poridge and golden sirup, saying that they were accustomed to some outlandish fruit called “grapenuts,” nor yet they won’t touch any animile food, which will mean trouble with Cook, who is short-tempered at the best of times, when I have to arrange about the Nursery dinner.

What I went through with them at brekfast I cannot describe, putting questions to me and Dorcas such as “would I call it more corect to say: ‘The yoke of eggs are white, or is white?’” which of course I gave it in favour of “are,” when they cakled that impish and told me they always thought the yoke of an egg was yellow. And finding fault with my grammar, which they never would if their natural selves, and so gahstly polite with it all I dursn’t hardly open my mouth at last!

They always have three quarters of a hour after brekfast to amuse themselves before lessons begin, but from the way these went on I am in horid doubts again whether they can be anythink excep changelings, and if so, what may not my own poor dear lambs be suffering this moment wherever they may be? These girls ony just looked into the dolls house, and turned away, saying the rooms was papered so unartistic it made them downright ill, and the Sintrim thing wouldn’t put on Master Rupert’s toy elmet and curass and sword, because he said they ony excited some evil spirit as he calls “Millitrism” and has been taught to beware of.

It frightened me to hear him also declaring there were things he named as “jurms” lurking behind the pictures as arbored them, and advising me to have them took down, likewise objecting to their subjecs being mostly sporting, and telling me if he had his way he would put a stop to pursecuting a poor armless thing like a fox. And to think that ony last September, when at his grandpapa’s place, Master Rupert came home from cub-unting his first day with the brush tied to his cob’s bridal, and Miss Stella, so Checkley the coachman has often told me, with as pretty a seat and hands as he ever saw on a child.

But none of these will even get on the rocking-orse for fear of spraning themselves internal. They are now laying flat on the floor practicing somethink they call “deep brething,” and whether mearly transformed or Changelings in the true sense of the word, I cannot see how the unhappy parents can ever get reckonsiled to finding them so diferent.

I still trust that when you arrive you will find some means of restoring them to their proper selves and save me being compelled to write to Mrs. Dering and break the callamity.

I must now stop, dear and Rev. Sir, as I must go down and intersept Miss Marlow the daily governess and send her away, for let her see the children as they are I dare not, for I do not trust her discression, being but a young person and sure to let the cat out of the bag if given the chance. So I shall get this posted at once, and write again should anythink fresh develop, though hoping to see you before then if you take the next train to town after getting my first letter, as I beg and pray you will do, for you will surely reconise that there is somethink unhalowed in all this, which who knows but a few sollem words from you would put to flight with Duty.

Yours respecfully,

Jane Busbridge

From the Same to the Same.

Wednesday Evening, Jan. 5th.

Dear and Rev. Sir, — Not having seen or heard from you I hope you have recieved the wire I sent to say all was now well and unnecessary to trouble you further. I will now go on from where I left off, or I shall ony get everythink mixt up.

As soon as I see Miss Marlow from the Dining-room winder I went and let her in myself, taking her into the Libry, right at the back of the house, and explaining as Miss Stella and Master Rupert wouldn’t be able to have their lessons in consequent of having been to a party overnight. That didn’t satisfy her, as it should have done, coming from me, and question on question did she put as to what was the matter with them, and me on tenderhooks to get rid of her. I was that worn out with the strain that I had to leave her to let herself out of the house, for go as far as the hall I could not, but forced to set down on the libry sofa. I couldn’t have been there above a minute or two when the libry door opened, and all of a sudden who should walk in but Lady Wantley, as is own sister to Mrs. Dering, and living close by in Queen’s Gate. I jumped up with my heart in my mouth.

“Oh, my lady,” I says, “I wasn’t aware you’d called, not having heard the visitors’ bell.” …

“Miss Marlow was just leaving the house as I come up the steps,” she says, “and told me I should find you here. And I should like to know what all this means about the children being too unwell to have their lessons?”

I told her they seemed a little out of sorts, and I’d considered it best not to have them troubled with the govemess that morning.

“Really,” she says. “Then I had better go up and have a look at them.”

“I wouldn’t indeed, your ladyship,” I says, feeling all in a pulpitation. “I’d sooner they were kep quiet for the present.”

She looks at me very sharp. “Busbridge,” she says, “you’re keeping somethink from me. You’d better tell me the truth at once.”

“Whatever it is, my lady,” I told her, “I do assure you it’s nothink infecshus. But, indeed, while they’re like this they didn’t ought to see visitors, however near relations.”

“Nonsense!” she says, in her masterful way. “I don’t believe a single word you’ve said, and as I promised your mistress to keep an eye on them I am going up to the nursery immejit.”

And out she sweeps into the hall, and was halfway up the first flight of stairs before I could move a step to stop her. It wasn’t till the second landing that I caught her up. “My lady,” I says, half beside myself, “it’s nothink but my duty to tell your ladyship—”

“I do not wish to hear another word from you,” she says. “I intend to see into this myself.” And on she goes, making straight for the nursery.

“But your ladyship must hear me!” I says. “I can’t let such a shock burst on you unprepared. You won’t find the children like what you expect. Who and what they now are is not for me to say — but they’ve changed too awful for words!”

“Don’t talk rubbadge,” was all she said, and flung open the Day Nursery door, and storked in, with me after her. “Where on earth have you come from?” I heard her beginning, and I was just about to try to tell her when I stopped sudden.

For I’d seen that them three children weren’t Changelings no longer, but my very own Miss Stella and Master Rupert and Miss Molly, and dressed too the same as they’d been at the party.

“My darlings,” I says, rushing at them, “I’ve got you back at last. I knew the dear good Rector was to be depended on to do it if possible!” (thinking, dear and Rev. Sir, that you might have interseded even if in the country). And I hugged them close, and they hugged me, and I all but broke down with the relief of it.

“I understood you to say, nurse,” said her ladyship, “that the children were unwell. They appear to me to be in their usual health.”

“They do now, my lady,” I says, “and thank Heaven for it. But if your ladyship had only seen them — or I should say what was supposed to reperesent them — not a quarter of a hour ago.”

“I did see them,” she says; “they drove past me in a four-wheel cab with a portmanter on top. And I should be glad to hear how you reconsile that with what you told Miss Marlow and me about their being too ill to have their lessons.”

I don’t know what I should have said, but just then the door to the Night Nurseries opened, and in came that Posener nurse with them three as I’d took for Changelings, looking less strange now they’d got their own morning clothes on, though still old-fashioned enough.

“And pray who are these young people?” asks her ladyship.

“It’s Mellysand and Easold and Sintrim Posener, Aunt,” puts in Miss Stella; “you see, we agreed to change nurseries just for the night because — well, for fun, you know. We shouldn’t have done it only we knew it would please Nana.”

And then it all came out. Miss Stella and Master Rupert had talked over them little Poseners into exchanging wraps with them and getting into the motor while me and the other nurse were out of the way, me busy in the housekeeper’s room and her sent upstairs on a wild goose hunt for a mitting that hadn’t never been lost.

“What I can’t understand,” says her ladyship, “is why you two nurses, when you discovered the trick these naughty children had played, didn’t bring them back last night.”

“Miss and Master Derings kep so quiet in the cab,” says the Posener nurse, “that I hadn’t found them out when Miss Busbridge rung me up on the tellephone last night, and at first I couldn’t believe she wasn’t joking. Then I went up and saw it was true enough, but they begged so hard to stay, and it being a long drive from West Hampstead to Prince’s Gardens and back I took on myself to tell Miss Busbridge that her children were all right, and it was too late to change now, so the ony thing to do was to make the best of it, and they should come round this morning.”

That was her story, and all I can say is that it’s a pity she couldn’t speak more distink, for it stands to reason that if I’d understood her correct I should have been spared all this anxiety and trouble. But my own belief is that woman did it delibrit, to pay me out for being so short with her at the party. I heard that little Sintrim telling Miss Stella that they’d done azactly as she’d told them, and kep the secret.

“But your nurse,” he says, “didn’t seem so glad to have us as what you said she would,” says he, “and we much prefer our own nursery.”

“So do we ours,” says Miss Stella. “And as for your medsin, it’s simply beasly!”

I can’t say I was sorry to find they’d had things to put up with, though the medsin (as I took leave to tell the Posener nurse) was a liberty all the same with other parties’ children, even if ever so armless a seditive.

“To tell you the truth, Miss Busbridge,” she says, “I thought they’d better have somethink to quiet them down after playing ‘Peter Pan’ and pillerfighting till I don’t know how late. I’ve not been used to such perceedings.”

“I can well believe it,” I says. “There was no pillerfighting here last night, nor yet being Pirits out of ‘Peter Pan,’ which I don’t expect your young ladies and gentleman was ever took to.”

“They did go once,” she told me, “but came home low-spirited at having acted a falsehood by clapping their hands out of perliteness as a sign they believed in fairies, which they do not, knowing they are fabulus. They’re wonderful grown up and thoughtful compared to your children, owing to being brought up by sistim,” she says.

“I noticed it,” I says, “and, if you’ll excuse the remark, they’d be none the worse if they didn’t think quite so much of their little sistims and what’s going on inside of them.”

But I will say that them little Poseners thanked me pretty enough on going away, hoping as they’d been good and hadn’t given me no trouble, though the load off my mind when I’d seen the last of them no words can describe! Even now I can’t believe but what that Cunjeror hadn’t a finger in it somehow, for his eyes were like no ordinary eyes, nor yet his cake.

Not a word have I said to Miss Stella and the other two on what I have been thro since yesterday evening. But I’m afraid they have guest that I’ve had a warning against rash wishing as will last me for life. Her ladyship have give them a good talking to, though I could see more amused than downright angry, and promising not to tell their parents, which I have likewise agreed to say nothink. I am sure, dear and Rev. sir, you will excuse me for taking up your valuable time, and be glad to hear that your services are no longer required, the children being quite themselves again, and having their tea with Duty.

Yours respecfully,

Jane Busbridge

“Strand Magazine,” 1910.

Our War-Wedding Present

My wife’s niece, Adeline, has been engaged for nearly a year, but, her soldier-fiancé being away at the Front ever since, their marriage seemed so remote that we had never given a thought to the problem of what we were to give them as a wedding-present. Last week we heard that he was coming over almost immediately for a fortnight, and that they were to be married the day after his arrival. This was rather short notice, but fortunately, as we then thought, we discovered in our Stores catalogue an illustration of a “Food-warmer for Table Use. Hammered copper top. One lamp. Price 26s. 6d.,” which we decided was as suitable an offering for a young couple as we could reasonably afford in these times. It might, to be sure, be a long while before they would be able to enjoy the benefit of it; but then any gift for their joint use was open to that objection.

As, according to my wife, it was not so very much out of my way to Whitehall, I was deputed to go to the Stores myself, purchase the food-warmer, and order it to be forwarded to the Rectory at once, with one of our cards, on which she had written, “With fondest love and best wishes.”

Considering that I had faithfully executed both this commission and another with which I had been entrusted, I own I found it a little hard to be received by her, on my return home that evening, with the complaint that I really was the most hopeless person to ask to do anything. It appeared that the food-warmer had just been delivered at our own house, and without the card of good wishes that should have accompanied it.

“My dear Julia,” I said, “I did all I could. I gave them Adeline’s address at the Rectory as plainly as possible. But, after all, you’ve only to send the food-warmer on to her.”

“And pay the carriage myself!” she said. “But that’s not all, Peter. You forgot about ordering those things on the list I gave you. I thought that, as there was such a lot of them, there might be mistakes if I ordered them on the telephone. But even that would have been better than not getting them at all.”

“There again,” I remonstrated, “you are too hasty, Julia. I did not forget anything. I was rather in a hurry to get to the office, so I handed your list to the assistant in charge of the food-warmers, and he promised to see that it was attended to.”

“I am sure you must have made some muddle,” she insisted, “because they’ve sent the food-warmer to us — even you can’t deny that, Peter. And I shouldn’t be in the least surprised if all those articles I wanted for the home have gone to that poor girl, with our card of best wishes!”

I pointed out that such a double mistake was highly improbable, though the Stores were no doubt short-handed owing to the War — which was enough to account for any slight delay.

However, on the following evening the last post brought a letter for Julia, which, after reading, she passed on to me in significant silence. It was from Adeline, and as follows:

“Dearest Aunt Julia, — How perfectly ripping of you and Uncle Peter to send us such loads of things, and all of them exactly what I was longing for! I simply adore the ducky little white rug, with ‘Bath Mat’ on it in heavenly blue letters; and so will dear Jack when he is here to see it. And I know he will love, as I do, that most ingenious mouse-trap and insist on taking it back with him to his dug-out, where the rats have been such a nuisance to him, poor darling. I dare say he sometimes has time for afternoon tea in the trenches, and then the charming ‘anti-incrustator’ for collecting ‘fur’ in kettles will be a real boon and blessing. So, when he is in billets away from the firing-line, will be the pretty little packets of bath-mustard. It was too dear and clever of you to have thought of all that. The dainty kitchen-shovel, the egg-whisk and artistic scullery tidy have set me longing for the day when I shall have a kitchen of my own to do honour to them. As for your other delightful gifts — the tins of powder-monkey and Harebell polish, the bars of household soap, the box of soup squares, the divine jar of pickled walnuts, those sweet little blacklead cubes, the bag of tapioca-flakes, and, above all, that fascinating bottle of horse-radish cream, they are all set out on one of the shelves in my den, and every now and then I absolutely have to rush upstairs to gloat over them. Altogether, I really can’t find words to express my gratitude to you and dear Uncle Peter. If only our other wedding-presents were as refreshingly original and unconventional as yours are! Would you believe it? We have already been given no fewer than four food-warmers. All of them in hammered copper, too!”

“Well,” I said, as I finished the letter, “Adeline seems satisfied, anyhow” (though I couldn’t help thinking she had laid it on just a trifle thick). “So that’s all right. And all those years we’ve been married we’ve never had a food-warmer. Now we can keep this one, and I shall no longer come down to breakfast and find my eggs-and-bacon stone-cold.”

“I’m afraid,” said Julia grimly, “you will continue to find them so, Peter, because I sent that food-warmer off to Adeline this afternoon.”

We have not heard again from Adeline as yet.

“Punch,” 1916.

Jillings

I have always been very fond and proud of my niece Celia. With an exceptionally attractive appearance and a personal fascination that is irresistible she combines the sweetest and most unselfish nature it has ever been my good fortune to meet. Indeed, she has so excessive a consideration for the feelings of everybody but herself that she drifts into difficulties which she might have avoided by a little more firmness. As, for example, in the case of Jillings. Celia and Jack have been married six years; he is about twelve years older than she, and a capital good fellow, though he is said to have rather a violent temper. But he has never shown it with Celia — nobody could. Jack had left the army on his marriage and settled down in a pretty little place in Surrey, but of course rejoined as soon as the War broke out. So long as he was in training with his regiment she took rooms in the neighbourhood, but when he was ordered to the Front about a year ago she and the children returned to the Surrey home, and it was then that Celia engaged Jillings as parlourmaid. I saw her shortly afterwards when I went down to stay for a night, and was struck by the exuberant enthusiasm with which she waited — not over-efficiently — at table. Celia remarked afterwards that Jillings was a little inexperienced as yet, but so willing and warm-hearted, and with such a sensitively affectionate disposition that the least hint of reproof sufficed to send her into a flood of tears.

I had no idea then — nor had Celia — how much inconvenience and embarrassment can be produced by a warm-hearted parlour-maid. Jillings’ devotion did not express itself in a concrete form until Celia’s birthday, and the form it took was that of an obese and unimaginably hideous pincushion which mysteriously appeared on her dressing-table. Old and attached servants are in the habit of presenting their employers on certain occasions with some appropriate gift, and no one would be churlish enough to discourage so kindly a practice. But Jillings, it must be owned, was beginning it a bit early. However, Celia thanked her as charmingly as though she had been longing all her life for exactly such a treasure. Still, it was not only unnecessary but distinctly unwise to add that it should be placed in her wardrobe for safety, as being much too gorgeous for everyday use. Because all she gained by this consummate tact was another pincushion, not quite so ornate, perhaps,but even cruder in colour, and this she was compelled to assign a prominent position among her toilet accessories.

These successes naturally encouraged Jillings to further efforts. Celia had the misfortune one day to break a piece of valuable old porcelain which had stood on her drawing-room mantelpiece, whereupon the faithful Jillings promptly replaced the loss by a china ornament purchased by herself. Considered merely as an article of vertu it was about on a par with the pincushions, but Celia accepted it in the spirit with which it had been offered. And, warned by experience, she did not lock it up in the obscurity of a cabinet, nor contrive that some convenient accident should befall it, wisely preferring “to bear those ills she had than to fly to others,” etc. And so it still remains a permanent eyesore on her mantel-shelf.

Then it seemed that Jillings, who, by the way, was not uncomely, had established friendly relations with one of the gardeners at the big house of the neighbourhood — with the result that Celia found her sitting-rooms replenished at frequent intervals with the most magnificent specimens of magnolia, tuberose, stephanotis and gardenia. Unfortunately she happens to be one of those persons whom any strongly scented flowers afflict with violent headache. But she never mentioned this for fear of wounding Jillings’ susceptibilities. Luckily, Jillings and the under-gardener fell out in a fortnight.

As was only to be expected, the other servants, being equally devoted to their mistress, could not allow Jillings to monopolize the pride and glory of putting her under an obligation. Very soon a sort of competition sprang up, each of them endeavouring to out-do the other in giving Celia what they termed, aptly enough, “little surprises,” till they hit upon the happy solution of clubbing together for the purpose. Thus Celia, having, out of the kindness of her heart, ordered an expensive lace hood for the baby from a relation of the nurse’s at Honiton, was dismayed to discover, when the hood arrived, that it was already paid for and was a joint gift from the domestics. After that she felt, being Celia, that it would be too ungracious to insist upon refunding the money.

It was not until I was staying with her last Spring that I heard of all these excesses. But at breakfast on Easter Sunday not only did Celia, Tony, and the baby each receive an enormous satin egg filled with chocolates, but I was myself the recipient of one of these seasonable tokens, being informed by the beaming Jillings that “we didn’t want you, Sir, to feel you’d been forgotten.” By lunch-time it became clear that she had succeeded in animating at least one of the local tradesmen with this spirit of reckless liberality. For when Celia made a mild inquiry concerning a sweetbread which she had no recollection of having ordered Jillings explained, with what I fear I must describe as a self-conscious smirk, that it was “a little Easter orfering from the butcher, Madam.” I am bound to say that even Celia was less scrupulous about hurting the butcher’s feelings — no doubt from an impression that his occupation must have cured him of any over-sensitiveness.

As soon as we were alone she told me all she had been enduring, which it seemed she had been careful not to mention in her letters to Jack. “I simply can’t tell you, Uncle,” she concluded pathetically, “how wearing it is to be constantly thanking somebody for something I’d ever so much rather be without. And yet — what else can I do?”

I suggested that she might strictly forbid all future indulgence in these orgies of generosity, and she supposed meekly that she should really have to do something of that sort, though we both knew how extremely improbable it was that she ever would.

This morning I had a letter from her. Jack had got leave at last and she was expecting him home that very aftemoon, so I must come down and see him before his six days expired. “I wish now,” she went on, “that I had taken your advice, but it was so difficult somehow. Because ever since I told Jillings and the others about Jack’s coming home they have been going about smiling so importantly that I’m horribly afraid they’re planning some dreadful surprise, and I daren’t ask them what. Now I must break off, as I must get ready to go to the station with Tony and meet dear Jack.…”

Then followed a frantic postscript. “I know now! They’ve dressed poor Tony up in a little khaki uniform that doesn’t even fit him! And, what’s worse, they’ve put up a perfectly terrible triumphal arch over the front gate, with ‘Hail to our Hero’ on it in immense letters. They all seem so pleased with themselves — and anyway there’s no time to alter anything now. But I don’t know what Jack will say.”

I don’t either, but I could give a pretty good guess. I shall see him and Celia tomorrow. But I shall be rather surprised if I see Jillings.

“Punch,” 1916

On An Old-Fashioned
Children’s Book

“The History of the Fairchild Family;
or, The Child’s Manual”

It is probable enough that this book, although the first part of it was published so long ago as 1818, will be familiar to many who read this article, and even to some who may not have to go back very far to recall their childhood. For it has enjoyed a wide popularity with several generations of child-readers, and, as a new edition of it was published so recently as 1889, may still retain a certain vogue at the present day. The purpose of the author, Mrs. Sherwood, as expressed upon the title-page, was “to show the Importance and Effects of a Religious Education,” and the whole tone is highly moral and religious, each chapter being so constructed as to lead up inevitably to a prayer and a hymn — which I fear readers have too generally adopted an unprincipled habit of skipping. But in many ways it is a curious and remarkable book, and I doubt whether, with all its didactic piety, the most secular-minded child can ever have found it dull.

The family consisted of Mr. and Mrs. Fairchild, their three children, and two servants, John and Betty. They lived in the country, and it does not appear that Mr. Fairchild had any particular occupation, except being oppressively good. His means were modest, his tastes simple, his chief recreation was to sit on a hill under some chestnut trees, “and read his Bible alone, with nothing to disturb him”; for (and here we note one of the advantages of being truly virtuous) “the singing of the little birds in the trees was no disturbance to him.” When he took his children for a walk, he never omitted an opportunity of giving a religious turn to the conversation; should they come upon a lamb, they were instantly bidden to remember of Whom it was a type — and the appearance of a wood-pigeon provoked an inevitable allusion to the Third Person in the Trinity. In short, Mr. Fairchild’s discourse invariably consisted of what irreverent youths would describe as “pi-jaw”; he was a kind of married Mr. Barlow, without his fund of general information — indeed, I suspect that Mr. Fairchild would have considered Master Harry and Tommy’s Tutor as rather worldly, and culpably remiss in not sufficiently impressing upon his pupils the corruption and depravity of their own hearts.

Mr. Fairchild, as he is presented to us in the first part, seldom or never smiles; a joke would have afforded him exquisite suffering, had there been any neighbours capable of such an outrage upon his feelings, which, fortunately for all concerned, there were not. He would certainly have capped any attempt at levity with a suitable text. On one occasion only would he seem to possess any degree of earthly weakness, and that was when they were making a sort of saintly picnic, and amongst the dainties which the children spread out on the cloth, was “a bottle of beer for their papa.” But it was probably ginger-beer, or some even less alcoholic beverage; and, however this may be, we are not informed that he drank all or any of it.

