V
If my sister have a child then am I straightwayan uncle, and who shall save me?
If my sister have a child then am I straightwayan uncle, and who shall save me?
If my sister have a child then am I straightwayan uncle, and who shall save me?
If my sister have a child then am I straightway
an uncle, and who shall save me?
WhenDiana took up her abode in the house of her uncle, she arrived late, dressed, and went out again to dinner. That was not how Marcus would have had her arrive. She must understand that order was the keynote of his establishment. How otherwise could he expect to keep so excellent a housekeeper as Mrs. Oven? Pillar, too, must be considered. She must state definitely when she would be in to dinner and when not.
“I was not,” she said later, when taxed, “definitely not.”
Marcus dined alone. As he came downstairs dressed for dinner, he met a housemaid going up, with a glass of milk on a tray. On the tray there was also a plate, on the plate there was a banana, and beside the banana lay glistening a halfpenny bun. The meal of some one’s particular choosing, he should say. In no other way could it have found its way upstairs in his house. But whose meal was it?
That he had two housemaids he knew. He saw evidence of their being in the brightness of thebrasses, the polish of the furniture, but he hardly knew them apart. The bun-bearer was one of them. He went on his way deploring that in his house there was no back staircase. But for whom could a vagrant banana be?
Tentatively he put the question to Pillar, as ashamed to ask it as Pillar was to answer it. Pillar murmured something about a mischance, and Mr. Maitland was quick to admit it. It was certainly an accident meeting the banana on the stairs; but the meal itself remained unexplained, and inexcused; it must have been predestined. Then it struck him that Diana must have brought a maid. It was quite right she should. He might have guessed it. But a maid who lived on buns and bananas, could she be efficient?
Marcus dined uncomfortably. The dinner seemed less good than usual. Gradually it was borne in upon him that it must be Mrs. Oven who was in bed and who was feeding on buns and bananas. She had lost her taste, her sense, her gastronomic taste—her sense of taste. Everything!
Towards twelve o’clock Diana came in, unrepentant and delightful; she floated in, as it were, on a cloud of tulle, a veritable will-o’-the-wisp, a thing as light as gossamer, as elusive as a firefly. She had a great deal to tell Marcus and told him none of it. She was lost in the depth of his huge sofa—shelooked like drifted snow—blown there by the wind. He didn’t tell her that, even if he thought it. What he did tell her was that he expected his guests to go to bed early. This in obedience to an instinct that told him to begin as he meant to go on—
Diana said she could not go to bed early—that night, at all events. She would go as early as she could—as early in the morning. “I have a confession to make. Shall I make it now or wait till to-morrow? In ten minutes it will be to-morrow. To-morrow never used to come so soon.”
“Why not now?”
“No, I could not sleep unforgiven.”
“But why should you? What if I forgave you?”
Horrible thoughts flashed through Marcus’s mind. What could she have to confess? Happier thoughts—what could there be that he would not forgive? forgive her? There were things he could not forgive a man. All the things he had heard of modern girls and their ways passed through his mind, all the things he had ever heard of men from the days of man’s innocency until now. Then he looked at Diana. The modern girl was all right; she was delicious. But men—men? Would they find Diana distracting? Or was it because he was no longer young that her youth seemed so appealing, her freshness, her gaiety so infectious? He had always felt he could never have made a successfulor even a comfortably happy father. A creature like this he could never have let out of his sight: all men would have become his enemies by very reason of their existence.
“Once Was,” said Diana softly, “why so dreamy? You make me sleepy. Good-morning!”
She went to bed, unconfessed, unforgiven. Pillar put out the lights downstairs. Marcus put them out on his landing. Above that it was Diana’s business. “Don’t forget the lights, Diana,” he called.
At one o’clock in the morning Diana was singing in her bath and Marcus lay in bed wondering what it was she wanted to confess. He fell asleep uncertain whether he liked a niece in the house or not. He had pictured to himself a quiet, mousey niece, demure and obedient! But how charming she had looked on the sofa!—she got her feet from him, did she? A great attraction in women, pretty feet; and none too common. He must see that she gave enough for her boots. It was where some women economized. He shuddered to think of women out in the street, on muddy days, in house shoes. Horrible!
Diana came down to breakfast. That was to her credit. To bed late: yet up early. She looked delicious: not in the least tired and very fresh and clean. A girl may be both without looking triumphantly so, as Diana did.
After breakfast with Marcus was a sacred hour, dedicated to his newspapers and his pipe, yet after breakfast Diana planted herself on the edge of his chair and proceeded to get to know him. Not until she had done that, she said, could she make her confession.
“What is it?” he asked, ready to forgive anything, if only that he might be left in peace.
“I brought Shan’t with me; do you mind?”
“A maid?” he said. “A dyspeptic maid,” he added to himself.
“Well, she’s female—certainly—I’ll say that for her.”
Marcus would have allowed that himself—in spite of her addiction to zoölogical fare.
“She’s such a willing little beast. She won’t eat if I go away—so I had to bring her—see, my Once Was?”
“Oh, a dog? My dear Diana, of course, I can’t have it upstairs, but Pillar will be delighted to exercise the little beast—”
No dog explained the banana and the milk, but he said nothing.
“Dear child!”—he was feeling very fond of Diana—“I should like to see—whatever you call it—is it trained and—”
“Shan’t! Shan’t!” called Diana up the stairs. “Come! Hurry up!”
“It was a funny way to talk to a dog,” thought Marcus. If at that moment he had looked up from his paper he would certainly have thought it a funny dog that walked into the dining-room. “Well?”
Marcus turned in answer to the interrogation and beheld a small girl of four or five, standing, beaming at him, the very quintessence of willingness and loving-kindness. “We-ell?” she repeated.
There are those in life who carry the mackintoshes of others; who leave the last fresh egg for others; the early peas for others; the first asparagus for others; who look up trains for others; find servants for others; houses for others; who cry with others; who laugh with others. They are as a rule spinsters who do these things and they do them gladly—even the crying. Yes! Shan’t-if-I-don’t-want-to, Shan’t for short, was a spinster, and Marcus recognized her as one of those born to do things for others. She could laugh and cry at the same time, run faster than any child of her age to do your bidding. She could soothe your pain with her smile: and touch your heart with her laugh. These things Marcus did not as yet know. But he was glad directly he saw her that she was not a dog, and he grudged her neither the milk, nor the bun, nor the banana, nor the distracting of Mrs. Oven from the cooking of his dinner, which said much for the fascination of Shan’t.
There she stood longing to do things, aching, benevolence beaming from her eyes. “Well?” she repeated.
“Good gracious!” said Marcus, and he got up and stood looking down with amazement on this small person, who stood so