Mrs. Fairchild was as solemn and instructive as her husband, though (in a strictly modified sense, of course) she was a lady with a Past. There had been a time, as she informed her children, when “if she could but escape punishment, she did not care what naughty things she did.” In those unregenerate days, she would pinch Shock, her aunt’s lapdog, or pull his tail (but surely an aunt’s lapdog is hostis humani generis and fair game!), and she also“used the cat ill.” When she smashed a blue china plate, she caught the unfortunate cat and shut it up in a room with the fragments, in order that suspicion should fall upon the innocent, and she was callous enough to be “glad when puss was beaten instead of me.” She was also addicted to stealing sugar and sweetmeats, and — which is even more reprehensible — was “fond of going into the kitchen, sitting on the coachman’s knee, and eating toasted cheese and bread soaked in ale.” Her object in making these confessions was to prove that all children’s hearts are naturally corrupt; but, judging by subsequent events, her early indiscretions would appear to have been regarded by her offspring rather as precedents than as warnings.

It is pleasing to find that both Mr. and Mrs. Fairchild had a becoming reverence for superior rank and station. Some worldly neighbours, “Sir Charles Noble and his lady,” who “were very proud and their children were not brought up in the fear of God,” used to invite the Fairchilds twice a year to come with their children and spend the day, an invitation which was as regularly accepted, because, as Mrs. Fairchild very properly remarked on one such occasion, “as Sir Charles Noble has been so kind as to ask us, we must not offend him by refusing to go.” When they went, “Lady Noble did not take much notice of Mrs. Fairchild when she came in, although she ordered a servant to set a chair for her.” After tea, “several tables were set out, and ladies and gentlemen began to make parties for playing at cards”; but “as Mr. and Mrs. Fairchild never played at cards, they asked for their coach”; and Mr. Fairchild “when he was got into the coach with his wife and children,” said: “Well, my dear, I am very glad this day is over, and that we are going back to our own comfortable home, where we can serve God in peace.” To which Mrs. Fairchild replied, “Alas! I am sorry for Lady Noble; she loves the world too well, and all its fine things.”

There is a refreshing touch of nature in this, and also in the statement that, on Sundays, “at dinner, Mr. Fairchild would not allow his family to talk about any of the business of the weekday, nor even to talk of their neighbours.” But they “found enough pleasant discourse in speaking of what they had heard in the church, or of what had happened in the school; which of the children were improved, and who said the Catechism best, and who got rewards, and such things,” so that the restriction was less felt.

If, as we have already seen, good Mrs. Fairchild was by no means blind to her hostess’s little feelings, she had quite as keen an eye (on week days) for those of her guests. One day an unregenerate family of the name of Crosbie came to dine with them, though not to sleep, “for Mr. Crosbie was in haste to be at home, and would not stay, although Mr. and Mrs. Fairchild begged that they would, at least till the next day.” But, unaccountable as it seems, the Crosbies preferred sleeping at “the next inn upon the London road,” and as soon as they were gone, Mrs. Fairchild summed up their respective peculiarities with admirable candour for the benefit of her two little girls. “Every individual of our friend Mr. Crosbie’s family has a very strong besetting sin,” she observed with judicial impartiality. “Mr. Crosbie loves eating, Mrs. Crosbie is ill-tempered, Miss Crosbie is vain and fond of finery, and Miss Betsy is very pert and forward.” Not unnaturally, perhaps, the little girls felt encouraged to follow their mamma’s lead by comments of their own, but were pulled up sharply by a reminder that “I do not speak of our poor friends’ faults out of malice, or for the sake of making a mockery of them, but to show you how people may live in the constant practice of one particular sin, without being at all conscious of it, and perhaps thinking themselves very good all the time.”

Which, when one comes to reflect, is the sole reason why we ever do speak of “our poor friends’ faults” behind their backs, after entertaining them at the festive board! One would have liked to hear what these poor Crosbies said about the Fairchilds on their way home. But this we are not told: either because their private opinions were considered too uncharitable for publication. or else, it may be, because they were so sinful and worldly that it never even occurred to them to be censorious.

The children were: Lucy, aged nine; Emily, about seven or eight; and Henry, five and a half, at the time the story opens; and, as might be expected, they were all three prodigies of juvenile piety. All three could — and did — repeat from memory long passages of Scripture on the slightest encouragement, and frequently with none at all. “Papa,” says Henry once, during a lesson on the use of the globe (whereon the children’s chief anxiety is to discover the exact site of the Garden of Eden), “I can repeat the verses in Genesis about Paradise.” Which he incontinently proceeds to do. “Papa,” pleads Lucy, “may we say some verses about mankind having bad hearts?” and this innocent gratification is of course permitted them. “Oh,” says Emily, during another geographical lesson, “and I know what the children of Noah did in the plains of Shinar!” whereupon she proves her knowledge by quoting Genesis xi. I-9, with singular accuracy. “Papa,” she asks later, “is not this verse made about the Heathen?” and need it be said that she is perfectly correct in her assumption? Lucy said: “Papa, I fear from what you say, that there are very few real, true Christians,” and Henry expressed a fear on another occasion that his aunts were not gone to Heaven. “Oh! papa, what pretty verses!” exclaims Lucy again, on hearing a long quotation from Hebrews xi. 4-6, 32-40; and she asks her mamma if she knows any prayer against besetting sins — an emergency for which Mrs. Fairchild was fortunately prepared.

Little Henry entrusted John the servant with a penny to invest for him at the fair in a storybook, and, separating two uncut leaves at the end of the book, was boyishly delighted to discover — imagine what! — “a very pretty prayer against covetousness and a hymn.” When he heard that the name of Lucy’s book was “The History of the Good Child, Who by God’s Blessing Turned his Father and Mother to Christ,” “Oh, that must be very pretty!” said Henry; one fancies, with a sigh of regret that circumstances had denied him similar opportunities.

On Sunday, when arrived at the mature age of six, he went to the boys’ school, where he had “six little boys to hear,” and “generally contrived to be two hours at school before it was time to go to church.” Henry “walked by his little boys and sat with them at church, to find their places in their Psalters and to see that they behaved well; and Emily and Lucy kept by their little girls for the same purpose.” And after church, “Henry in particular had a little favourite shady path in the coppice, where scarcely any person ever came excepting two old women, and there you might see him walking up and down, praying or singing 76An Old-Fashioned Children’s Book his hymns till he was called to dinner.” His favourite companion was little Charles Trueman, “one of the most pious little boys in all that country” — who died young.

Now, one might have supposed that children endowed with such preternaturally good dispositions as the above extracts denote, would have risen superior to the ordinary failings of infancy, and that their faults would be as rare as insipid, but — and in this appears the author’s knowledge of human nature, and here perhaps is a partial explanation of the undeniable charm of the book — Lucy, Emily, and Henry, the moment they are out of range of the parental eye, get into mischief with delightful frequency and verve. There is a natural fascination, not confined perhaps to the ungodly, in hearing of the wickedness of others, and when this is enhanced by the abnormal goodness of the sinners on ordinary occasions, the tale gains additional piquancy. Here is the Fairchild children’s record for a single day. Being left to their own devices, they began by staying in bed late: “Emily made babies of the pillows, and Lucy pulled off the sheets and tied them round her in imitation of Lady Noble’s long-trained gown.” They came down to breakfast “without saying their prayers” — (this provokes the suspicion that their delight in such exercises was not altogether spontaneous) — and without “washing themselves, combing their hair, making their bed, or doing any one thing they ought to have done” — which was human of them. At breakfast they overate themselves with buttered toast, and “had eaten so much that they could not learn with any pleasure,” and “began quarrelling, and would soon, I fear, have gone still further, if Henry had not spied a little pig in the garden.” So they all turned out to expel the little pig, and chased it down a lane and through a spring, until they were “up to their knees in mud and dirt.” The pig apparently got away, and they ran on till they came to the house of a fanner and his wife, whose names were Freeman, and who “were not people who lived in fear of God, neither did they bring up their children well; on which account Mr. Fairchild had often forbidden Lucy and Emily and Henry to go to their house.” However, Mrs. Freeman asked them to come in and dry themselves, which they did, whereupon she “gave them each a large piece of cake and something sweet to drink, which she said would do them good.” But it turned out to be cider and did not do them good, for “as they were never used to drink anything but water, it made them quite drunk for a little while.” Then, with red faces and severe headaches, they met John, to whom Lucy, “blushing, said, ‘We have been only playing in the lane. We have been nowhere else.’” Which, as Mrs. Sherwood justly observes, “was a sad lie — but one fault always leads to another.” After this they resolve to be good for the remainder of the day, and disobey their papa once more by swinging in the barn, against his express order. Emily falls out of the swing, and “her nose and one eye and her lip were terribly swelled, and two of her teeth were out.”

So Emily finishes the evening in a little chair by the kitchen fire, and Lucy and Henry tied to the kitchen table with John’s blue pocket-handkerchief, “trembling from head to foot.” Small wonder that on their return their excellent parents “were very much shocked and looked very grave indeed”; for it would have been a fairly full day for much less exemplary children, with no instinctive appreciation of a “pretty prayer,” nor deep sense of the corruption of their own hearts.

Henry stole an apple from a tree, and lied like a little trooper afterwards, which, quite naturally, did not prevent him from being shocked and horrified when little Miss Augusta, Lady Noble’s disobedient daughter, stole two apples from her governess’s workbag, and shamelessly denied her guilt. Indeed, Henry would have denounced the culprit then and there, had not Lucy (who was, it must be admitted, like her sister, not given to telling tales) “put her hand upon his mouth.” Then Emily, carrying a jar of preserved “damascenes” (which I take to be the equivalent to damsons) to the store-closet, “perceived that it was tied down so loosely that she could put in her finger and get at the fruit.” Accordingly, on that and many subsequent occasions, she did put in her finger, and, like a famous nursery character, pulled out a plum: with the difference that, owing to the excellent training she had received, her remark was practically, “What a bad girl am I!” Witness her soliloquy: “There is nobody in this room,” she said, “and nobody sees me, it is true; but God is in this room; He sees me; His eye is now upon me; I cannot hide what I am going to do from Him; He knows everything, and He has power to cast me into hell. I will not take any more damascenes; I will go back, I think. But yet, as I am come so far, and am just got to the closet, I will just take one damascene — it shall be the last; I will never come here again without mamma’s leave.”

I am not at all attempting to hold this soliloquy up to ridicule; on the contrary, it seems to me quite admirable, absolutely true to nature, whether childish or adult. Which of us cannot remember making very similar resolutions, with about as much success, more than once in our lives? What I think must strike many readers, young or old, is the circumstance that all this exceptionally careful upbringing, this constant sense of being under the Divine observation, and this conviction of innate depravity should have proved so unavailing. Personally, though I accept it as by no means contrary to ordinary human experience, I am less sure than Mrs. Sherwood appears to have been that the incident is “calculated to show the Importance and Effects of a Religious Education” in her peculiar sense of the term.

Returning to Emily: of course she did take several more damascenes — in fact, she and the remaining pots of preserves were only saved from utter destruction by the merest accident: she spilt some red juice on her frock, and wetted it in trying, like Lady Macbeth or Mrs. Bluebeard, to wash out the tell-tale stains, accounting for her delay by the unconvincing explanation that she had been “playing with the cat,” and the wetting produced a chill, which resulted in a fever that all but cost her her life. And when she was out of danger, she said: “His eye was upon me all the time, and He made me feel His anger. And yet how good, how very good it was of Him not to send me to Hell for my wickedness! When I was ill, I might have died! And oh! mamma, mamma! what would have become of me then?” It is not surprising that Mrs. Fairchild “cried very much when she heard her little girl talk in this way”; but it is quite clear that she herself had no doubt whatever that “the great and dreadful God” to whom she taught her daughter to pray had only refrained by some extraordinary clemency from casting a child of seven or eight into “hell, the place which burns forever with fire and brimstone,” to be “tormented for ever and ever with the devil and his angels” for stealing some preserved damsons.

As for Mr. Fairchild, he carried his ideas of example and warning to an extreme which it is almost incredible that any parent in this or any other century could have thought necessary, as will appear from the following instance. One day Lucy, Emily, and Henry fell out about a doll, and it is painful to learn that “Lucy bit Emily’s arm, and Emily scratched her sister’s face,” while each declared she hated the other. They were surprised in the interchange of these amenities by Mr. Fairchild, who, “taking a rod out of the cupboard, whipped the hands of all three children until they smarted again,” repeating during the process certain not unfamiliar verses by the Reverend Doctor Watts. “After which he made them stand in the comer of the room, without their breakfasts: neither did they get anything to eat all the morning; and what was worse, their papa and mamma looked very gravely at them.”

So far, perhaps, the correction will not be thought excessive under the circumstances, but what followed is so extraordinary an illustration of parental firmness, that it can only be done justice by quotation in full:

Then Mr. Fairchild kissed his children and forgave them; and they kissed each other; and Mr. Fairchild gave them leave to dine with him as usual. After dinner, Mr. Fairchild said to his wife:

“I will take the children this evening to Blackwood, and show them something there which, I think, they will remember as long as they live: and I hope they will take warning from it and pray more earnestly for new hearts, that they may love each other with perfect and heavenly love.”

“If you are going to Blackwood,” said Mrs. Fairchild, “I cannot go with you, my dear, though I approve of your taking the children. Let John go with you to carry Henry part of the way, for it is too far for him to walk.”

“What is there at Blackwood, papa?” cried the children.

“Something very shocking,” said Mrs. Fairchild.

“There is one there,” said Mr. Fairchild, looking very grave, “who hated his brother.”

“Will he hurt us, papa?” asked Henry.

“No,” said Mr. Fairchild, “he cannot hurt you now.”

When the children and John were ready, Mr. Fairchild set out. They went down the lane nearly as far as the village; and then, crossing over a long field, they came to the side of a very thick wood.

“This is Blackwood,” said Mr. Fairchild, getting over the stile; “the pathway is almost grown up; nobody likes to come here now.”

“What is here, papa?” asked the children; “is it very shocking? We are afraid to go on.”

“There is nothing here that will hurt you, my dear children,” said Mr. Fairchild. “Am I not with you; and do you think I would lead my children into danger?”

“No, papa,” said the children; “but mamma said there was something very dreadful in this wood.”

Then Lucy and Emily drew behind Mr. Fairchild, and walked close together; and little Henry asked John to carry him. The wood was very thick and dark; and they walked on for half a mile, going down hill all the way. At last they saw by the light through the trees that they were come near to the end of the wood; and as they went farther on they saw an old garden gate wall; some parts of which being broken down, they could see, beyond, a large brick house, which, from the fashion of it, seemed as if it might have stood there some hundred years and now was fallen to ruin. The garden was overgrown with grass and weeds, the fruit trees wanted pruning, and it could hardly be seen where the walks had been. One of the old chimneys had fallen down, breaking through the roof of the house in one or two places; and the glass windows were broken near the place where the garden wall had fallen. Just between that and the wood stood a gibbet, on which the body of a man hung in chains: it had not yet fallen to pieces, although it had hung there some years. The body had on a blue coat, a silk handkerchief round the neck, with shoes and stockings, and every other part of the dress still entire; but the face of the corpse was so shocking, that the children could not look upon it.

As a piece of descriptive writing, this is a passage of which any author might be proud. It has a simplicity, a ghastly vividness, and an unobtrusive art in leading gradually up to the supreme horror which make it wonderfully powerful and effective. We see the hideous thing swinging there by the gloomy wood and ruined house, and the poor shrinking children coming suddenly upon it. But the horror is not yet wrought up to its highest point.

“Oh, papa, papa! What is that?” cried the children.

“That is a gibbet,” said Mr. Fairchild: “and the man who hangs upon it is a murderer; one who first hated, and afterwards killed his brother!”

While Mr. Fairchild was speaking, the wind blew strong and shook the body upon the gibbet, rattling the chains by which it hung.

“Oh, let us go, papa!” said the children, pulling Mr. Fairchild—s coat.

“Not yet,” said Mr. Fairchild; “I must tell you the history of that wretched man before we go from this place.” So saying, he sat down on the stump of an old tree, and the children gathered close round him.

It was the history of two boys, called Roger and James, and foolishly indulged by a widowed mother, who allowed no one to punish them. They quarrelled as boys, and hated each other as young men. At last Roger stabbed James with a case-knife, near the spot where the gibbet was erected. When Mr. Fairchild concluded:

“Oh, what a shocking story!” said the children; “and that poor wretch who hangs there is Roger, who hated his brother? Pray, let us go, papa.”

“We will go immediately,” said Mr. Fairchild; “but I wish first to point out to you, my dear children, that these brothers when they first began to quarrel in their play, as you did this morning, did not think that death and hell would be the end of their quarrels. Our hearts by nature, my dear children,” continued Mr. Fairchild, “are full of hatred.”

“Papa,” said Lucy, “let us kneel down in this place and pray for new hearts.”

“Willingly, my child,” said Mr. Fairchild. So he knelt upon the grass, and his children round him, and they afterwards all went home.

Conceive the state of mind that could devise such a horrible and nerve-shaking “object-lesson” as a judicious warning to three children (all under ten years of age, and the youngest only six), because, like all brothers and sisters who ever existed, they had lost their poor little tempers, and pummelled and bitten and scratched each other! As for the painful effect of such an incident upon the children who may read it, I cannot say that I know of any who were seriously affected by it; and indeed I fancy this particular scene was rather a favourite than otherwise. Most children like to read or hear of horrors, even at the price of the inevitable nightmare. Whether the horrors are good for them is another question, but it may, perhaps, be conceded that, save in very exceptional cases, they are unlikely to do them any particular or permanent harm.

The whole Fairchild family certainly seems to have had a decided taste for the gruesome. Some time after the Blackwood excursion, Mr. Fairchild came in from his walk with the news that old John Roberts, the gardener, had died the morning before, and that he himself had been to see the widow, and “upstairs to see the corpse.” Mrs. Fairchild immediately proposed to step over to the old gardener’s after dinner, and Lucy asks whether they may go too. Whereupon their papa remarked cheerily, “Have you any desire to see the corpse, my dears? You never saw a corpse, I think?” “No, papa,” answered Lucy; “but we should like to see one.” [It would appear from this that both father and children had already forgotten their visit to the murderer’s gibbet — but possibly they considered that he had been a corpse so long that he scarcely counted.] “I tell you beforehand, my dear children, that death is very terrible. A corpse is an awful sight.” “I know that, papa,” said Lucy, “but we should like to go.” And so, after “taking a turn on the grass walk before dinner,” and having “a little discourse on the subject of death,” they did go, and apparently enjoyed themselves extremely in a quiet way.

Poor little Miss Augusta, who stole her governess’s apples, came to a shocking end: she disobeyed her mother’s commands not to play with fire by taking a candle into a room to look at herself in a mirror, and was “so dreadfully burnt that she never spoke afterwards, but died in agonies — a warning,” as a friend of the Fairchilds, Mrs. Barker, sympathetically remarks, “to all children how they presume to disobey their parents.” Mr. Fairchild and Lucy, Emily, and Henry attended the funeral, which is described with great relish and minuteness of detail, as are all the funerals — and there are a good many in the course of the three parts. It is very possible that this last act has contributed somewhat to the popularity of the story. Everybody must have observed that a funeral possesses greater attractions to the sightseer than all but the smartest weddings. I remember being told of two small London children who were spending a week in the country and had been left to themselves for the day by the lady who had taken charge of them. When she returned, she asked whether they had spent the time pleasantly. “Oh, yes, miss,” was the enthusiastic reply, “we ’ave ’ad a ’appy day — we’ve seen two pigs killed and a gentleman buried!”

To come back to “The History of the Fairchild Family”: there were two parts published many years after the first, from which all these extracts have been taken, the second in 1842, and the third in I847, and it is curious to note the alteration in tone that appears in both these sequels, particularly in the third, in which the author’s daughter, Mrs. Streeten, collaborated. The doctrine is not so uncompromisingly Calvinistic; the children are neither so pious nor so naughty. They still quote Scripture occasionally, and Lucy has “a verse of a. hymn which she generally repeated on any occasions of peculiar delight in the open air.” But they are not nearly such unconscionable little prigs, and once, when Henry falls into a tub of pigwash, his faux pas is not treated as a moral offence of the deepest dye — as I feel sure it would have been in 1818-and Lucy and Emily have made such advances that, on hearing of the incident, they “could not refrain from laughing.”

Mr. Fairchild, too, is not in his old form; he actually more than once unbends so far as to attempt playfulness; the results are rather elephantine, but — as the examination-candidate tolerantly remarked of the tyrant Phalaris’s little penchant for roasting strangers in a brazen bull — “we must not judge him by a modern standard.” There is just one instance when Mr. Fairchild shows a return to his earlier manner, and this was when, Henry having laid out five shillings in buying penny balls and hanks of string for the village boys, his father remarks solemnly: “How much more suitable would a book, the value of threepence, have been to them!”

There is a good-natured hoyden, Bessy Goodriche, who is amusingly and sympathetically drawn, with a really excellent lady’s maid, Mrs. Tilney, whose conversation has a distinct touch of comedy. “I could see,” she says, “with only half an eye that my mistress” (Mrs. Fairchild, whose husband has inherited a fine estate on the death of a cousin), “having been used to very low life, would much rather wait on herself, than have anyone about her, which I take to be the strongest indication of low breeding which any lady can give.” Again: “There they are, Miss Lucy and Miss Emily, and this same newcomer, rushing into each other’s arms as if they were three twins as had not met for years! Faugh! how ungenteel these sort of things are — so coarse!”

On the whole I think it is not difficult to see why “The History of the Fairchild Family” has maintained its popularity, notwithstanding its portentous instructiveness. I am by no means sure that a great many children have not a natural sympathy with priggishness, and to those others who regarded good little Lucy, Emily, and Henry with frank aversion, it must have afforded unholy joy to hear of the hot water they were so constantly getting into. And then, throughout the book, various good things to eat are chronicled with much feeling. One is told how “they all sat down, full of joy, to eat a roast fowl and some boiled bacon, with a nice cold currant and raspberry pie” (a repast that caused Mr. Fairchild to exclaim: “What blessings have we about us — even in this world!”). Another time (on the occasion when Mr. Crosbie exhibited his love for eating) there is a haunch of venison, a pigeon-pie, and apple tart and custard. Mrs. Cutshorter regaled some children on “a cake with some plums in it, and a large apple pie, and some custards and cheese cakes,” with more cake and strawberries and cream for tea. And again, “The table was covered with good things; a large pasty, which had been cut; a ham, from which many a good slice had already been taken; a pot of jam, another of honey; brown and white loaves; cream, and butter, and fruit; and the tea, too, was brewing, and smelt deliciously.” Would not these descriptions go straight to the heart of any child? There are plenty of funerals, too, as has been said, and I am afraid to say how many death-bed scenes, which appeal to the infant mind — or did so to the infant mind of a generation or two ago — and there are many incidental stories, all moral, but none absolutely uninteresting, and some ingenious and pretty. And, finally, the story is really well written in its old-fashioned way, and has a sincerity and earnestness that would go far to keep many a worse book alive.

A Convenient Conscience

“I’m sorry to disturb you, Theodore,” began Mrs. Plapp, opening the door of her husband’s study, “but I’ve just been listening at the top of the kitchen stairs, and from what I overheard I’m certain that girl Louisa is having supper down there with a soldier!”

“Dear, dear!” exclaimed Mr. Plapp; “I can’t possibly permit any encouragement of militarism under my roof. Just when I’m appealing to be exempted from even non-combatant service, too! Go down and tell her she must get rid of him at once.”

“Couldn’t you, Theodore?”

“If I did, my love, he would probably refuse to go unless I put him out by force, which, as you are aware, is entirely contrary to my principles.”

“I was forgetting for the moment, Theodore. Never mind; I’ll go myself.”

She had not been long gone before a burly stranger entered unceremoniously by the study window. “’Scuse me, guv’nor,” he said, “but ain’t you the party whose name I read in the paper — ’im what swore ’e wouldn’ lift ’is finger not to save ’is own mother from a ’Un?”

“I am,” replied Mr. Plapp complacently. “I disbelieve in meeting violence by violence.”

“Ah, if there was more blokes like you, guv’nor, this world ’ud be a better plice, for some on us. Blagg, my name is. Us perfeshnals ain’t bin very busy doorin’ this War, feelin’ it wasn’t the square thing, like, to break into ’omes as might ’ave members away fightin’ fer our rights and property. But I reckon I ain’t doin’ nothink unpatriotic in comin’ ’ere. So jest you show me where you keeps yer silver.”

“The little we possess,” said Mr. Plapp, rising, “is on the sideboard in the dining-room. If you will excuse me for a moment I’ll go in and get it for you.”

“And lock me in ’ere while you ring up the slops!” retorted Mr. Blagg. “You don’t go in not without me, you don’t; and, unless you want a bullet through yer ’ed, you’d better make no noise either!”

No one could possibly have made less noise than Mr. Theodore Plapp, as, with the muzzle of his visitor’s revolver pressed between his shoulder-blades, he hospitably led the way to the dining-room. There Mr. Blagg, with his back to the open door, superintended the packing of the plate in a bag he had brought for the purpose.

“And now,” said Mr. Plapp, as he put in the final fork, “there is nothing to detain you here any longer, unless I may offer you a glass of barley-water and a plasmon biscuit before you go?”

Mr. Blagg consigned these refreshments to a region where the former at least might be more appreciated. “You kerry that bag inter the drorin’-room, will yer?” he said. “There may be one or two articles in there to take my fancy. ’Ere! ’Old ’ard!” he broke off suddenly. “What the blankety blank are you a-doin’ of?”

This apostrophe was addressed, however, not to his host, who was doing nothing whatever, but to the unseen owner of a pair of khaki-clad arms which had just pinioned him from behind. During the rough-and-tumble conflict that followed Mr. Plapp discreetly left the room, returning after a brief absence to find the soldier kneeling on Mr. Blagg’s chest.

“Good!” he said encouragingly; “you won’t have to keep him down long. Help is at hand.”

“Why don’t you give it me, then?” said the soldier, on whom the strain was evidently beginning to tell.

“Because, my friend,” explained Mr. Plapp, “if I did I should be acting against my conscience.”

“You ’ear ’im, matey?” panted Mr. Blagg. “’E’s agin you, ’e is. Agin all military-ism. So why the blinkin’ blazes do you come buttin’ in to defend them as don’t approve o’ bein’ defended?”

“Blowed if I know!” was the reply. “’Abit, I expect. Lay still, will you?” But Mr. Blagg, being exceptionally muscular, struggled with such violence that the issue seemed very doubtful indeed till Louisa rushed in to the rescue and, disregarding her employer’s protests, succeeded in getting hold of the revolver.

•   •   •

“It was lucky for you,” remarked Mr. Plapp, after Mr. Blagg had been forcibly removed by a couple of constables, “that I had the presence of mind to telephone to the police station. I really thought once or twice that that dreadful man would have got the better of you.”

“And no thanks to you if he didn’t,” grunted the soldier. “I notice that, if your conscience goes against fighting yourself, it don’t object to calling in others to fight for you.”

“As a citizen,” Mr. Plapp replied, “I have a legal right to police protection. Your own intervention, though I admit it was timely, was uninvited by me, and, indeed, I consider your presence here requires some explanation.”

“I’d come up to tell you, as I told your good lady ’ere, that me and Louisa got married this morning, as I was home on six days’ furlough from the Front. And she’ll be leaving with me this very night.”

“But only for the er — honeymoon, I trust?” cried Mr. Plapp, naturally dismayed at the prospect of losing so faithful and competent a maid-of-all-work altogether. “Although I cannot approve of this marriage, I am willing, under the circumstances, to overlook it and allow her to remain in my service.”

“Remain!” said Louisa’s husband, in a tone Mr. Plapp thought most uncalled for. “Why, I should never ’ave another ’appy moment in the trenches if I left her ’ere, with no one to protect her but a thing like you! No, she’s going to be in the care of someone I can depend on — my old aunt!”

“I don’t like losing Louisa,” murmured Mrs. Plapp, so softly that her husband failed to catch her remark, “but — I think you’re wise.”

An Ill-Used Author

“I gather, Sir,” remarked my fellow-traveller, after I had put away the writing-block on which I had been jotting down the outline of an article, “that you are a literary man, like myself?”

We were the only occupants of a compartment in a L. & N.W.R. carriage. I had been too absorbed till then to notice his appearance, but I now observed that he had rather unkempt hair, luminous eyes, and a soft hat. “Oh, well,” I admitted, “I write.”

“But I take it that, whatever you write, it is not poetry,” he said. What led him to this inference I cannot say, but I had to confess that it was correct.

“Still, even though you are not a Poet yourself, I hope,” he said, “you can feel some sympathy for one who has been so infamously treated as I have.”

I replied that I hoped so too.

“Then, Sir,” said he, “I will tell you my unhappy story. At the beginning of this War I was approached by certain Railway magnates who shall be nameless. It appeared that they had realised, very rightly, that their official notices were couched in too cold and formal a style to reach the heart of their public. So they commissioned me to supply what I may term the human touch. As a poet, I naturally felt that this could only be effectively done through the medium of verse. Well, I rose to the occasion, Sir; I produced some lines which, printed as they were written, must infallibly have placed me at the head of all of my contemporaries. But they were not printed as they were written. In proof of which I will trouble you to read very carefully the opening paragraph of those ‘Defence of the Realm Regulations’ immediately above your head…. Only the opening paragraph at present, please!”

I was somewhat surprised, but, thinking it best to humour him, I read the first sentence, which was: “In view of possible attack by hostile aircraft, it is necessary that the blinds of all trains should be kept down after sunset,” and gave him my opinion of it.

“Whether,” he said, with some acerbity, “it is or is not as lucidly expressed as you are pleased to consider, only the beginning of it is mine. This is what I actually wrote:

“In view of possible attack

By hostile aircraft overhead,

’Tis necessary now, alack!

Soon as old Sol has sought his bed,

That those who next the window sit,

Though they’d prefer to watch the gloaming

Should draw the blind, nor leave a slit,

Keeping it down until they’re homing.

Else on the metals will be thrown

A glowing trail as from a comet,

And Huns to whom a train is shown

Will most indubitably bomb it!”

“That,” he observed complacently, “is not only verse of the highest order, but clearly conveys the reason for such precautions which the official mind chose to cut out. And now let me ask you to read the next paragraph.” I did so. “At night-time when the blinds are drawn,” it ran, “passengers are requested before alighting to make sure when the train stops that it is at the platform.”

“Which,” he cried fiercely, “is their mangled and mutilated version of this:

“At night-time when the blinds are drawn

(As screens against those devil’s spawn,

Which love the gloom, but dread the dawn),

A train may be at standstill,

Then we request ’twill not occur

That some impatient passenger,

Whose nerves are in a chronic stir,

And neither feet nor hands still,

Without preliminary peep

Will forth incontinently leap,

Alighting in a huddled heap

To lie, a limp or flat form,

In some inhospitable ditch,

If not on grittier ballast, which

(The darkness far surpassing pitch)

He took to be the platform!”

“As to the next paragraph,” he continued, “I don’t complain so much, though, personally, I consider ‘Extract from Order made by the Secretary of State for the Home Department’ a very poor paraphrase of the resounding couplet in which I introduced him:

“Now speaks in genial tones, from heart to heart meant

The Secretary for the Home Department!”

“I could have overlooked that, Sir, if they had retained the lines I had written for him. But they’ve only let him speak the first four words — ‘Passengers in Railway Carriages’ — and then drivel on thus: ‘which are provided with blinds must keep the blinds covered so as to cover the windows’ — a clumsy tautology, Sir, for which I am sure no Home Secretary would care to be held responsible, and from which I had been at some pains to save him, as you may judge when I read you the original text:

“Passengers in railway carriages

Possess a sense which none disparages;

So those who are not perverse or froward

May be trusted to see that the blinds are lowered,

To cover the windows so totally

That no one inside can be seen, or see.

Mem. — This need not be done, as lately decided,

If blinds for the windows have not been provided.”

“But,” he went on, “the deadliest injury those infernal officials reserved for the last. If you read the concluding sentence, Sir, you will observe that it begins: ‘The blinds may be lifted in case of necessity’! (That, I need hardly say, is entirely my own. There is a sort of inspired swing in it, the true lyrical lilt with which even red-tape has not dared to tamper! But mark how they go on): ‘when the train is at a standstill at a station, but, if lifted, they must be lowered again before the train starts.’ And this insufferable bathos, forsooth, was substituted for lines like these:

“The blinds may be lifted in case of necessity;

Thus, if the train at a station should halt

And the traveller hears not its name, nor can guess it, he

Cannot be held to commit any fault,

Still further be fined,

Should he pull up the blind

Out of mere curiosity: had he not looked

He might miss the station for which he had booked!”

“Well,” he concluded, “that is my case. But I can never put it before the public myself. My pride would not permit me. Though, if someone — yourself, for instance — would present my claims to redress—?”

I couldn’t help thinking that he had been hard treated, and so I undertook to do what I could for him. He gave me his verses, also his name, which latter I have unfortunately forgotten. However, I hope I have redeemed my promise here in other respects.

There are times when I wonder uneasily whether he may not have been pulling my leg. But, after all, he could have had no possible object in doing that. Besides, if, the next time you travel by the L. & N. W., you will study the printed instructions in your compartment, I fancy you will agree with me that they corroborate his statements to a rather remarkable extent.

“Punch,” 1916.

Mrs. Sherwood’s Notion
of a Model Youth

(“The History Of Henry Milner, a Little Boy Who Was Not Brought Up According to the Fashions of this World.”
— 2nd Edition, 1823-37)

An “Appreciation”

I

If ever there was a more blameless boy, in or out of fiction, than Henry Milner, as depicted in the early twenties for the edification of his contemporaries, by Mrs. Sherwood, the celebrated author of “The Fairchild Family,” I can only say that I have not been privileged to make his acquaintance.

We find him first an orphan between three and four, “descended from a noble family,” and entrusted to the care of “a certain elderly and respectable clergyman” of the name of Dalben, who lived in Worcestershire, and whose establishment consisted of Mrs. Kitty the housekeeper, Thomas the gardener, Sally the cook and dairymaid, Lion the great black dog, and Muff the tortoiseshell cat, who had lost one eye in a battle with a large rat; and, as the author justly remarks, “the loss of an eye is no great advantage to a cat, and we must consider what a very good thing it is that Providence has given two eyes to most creatures.”

It is highly creditable to young Henry that, at the age of four, “through the precautions of his kind uncle and Mrs. Kitty, he knew no naughty words and naughty tricks.”

Nevertheless, “every child born of the family of Adam is utterly corrupt from his birth,” and as Henry, though of noble descent in other respects, had still this hereditary taint to contend against, it is not surprising that he should be “full of evil inclinations, which he showed in many ways.”

For instance, once, when he was about six years of age, and Muff the cat had offended him by getting into a cupboard, “where Mr. Dalben was so kind as to allow Henry Milner to keep a certain bag of rubbish,” he “went into a great passion, and collected all his bits of deal in his frock, and threw them over Muff, saying: ‘You naughty cat! you frightful cat! I hate you, that I do!’”

Moreover, when taught to read, “he would not for days say the letter F,” but only “swelled out his cheeks” at Mr. Dalben, until “the old gentlemen called for a twig out of Sally’s besom, and laying little master over his knee, he made him recollect the letter F another time” — much as Gideon, with thorns of the wilderness and briers, “taught the men of Succoth.”

Worse still, on being invited to spell “cat,” he insisted on calling it “Muff,” and “tried to put the matter off at first as a very good joke,” where upon Mr. Dalben, perceiving that, unless promptly checked, Henry was in grave danger of becoming an habitual humorist, was “again forced to have recourse to his friend the besom.”

However, although “throughout the greater part of his fifth year little Henry Milner broke out in these little fits of obstinacy,” he was then, as the author pleads in his excuse, “so very young that he could hardly be expected to understand the danger and guilt of sin,” and it is something in his favour that Mr. Dalben “only used the besom three times.”

During Henry Milner’s sixth year, Mr. Dalben brought him home “a penny book with six pleasant pictures” — which sounds cheap — the first of which represented “a little boy sitting under a tree and reading a book.” “That little boy,” said his guardian instructively, “is a very holy little boy — he has got a new heart.”

Some boys, I fear, might have inquired how Mr. Dalben knew — but, instead of making any ribald comments, Henry, as is evident from his subsequent career, instantly grasped the great moral truth, which he never afterwards forgot, that the whole duty of boyhood is to “sit under a tree and read a book.” The next picture represented “a little boy kneeling by his bed and employed in prayer,” which caused Mr. Dalben to unbend in a sort of saintly playfulness, irresistibly suggestive of the Rev. Mr. Chadband. “‘Oh,’ he cried, ‘here is another happy little boy! What shall we call him? Not the happy little boy of the wood, but the little boy who’” — and so forth.

He went out for walks with his guardian and adopted uncle, and on one of these they heard a gun go off and saw two young men in shooting dresses. “There,” said Mr. Dalben, “there, Henry, look at those young men. They are spending their time in the way which most young men delight in who love the World; but holy boys and young men will never take delight in these kinds of sports.” Nor did Henry, who could say, like the non-sportsman of the old story, that he “never fired a shot in anger in his life.”

From a very tender age he had one favourite topic of conversation, and I think a handsome prize might be offered with perfect safety to anyone familiar with the thoughts and habits of boyhood who could guess Henry’s dominant idea. It was the Millennium.

“Of what,” asked Mr. Dalben on one of their walks, “do these beautiful prospects bid you to think, my dear boy?”

“Of the times of the Millennium, Uncle,” said Henry promptly.

On another occasion he feared, “it is not likely that I should live to the Millennium; and there are many holy persons who died long ago, much more holy than I shall ever be: how can such people enjoy the Millennium unless there is a resurrection before that time?”

Again: “Let us sit down on this fallen trunk,” said Mr. Dalben, “and you shall tell me, Henry, what we shall talk about.”

“Of what else can we speak in this place,” said Henry, “but the Millennium?”

“It is strange,” he remarked in another conversation, “that, after all you have said to me of the Millennium, I have not yet a very exact idea of the manner in which it is to begin.” And indeed there are older persons than Henry who would confess to a similar vagueness on the subject.

As to his secular education, when Henry was nine he began to learn the Latin grammar and Hebrew, which he found — as any boy would — “most delightful.” At ten “he had not learnt much indeed of Hebrew, but he could read and write the characters very well, and could, with a little direction, make out almost the whole of the first chapter of Genesis.” He was also in long division.

“As to the doctrines of religion, I fear,” laments Mrs. Sherwood, “that he did not yet understand much of them; indeed, not so much as he ought to have done considering the advantages he had enjoyed, although he could answer many questions relative to them; but although these things were as it were on his lips, they were not yet in his heart.

“He was not, however, like those poor little boys who, not being blessed with pious parents and careful teachers, are obliged to seek instruction in dictionaries, where, instead of meeting with holy lessons, they often fall upon such pieces of information as Christian children ought never to know.” A passage which calls up a mental image of Mrs. Sherwood consulting the pages of Lempriére in a quest, probably only too futile, of “holy lessons.”

When Henry was about nine, he first encountered his arch-enemy and evil genius, a certain “Master Wellings,” who was brought over to make his acquaintance at Mr. Dalben’s.

Master Wellings was a kind of mixture of Master Mash and Master Compton in “Sandford and Merton” (a work which seems to have served Mrs. Sherwood as a model in many respects). “Though only a few inches taller than Henry, he looked exactly like a little man: he wore high boots and spurs, a short riding-jacket, with a very large neckcloth, and his hair was brushed up very sprucely “ — in short, he was the very reverse of “a holy boy.”

Henry was most anxious to make him feel at home, and proposed to take him by the hand and show him his hermitage, and his “stream of time” — whatever that might be — and carpenter’s shop, “where perhaps he would like to help me with my wheelbarrow.”

Master Wellings’ response to these overtures was rather chilling: he “nodded at Henry, and placing one finger in his offered hand, measured him from head to foot with his eye,” dwelling especially upon his shoes, which were clumsy and patched. And when Henry introduced him to the scarecrow, he made the uncomplimentary remark that his young host “would have done better to act scarecrow himself,” which stung Henry to a withering tu quoque, for he replied, “Your servant, sir, but, as I am sure you are too polite a gentleman to recommend to others what you would not like to do yourself, give me leave to pull down my man of straw, and you shall have the pleasure of taking his place.”

Then Master Wellings sat at full length on a bench, taking up all the room, and invited Henry to take a seat, which Henry did by “plumping down with nearly his whole weight on Master Wellings’ legs.” At this Master Wellings challenged Henry to fight; but Henry, after warning him that he had better let his name alone, or he might find he was not such a Miss Molly as he took him for, declined the combat, and subsequently inquired, “Pray, Master Wellings, did you ever read ‘Quarles’ Emblems’?” — a work with which Master Wellings, oddly enough, was not familiar.

Shortly afterwards Henry, with the aid of an Irish haymaker, rescued Master Wellings from that staunch friend of the exemplary youth in all moral fictions, a furious bull — after which no more is heard of Master Wellings for some little time.

Although Henry refused to fight on this occasion, he succumbed later, and “got a bloody nose and a black eye” in defending a small Irish protege’ of his from a big boy. Boys brought up “according to the fashions of this world” might be excused for regarding these wounds as rather honourable than otherwise. Not so Henry, who “felt that he had acted wrongly, not in going to the relief, but in striking the first blow and not trying what a steady rebuke might have produced,” and Mr. Dalben was “much pleased by his penitence.”

So, when a miller’s boy permitted himself to make rude observations upon the advanced age of Henry’s hat, Henry very prudently “walked on and pretended not to hear,” greatly to his tutor’s satisfaction.

Good Mr. Dalben’s standard was so high that he disapproved even of ballooning: “I am inclined to think,” he remarked, “that these aerial voyages are almost sinful.”

Though even such a questionable shape as a balloon furnished him with a comparison, which perhaps might conceivably have been happier.

“‘What, my boy,’ he inquired, ‘is a balloon when empty?’

“‘Only a silk bag,’ replied Henry.

“‘And what is one of the chosen people?’ ”

However, loyally assisted by Henry, Mr. Dalben extricated himself from this rather perilous position with commendable presence of mind; though Tommy Merton, or even Harry Sandford, would probably have gravelled his simile by some too literal interpretation.

There is a striking passage, which I am tempted to quote in full, describing how, in one of their walks abroad, Mr. Dalben and Henry “observed a large frog crawling among the dry leaves which had fallen the last autumn from the trees,” and how Mr. Dalben, by the mere force of moral censure, “larned him to be a twoad,” so to speak.

“‘Henry,’ said Mr. Dalben, ‘here is one of your old friends, the amphibia.’

“‘And a frightful creature it is,’ said Henry.

“‘A creature,’ replied Mr. Dalben, ‘which is naturally loathed by man, and was so doubt intended to be so, in order that he may be avoided, and left in those solitary places where he finds his security.’

“‘But why, Uncle, do we all naturally dislike these creatures?’ said Henry. “‘Probably,’ said Mr. Dalben, ‘on account of their being destitute of every species of clothing — of wool, of hair, of feathers, or even of scales.’”

As a humanitarian, he might have been expected to propose some scheme for rehabilitating the unhappy batrachians in popular esteem by providing them with decent attire; but, so far as appears from the story, the toads and frogs in Mr. Dalben’s neighbourhood were never assisted by his benevolence to present .a more respectable appearance.

In such walks and talks as these, Henry’s education proceeded until he entered his fourteenth year, when, we are told, “he had made considerable advance in Latin, and acquired some knowledge of Greek; could repeat the Eton grammar nearly from beginning to end; construe from forty to fifty lines of Virgil a day; could read twenty or thirty of Xenophon at one time; was making himself acquainted with the Greek verbs (only the regular verbs, we may be sure), and had got almost the whole of the outlines of ancient history and geography into his head.”

How far he had got in Hebrew is not mentioned, which is disappointing.

Mrs. Sherwood’s béte noire throughout the book is the study of “the lighter ancient writers,” which she regards as perverters of the youthful mind. “They are ill-principled books,” she declares, which “affect boys’ esprit de corps by the false glare of ancient heroic poems, fallacious views given of earthly pleasure, of honour, ambition, worldly grandeur, the duty of forgiveness, good manners, charity, and moderation; and hence the constant fightings and brawls which exist in schools the spirit of detraction and quizzing, the thirst for cruelty, the love of pleasure, and other more gross and offensive qualities.”

Rather a formidable indictment, this, and hardly sustainable from most persons’ experience. If boys are generally given to these malpractices, perhaps a more plausible explanation may be found in Mrs. Sherwood’s earlier theory that they are “utterly corrupt from their birth,” without fathering the responsibility on poor Horace and Ovid, whose insidious perversions most youths find remarkably easy to withstand. With amusing inconsistency, too, Mrs. Sherwood was evidently not a little proud of displaying her own knowledge of Latin, and frequently quotes long passages from the poets in the original, with a modest apology for her “pedantry.” And there is a young friend of Mr. Dalben’s called “little Lucilla,” of whom he remarked: “You will like little Lucilla, Henry, unless she is greatly changed: she is an elegant and holy child”; with this elegant and holy child, Mr. Dalben travelled in Italy, and on the Lake of Garda showed her “where the villa of Catullus stood.” On her return she mentioned this, and Mr. Dalben said: “Remember such passages of your life as these, my Lucilla; they may afford hints to you hereafter for pleasant conversation.”

II

The time came when Henry was to leave Mr. Dalben’s and go to a boarding school at Clent Green; and I must admit that when I reached this stage in his career I was very far from sanguine as to his prospects of enjoying himself. He was taken to school by a certain Lord H——— (the author generally prefers, from a very proper feeling of reverence, to indicate her titled characters by initials): “Lord H———’s conversation did not, indeed, treat of things so deep as Mr. Dalben’s” — he could not have fathomed the secret of a frog’s unpopularity, for example — “but it was good of its kind.”

The schoolmaster, Dr. Matthews, “had been handsome, but might now be thought somewhat too corpulent; his countenance wanted illumination,” and “Lord Hi supposed that he had chiefly given his attention to such verbal niceties as may be useful in a public examination,” which, in a story of the period, has a curiously modern flavour.

At Clent Green, Henry Milner met his old enemy Master Wellings, and also made the acquaintance of a lively youth called Marten, otherwise “The Exquisite,” who thus introduces himself:

“‘Wellings, you know Milner: come, play the part you are so well fitted for of the master of the ceremonies in all matters of politeness: introduce I say, introduce the young gentleman to his new acquaintances, and do not leave me to the awkward alternative of telling him who I am and how proud I shall be of his friendship.’

“Henry, pleased with the lively and yet polite manner of the young gentleman, extended his hand to him, shook it heartily, and said, ‘Sir, I shall be most happy to be honoured by your acquaintance.’”

And upon that — as the slightest acquaintance with boys will readily enable the reader to conceive — Milner and Marten swore eternal friendship.

Henry was not generally popular at first — probably he found it difficult to interest his school-fellows in the Millennium — and he was ultimately reduced to conciliate them by a somewhat startling expedient. They were out walking, when he suddenly “tumbled, three or four times successively, head over heels, after which he rolled on before his amazed companions to a considerable distance on his feet and hands, with the motion of a wheel with four spokes” — an accomplishment which we may safely conclude he had not learnt from the excellent Mr. Dalben.

From that day — and far be it from me to express the least incredulity — Henry Milner began to be respected, if not beloved, by the majority — always excepting Master Wellings, who laid a dark plot, which happily recoiled upon its author, to fill Henry’s bowl of milk with surreptitious salt.

Even Marten, however, ventured to criticise him at times, as the following extracts will show:

“‘Sir,’” repeated Henry: “‘why do you call me sir, Marten?’

“‘Because,’” replied Marten, “‘I do not know what to take you for. You look indeed like Henry Milner, but you do not speak as a schoolboy.’”

And, as we have seen, Marten’s own diction was entirely free from this objection. On another occasion he carried the freedom of a friend so far as to call Henry Milner a parrot, but was immediately seized with a misgiving that he might be offended by such frankness.

Whereupon “Henry looked up with his usual sweetness of expression, and asked, ‘What for? What should I be offended for? Because you called me a parrot? Oh, Marten, if you could see my heart, and could but know my own thoughts of myself, you would not suspect me of being offended at anything you can say of this kind. I know that there is no good in me, and that if ever I have been able to seem to do anything right, I owe it … to my ever-beloved uncle.’”

A beautiful answer, and one which effectually turned away Master Marten’s wrath; notwithstanding which, however, we should not recommend it for school use in similar circumstances at the present day. A few judiciously turned “cartwheels” would probably produce a better effect.

There were many boys in the Clent Green School who were no better than they should be: some abandoned characters kept ferrets on the sly, and Henry fell into temporary disfavour by announcing that, if he were questioned by the headmaster on the subject, he should tell the truth.

And some of the more reckless libertines organised a “wild scheme” to have a hot supper in an attic, and, in spite of Henry Milner’s earnest prayers and entreaties, Marten allowed himself to be enticed into joining the unhallowed revel. No wonder that, when he had broken away from his young monitor, Henry sat down on an old chest in the passage and “wept like an infant”!

It was a capital supper: there were “roasted fowls, ham, a boiled leg of mutton with caper sauce, hot apple-pies, potatoes, Cheshire cheese, a bottle of wine and a quart of ale”; and Jack Reese, the butcher’s boy, was suspected of having given his assistance in hauling all these good things up in a basket.

Nobody was unwell in consequence; but Master Wellings, who was to have been one of the party, was compelled by a family visit to be away that night, and shortly afterwards an anonymous letter reached the Doctor, betraying the whole affair. Dr. Matthews, being a worldling, did not take so serious a view of it as Henry, and, in fact, only “burst into a loud, deep laugh, and said, ‘All I have to require is that the next time you make a feast in the cock-loft, you will honour me with an invitation.’” A speech which does him infinite credit; but the culprits, and especially Marten, suspected Henry of having written the letter, and were cool to him in consequence.

As a matter of fact, the real traitor was the amiable Master Wellings, who was betrayed later, not by expert evidence, but by the butcher’s boy, to whom he had ingenuously confided his scheme. However, being Master Wellings, nobody thought it worth while to show any ill-feeling, though Marten at least expressed a proper remorse on parting from Henry, when the time came for him to leave school for good.

“‘And are you going, my Henry?’ said the fine young man, clasping his young friend in his arms; ‘and is no time permitted me for making up all the injustice of my late conduct? Farewell, then, my Henry, and sometimes think of Marten. Farewell, my Henry, my beloved Henry, farewell!’

“The door of the carriage was then closed, and when the weeping Henry saw his Marten for the last time, an expression of the deepest sorrow was shed over his whole noble person.”

It was thus that schoolboys said goodbye in Mrs. Sherwood’s day — or was it?

III

Henry resembled the prodigal in one respect, at least — a sumptuous feast was prepared for his return. If there was not actually a fatted calf, there were “a large barn-door fowl smoking from the spit, a dish of mashed potatoes garnished with sausages, and a hot apple-pie completed the treat. ‘Master Milner has had no dinner,’ Mrs. Kitty explained.”

At which that excellent nobleman, Lord H———, who had fetched Henry in his own carriage, and who had had no dinner himself, seems to have felt a passing jealousy, for he observed, “Then am I to understand, Mrs. Kitty, that this tempting regale is only intended for Master Milner?” But they all sat down to it; and Mr. Dalben, looking benignly at one friendly face, and then at another, said, “I do love that old-fashioned meal the supper. It was an injury to sociability when this meal was superseded by the tray of cut glass and sweetmeats.”

A sort of relation — a foolish and fashionable widow, named Mrs. Bonville — was present at the board, and duly impressed by Mr. Dalben’s discourse. “How delightful it is,” she said to Lady H——— in a loud whisper, “to hear my dear uncle converse! — every sentiment which drops from his lips deserves to be graven in letters of gold.”

Lord H——— delivered himself on the subject of sport, and said, “There is (as you must have observed) so strong a tendency in most young men and boys towards the love of dogs, horses, guns, and fishing-tackle, that I think every prudent person should be careful of awakening an interest in those things, if haply it does not awake of itself.”

“I agree entirely with Lord H———,” said Mr. Dalben, “and therefore it is a great satisfaction to me that Henry Milner has not yet elicited a taste for objects of this nature.”

And, as I have mentioned previously, Henry never did elicit such low tastes, though exposed to many temptations. There was a worldly and sporting family of the name of Hargrave in the neighbourhood, who rode to church on blood horses, and hunted a stoat after morning service.

He was taken to dine at their house by Mrs. Bonville, and one of the boys hospitably invited him to “come and see the dogs wormed,” but Henry drew back involuntarily, and said, “Thank you, but I will go into the house with Mrs. Bonville.”

They also pressed him to play cricket with them, at which Henry “coloured and looked embarrassed. Cricket had supplied one of the amusements at Clent Green, and he had some little knowledge of the game, but he was aware that Mr. Dalben would not approve of any amusement which might lead him into company. ‘Besides,’ he thought, ‘I shall require most of my time for study, and if I have leisure, I shall have enough to do to work in my garden, and I want to enlarge my arbour and to raise my mound and to gather plants for my hortus siccus.’” He also declined to learn to ride, for the same excellent reasons.

He was then fifteen years and a few months old, and we may readily believe Mrs. Sherwood’s statement that “anyone who had seen him at Clent Green whilst under the iron barrows of worldly companions, and seen him again in his happy home, would hardly have known him.”

Later his old friend Marten comes to stay with him, and on a visit to Worcester they come across another old schoolfellow, who was known by the nickname of “Ape Appleby.”

“Ape Appleby’s father is now Earl of L———,” says Marten, “and he himself is the Lord Viscount F———.”

“And no longer—” Ape Appleby, Henry was about to say, but, stopping himself short, added, — “no longer Mr. Appleby.”

Which shows that Henry, while descended from a noble family himself, knew how to honour rank in another; and when he meets Appleby later, in a Worcester inn, he scrupulously addresses him as “my lord.”

It was true that Mr. Wellings, who was at the inn too, with some other old Clent Green boys, was equally punctilious, and extremely discomposed when reminded that he had once carved Lord F——— on a desk “in the similitude of a monkey.”

“Can’t you hold your tongues?” said Mr. Wellings; “you must not speak of such things. Lord F——— is not only a nobleman, but a University man.”

Lord F——— lays a wager with the others that Henry will be induced to go to Worcester Races, which are being run just then; but the virtuous Henry, after a violent struggle, tears himself away, and later is “found seated upon a stile, reading a small book” (could it have been the penny one with the six pleasant pictures?) “which he had luckily found in the corner of his pocket.”

As Mr. Dalben remarked in reference to this incident, “Become right-minded in all essential matters, and you will be as unable to relish a horse-race, a fox-hunt, or a common stage-play, as a well-educated gentleman would be ~to enjoy an Abyssinian feast.”

IV

The time comes for Henry to go to Oxford, and Mr. Dalben thus improves the occasion:

“As you are to be an Oxonian, Henry, I have no objection to point out to you that the cant phrase of ‘plucking’ in our universities is perfectly correct in its analogy to the types and emblems as applied by Scripture. Most animals have by nature some sort of covering supplied or produced by their own body.” [Except, of course, Henry’s friend, the frog.] “Man as an animal is in this respect less provided than birds and beasts.”

All of which is not generally known, and likely to prove inestimably consoling to the plucked undergrad.

Not that Henry was ever plucked. He was as irreproachable at Oxford as elsewhere: “kept his room very neat,” “abominated cigars,” and of course refused to give or go to wine-parties; he did not condemn them, but considered them “utterly unnecessary, as well as rowing parties and excursions on horseback.”

His principal motive was a self-distrust, which one would think almost excessive in a person with such excellent principles. “I feel assured,” he said to a weaker vessel, “that if I mixed with your set to countenance you, such is my weakness, I should at once be led astray, and only lose myself without assisting you.”

So he cultivated an ultra-Calvinistic young friend, Mr. Darfield who pained him by accusing him of “not being religious enough,” and in a fair way to become an Antinomian — which was not at all what poor Henry had anticipated. “‘Oh,’ he thought, ‘how I used to long for a young companion who was religious, and now that I have found him, I should be glad that I had never seen him!”

At college Henry did not escape the traditional fate of the good young man in moral fiction — he was suspected of a crime he had never committed, a crime, too, so audacious that it is almost incredible that suspicion could ever have attached to him for a single moment.

There was a certain tutor at his college, a Mr. Russell, who wore an enormous pair of green spectacles. Lord F——— entertained him, Wellings (also a member of the college), Henry, Mrs. Bonville, and a Lady Catherine Summerley, in his rooms, where Mr. Russell drank two or three glasses of madeira, and recited an ode of his own composition. Afterwards some of the party adjourned to Henry’s rooms, where Mr. Russell, having a headache, lay down on Henry’s comfortable sofa, and was soon asleep.

Then Mrs. Bonville, who would seem to have also had some of the madeira, “extricated the green spectacles, with which she approached Henry, and very dexterously placed them on his brow. This led to a struggle; … and, somehow or another, all the fire-irons tumbling down together at the same time, and other strange concussions occurring in another part of the room, the confusion was universal.” In short, I am afraid it might almost be described as a “rag.”

The next day, in the quad., all the undergraduates were gazing at a figure-“I will not say,” hints Mrs. Sherwood, with one of her odd fits of reticence, “whether it was a statue in the centre of the grassplat, or a sort of form made up for the occasion with a mask on its face — this I choose not to say.” But whatever it was or was not, the terrible thing was that in its hand was a copy of Mr. Russell’s ode, and on its head were Mr. Russell’s green spectacles, both of which had last been seen in Henry’s possession! More damning still, the spectacles were tied on by “the very piece of packthread” which had tied up a parcel from Mr. Dalben that lay on Henry’s table, and on the thread was still “part of the impression of Mr. Dalben’s well-known seal.”

Was ever an innocent young man in a more horrible predicament — except possibly at the Adelphi?

Naturally, when Henry was summoned before a meeting of “officers of the college” to explain his conduct, he was “in high indignation.” “‘This has been well done indeed!’ he exclaimed, ‘but let me be brought face to face with everyone who was in my room last night. Justice requires this!’”

However, at the end of the inquiry, the “first tutor” unkindly observed: “Mr. Milner, enough, we trust, has been said to you to caution you in future against such exploits.” — and the unfortunate Henry, smarting under the intolerable stigma of a charge of adorning a statue with green spectacles, was obliged to retire.

Eventually, of course, the truth is discovered: it was the fiendish Wellings who had contrived this hideous outrage by the aid of one Griffiths, a creature of his, with the express design of fastening the guilt upon Henry Milner. Ever since the affair Griffith had been in Wellings’ power, and living in agonising dread lest Wellings should “betray his part in that wretched frolic.” Which indeed Wellings did, and Griffiths would have been, to use his own expression, “undone,” but for the magnanimous intercession of Henry, who obtained his pardon.

The history ends with the death of Mr. Dalben and the adoption of Henry Milner by that admirable nobleman, Lord H———, who made a speech of such exquisite condescension on the occasion that I cannot resist one last quotation:

“‘Henry,’ said Lord H———, ‘in speaking as a mere man, permit me to remark to you that, had you been an imprudent and incorrect youth, had you been a low or vulgar youth, much as it would have pained me so to have done, I must have told my departed friend that I could not have protected you under my own roof. If, then, it is a comfort and credit to you, being an orphan, to be adopted by me and Lady H———, you must understand that you would have forfeited these advantages, not only by wicked conduct, but by that which very nearly partakes the nature of wickedness — coarse and low manners.

“‘Thus, as far as earthly things are concerned, a young man often mars his own happiness by inattention to the decencies and decorums which should ever be practised among Christians.’”

And Henry “bowed, and whilst a fine glow rose to his very brow,” — could he have been haunted by a recollection of those early cartwheels—? “the tears trembled in his eyes.”

So we take our leave of him as a happy human vegetable, with £200 a year and the congenial society of Lord and Lady H——— and his fellow-orphan, that “elegant and holy child,” little Lucilla.

•   •   •

Summing up the book, it may be described as eminently readable for its naiveté, its old-fashioned primness, its occasionally happy touches of character, and its pictures of school and college life of the period — which last, however, making all allowances for difference in manners, seem to have been drawn rather from imagination than fact. And what is most remarkable in the history is the indication it affords of the sort of youth that a good and really gifted woman in those days evolved as her ideal hero, and doubtless seriously expected would be admired and reverenced as such by all her boy-readers.

But, as to those young gentlemen — well, I doubt if the example of Henry Milner can ever have softened their manners and prevented them from being ferocious to any appreciable degree.

We don’t know what, for instance, Tom Brown’s opinion of him would have been — but it is fairly easy to imagine.

Dogs’ Delight

Scene.—Interior of shop devoted to the sale of cutlery, leatherware and dogs’ collars, leads, etc. Customers discovered lining the counter, others in background leading puzzled and suspicious dogs. The proprietor is endeavouring to serve ordinary purchasers, answer questions, punch holes in straps and give change simultaneously. A harried assistant in a white coat is dealing, as well as he can, with overwhelming demands for muzzles.

PROPRIETOR.  Yes, Sir, you’ll find that razor-strop quite … Six holes wanted in that strap? (To ASSISTANT) Right — leave it here and— Sorry, Madam, I can’t attend to you just now…. Don’t happen to have a ten-shilling note, do you, Sir? No? Well, I may be able to manage it for you…. If you’ll speak to my assistant, Madam; he’s attending to the muzzling.

THE OWNER  of a subdued nondescript (calling ASSISTANT). Will you ask this lady to kindly keep her dog from trying to kill mine, please?

THE OTHER LADY  (whose dog, a powerful and truculent Airedale, seems to have conceived a sudden and violent dislike for the nondescript). Yours must have done something to irritate him — he’s generally such a good-tempered dog.

ASSISTANT  (to the Airedale, which is barking furiously and straining at his lead). ’Ere, sherrup, will you? Allow me, Mum. I’ll put ’im where he can ’ave ’is good temper out to ’imself. (He hustles the Airedale to a small office, where he shuts him in — to his and his owner’s intense disapproval. A fox-terrier in another customer’s arms becomes hysterical with sympathy and utters ear-rending barks.) Oh, kindly get that dawg to sherrup, Mum, or we’ll ’ave the lot of ’em orf; or could you look in someday when he’s more collected?

ANOTHER LADY.  I say, I want a muzzle for my dog.

ASSISTANT  (sardonically). You surprise me, Mum! We’re very near sold out, but if you’ll let me ’ave a look at your dawg, p’r’aps—

THE LADY.  Oh, I haven’t brought him. Left him at Barnes.

ASSISTANT.  ’Ave yer, Mum? Well, yer see, I can’t run down to Barnes — not just now I can’t.

THE LADY.  No, but I thought — he’s rather a large dog, a Pekinese spaniel.

ASSISTANT.  Then I couldn’t fit ’im if ’e was ’ere, cos ’e’d want a short muzzle and we’ve run out o’ them.

A CUSTOMER  with a Pekinese. Then will you find me a muzzle for this one?

ASSISTANT  (with resigned despair). You jest ’eard me say we ’ad no short muzzles, Mum. If you don’t mind waiting ’ere an hour or two I’ll send a man to the factory in a taxi to bring back a fresh stock — if they’ve got any, which I don’t guarantee.

THE CUSTOMER  with the Pekinese. But I saw some leather muzzles in the window; one of those would do beautifully.

ASSISTANT.  I shall ’ave great pleasure in selling you one, Mum, on’y Gover’ment says they’ve got to be wire. ’Owever, it’s your risk, not mine…. Well, since you ask me, I think you ’ad better wait.

A CUSTOMER  (carrying a large brown-and-white dog with lop ears and soulful eyes). I’ve been kept waiting here two hours, and I think it’s high time—

ASSISTANT.  If you’ll bring ’im along to the back shop, Mum, I may have one left his size.

A LADY  with a lovely complexion and an unlovely griffon (to her companion). So fussy and tiresome of the Government bringing in muzzles again after all these years!

HER COMPANION.  Oh, I don’t know. We’ve had a mysterious dog running about snapping in our district for days.

THE LADY  with the complexion. Ah, but this poor darling never snaps, and, besides, he hasn’t been used to muzzles in Belgium. You needn’t mention it, but I got a friend of mine to smuggle him over for me — such a dear boy, he’ll do anything I ask him to.

ASSISTANT  (after attempting to fit the soulful-eyed dog with a muzzle and narrowly escaping being bitten). There, that’s enough for me, Mum. Jest take that dawg out at once, please.

OWNER OF THE DOG  (which, having gained its point, affects an air of innocent detachment). I shall do nothing of the kind. It was the brutal way you took hold of her. The gentlest creature! Why, I’ve had her three years!

ASSISTANT.  I don’t care if you’ve ’ad her a century. They’re all angels as come ’ere; but I ain’t going to ’ave my thumb bit by no angels, so will you kindly walk out?

OWNER.  Without a muzzle? Never!

ASSISTANT.  Then I shall ’ave to call in a constable to make you. I’m not bound to sell you nothing.

OWNER  (with spirit). Call a constable then! I don’t care. Here I stay till I get that muzzle.

ASSISTANT  (giving up his idea of calling a constable). Then I should advise you to take a chair, Mum, as we don’t close till seven.

OWNER  (retreating with dignity). All I can say is that I call it perfectly disgraceful. I shall certainly report your conduct; and I only hope you won’t sell a single other muzzle today!

ASSISTANT.  If I didn’t I could bear up. (To a lady with an elderly Blenheim) If it’s a muzzle, Mum—

THE OWNER  of the Blenheim. That’s just what I want to know. Must he have a muzzle? You see, he’s got no teeth, so he couldn’t possibly bite anyone — now, could he?

ASSISTANT.  I dunno, Mum. You take ’im to see the Board of Agriculture. They’ll give you an opinion on ’im. (To STAFF OFFICER who approaches) Sorry, Sir, but our stock of muzzles—

STAFF OFFICER.  All I want is a new leather band for this wristwatch. Got one?

ASSISTANT  (with joy). Thank ’eaven I ’ave! Gaw bless the Army!

“Punch,” 1919.

The Treacherous Son

I certainly hoped when I took up my quarters in this quiet village that there would be no jarring note to disturb the idyllic peace of my surroundings. And yet I had not been long in this pleasant sitting-room, with its outlook on blossom-laden fruit-trees, creamy-spired chestnuts and wooded down, before I became aware that a pitiful and rather sordid little domestic drama was in progress within fifty yards from my open windows. I discovered a son in the act of encouraging his aged and apparently imbecile parent to gamble with a professional swindler! Not that I have actually seen them thus engaged. As a matter of fact I have merely heard a few short remarks — and those were all spoken by the son. But, as everyone knows, even a single sentence accidentally overheard by an observant stranger may give him a clearer insight into the unknown, and possibly unseen, speaker’s character than could be gained from countless chapters of a modern analytical novel.

So these four sentences were quite enough for me. Perhaps I should mention here that the three personages in this drama are birds — which makes it all the more painful.

Like many of our British birds, the sole speaker occasionally drops into English, or I should never have understood what was going on. He may be blackbird or thrush, but I doubt it, because I know all their remarks, while his are new to me. If A. A. M. heard them he would probably tell me they were those of a “Blackman’s Warbler,” and I should have believed him — once. Hardly now, after he has so airily exposed his title as an authority; but even as it is I should not dream of questioning his statement that “the egg of course is rather more speckled,” because I can well believe that the egg this bird — whatever he is — came from was very badly speckled indeed.

It seems that, some time ago — I can’t say when exactly, but it was before I came down here — this unnatural son introduced to the parental abode (which I think is either No. 5 or No. 6 in a row of young chestnuts abutting on the high road) a rook of more than dubious reputation, whom he persuaded his unsuspecting sire to put up for the night. And there the rook has been ever since. As I said, I have neither heard nor seen him, but I’m positive he’s there. I am unable to give the precise date on which he first led the conversation to the good old English game of “rigging the thimble” — that also was before I came. All I can state with certainty is that he interested his host in it so effectually that now the infatuated old fool is playing it all day long.

This is evident from his son’s conversation; during the pause which invariably precedes it I should undoubtedly hear the father-bird (if he would only speak up — which he doesn’t) quavering, “I’m not sure, my boy, I’m not sure, but I’ve a notion that, this time, he’s left the pea under the middle thimble — eh?”

On which the young scoundrel, knowing well that it is elsewhere, pipes out, “There it is, Fa-ther, there it is, Fa-ther!” with an unctuous humility shading into impatient contempt that is simply indescribable, being indeed too revolting for words.

Then, as the father still wavers, his son makes some observations which I cannot quite follow, but take to be on the fairness of the game as played with a sportsbird, and the certainty that the luck must turn sooner or later. After which he exhorts him — this time in plain English — to “be a bird.” Whereupon the doting old parent decides that he will be a bird and back the middle thimble, and the next moment I hear the son exclaim, evidently referring to the rook, “No, ’e’s got it; no, ’e’s got it. Cheer up! Cheer up!” with a perfunctory concern that is but a poor disguise for indecent exultation. I am not suggesting, by the way, that birds are in the habit of dropping their “h’s” — but this one does. There are times when he is so elated by his parent’s defeat that he cannot repress an outburst of inarticulate devilry. And so the game goes on, minute after minute, hour after hour, every day from dawn to dusk. The amount of grains or grubs or whatever the stakes may be (and it is not likely that any rook would play for love), that that old idiot must have lost even since I have been here, is beyond all calculation. He has never once been allowed to spot the right thimble, but he will go on. As to the son’s motive in permitting it, any bird of the world would tell you that, if you possess a senile parent who is bound to be rooked by somebody, it had better be by a person with whom you can come to a previous arrangement.

Now I come to think of it, though, I have not heard the unnatural offspring once since I sat down to write this. Can it have dawned at last upon his parent that this is one of those little games where the odds are a trifle too heavy in favour of the Table? Or can the son have sickened of his own villainy and washed his claws of his shady confederate? I don’t know why, but I am almost beginning to hope…. No; through the open window comes the well-known cry, “There it is, Fa-ther! There it is, Fa-ther! Be a bird! Be a bird! … No, ’e’s got it! No, ’e’s got it! Cheer up! Cheer up!” They are at it again!

“Punch,” 1919.

The Cinema Habit!

Scene.—The Interior of a Picture Theatre.

—  —  —  —

The spectators at this particular house — and at some others, for that matter — are not easily roused to express emotion or even interest. The eleventh-hour rescue of the innocent hero in a “crook” drama from the electrocution-chair and the happy ending of a pathetic love-tale fail alike to excite more than torpid acquiescence, while a life-and-death struggle on a tight-rope stretched between two New York skyscrapers will cause about the same sensation as the progressive stages in the manufacture of a lawn-tennis racquet. “Comedy” films (except, of course, those in which the irresistible CHARLIE CHAPLIN appears) do not appreciably disturb the general gravity — but perhaps there is no very obvious reason why they should. And yet these spectators must enjoy the entertainment, or they would hardly patronise it as they do.

AN HABITUÉE  (to her FRIEND, as, after prolonged hesitation, they occupy the seats assigned to them). Would you rather be too near the screen, dear?

THE FRIEND  (on her defence). Well, you see, that girl showed us in here, and I thought—

THE HAB.  I know. I only asked because I’ve just seen two in the row behind.

THE FRIEND.  Oh, let’s get them, then, before — (Rising, to occupants of intervening seats) Excuse me. May I trouble you? (After they have squeezed their way out to the gangway) Where did you say you saw them, dear? They all look full to me.

THE HAB.  Yes, we’re just too late! We’d better go back again. (They do.) May I trouble you? Excuse me I (as they resume their original places). If we both keep our eyes open we’re sure to get another chance before long.

[And after one or two more fausses sorties they succeed in retreating to a position from which they can execute further strategic movements to the rear — an occupation which they seem to find infinitely more engrossing than the pictures.

—  —  —  —

A FIANCÉE  (as a car containing the heroine and principal villain plunges over a cliff and falls on rocks hundreds of feet below). I simply can’t bear to think of the poor people who have to get their living by doing such things. It must be so horribly dangerous for them!

HER FIANCÉ.  Why, you didn’t think they went over in the car, did you? Only dummies. They stop the film and put them in just before, you know.

THE FIANCÉE.  There you go! Spoiling all the pleasure of it — as usual!

—  —  —  —

[A character in a “Sparkling Comedy” film has just been announced on the screen as “Si. Spoopleplap: a boob who is bulling on a fifty-fifty cinch, but falls for a jitney hunch with a pinch-hitting gink.” (Or, if this is not the precise wording, it is something equally racy and lucid.)

A WIFE  (to her HUSBAND). I don’t know what any of those words mean, Charles. Are they supposed to be English?

CHARLES.  Not yet, but they will be before we’re much older. Wonderful what the cinema’s doing to enrich our vocabulary!

—  —  —  —

[A scientific “Nature” film introduces “The Cheesemite” with “This minute parasite belongs to the order of Acarina and, as its name implies, has a partiality for decayed cheese. Here we see a party of them enjoying a quick lunch.”

CHARLES’S WIFE  (as the screen shows a group of cheesemites, each the size of a fine lobster and all displaying an ungainly sprightliness). Disgusting objects!

CHARLES.  Oh, I wouldn’t call ’em that. I mean they’ve all been “approved for public exhibition,” you know.

FIRST DEMOBBED.  They’re the bally limit! Enough to put you off cheese altogether.

SECOND DITTO.  That’s the idea, old bean! Every one of those dear little fellers is doin’ his bit to help the FOOD CONTROLLER.

CHARLES’S WIFE  (during the presentation of a “Soul-gripping Social Problem,” after the spectators had been informed on the screen that “As in days of yore, Time’s relentless Loom rolls ever on, entangling innocent and guilty alike in its insatiable Weft”). Are they going to show it doing that?

CHARLES.  Bless you, no. Break in the film, that’s all. Whenever that happens, you see, the machine gets out of hand and slips in a touch of style on its own.

HIS WIFE  (later, as the screen announces, “And so once again rosy-fingered Dawn ushers in its predestined Apotheosis of Retribution and Reward”). Another break in the film!

—  —  —  —

FIRST SCHOOLGIRL  (to SECOND, after settling down). I say, how absolutely topping! Pansy Persimmon’s in this. Look, doesn’t she look sweet?

SECOND S.  Lovely! I’ve always wanted to see her. And oh, it’s Yale Harvard as the lover! I’ve a pash for him. I think he’s quite the heavenliest thing that ever happened. How far do you suppose they’ve got?

FIRST S.  Oh, only just begun. On their honeymoon. (Words on screen: “Nothing can sever us two now.”) That’s all they know, but I bet something does. A detective will come in and arrest one of them for murder or something. Or else he or she will turn out to have married somebody else. Pansy’s so frightfully pathetic in anything of that sort. (Pansy’s and Yale’s faces, enlarged till they occupy the entire screen, meet in a prolonged and colossal kiss.) Now she’ll turn round and see her first husband come to life again. Unless he — (The heads slowly dissolve into “The End”). Oh! and nearly two hours before it comes round again! How sickening! Can you stick it as long as that?

SEC. S.  I might. If we’ve chocs enough to last us out. (Which fortunately they have.)

“Punch,” 1919.

A Saunterer in Siena

Siena at last! Now to find the Grand Hotel Cavour bus…. Doesn’t seem to be one here — but no matter. An open carriage will take me there just as comfortably. Not so cheaply, though. Going up steep incline to hill on which the City is perched. Most picturesque. I shall love Siena! Full of quaint charm. Also people — extraordinary number for so small a place. My driver seems to know a good many of them — keeps on pointing to me with his whip. I hope he isn’t remarking: “Look what an odd thing I’ve got in my cab!” — but I’ve a strong suspicion it’s something very like that.

He turns round to me and asks a question — probably whether I am favourably impressed by what I’ve seen of Siena. I say “Si-si. Molto bello!” From the manner in which he receives this reply I fancy I must have misunderstood him. Humiliating, rather.

Must think out how to occupy what remains of the afternoon; as soon as I’ve been given a room at the “Cavour,” I’ll have a wash and some café au lait, and then I’ll just saunter quietly about these narrow up-and-down streets till it’s time for table d’hôte….

Odd, my carriage has just been ordered back by a grey-green soldier with carbine … but we can get round, it seems, by a side street…. No, we can’t — turned back again by another soldier. Have I arrived to find Siena in the midst of a Socialist rising? If so, I’m not quite sure that — but the crowd looks peaceable enough.

We have come out opposite a public park. Driver intimates that this is as near to the “Cavour” as he can get, and carries my suitcase after me to hotel entrance, where I pay and dismiss him. No manager to receive me — only a pale and polite page who inquires, “Have I written to engage a room?” Well, no, I haven’t, having found it quite unnecessary in Italy. In that case, the page regrets that I cannot possibly be received. Hotel full up, completo, because of the Palio.

Gather, but not very clearly, that the Palio is an annual Sienese festival — procession in historical costume through the streets, followed by a horse-race. It is to begin at six o’clock. Seem to remember hearing of a horse-race through the streets of some place, but always thought it was Rome, or else Florence.

Great luck arriving here on the very day. But first of all, I must find another hotel. Going downhill along a narrow crowded street. Not “sauntering” though. Difficult to saunter when burdened by a heavy suitcase. The crowd saunter. I barge into them with suitcase and say “Skoozy.” … Have tried three more hotels — every one “completo.” Hot and tiring work — makes me feel as if there were a sort of curse on me…. Thank Heaven, I’ve got rid of that confounded suitcase, though; left it in the hall of the last hotel I tried. If they couldn’t take me in, I was determined they should take the suitcase….

Must have been into every hotel in Siena by this time. Surely, surely there must be one that can put me up — if only on the billiard table! … See arrow pointing to “Grande Albergo Centrale.” My last hope! … No, the “Centrale” is full up too — but the manageress has a heart and takes compassion on me. Portiere summoned and told to see what he can do. He introduces me to a motherly old person who lives in a tower in a courtyard and takes me under her wing, so to speak. I follow her through winding alleys, and into a doorway, up a dark staircase to a landing, where she knocks. Door opened by a stout middle-aged woman who invites us to enter her room, which is stuffy and too full of furniture to be really comfortable — but I can’t afford to be particular. Any sort of haven will be welcome now.

Motherly person explains my sad case, and is, I believe, really eloquent about it; middle-aged woman listens with what I feel are disparaging eyes on me, and only interrupts at intervals with a brief comment that sounds like “Coo parta.” Wish I knew what “Coo parta” means — but perhaps it’s as well I don’t…. Motherly person still pleading — I fancy she is representing that I am an orphan — the other is still rapping out “Coo parta,” as if she didn’t believe it. Though she might — at my age.

Have just discovered that she is really saying “Occupata” — the room is engaged. Don’t believe it is — she only says so because she doesn’t like the look of me. Motherly person evidently doesn’t believe it either — tries to persuade her to see me in a more favourable light … all in vain. I am rejected ignominiously with a parting clack of “Cupata.”

My patroness is only daunted for a moment; conveys that I must not lose heart — she is not at the end of her resources yet. Up more alleys, more dingy stairs, to another landing. Here I am presented to an elderly lady, toothless, and not as clean as could be desired, but full of vivacity and pantomime. Assuredly she has a room for me, she tells me with both hands — a beautiful room!

It certainly might be worse; it is clean, and has a big window opening on a balcony, an immense bed, with a highly coloured religious print above it, and a majolica stoup for holy water at the side; the terms are rather higher than I should have been asked at the “Cavour” — but what of that? I am no longer homeless; I have an address and shelter for as many nights as I care to stay….

Have washed, as well as I could, in a little metal basin the size of a soup-plate which swivelled coyly out from beneath a marble slab. Now I can go out and see this Palio affair with a mind at ease.

Back in crowded streets. Lots of time to choose best place for seeing the show whenever it comes by…. Can’t do better than this. On top of steps of a sort of loggia, where I can see perfectly over people’s heads. Also well out of way of horse-race. They can’t race along these steep, stony streets without some accident….

Sienese crowd not over-intelligent — none of them follows my example. They keep pushing on aimlessly in search of a better point of view. Later on they’ll be sorry. I know when I’m well off. Shall stay where I am….

If that was the Palio, I confess I’m a little disappointed. Just a small party — not many more than a dozen or so — pushing their way through the crowd, which scarcely troubled to make way for them.

Impression of great green and yellow banners with costumes to match, trumpets, drummers, pages, halberdiers, and a man with a gilded helmet and breastplate on a horse with metal-studded harness.

Very mediaeval and artistic — but I shouldn’t have called it a procession exactly…. However, no doubt the horse-race is the real thing.

Must have been here quite half an hour, but the race hasn’t started yet. Something’s happening, though. I can hear drums and trumpets. Nearer and nearer. Now there are sounds like maroons going off — and bells. I do believe they’re coming — this is getting really thrilling! But if they’re coming this way, it’s rather curious that there should be so few people about!

Why, of course — it isn’t this street they’re to race down, it’s the one parallel to it. But all I’ve got to do is simply to turn down this alley and … No, no sign of anything going on here!

Luckily I have what I may call a flair in these matters that never actually deserts me. After a little more wandering — too excited to saunter — my infallible instinct has led me down a steep slope, under an archway, to the back of some stands — and I find myself in the very thick of the Palio!

It seems they don’t go through the streets at all, but round an immense square surrounded by buildings. Piazza black with people. Slip through the scaffolding under a stand and mingle with crowd. Couldn’t possibly have managed it more neatly; and nothing happening as yet! Surely the Palio is rather behind time? Must find out when it’s expected to begin….

Have found out from a communicative person who speaks French. Historical procession consisted of fourteen parties like the one I saw; took about forty minutes to pass; a most magnificent spectacle, apparently. It finished a quarter of an hour ago, and the horse-race round the Piazza is just over.

Rather a blow — but well, it can’t be helped now. If I’m ever asked I can always say: “Why, oddly enough, I happened to be in Siena on the very day of the Palio.” No one will press me for details, for fear of getting them. Not that they need be alarmed in my case.

Best thing to do now is to saunter back to the “Cavour” and get some food there…. It’s singular, but although as a rule I have quite an exceptional sense of locality, I find I’ve completely lost my bearings! No hotels of any sort about here. Fortunately I always rise to occasions like this. I’ve only to get a carriage — the driver will know where the “Cavour” is, if I don’t. Find an empty carriage in an open space. Driver insists that it isn’t empty — it’s “occupata,” though I’m sure he’s lying….

I saunter on, up and down, and round and round, till I suddenly turn a comer, and there is the “Cavour” facing me. My sense of locality was all right after all! …

I have had the table d’hôte dinner, for which, unless it was for the wine, I’ve had a bill that would not have been moderate at the Ritz — but after all, it’s the Palio day, so I made no protest.

Now all I have to do is to retrieve my suitcase and have it taken to my lodging. Let me see; I either left it at the “Continental,” or the “Croce Bianca,” or the “Garibaldi” — or was it the “Grande Albergo della Posta”? I remember the names distinctly.

While waiting in the hall of the “Continental” (where they know nothing of my suitcase) I had another glance at the “Cavour” bill, and discover that it included somebody else’s lunch and half bottle of wine with my dinner.

Of course I might go backand get the mistake corrected — but is it worth while? What are a few lire more or less when one is out to enjoy oneself? Besides, I’m not over sure I can find the “Cavour” again.

Still, it seems strange that I should have come to Siena to stand a lunch to someone I’ve never even heard of.

Better concentrate on finding my suitcase, and try each of the other hotels in turn. A good thing that, foreseeing I might have some difficulty in identifying my lodgings, I took the precaution of getting the old lady to write down her name and address for me. Where did I put the paper? … Surely I can’t have been such a … No, of course not — here it is, in my waistcoat pocket. Must take it under a lamp and make it out…. I’ve made out “Paolina,” “No. 2 Via,” and “Piazza” — the rest is hopelessly illegible. I can’t expect any hotel to take a suitcase to an address like that!

So I’m as far off a night’s shelter as when I arrived! No sense in recovering my suitcase if it’s only to saunter about Siena all night with it! It’s beginning to rain, too — hard…. Afraid I shall know Siena pretty thoroughly before morning. Whether I shall fully appreciate its quaintness and charm by then I am not so sure.

The Breaking-Point

Richard Alston, late first lieutenant in the West Marlshires, was walking home from Hampstead on a night in mid-December, 1918, with a lighter heart than he had known for the last three years, than he had ever hoped would be his again. Even now he could scarcely believe that anything so wonderful had happened as that he should be engaged to Cynthia Royle.

His thoughts went back to his first meeting with her. She and her mother had come to see him in the private hospital for officers to which he had been taken. All they knew of him then was that he was in the same regiment as Cynthia’s brother Nugent, and that he had been severely wounded in a reconnaissance they had been ordered to make together, in which Royle had been killed. Alston remembered how he had shrunk from seeing them; they would want to talk about the son and brother they had lost — and he hated thinking of anybody or anything connected with the war.

But they had understood all that, and spoken no more of Royle than was unavoidable. And Cynthia had been so fair and sweet that he could have wished she had never come, since it was not to be expected that hers was more than a duty-visit which would be her only one. There he had misjudged her; she had come to see him regularly during his long convalescence, and each time she had left him with a bitterer sense that it was only her interest in him as her brother’s friend that brought her there at all.

As a matter of fact, Royle and he had not been on any intimate terms. Royle had been in the Service before the war, and was his senior in rank as well as age. Alston had always had an uneasy impression that the other rather tolerated than liked him, while he himself admired and looked up to Royle and would have been proud to be admitted to his friendship.

However, there was no need to tell Cynthia that, and at least he could praise him to her without insincerity. He thought of the day when he had received his Military Cross at Buckingham Palace; Nugent’s cross had been given to his mother the same day, and Alston was invited for the first time to the house at Hampstead. They had asked him often since that, and Cynthia had always seemed glad to see him, though there were times when he had felt it would be wiser if he went there no more.

It was not till this evening that he had had any hope that she felt more than friendship for him, and on that hope he had spoken, because he could not help himself, though he knew he was risking all by speaking so soon.

He had risked everything, and won. Fortune, not for the first time, had shown him favour when he least expected it. For, on the whole, his luck had been amazing. If he had been told, when, three years ago, he had at last decided to apply for a commission, that he would come through the War, not only without mutilation or disfigurement, but actually with distinction, it would have seemed incredible enough. Yet here he was, safe and free, released by his last Board from all further soldiering, able to return whenever he chose to the literary work in which, before the war, he had begun to make a name. He had felt too slack to take up writing again as yet. Now he would set to work for Cynthia’s sake and do something worthy of her.

What a long way he had come without noticing; he was nearly at the end of Finchley Road already! It was amusing now to remember that not very long ago, as he walked down that broad and commonplace thoroughfare, illuminated along its centre by cones of dim light, with its prim two-storied houses standing back behind their walled gardens, he had had a vague fear as of something hostile that was following with a kind of stealthy rustle. He had been afraid to turn his head lest he should see — what, he did not know precisely. It showed how shaken his nerves must have been, for now, though he heard the rustling again, he knew perfectly well what was causing it — simply a few fallen leaves drifting in the night-breeze.

And yet — there were none on the pavement in front of him. The trees along the kerbstone were bare now — most of their leaves must have been swept away or trodden into the mire by this time. It was strange, but that former sensation of being pursued by something subtly malevolent had begun to return. Alston quickened his pace, but without escaping from the sound. It was not until he was in Wellington Road, where the lamps were on the side-path and gave a stronger light, that he could bring himself to stop and look back.

And then he laughed aloud at his own folly, as he saw what had been scaring him. It was nothing but a piece of paper, which naturally made a scraping sound as it moved; he could still hear after he had turned down Grove End Road, but it no longer gave him any uneasiness. He turned another corner, at right angles this time, into St. John’s Wood Road, and now, as the rustle continued to follow him, he became uneasy once more. It was hardly possible that — but when he looked back again he was relieved to see that it was only the same crumpled paper — or, more probably, another — which had been caught by a cross-gust and carried after him. As he stood there, it was bome on till it stopped at his feet, and, seized by a sudden curiosity of which he was slightly ashamed, he picked it up and unfolded it.

There was a nearly full moon sailing through a ragged gap edged with faint orange in a sky of greenish-black, but it was not bright enough to tell him more than that there was writing of some sort on the paper. He had to take it under the next street lamp before he could read the words. After reading them he crushed the paper into a ball and flung it away as though it had stung him — as indeed it had.

The words he had read were these: “I forbid you to see her again. You know why.”

Only one person could have the right or the knowledge to have written thus to him. And that person was dead.

Alston walked on, shaken to his soul. He could not help looking over his shoulder once, but the ball of paper lay where he had thrown it, as if its mission were fulfilled. He was trembling still when he let himself into his flat in some Maida Vale mansions, but once back in his comfortable study and able to think calmly, he soon saw how absurdly he had exaggerated what might be, after all, a mere coincidence.

So far as he recollected, the handwriting was unknown to him. Why should the message not have been meant for another? Or, more probable still, it might have been a rough note for a line in a novel or play which some author had, as he himself had often done, hastily jotted down on the first available scrap of paper — and lost or thrown away. It was ridiculous to have been so upset by such a trifle — especially when he had everything now to make him happy. He would be a fool if he allowed himself to be seriously worried by a purely imaginary note.

And when he awoke the next morning, after a dreamless night, every trace of trouble or worry had disappeared, and all he thought of was how to get through the hours that must pass before he was to see Cynthia again. He got through them agreeably enough by revising the opening chapters of the novel he had left unfinished, and finding that his lost enthusiasm and confidence had come back to him.

It had been arranged overnight that he was to call for Cynthia that afternoon at the depot in Kensington Square, where she was working for wounded soldiers. For the greater part of the war she had been a V.A.D. at a hospital, but had been compelled to give this up, and lighter and more occasional duties were all that she had since been allowed to undertake.

Alston was a little before his time, and was standing outside the old William and Mary houses in the gathering dusk, waiting for Cynthia to join him, when he saw something which revived the terror of the previous night. In itself it was nothing — just a crumpled piece of paper like the other, which was swerving across the road from the Square railings. Was he mistaken, or was it really making slowly toward him? He watched it spellbound, till presently it came within his reach, and at first he did not dare to touch it.

But he must, he knew, get the mastery of his nerves — or they would master him. It was a million to one that this paper was either blank or bore nothing of the least significance; he had only to satisfy himself of that to set his mind at rest forever, and with this expectation he picked up the paper. Like the previous one, it had been written upon, and he could scarcely believe his own eyes as he read the lines: “You have been warned once. You are unworthy of her and must give her up. — N. R.”

He was still unable to identify the handwriting, but the words, to say nothing of the initials, confirmed his wildest fears. This at least could be no mere coincidence. Nugent Royle was dead beyond all doubt — but his spirit survived. It had been striving, longer than he knew perhaps, to establish communication with him. Now it had succeeded, and he would never again be free from this sinister and implacable persecution! The horror of it stunned him for the moment. Then he tore the paper into shreds, and just as he had done so, saw Cynthia coming smiling down the steps. “Have I kept you waiting very long, Dick?” she had begun, and then, as she saw his face, her smile vanished. “Tell me,” she asked, anxiously, “you’re not in any pain again, dearest? I’d been hoping all that was over.”

Alston said that he had had a slight return of it — nothing to speak of — he was all right again now.

“You poor old thing!” she said, affectionately. “You’ve been overtiring yourself. It’s time you had somebody to take care of you — but you’ve got me now.”

He was ordered to take her to tea at a shop she knew of close by, and was thankful that her animated description of her experiences during the day relieved him from all efforts of his own. But Cynthia had set herself to distract his thoughts from the pain he was evidently suffering, and was not so exacting as to expect him to entertain her just then.

There was something restful and almost homelike about the room they were in, with its subdued light, pleasant wallpaper, and pretty china. Alston, as he sat with Cynthia at one of the little tiled tables, near a glowing fire, gradually yielded to the sense of well-being and security. He felt he was somehow in sanctuary — his invisible enemy would not assail him so long as he was with Cynthia.

And as he grew more collected he began to see that he might have taken too serious a view of his position. Those messages were directed to him, and to him alone. If their inspirer had had the power to do more, surely it would have been used before now.

As for himself, he had a very obvious protection; he had merely to refrain from reading any further messages of this kind, and they could disturb him no more.

And at that his spirits rose, till to Cynthia’s delight, and rather to his own surprise, he was able to talk and laugh as gaily as though no malign influence had ever threatened his happiness.

On leaving the tea-shop he would have taken a taxi if he could have found one, but, none being available, they travelled to Hampstead by the District and Tube. A fitful wind was blowing as they mounted Holly Hill, and again there was that ominous rustle behind them, but, well as he knew what was dogging his footsteps, he steeled himself to bear it. So long as Cynthia noticed nothing unusual, he thought he was safe enough.

But his nerves were on the rack nevertheless, and he was less and less conscious of what he was saying. They had come to more open ground facing the terrace of stately old houses, one of which was Cynthia’s home, when a sudden blast whirled something above their heads and deposited it on to the road before her feet — a sheet of paper which glided slowly on in advance, and stopped occasionally, in a manner that could not fail to attract her attention.

Yes, this time the message was for her, not him; if she read it, all was over! “For Heaven’s sake, don’t touch it, Cynthia, don’t touch it!” he cried, losing all self-control as he stamped the paper into the earth under his heel.

“Dick!” she exclaimed and laughed, “as if I was dreaming of touching it! What are you so afraid of? Not infection, surely?”

Even as the words passed his lips he had seen the folly of them. He could hardly have said or done anything more certain to excite her curiosity. “There — there’s always a risk,” he said, determined to guard against it yet, if possible. “Don’t think me fussy, darling, but I want you to promise me faithfully never to pick up any stray piece of paper that may come in your way. You will promise me that, won’t you?”

“If it will relieve your mind,” she said, “I promise faithfully that I’ll never touch the dirtiest scrap of paper I see in the street, however much I’m tempted. There — are you satisfied now?”

“Yes,” he said. “I know you’ll keep your word.” And he was satisfied, for, if she was a little astonished, it was evident that she suspected nothing. Yes, on the whole, it was better that this should have happened, or he might not have thought of exacting that promise from her.

At dinner that evening Mrs. Royle, attached as she was to Alston, saw nothing unusual in his manner. Cynthia was not quite happy about him, however, though she was careful not to let him see it. When they were alone together afterwards she led him to talk about his work, and he told her of the novel, of an idea he had for a comedy, and other projects, but it struck her that, for the time at all events, he had lost something of his belief and interest in them.

She was neither anxious nor alarmed — her hospital experience was sufficient to prevent that — but she could see that he was farther from complete recovery than she had been hoping. It was no wonder, she thought, if his poor nerves were still all ajar after the horrors he had been through. He must be induced to forget them! She would give up her work at the depot and devote herself entirely to him. So, before they parted, she represented that she was longing to see a play again, and persuaded him to try to get seats for a matinée of one of them next day. He was to let her know on the telephone if he succeeded, and she would come up and meet him at the theatre.

The wind had gone down when Alston left the house, and though both on his way down the hill to the station and along St. John’s Wood Road his ears were alert to catch the rustle he dreaded, he heard nothing. Might it not be that he never would hear it again — that his tormentor had shot his last bolt and could no longer molest him? He began to feel reassured.

Nor did anything happen to destroy this feeling all the next morning, most of which was occupied in making a round of the principal box-offices before he could get seats for one of the plays Cynthia had named. Then he had to ring her up and tell her the theatre and time at which they were to meet, and the rest of the time he passed at his club, which he had not visited since he had left for the Front. At the club he was glad to come across some old friends and find that they had not forgotten him; he had lunch with them, but from some half-superstitious instinct did not mention his engagement to Cynthia. And then he went on to the theatre, and waited for her in the lobby.

He had not to wait long; the curtain had not risen when they were shown to their seats — and then the next blow fell and found Alston utterly unprepared.

He had broken the seal that fastened his programme and was about to pass it to Cynthia, when, written across the two pages he saw the words: “If she could know what you are she would have no more to do with you. — N. R.”

And at the same instant, before he could do anything to prevent it, she had taken the programme from his hand. But what could he have done?

When she had seen those terrible words, what would she think, what would be her next words to him? He dared not look at her as she read them; he sat rigid, setting his jaw hard, his eyes fixed on the drop-curtain a few yards in front, for what seemed an age, until she spoke.

And when she did, it was only to make a casual remark about the cast. He was saved; the words that had burnt into his brain were mercifully invisible to her, and, indeed, when he found courage to glance at the page again they were no longer there.

How near he had been to betraying himself by some mad appeal! Even now, if she saw his face, she might — but fortunately the curtain had already risen; he could recover his self-command unobserved.

And as his mind cleared he recognised that in what had just happened there was something rather encouraging than otherwise. For since these denunciations seemed to be visible to none but himself, they lost most of their terror; they would always be galling reminders of what he had hoped to forget, but never again would he let himself be outwardly affected by them. If he did he would surely end by alarming and estranging Cynthia — that was the only way in which he could possibly lose her.

He had been unconscious till then of everything on the stage, but now he was able to give his attention to the play, and even laugh without an effort; so that Cynthia congratulated herself on the success of her treatment. She was glad when he suggested, after dinner at Hampstead that evening, that she should dine alone with him the next night at a restaurant, and go on afterwards to see the Russian Ballet at the Coliseum. The next day was to be her last at the depot, and she had promised to go to tea with some friends afterwards, but since it was not necessary to go home and change her frock, she could join him at the restaurant.

And again nothing happened to disquiet him till the following afternoon. He was going to his club, where he meant to have tea and see the evening papers till he was due at the restaurant, when a man in some fantastic costume suddenly offered him a handbill.

Alston accepted it mechanically, saw that it was headed in large letters: “READ THIS. IT CONCERNS YOU!” and threw it away, but not in time to avoid the words in writing that were below: “I have not done with you yet. — N. R.”

His chief feeling, however, on this occasion was irritation; this kind of thing was becoming grotesque; in fact, there was a ludicrous side to all these incidents, if he could only bring his sense of humour to bear on them; he might do so later, but not quite yet.

By the time he was inside the club he had forgotten this warning, and it was not till later that he remembered it. He got to the restaurant some minutes before the appointed time, but the minutes passed,-and more and more minutes after them, without bringing Cynthia.

Why had she not come? Was it because — she knew? Would he have a wire presently to tell him that she was not coming?

And, just as he was trying to prepare himself for this, Cynthia arrived, looking more radiantly lovely than ever in her furs, and apparently unaware that she had kept him waiting at all. With unspeakable relief he entered the restaurant with her, and led the way to the table he had reserved.

The restaurant was in one of the streets behind Piccadilly, a quiet little establishment which had a prestige and distinction of its own, together with the double recommendation of an excellent cuisine and no orchestra.

They had sat down and a French waiter had deferentially handed him the menu. As Alston took it he could not, for all his late resolutions, refrain from starting violently. For across it was scrawled another of those grim messages, more peremptory and menacing than any of the others.

“You must tell her tonight,” it ran, “while you have the chance. In any case, she shall know. — N. R.”

He felt a deadly chill strike his heart, and the card which he held to screen his face from Cynthia shook in his hand. But only for an instant; why, after all, should he let such things disturb him? Royle could threaten — but he could do no more. As for telling Cynthia, it was unthinkable that he should ever be such a madman as to do that of his own accord. And no one, living or dead, could compel him. No, he had nothing really to fear. Already the writing had flickered out on the page, and his voice was quite steady as he read the items on the menu for Cynthia to choose from.

She was as frankly pleased as a child, declaring that it was so long since she had dined in a restaurant that she had almost forgotten what it was like. She approved of everything, from his choice of a table to the room, with its white walls, panels of old-rose satin, and discreetly tempered lights.

How enchanting she was, he thought, and how dear! Every now and then, amidst her lightest talk, some expression in her charming eyes, some inflection of her gay voice, revealed how deeply she loved him, how intensely proud she was of her lover.

And, by Heaven, he vowed to himself, she should have more reason to be proud of him someday! Soon they would be together like this for all their lives. For — and he must never forget this in future — there was no one but himself who could ever really destroy her love.

So for the remainder of the dinner he gave himself up to the bliss of being with Cynthia, and the terror that had haunted him seemed to have taken its final flight.

Dinner was over; the people at the adjoining tables had already taken their departure, and others were leaving. Alston had paid his bill, but he still sat on with Cynthia. There was no occasion for hurry — time for another cigarette at all events. It was pleasanter and quieter here, listening to her, than being in a noisy theatre where they could not talk so well. She was telling him of her plan for his spending Christmas with them — not at Hampstead, but at a delightful hotel in the pine-woods near Boumemouth. And he had welcomed the plan — not that he cared where he spent Christmas, so long as it was with her, but it was delicious to feel that she had arranged it all on his account. He was thinking when he would give her the ring he had bought that morning — in the taxi as they went to the Coliseum — or better, perhaps, on their way home.

And the next instant these pleasant thoughts of his fled, routed by a fear of something so infinitely more appalling than had happened yet, that he tried desperately to persuade himself that there was no real foundation for it.

The table he had chosen was by an archway which divided the restaurant, and he sat facing the inner room of the two. This was now deserted, and the waiters had retired, after switching off all the lights but one above a table at the extreme end, where a solitary figure was seated, apparently, though Alston could only see its back, in the act of writing. The figure was that of an officer in uniform, but there was of course nothing strange in that — there had been several in the restaurant that evening. What had aroused Alston’s fear was a growing conviction that the writer was one whom he had firmly believed dead, who could not in the nature of things be alive. The set of the shapely head on the square shoulders, the well-groomed auburn hair with a slight wave in it, were strangely like — but it could not be — it must be a delusion! The head was bent, and the mirror in front of it was hung too high to reflect even the forehead; perhaps when the writer looked up — but he did not, he went on writing, as one whose time was short.

Cynthia was still talking of their holiday, how they would golf and walk and dance together, and how soon he would get perfectly well, and go back to do more brilliant work than ever, and he was answering at random, watching feverishly for the moment when the writer would raise his head and end the suspense.

And at last it came — and Alston was in doubt no longer. Only the upper part of the face was visible in the glass, but the high, tanned forehead and the steel-blue eyes were those of Nugent Royle.

They met Alston’s for a second or two with a stem inquiry, and then the head was bent once more.

Alston’s brain was whirling in a rush of confused thoughts. This, then, was the meaning of the last message! If he did not tell Cynthia himself, Royle would; and Alston could guess how damning and merciless his indictment would be. Whether Royle were alive or had been permitted to simulate life was equally incredible — why trouble about that, when so many scarcely less credible things had happened? He was there in some form; there was no escape from him; if Alston attempted to leave this place with his story untold, Cynthia would hear it at once. Royle would find the means of reaching her — that at least was certain now.

Anything was better than that. By telling her himself, Alston thought, he would be able to present his conduct with such redeeming features as there were; he would anticipate his accuser — perhaps even Nugent might have mercy then, and the worst be spared him…. Yes, there was no other course for him; he must speak now, while there was yet time.

“Cynthia,” he heard himself saying abruptly, in a voice that scarcely sounded like his own, “there’s — there’s something I’ve got to tell you.”

“Not here, Dick,” she protested, with a lightness that was only assumed, for she had been alarmed by the change in his face and manner. “It must be very nearly time for the Russian Ballet.”

“When I’ve done,” he said, “I doubt if you’ll be in the humour for the Russian Ballet. It’s about that night, Cynthia — the night Nugent and — I—”

“If you’d rather not go to the Coliseum, darling, we’ll go home, and you can tell me on the way.” The figure of the officer in the dining-room had stopped writing, and appeared to be watching him intently.

“I must tell you now,” said Alston. “You — you don’t know all yet.”

“I know that you and Nugent went out together, a long way round behind the enemy’s front-line,” she said, seeing that it was best to humour him just then, “to find out — wasn’t it? — whether some place was fortified or not.”

“A ruined farm, yes. An offensive had been planned, and we were sent out to discover if we could how strongly the place was held, whether the Boche had enough machine-guns to hold up our attack, and so forth. We got through their wire all right — our guns had put up a barrage and cut gaps in different places for us first, you see — and then we gradually worked round to the farm and found out all we wanted.”

“And had to fight your way back, and Nugent was killed and you badly wounded, and I don’t know which of the two I’m prouder of,” she said. “But wouldn’t it be better not to think of all that just now, Dick? I hoped you were beginning to forget it.”

“I’ve tried,” he said. “But I’m not allowed to. It isn’t that — it’s what happened on our way back.”

Was it his fancy, or did the eyes in the mirror look less hard? They were lowered again, and from the writer’s action it seemed that he was tearing up whatever he had begun.

“We were trying to make for the gap we got in by,” Alston went on, “but a thick fog came on. We had luminous compasses, but it delayed us, of course, and we may have lost our direction a bit. Anyway, before we had a chance of putting up a fight, we were seized from behind and made prisoners.”

“How frightfully hard to bear — just when you—!”

“I don’t know. I think I was glad — to be out of it all. You see, Cynthia, it isn’t as if I’d been a soldier from choice. I knew I should loathe it when I applied for a commission, though I’d no rest till I did. And when I got out to the front, it was worse than I thought even. I — I was in almost constant fear — I don’t mean that I — showed it — I didn’t. But it never left me for long.”

“Dearest,” she said, and laid her hand lightly on his, “you don’t suppose you were the only one to feel it, do you? Why, that’s the truest courage — to fear death, and yet face it!”

“It wasn’t being killed outright that I was afraid of,” he said. “That got to be the best I expected. It was pain, Cynthia; the ghastly pain I’d seen so many poor fellows going through. I — I funked that.”

“And you got the Military Cross!” she put in. “You absurd dear! And was this all you’ve been worrying about?”

Could he not leave her to think so? The eyes he dreaded were on him still; he read contempt in their fixed stare; and then, with a gesture of sudden determination that Alston remembered as characteristic of Royle, the head was bent once more and the writing began again, slowly, relentlessly. Alston felt that no evasion could save him — he must go on now, to the end.

“No, Cynthia,” he said, “that isn’t all. There — there’s worse to come.”

“But, Dick, dear,” she pleaded, “why distress yourself — and me — by telling me now?”

“Why?” he replied, almost roughly. “Because I must. Do you suppose that, if I could help it— But let me go on with it…. After we were captured we were hustled down their trenches — how far I don’t know, but it must have been a longish way. Then we were taken back to the Company Commander’s dug-out in their support-trench. He questioned us: about our strength, and when our offensive was coming off, and where. You can guess what we said to him. He was an evil-tempered brute — threatened to have us shot. When that failed, he told us he had other means of forcing us to speak and — and — what they were.”

“Dick!” she cried, “don’t tell me that you and poor Nugent were—”

“Tortured?” he said. “No, no. It — it never came to that.”

“Thank God!” she said, under her breath. “But what saved you from it, Dick?”

“I told you just now that what I feared most was pain. I knew I shouldn’t be able to stand it. So — so I took the fellow aside, and said — I speak German fairly well, you know — that, on conditions, I was willing to — to tell him all I knew.”

She looked at him with wide, indignant eyes. “And Nugent stood by and consented? No, nothing will ever make me believe that!”

“He didn’t know enough German to understand. One of my conditions was that he shouldn’t be told. But that sneezing devil told him afterwards, all the same, and congratulated him on owing his life to me, provided my information turned out to be correct. If Nugent could have got at me I believe he would have killed me then.”

“I have no doubt he would,” she said, in a low voice. “But — he was killed, and you were set free.”

“Not by them,” he said. “The moment after, a shell from one of our own trench mortars — they were firing to cover our return; there was no idea that we could be up in that part at all — a shell burst right in the middle of us. Nugent, the Boche officer, and all the men who were there were killed on the spot. If I’d been standing a little nearer I should have been killed too. I wish to God I had been! … And then it suddenly came to me that I was no traitor after all!”

“No traitor!” she repeated, and covered her eyes with her hands. “You could think that?”

“Wasn’t it true?” he said. “I’d betrayed no one, now the only man I had told was dead. I’d still a chance of making good. There was no one about to stop me. I knew I’d been hit, but I didn’t feel it much at first. The fog had lifted by that time, and I managed to crawl out to a shell-hole some way off. I lay there all the rest of the night, but at dawn our own men started a raid on that part of the German line, and brought me in with the other wounded. I was just able to give in my report, and I remember no more till I found myself in a base hospital…. Now I’ve told you, Cynthia. And I suppose it’s made you hate me?”

As he spoke he saw that the figure in the inner room had again ceased writing.

Cynthia removed her hands from her eyes, tragic eyes which sought to avoid his. “If it had only been anything else,” she said, lifelessly, “I could have— But I don’t hate you. I think I’m sorry for you — a little sorry. I — I dare say you couldn’t help being — like that. Only — it’s made everything different. It was another man I loved — the man I thought you were!”

“And you — can’t care for me any more?”

“I shall always care,” she said. “But if you mean as I did before — before I knew this, I’m sorry, Dick, but that’s impossible — quite impossible. At least, so far as I can think about it at all yet. If, someday, I should come to feel differently, I will tell you so…. And now you must let me go home, please — alone.”

Alston stood by as she got into the taxi he had ordered, knowing that he must let her go alone; and he went back to the restaurant, impelled by the hope that Royle would be there no longer.

But there he still sat, waiting. Well, Alston thought, they were alone together — he would have it out with him, alive or dead! He entered the inner room, and as he drew near the mirror he saw the other’s full face for the first time, and stopped petrified. For, if in the eyes and upper part of the face there was a rough resemblance to Nugent Royle, it was in all other respects as unlike him as possible.

“Here, you!” said the stranger, holding out a letter to a waiter who had just come in. “just find someone to take this round at once, will you? He’s to bring me the answer here, if there is one. And tell him to go to the stage-door, mind!” Then after the waiter had gone the officer turned to Alston. “Well, sir,” he said, “you seem to know me all right, from the way you’ve been starin’ for the last half-hour, but I’m afraid I can’t for the life of me—”

“I’m sorry,” said Alston, dully. “I — I mistook you for — for a friend of mine.”

He turned abruptly and made his way out, passing the table where Cynthia had been talking happily to him so short a time — and yet such an age — ago. He might be with her now, if his overwrought nerves had not tricked him into exaggerating a chance resemblance. But that he could never have done if he had not first been almost harried out of his mind by those secret and terrifying messages. And they were real; it was inconceivable to him that he could have imagined them.

Whether they would continue, or cease, now their end had been gained, was a matter of indifference to Alston, as, stunned almost to insensibility, he went on his way. He had walked some distance before he remembered that he was still carrying the engagement-ring he had intended for Cynthia. That must be got rid of at once; the irony of it was more poignant than he could endure.

And then, in the very act of throwing it away, he checked himself as certain words of hers came back to him — words that implied, or seemed to imply, a possibility that, someday, she would relent.

It might be that she had merely tried to soften the blow, that the thought of Nugent would always be an impassable barrier between them. Still, she had left him with just a faint gleam of hope — would it not be like abandoning even that if he threw away the ring?

Yes, he decided, he would keep it — so long as any hope remained to him.

The Marmamoochy

Scene.—A side street. A well-spoken man in a snuff-coloured suit occupies the centre of the road. Punctuating his remarks impressively with a serrated cake-knife on a dingy aluminium tray, he addresses a group of small children.

THE WELL-SPOKEN MAN.  Ladies and Gentlemen, I am about to present to you the most extraordinary living phenomenon in existence — the marvellous little Marmamoochy. (Here the group is joined by a PERSON OF OPEN MIND.) This is the very last occasion on which I am able to exhibit the Marmamoochy in London, Ladies and Gentlemen (the audience increases, but, although now chiefly adults, is still entitled only by courtesy to this form of address), as she is leaving tonight by the midnight express to fulfil an important engagement in the North. And I will undertake to say that, when you have seen her, you will admit that she surpasses anything you could possibly have imagined. (THE OPEN-MINDED PERSON is impressed, the speaker’s tone being that of a man who is quietly confident of his ability to deliver the goods.) At present she is resting in there (he indicates something between a small portmanteau and a large attaché-case near his feet). Before I introduce the wonderful Marmamoochy — (here he breaks off to rescue the case from under the wheels of a passing van. The Phenomenon’s narrow escape is witnessed by the crowd without emotion, while it excites a thrill of anxiety and relief in the O.-M.P.) — before I introduce her perhaps I had better prepare for peculiarities that might otherwise cause some alarm. She is seven to eight inches in height, coal-black, and, though possessing no less than five eyes, is yet, strange to say, totally blind. (This confirms the O.-M.P.’s impression that the Marmamoochy is well worth waiting for.) First, I shall require a lad — not too young — to assist me. I’ll take you. (He lays hold of a youth with a head like an apple dumpling and puts him through a preliminary examination). Fourteen, are you? Go to school?

THE APPLE DUMPLING.  Na-ow.

THE W.-S.M.  Do any work?

THE A.D.  Na-ow.

THE W.-S.M.  Do you reside in this locality?

THE A.D.  Na-ow.

THE W.-S.M.  Then where do you live?

THE A.D.  Two streets off o’ this ’ere.

THE W.-S.M.  Anyway, I don’t know you, and you don’t know me?

THE A.D.  Na-ow.

THE W.-S.M.  Very well, take this tray — not like that — hold it in both hands — level; that’s better (producing nine metal rings, which he places on the tray in a pattern). Now, Ladies and Gentlemen, in another moment or two you will see the marvellous little Marmamoochy come out of that box, jump on this tray and swallow all those nine rings in rapid succession, after which she will dance for exactly two and a half minutes and no longer, owing to the heat of the sun’s rays. (Even this is rather more than the O.-M.P. would have expected after all those rings, and, for the moment, his faith falters. Still, “there are more things,” etc., and one never knows.) Tell me, Johnny, you’re not feeling afraid of the Marmamoochy, are you?

THE A.D.  Na-ow (and, as he seems about as susceptible to the terror of the Unknown as an average turnip, the O.-M.P. is inclined to believe him).

THE W.-S.M.  All right; but promise me to shut both eyes when she appears. Or, perhaps I’d better cover you up. (He veils the A.D. in a large green handkerchief.) Ladies and Gentlemen, it is now time? Stop! What are those two little girls doing here? You run off home, do you hear! (A SYMPATHETIC ONLOOKER hastens their departure; the O.-M.P. wonders whether there can possibly be anything about the Marmamoochy’s dance that — but it soon occurs to him that her entrepreneur has reflected, tardily but very properly, that such a lusus naturae is scarcely a suitable sight for eyes so young.) Now, Ladies and Gentlemen — But what’s coming to me? I’d nearly forgotten to prepare the stage for the Marmamoochy to dance on I (He arranges two slips of cardboard on the tray in a manner that strikes the O.-M.P. as likely to limit any freedom of action. But, after all, the Man must know best.) Before I commence, these may be of use to some of you. (He tosses memorandum-books and lead/pencils to the spectators, apparently that they may take careful notes of the Marmamoochy’s peculiarities; the O.-M.P., however, has to rely on his powers of observation, which are fortunately keen.) Wait! I’ll do more for you than that! (taking the tray from the youth, who retires into obscurity, and flinging among the crowd the rings provided for the Marmamoochy’s refreshment. This is something of a shock to the O.-M.P., but it has already occurred to him that her exhibitor has a slight tendency to exaggerate. Very likely the Marmamoochy is less richly endowed with eyes than he has stated, and would never have swallowed those rings. She may even prove incompetent as a danseuse. What does that matter so long as she appears? But at this point—)

THE SYMPATHETIC ONLOOKER  (suddenly coming forward and seizing the attaché-case). Now, I’m going to show you people somethink! (Opening the case, which contains a quantity of small leather jewel-cases, a pair of field-glasses, etc., and can have been no bed of roses for any Marmamoochy; all these articles he piles on the tray, held by the W.-S.M., who has now sunk to the position of a subordinate.) What did I give you last?

THE W.-S.M.  (with deference). A gold watch, Sir.

THE S.O.  Right! A gold watch, Gentlemen, by one of the first London makers, jewelled in five holes. Look ’ere! Is there any man among yer who will show serficient pluck and confidence in me to orfer me a penny for that watch? Come on, now!

[The crowd responds, seemingly oblivious of any disappointment they may feel in the non-appearance of the Marmamoochy, whose performance, as the O.-M.P. realises, is indefinitely postponed. Indeed, as he leaves, he is haunted by a growing suspicion that this mysterious creature is merely a figment of her exhibitor’s imagination. Which may quite possibly be the case.

“Punch,” 1922.

Ferdie

I had better say at once that I don’t set up to be literary. I get quite enough of pen and ink all day at the bank, and when I am free, I like to be out in the fresh air as long as I can.

So you will not expect “style” or “literary composition” or anything of that sort in this; it is just an account, as exact as I can make it, of a very unpleasant experience I had last Christmas, and you must let me tell it in my own way. If you think, as very likely you may, that I cut rather a poor figure in the course of it, all I ask is that you will kindly suspend your judgment of me till you come to the finish. Because you will see then — at least I hope you will — that I couldn’t very well have behaved any differently.

My name is Filleter — Lionel Alchin Filleter, if you want it in full — I am about twenty-four, and unmarried. My elder sister Louisa and I share a semi-detached villa in Woodlands Avenue, Cricklebury Park, within easy reach of the City by rail or motor-bus. Our house is called “Ullswater,” and next door is “Buttermere”; why, I don’t know, as neither boasts so much as a basin of goldfish. But the name was painted on the gate when we came, and as we couldn’t think of anything better, we stuck to it.

We have quite a decent back garden for the size of the house, and when there was nothing doing in the way of games, I spent most of my spare time in it. In fact, I got rather keen at last, and my bank being in the City, I used to look in as often as possible at Messrs. Protheroe and Morris’s well-known auction-rooms in Cheapside, on the off-chance of picking up a bargain. Sometimes I did; in March of last year, for instance, I happened to drop in while they were selling a consignment of late Dutch and Cape bulbs and roots, and secured a bag of a hundred miscellaneous anemone roots for half a crown. The lot was described in the catalogue as “Mixed. All fine sorts, including St. Brigid, Fulgens, etc. Believed to contain some new varieties.”

If you have ever seen any anemone roots you will know what black, dried-up looking things they are, so queerly shaped that one can never be sure which end up to plant them. I planted mine the day after I got them home, along my S.E. border, where they would get plenty of sun, and make a good show in front of the phloxes the following June. Or rather I planted all but one there, that one being so much larger and more fantastically shaped than the rest that I thought it might possibly turn out to be a quite unique variety, like, as I told Louisa at the time, the celebrated “Narcissus Mackintoshi Splendescens,” which was bought in a mixed lot at an auction for a few shillings, and now fetches as much as five pounds a bulb!

So I put in this particular root by itself, just under the drawing-room window, with a labelled peg to mark the spot. Louisa rather jeered at my expectations; she has very little faith in me as a gardener, and besides, she takes no proper pride in the garden itself, or she would never have persisted as she did, in letting Togo out for a run in it the last thing at night. Togo is Louisa’s black dachshund, and, as I understand the breed was originally trained to hunt for truffles, you could hardly expect such things as bulbs and roots to get a fair chance if there is any truth in hereditary instinct. But Louisa objected to his running about in front, because of motor-cars.

Still, I’m bound to say that he did not seem to have interfered with any of the anemones, all of which came up well — except the root I had such hopes of, which never came up at all. And, as I couldn’t fairly blame Togo for that, and Louisa seemed to have forgotten all about the subject, I didn’t think it worth while to refer to it.

I soon forgot my disappointment myself, until I was clearing up my beds in November and came upon the peg. Then I decided to leave the root undisturbed, just in case it might be some variety that took a considerable time to flower. And then I forgot it once more.

Things went on as usual until it was Christmas Eve; Louisa, I remember, had been putting together our Christmas presents, among which were some toys for little Peggy and Joan Dudlow.

The Dudlows, I should mention, are far the most important and influential people in Crickle — bury Park, where the local society is above the usual suburban level. They live at “Ingleholme,” a handsome gabled house standing in its own grounds at the end of the Avenue. Dudlow is a well-to-do silk merchant, and his eldest daughter Violet is — but I simply can’t trust myself to describe her — I know I should never get hold of just the right words. Well, Louisa had gone up to her room, leaving me alone in the drawing-room with an injunction not to sit up late.

It was getting late — very nearly twelve o’clock indeed — and I was thinking of turning in as soon as I had read another page or two of a book I was dipping into. It was a rum old book which belonged to Anthony Casbird, our curate at St. Philip’s. To look at Casbird, you wouldn’t believe he was bookish, being so ruddy in the face, but he has a regular library at his lodgings, and is always at me for only reading what he calls “modern trash.” So, as I happened to let out that I had never heard of a writer called Sir Thomas Browne, he had insisted on lending me one of his books, with some notes of his own for a paper he was going to read at some Literary Society.

It had a jaw-breaking title: “Pseudodoxia Epidemica, or Enquiries into very many received Tenets and commonly presumed Truths,” and had been published so long ago as 1646.

Now, when I do take up a book, I must say I prefer something rather more up-to-date, and this was written in such an old-fashioned, long-winded way that I didn’t get on with it.

But I had come to a chapter which seemed more promising, being headed, “Of sundry tenets concerning vegetables or plants, which examined, prove either false or dubious.” I thought I might get a tip or two for the garden out of it.

However, it was not what I should call “practical.” It began like this: “Many mola’s and false conceptions there are of Mandrakes, the first from great Antiquity, conceiveth the Roote thereof resembleth the shape of man.” … and, further on, “a Catacresticall and farre derived similitude, it holds with man; that is, in a bifurcation or division of the roote into two parts, which some are contente to call thighes…. The third assertion affirmeth the roots of Mandrakes doe make a noyse or give a shreeke upon eradication, which is indeed ridiculous, and false below confute; … The last concerneth the danger ensuing, that there followes an hazard of life to them that pull it up, that some evill fate pursues them,” and so on.

I found a loose note of Casbird’s to the effect that, to guard against this danger, a black dog was usually employed to pull up the root, which apparently was fatal to the dog; while its owners “stopped their own eares for feare of the terreble shriek or cry of this Mandrack.”

Somehow all this vaguely suggested something, though for a while I could not remember what. Everyone knows how worrying that is, and I could not bring myself to get out of my chair and go to bed until I had found the missing clue. And at last I hit on it. The anemone root, of course! I recollected now that Louisa, who had had a low opinion of it from the first, had remarked that it was shaped “exactly like a horrid little man.”

Not that I saw much resemblance myself, though it certainly was forked, and even had excrescences on each side which, to a lively imagination, might pass for arms. But no doubt in old Sir Thomas’s time a good many fairly intelligent people would have sworn it was a Mandrake, and been terrified out of their lives at it!

Now I came to think over it, I was rather hazy, even then, as to what kind of creature they supposed a Mandrake to be exactly — though I gathered that it must be some peculiarly malignant sort of little demon.

I was amusing myself by these speculations when I was startled for the moment by a succession of short sharp shrieks, ending in a prolonged and blood-curdling yell. Only for the moment, because I remembered at once that, though we are some distance from the railway line, you can hear the trains distinctly when the wind happens to be in the right quarter. At the same time I could not help fancying that the noise had seemed nearer than usual — that it sounded as if it might almost have come from my own garden.

I grew so uneasy at last that I threw up the window, to see if anything had happened.

All was quiet again now; but, as my eyes became accustomed to the darkness, I thought I could make out a small black form lying motionless in the patch of light that was thrown on the grass-plot by the lamp behind me. It looked to me like Togo. Louisa must have turned him out as usual, and the servants have forgotten to let him in again, which was careless of them. He had had a fit, as had happened once before, and the screams I had heard had been his. Now I should have to go down and see after the poor brute….

But I never went. For, as I stood there at the window leaning out, I heard another sound below which drove all thought of Togo completely out of my head — a stealthy rustling and scrabbling, as if some large reptile — a chameleon for choice — were clambering up the ivy towards the window.

I knew I ought to shut it before the thing, whatever it was, could get in, but I couldn’t. I felt paralysed somehow. I stepped back into the room and stood there, waiting.

I had not to wait long before a small black object sprawled over the sill and alighted with a flop on the ottoman beneath. I cannot give any idea of its appearance except by saying that it was a wizened little imp of a thing, as black as your hat, and hideously ugly. As it recovered its balance and stood there, blinking its beady little eyes in the lamplight, I noticed that its expression was not so much malignant as obsequious, and even abject. Though I didn’t like it any the better for that. And then it spoke.

“I hope you were not alarmed by the noise,” it said, in a soft reedy pipe. “It was only me.”

I can’t say that I was exactly surprised at hearing it speak. I did not know enough about Mandrakes for that. But it was clear enough that old Sir Thomas Browne had been wrong for once in his life, for this thing couldn’t possibly be anything else but a Mandrake. I did not answer it — what can you say to a Mandrake?

It jumped off the ottoman as I fell back into my chair; then it swarmed up the table-leg with a horrible agility, hoisted itself over the edge, and sat down humbly on a wooden box of puzzle cubes.

“You see,” it went on apologetically, “when that dog of yours dragged me out of bed so suddenly, I couldn’t help calling out. I do not ask you to punish it — I wish to make no complaint — but it bit me severely in the back.”

There was something so sneaky and cringing in its manner that I began to feel less afraid of it. “It’s been punished enough already,” I said shortly. “It’s probably dead by this time.”

“Oh, surely not!” it said, squimring. “It has merely fainted. Though I can’t think why.”

“You don’t seem to be aware,” I replied, without disguising the disgust I felt, “that your appearance is enough to upset anyone.”

“I’m afraid,” it admitted, as it began to brush the mould from its frightful little twiggy legs, “my person has indeed been a little neglected-. But I shall be presentable enough after I have been a few days under your kindly care.”

I let it know pretty plainly that if it imagined I was going to take it in, it was considerably mistaken — which seemed to disappoint it.

“But why not?” it said, and blinked at me again. “Why can’t you take me in?”

“Because,” I said bluntly, “a house like this is not the place for creatures of your sort.”

“Oh,” it replied, “but I am accustomed to roughing it, and I would put up with any drawbacks for the pleasure of your society!”

The calm cheek of this was almost too much for me. “I dare say you would,” I said, “but you’re not going to get the chance. What I meant was, as a Mandrake — which you can’t deny you are — you are not a fit person to be admitted into any respectable household.”

It protested volubly that it couldn’t answer for other Mandrakes, it could only assure me that its own character was beyond reproach. It added that it had felt strongly attracted to me from the moment it saw my face, and its instinct told it that I should reciprocate the feeling in time.

I made the obvious retort that if its instinct told it that, it lied; I said I had no wish to argue with it, but it had better understand that it must leave the house at once.

“Don’t repulse me!” it whined. “I want you to treat me as a friend. Call me ‘Ferdie.’ Do call me ‘Ferdie’!”

All I said to that was that, if it didn’t clear out of its own accord, I should be obliged to take it by the scruff of its neck and chuck it out of the window, which, as I pointed out, was conveniently open. Though, to tell you the truth, this was only bluff, for I wouldn’t have touched the thing for any money.

Then the plausible little beast tried to work on my pity; there had been no rain for days, it said, and it was feeling so parched and dry, and generally exhausted. “Well,” I said, relenting a little, “I’ll give you just one whisky and soda, and after that you must go.” But it refused anything but plain soda, with which I filled a tumbler to the brim, and the Mandrake stooped down and drained it greedily with great gulps.

The soda-water seemed to buck it up in a most extraordinary way. Its shrivelled little form began to fill out, and its extremities to look more like hands and feet, while its height actually increased by several inches. But in other respects I could see no improvement.

“I feel a different being,” it informed me complacently. “It’s just occurred to me,” it went on, “that the prejudice which I can’t help seeing you have against me may be due to my want of clothing. Underground that did not signify, but in the world above, I quite recognise that the proprieties should be observed. Only I don’t see — ah, the very things…. Will you excuse me?”

It had suddenly caught sight of a large Golliwogg, which I had bought for Peggy, and which was lying on the table. Before I could interfere the Mandrake had deftly stripped the doll of its blue coat, white shirt, and red trousers, and arrayed itself in them. “Now,” it remarked proudly, “you will have no need to blush for me!”

I think I never saw anything more outrageously grotesque than the spectacle that Mandrake presented in the Golliwogg’s garments, which hung about its meagre body in loose folds. But it strutted about with immense satisfaction. “Quite affair fit,” it said, trying to twist its ugly head round and see its back. “Though I’m not sure there isn’t a wrinkle between the shoulders. Do you notice it?”

I said I thought it need not distress itself about that, and again ordered it to get out.

“But where am I to get to?” it said; “I can’t go back to the garden now. And it’s your garden, which surely gives me some claim on your hospitality!”

I said it had no claims on me whatever; if anyone was responsible for it, Messrs. Protheroe and Morris were the proper parties to apply to, and I gave it their address in Cheapside. Perhaps this was hardly fair on the firm, who, of course, would not have sold such a thing, knowingly, as an anemone root — but I had to get out of it somehow.

I did not pitch it out of window; I showed it to the front door, like an ordinary caller. “Then you cast me from you!” it sighed in the passage, as I undid the chain. “Are we to meet as strangers henceforth?”

“If we ever meet at all,” I said, “which I see no necessity for. Good night.” But it still lingered on the doormat.

“Ah, well,” it said, “it cannot be that I shall find all hearts as hard as yours. Did you say Cheapside?”

I said if it had any difficulty in finding the way it had better ask a constable. It thanked me profusely, begged me not to trouble to come to the gate with it, and left.

With all my instinctive repugnance, I could not help feeling slightly ashamed of myself; it did look such a forlorn and pitiable little wretch as it shambled down the path and slipped through the bars of the gate!

But what could I do? To keep it was out of the question; Louisa would never stand it — the thing would get on her nerves. And then there were the Dudlows. What would Violet, what would her father and mother, think of me if they discovered that I was harbouring such a beastly thing as a Mandrake?

I chained and barred the door, congratulating myself that, so far as I was concerned, the affair was done with. And then I went to bed, deciding that it would be better not to mention the matter to Louisa.

•   •   •

The next day of course was Christmas. I was sitting by the fire in the dining-room, which faces the road. Louisa was at church, and I ought to have been there, too. I didn’t quite know why I hadn’t gone, as I should certainly have met Violet there, and perhaps walked home with her afterwards — but I supposed I hadn’t felt up to it.

Anyhow there I was, in an armchair with a pipe and a newspaper, when all at once I became aware of a low tapping at the bow-window behind my back. I didn’t look round, for I had a sort of presentiment of what it was. And then, in the bevelled plate-glass mirror of the sideboard opposite, I saw reflected a flash of scarlet and blue among the variegated laurels in one of the window boxes, and I knew for certain that that infernal little Mandrake had turned up again. The tapping grew louder, but I took no notice, hoping that it would soon get tired of it and go away.

However, it persevered until I began to feel alarmed lest it should attract the attention of the people opposite, who are rather given to gossiping. So I got up and let the thing in, and asked it what the deuce it wanted now — for I was extremely annoyed. Without waiting for an invitation it took the armchair opposite mine, with a cough which was either deferential or due to the tobacco-smoke. Then it explained that its intrusion, which it hoped I would overlook, had been prompted by an irresistible impulse to wish me the Compliments of the Season.

Of course I knew it had some deeper motive than that, and I made no answer, beyond grunting. It appeared that it had gone to Cheapside, but had found neither Mr. Protheroe nor Mr. Morris at home — which did not surprise me. It had been wandering about all night, though it had contrived — it did not mention how, and I asked no questions — to refresh itself with some cocoa and a slice of cake at a coffee-stall. And, its appetite having once been aroused, it had begun, it said, to feel hungry again. Might it trespass on me for a meal? It would be deeply grateful, even if I could do no more for it than a mince-pie.

I declined. Not from stinginess, but a conviction that it would be the thin end of the wedge. I might have it staying on to lunch — and there were Louisa’s feelings to be considered. It took the refusal meekly enough, and said it had another favour to ask of me. Perhaps I had not observed that it had been putting on flesh with a rapidity which it could only attribute to the currant cake?

I had already noticed a change. It was now at least two feet high; its blue jacket was reduced to a bolero, while its red breeches were hardly bigger than bathing-drawers. I forget if it still retained its shirt or not. The Mandrake represented that if this shrinkage were to continue, it would soon be ashamed to present itself in public, and asked if I could recommend it to a really good tailor — “not the one who made those things you have on,” it explained. “I prefer a quieter style myself.”

I knew there was no fault to be found with the clothes I was wearing, a neat suit in quite the right shade of green, and I might have shut the little beggar up pretty sharply if I had chosen. But after all, what did it matter what a Mandrake thought of my things?

“I feel sure I should be a success in society,” it went on, wriggling with suppressed eagemess as it spoke, “if I were only decently dressed. I have many gifts, and even accomplishments. All my tastes are innocent and refined. You would find we had much in common, if you would only try to regard me as a friend. If,” it entreated, with a smile which it evidently intended to be winning, but which came out on its gnarled wooden countenance as a revoltingly offensive leer — “if I could once hear you call me ‘Ferdie’!”

It heard me call it several names — but “Ferdie” was not one of them. “Then do I gather,” it said, “that, in your judgment, the mere fact of my extraction, if known, would be sufficient to exclude me from any social circle?”

I replied that that was distinctly my impression.

“Then,” it stipulated, “if I leave you now, will you give me your word of honour as a young English gentleman never to reveal to any living soul what I really am?”

What it really was must be so obvious to the most careless observer that I felt I could safely promise, and besides, I was in such a hurry to get it out of the way before Louisa returned from church. Then it asked if there were not charitable persons called “clergy” who were in the habit of relieving deserving cases, and, with a sudden inspiration, I gave it Casbird’s name and address, on condition that it did not mention who had sent it to him.

And at last, after having the unblushing impudence to inquire affectionately after Togo, it started. As I watched it slink across the road and round the corner in the direction of the curate’s lodgings, I could not resist a grim chuckle. For I knew Tony Casbird not only as a fellow of strong common sense, but as a fair all-round cricketer and a first-rate half-back, and if this little beast was getting uppish, he could be safely trusted to put it in its proper place.

And anyhow, the job was more in his line than mine.

•   •   •

It must have been the same evening that Casbird came in. In fact I know it was, because he said he couldn’t stay long, as he was going on to Ingleholme to tell Miss Dudlow how pleased his vicar had been with the charming effect of the Christmas decorations, which she had taken a prominent part in arranging.

Casbird was a devoted admirer of Violet’s — but I was not afraid of him, for I didn’t think he stood a sporting chance. Just as he rose to go, he mentioned that on returning from service that morning he had found a most interesting visitor waiting to see him. I thought I could guess who it was, but I wasn’t going to give myself away, so I merely said, “Oh, really?” or something of that sort.

“Yes,” said Casbird, “I have seldom known a sadder, stranger case. He has come through so much, and with such splendid pluck and endurance.”

Naturally Louisa wanted to know more about him: What was he like? Casbird said really he scarcely knew how to describe him. Handsome? Well, no, he should hardly call him that — in fact, at first sight, his appearance was somewhat against him. But such a bright, cheery little chap! So simple and fresh. “I assure you,” the curate concluded, “that somehow he makes me feel quite worldly by comparison!”

I thought I must have been wrong — he couldn’t possibly be referring to the Mandrake! “What do you call it — I mean him?” I asked.

“Well,” said the curate, “I call him ‘Ferdie’ at present. It was his own wish, and he hasn’t told me his other name yet. I am putting him up until I can find a suitable opening for him. He’s a delightful companion, so touchingly grateful for the least kindness, so full of little delicate attentions! Why, when I came in to tea this afternoon, I found the little fellow had actually put my slippers inside the fender to warm, and was toasting a crumpet for me by the fire!”

I listened aghast. I knew Casbird rather went in for being broad-minded and tolerant and that — but I’d really no idea he would carry it so far as to chum up with a Mandrake! Well, it was his own affair. The thing was evidently an accomplished liar, and it would not surprise me in the least if when he got back he found that it had gone off with his spoons.

After Casbird had left, Louisa expressed a great curiosity to meet this new protégé of his, and was slightly annoyed with me for showing so little interest in the subject. I began to regret that promise of mine.

•   •   •

The Dudlows were having a children’s party on the evening of Boxing Day, and I had been looking forward to it eagerly. For one thing, because I always do enjoy children’s parties, and in Cricklebury Park there are some particularly nice kiddies. For another, because I had made up my mind that, if I had an opportunity, I would speak out to Violet before the evening was over. I wouldn’t let myself feel too sure beforehand, because that is unlucky — but all the same, I had a kind of feeling that it would be all right.

And Dudlow was not likely to refuse his consent to an engagement, for I knew his wife would put in a word for me. Mrs. Dudlow had approved of me from the first, when she saw what friends I had made with the younger children, Peggy and little Joan. Children, she always maintained, were “such infallible judges of character.”

They had made me promise to come early, because, as Mrs. Dudlow was kind enough to say, they depended on me to “set the ball rolling.”

I got to Ingleholme as early as I could, but the moment Louisa and I had passed the “cathedral glass” portico, I was aware from the shouts of children’s laughter that came from the drawing-room that the ball had begun to roll already without my assistance. And I must confess that it was rather a blow, on entering, to find that, instead of the welcome I had expected, my appearance passed almost unnoticed. But they were all much too absorbed in something that was going on in the inner room — even Violet’s greeting was a little casual. “Such a wonderful conjurer,” she whispered; “if you go nearer the arch, you will see him much better.”

When I did, I must leave you to imagine my feelings on discovering that the performer who was holding his audience entranced with delight and amazement was nothing else than that miserable little beast of a Mandrake!

It had gone on growing, and was now the height of a middle-sized pygmy — but it was just as hideous as ever, and in spite of its being in correct evening clothes, I knew it at once. And what is more, I could see it knew me, and was trying to catch my eye and claim my admiration.

It was conjuring — or I should rather say, pretending to conjure — for while it kept on jabbering away with the utmost assurance, it never succeeded in bringing off a single trick. Now, I don’t call myself a conjurer (though I can do a few simple things with eggs and half-crowns and so forth) — but I should have been sorry to make such an exhibition of myself as that incompetent little rotter was doing.

The odd thing was that nobody but myself seemed in the least to realise how poor the performance was; the Mandrake had got round them all, grown-ups and children alike, and deluded them into accepting its bungling efforts as a quite marvellous display of dexterity. Why, even when, after borrowing Dudlow’s gold watch, it coolly handed it back smashed to fragments, he merely swept all the loose wheels and springs into his waistcoat pocket, and said that it was “Capital — uncommonly clever.” And not out of politeness, mind you; I could see he really thought so!

After the conjuring there were games, which were entirely organised by the Mandrake. Nobody consulted me; if I hadn’t joined in by way of asserting myself, I should have been completely out of it. I tried to behave as if I didn’t know the Mandrake was in the room; but this was not easy, as the little brute made a point of barging into me and rumpling my hair and pommelling me all over, as if to induce me to take some notice of it.

People only remarked on its high spirits, but I couldn’t help saying that there was a considerable difference between high spirits and downright horseplay; and really, to hear little Joy Hammond (a special pal of mine) coming up with flushed face and sparkling eyes when I was gasping on the carpet, trying to recover my wind and one or two of my enamel and mother-of-pearl waistcoat buttons, and asking me, “Isn’t Ferdie a lovely toy-fellow?” was enough to put anyone a little out of temper!

The children all called it “Ferdie.” Bobbie Clint, another intimate friend of mine, informed me proudly that it had “partickerily asked them to.” It was simply maddening to see them all hanging about it, and making such a ridiculous fuss over that little horror, while Casbird looked on smiling, with all the airs of a public benefactor!

I felt it was almost too hard to bear when my beloved Violet reproved me privately for my stiffness, and added that, if there was one quality more than another she detested in a man, it was a sulky disposition!

I did not defend myself — my pride kept me silent; if she chose to misunderstand me, she must. But I was determined to have it out with the Mandrake privately at the very first opportunity — and I contrived to inveigle it out of the room on some pretext — “Dumb Crambo,” I think it was.

It skipped into the hall with me readily enough; I fancy it flattered itself that I was coming round at last. But I very soon undeceived it: I told it that it knew as well as I did it had no business there, and I insisted on its leaving the house instantly, offering, if it did so, to save its face by explaining that it had been suddenly called away.

I can see it now as it sat perched on an oak chest, looking up at me with an assumption of injured innocence. It protested that it didn’t want to go yet — why should it, when it was having the time of its life, and everybody, except me, was being so kind to it? It had the impertinence to add that it was sorry to see a character so fine in many respects as mine disfigured by so mean a passion as jealousy — which made me furious.

I replied that I was hardly likely to be jealous under the circumstances and it could leave my character alone. All I had to say was that, if the Mandrake remained, I should be compelled to speak out.

“Oh no!” it said, “you will not do that, because, if you remember, you gave me your word of honour that you would never betray the secret of my birth!”

“When I gave that,” I retorted, “I never imagined you would have the audacity to push yourself in here — and at a children’s party too!”

It said it had always been its dream to be invited to a real children’s party, and now it had come true and I must have seen how popular it was making itself. It was sure I would not be so cruel as to expose it — I was too honourable a gentleman to break my word.

It had found my weak point there and knew it — but I stood firm. “I don’t consider myself bound by that any longer,” I said. “It’s my duty to say what I know — and, if you leave me no other alternative, I mean to do it.”

“Listen to me,” it said, with a soft but deadly earnestness, and I thought I could read in its little eyes, as they glittered in the rays of the hall lantern, a certain veiled and sinister menace. “I warn you, for your own sake, because I should like to spare you if possible. If you insist on denouncing me, you little know the consequences you will bring upon yourself! You will be the chief sufferer from your rashness.”

I can’t deny that this warning had some effect on me; so much so, in fact, that I am afraid I climbed down to some extent. I said that I was as anxious as itself to avoid a scandal, and that I should take no steps so long as it behaved itself. And then we went in and played “Dumb Crambo,” or whatever it was, and I got mauled about by the Mandrake more severely than ever!

But I was beginning to have enough of it, and I took the curate aside and hinted that his friend struck me as a bit of a bounder, and that as he was already getting above himself, it would be as well to get him away before supper. Casbird was indignant; he said that “Ferdie” was the life and soul of the party, and he couldn’t understand my attitude, especially when the dear little fellow had taken such a decided fancy to me! He had always thought, he said, that I was above these petty prejudices. So I didn’t press it, and soon afterwards we went in to supper.

It made me feel positively ill to see all those nice kiddies almost fighting for the privilege of sitting next that little fraud, and then to watch it making an absolute hog of itself with sausage-rolls and lemon sponge! And the way they pulled crackers with it, too, and pressed the rings out of them on it as keepsakes, till its little claws were loaded with cheap jewellery! I sat between Violet and Peggy — but neither of them offered to pull a cracker with me!

Still, I bore it all without murmuring until towards the end, when Dudlow suddenly got up and asked us to charge our glasses and drink to the health of the new friend who had contributed so enormously to the general enjoyment that evening.

I knew what was coming, and so did the Mandrake, though it cast down its eyes with a self-conscious smirk, as if it could not think to whom its host was referring!

And then, all at once, I felt I could not stand any more. It was my duty to speak. Whatever it might cost me, I must prevent poor Dudlow — whom I liked and respected for his own sake as well as because he was Violet’s father — from making such an irreparable mistake as proposing the health of a Mandrake at his own table!

So I rose, and implored him to sit down and leave the rest of his speech unspoken; I said I had reasons which I would explain privately later on.

He replied rather heatedly that he would have no hole-and-corner business under his roof; if I had anything to say, I had better say it then and there, or sit down and hold my tongue.

The Mandrake sat perfectly calm, with its beady eyes fixed warningly on me, but I saw its complexion slowly change from coal-black to an awful grey-green shade that made the blue and pink fool’s cap it was wearing seem even more hideously incongruous.

But I had gone too far to stop now; I was no longer afraid of its vengeance. It might blast me to death where I stood — I didn’t care. It would only reveal its true character — and then, perhaps, Violet would be sorry for having misjudged me so!

“If that — that thing over there,” I said, pointing to it, “had not cast some cursed spell over you all, so far from drinking its unwholesome health, you would shrink from it in horror!”

There was a general outcry, amidst which Casbird sprang to his feet. “Let us have no more of these dastardly insinuations!” he shouted. “Tell us, if you can, what you accuse our Ferdie of having done!”

“It’s not what it’s done,” I said, “it’s what it is! Are you blind, that you cannot see that it’s nothing more or less than a Mandrake?” I was going on to explain how I had bought it by mistake in a bag of mixed anemone roots, when Dudlow brought me up with a round turn that almost took my breath away.

“And if he is a Mandrake, sir,” he said, “what of it?”

“What of it?” I could only gasp feebly. “I should have thought myself that that was quite enough to make him impossible — at a party like this!”

“And who are you,” thundered the curate, “that you presume to sit in judgment on a fellow-creature? Let me tell you that you might have some reason for this superciliousness if you were half as good a man as poor dear little Ferdie here is a Mandrake!” He patted it affectionately on the shoulder as he spoke, and I saw Violet’s lovely eyes first shine on him in admiration of his chivalry, and then blaze on me with scorn and contempt.

Indeed, they all seemed to consider my conduct snobbish in the extreme, and the Mandrake was the object of universal sympathy as it endeavoured to squeeze out a crocodile tear or two.

“All right!” I said. “Pitch into me if you like! But you will see presently. It threatened me only half an hour ago with the most awful consequences if I dared to expose it. Now let it do its worst!”

But little did I foresee the fiendish revenge it was preparing. It got up on its chair and began to make a speech. Such a speech — every sentence of it reeking with the cheapest sentiment, the most maudlin claptrap! But clever — diabolically clever, even I could not help acknowledging that.

It began by saying how hurt it felt that I could imagine it would ever harm a hair of my head. Never, no, not even when I had driven it from my door last Christmas Eve, out into the bitter night and the falling snow (which was sheer melodrama, for Christmas Eve had been rather warmer and muggier than usual I), not even then had it had any sentiments towards me but the humblest devotion and affection! It did not blame me for resenting its intrusion among them that evening. Perhaps I could not be expected to understand what a temptation it had been to a lonely wanderer like itself to forget the inferiority of its position, and share for a few too fleeting hours in the innocent revelry of happy children, at a season, too, when it had fondly hoped that charity and goodwill might be shown to all alike. But I had made it realise its mistake — and now it could only implore our pardon and assure us that it would trouble us but a very little while longer.

At this its voice quavered, and it broke down, most artistically. There was not a dry eye — except mine — round the supper-table. As for Dudlow, he was blubbering quite openly, while Peggy, Joan, Joy Hammond, and all the other children entreated “darling Ferdie” not to leave them, and I heard myself described by Bobbie Clint as a “beastly beast,” and Tommy Dickson (passionately declared that I was a sneak!

All this was unpleasant enough — but nothing to what followed. That devilish little imp was keeping an even higher card up its sleeve for the climax. After mastering its emotion, it thanked all its dear young playmates for still desiring to keep it with them, but said that, alas, it was not to be! The sudden shock of learning that I, whose affection it had striven so hard to win, regarded it with such bitter antipathy had been too much for its high-strung, sensitive nature — it felt that its end was very near. One last request it had to make of me, and that was that I would accept the beautiful emerald ring it had on (off a cracker, if you please I), and wear it always as a remembrance, and in token that it forgave me, fully and freely!

And then, to my unspeakable horror, it collapsed in a heap on its chair, and shrivelled slowly away inside its dress-clothes until it was once more the wizened object it had been when I first saw it!

You may have seen those “dying roosters” they sell in the streets — well, it went down exactly like one of those. And up to the time its head fell over in a final droop, its evil little eyes were fixed on me with vindictive triumph.

It had scored off me thoroughly, and was jolly well aware of it.

I knew perfectly well that the little wretch wasn’t really dead — but though I assured them all it was merely shamming, they only turned away in horror at what they called my “cold — blooded brutality.”

It was like some horrible nightmare. I was in the right and they were all wrong — but I couldn’t get anybody to see it. I would rather not dwell on the scene that followed: the wailing of those poor deluded little kiddies, Louisa’s hysterical refusal to consider me any longer a brother of hers, Casbird’s manly sorrow over the departed Ferdie, and Violet’s gentle, loving efforts to console him. I had no time to observe more, for just then Dudlow ordered me out of the house and forbade me ever again to cross his threshold….

I must have got back to Ullswater somehow, but I have no recollection of doing so. Everything was a blank until I found myself in our drawing-room, lying groaning in an armchair, with my head pressed against its side.

And then, as the incidents of that disastrous party came back to me, one by one, I shivered in an agony of shame. I really do not think I have ever felt so utterly miserable in all my life!

I had done for myself, hopelessly, irretrievably. I had lost Violet forever. Louisa would tell me, the moment she came home, that we must arrange to live apart. Casbird would cut me dead in future. Even the little kiddies would refuse to be friends with me any longer! … And why had all this happened? Because I had not had the sense to hold my tongue! What earthly business was it of mine if the Dudlows chose to invite a Mandrake to Ingleholme? Why need I have been so down on the poor little brute? At Christmas-time, too, when any ordinarily decent fellow would have taken a more Dickensy view of things! I couldn’t understand my having behaved so outrageously — it did not seem like me….

And yet, hang it all! I had only done the right thing. True, I might have been more tactful over it. I could see now, when it was too late, that to go and make a scene at supper like that was scarcely good form. I might have thought more of the children’s feelings.

Here a dreadful doubt took hold of me. Suppose I had been mistaken all along in the Mandrake’s character? I knew very little about the creatures after all — only what I had read in Sir Thomas Browne, and even he seemed to hold that the stories to their discredit were either exaggerations or vulgar or common errors.

And, repulsive as I had found “Ferdie,” I could not remember anything in his conduct that would seem very reprehensible, even in a choir-boy. And all his sentiments had been exemplary. Had I been guilty of a “vulgar error”? Had I really, as Casbird put it, “broken a loving little heart by my stupid cruelty”? Was I, as he had called me, a “moral murderer”? They might hold an inquest on the thing. I should be called on to give my evidence — the jury would add a rider to their verdict censuring me for my conduct, and the coroner would endorse their opinion with some severe remarks! It would get into all the papers; the fellows at the bank would send me to Coventry; I should be lucky if I did not get the sack! …

But stop — would they really make such a fuss as all that about a mere Mandrake? If they only made a few inquiries, when they calmed down, surely they would find out something shady about it. How did it get hold of those evening clothes, for instance, when all the shops were shut? It must have made a burglarious entry somewhere — I remembered how coolly it had appropriated the Golliwogg’s … and at this point I shuddered and started, as, once again, that long shrill scream rang out into the night! Great heavens! Had Togo pulled up another of them? I felt I could not go through it all a second time. But this time the sound really was much more like a railway engine. What if, after all — I could settle it in a moment; I had only to turn my head — and, if I saw the Golliwogg lying there on the table with nothing on, I should know!

For some seconds I could not summon up courage enough to look.

And then, slowly, in deadly terror of finding my worst fears confirmed, I turned round….

What my feelings were on discovering that the Golliwogg was fully clothed I can’t express — I could have sobbed with relief and joy on its blue shoulder.

I glanced at the old brown book which lay face downwards on the floor. It was still open at Chapter VI, “Of sundry tenets concerning vegetables or plants, which examined, prove either false or dubious.” And then it occurred to me that, if I must dream any more about Mandrakes, it would on the whole be more comfortable to do so in bed.

•   •   •

The Dudlows’ children’s party was a very cheery affair, although there was no Mandrake to keep things going. And I did get an opportunity of speaking to Violet, and it was all right. At least, it will be, as soon as I get my next rise.

“Strand Magazine,” 1907.

Points of View

By a railing in Hyde Park a group of self-appointed Art experts are regarding a recently erected Memorial. A couple of ducks are seated on the lawn with their tails somewhat ostentatiously turned to the sculpture. But what does a duck really know about modern art?

THE S.-A.A.E’S.  Well, of all the—! Just look at her ’ands — as big as her ’ed! … What arms he’s given her — all flat and pointed like! … Quite the most hideous thing I ever — (and so forth).

MRS. WOOLLEY  (to her husband). How do you like it, dear?

MR. WOOLLEY  (whose opinions take some time to disentangle). Well, of course it’s just a little — but, all the same, I’m not sure I don’t feel that there’s a — a something about it that — (He sketches a gesture by way of concealing a certain vagueness in his impressions.) And after all, what really matters is the meaning, he has tried to express. (He hopes he will not be questioned as to this.)

MRS. W.  (to his intense relief). Do you know that’s exactly how I feel about it.

MISS PERUGIA SLADE  (to MR. JOHN RAGGETT, her fiancé). Jack, I think it’s simply too wonderful! What a sense it gives one of profound peace, doesn’t it?

MR. J. R.  Dunno. She can’t be having much profound peace with all those vultures and things about.

MISS P. S.  But surely you feel the force of that uplifted head with the marvellous sweep of the brow!

MR. J. R.  Swept most of it off, hasn’t he?

MISS P. S.  (reflecting, not for the first time, that there are occasions when poor dear Jack can be distinctly trying). I think I had better take you away.

AN IMPARTIAL SPECTATOR.  Mind you, I don’t say that it wouldn’t be most impressive if it were moved to some other place — for instance, in the heart of a primaeval forest.

HIS FRIEND  (less unprejudiced). I have much pleasure in seconding that motion.

FIRST MILLINER’S APPRENTICE.  I see he’s given her a Marcel wave, dear.

SECOND DITTO DITTO.  Not a very good one. And if he’s so up-to-date as he’s made out I should ha’ thought he’d have shingled her.

FIRST HOSPITAL NURSE  (to SECOND). If I had to diagnose her, I should call it a case of dislocation of the left shoulder and malformation of the right hip.

SECOND HOSPITAL NURSE.  Yes. And her left thigh doesn’t strike me as quite normal. But Carver would jolly soon put her right.

FIRST H. N.  Rather! He’s such a perfect lamb at operations, isn’t he? Why, the very first time I was with him in the theatre, he — (etc., etc.)

MR. CHELSEY WHISKARD  (to his fiancée, MISS FOX-TROTTER). D’you know, Joan, my chief feeling is unspeakable relief that one at least of our parks should have been redeemed from banality by a thing of such divine beauty.

MISS JOAN FOX-TROTTER.  If she’s your idea of divine beauty she jolly well isn’t mine.

MR. C. W.  That, Joan, is because, if you will forgive me for saying so, your ideas on the subject have never been correctly trained.

MISS JOAN.  Rats! Don’t tell me you honestly admire that creature.

MR. C. W.  I do not merely admire her, I consider her the most perfect work of sculpture that genius has created since the age of PHEIDIAS.

MISS JOAN.  You can’t say she’s perfect when she hasn’t got any legs. And even if she had I bet you wouldn’t care to be seen at Ciro’s with her. Come, now!

[MR. C. W. is again oppressed by a lurking doubt whether Joan, charming and delightful as she is in many ways, will ever qualify as a true soulmate.

NEO-GEORGIAN  (piloting his friend, a POST-NEO-GEORGIAN). I want it to strike you first from just here. There! Isn’t it magnificent?

POST-NEO-GEORGIAN  (pained). My dear friend! You don’t mean that! You can’t! Not you!

N.-G.  (tacking judiciously). Of course I see what you mean; but—

P.-N.-G.  (with authority). Believe me there is no but. A great opportunity has been missed — absolutely thrown away! He might have done something unique, colossal, epoch-making for its sheer unflinching brutality. Instead of which he has succumbed to the lure of the “pretty-pretty” — given us a figure with curves, if you please, with features that are distinctly recognisable, extremities that do not symbolise but actually represent hands! I can only call it a tragic return to the bad old Edwardian conventions.

N.-G.  Quite. But after all I suppose every genius has to make some concession to popular taste.

P.-N.-G.  He needn’t pander to it.

SMALL GIRL  (to her nurse, with decision). And now, Nana, we’ll go and see Peter Pan again.

“Punch,” 1925.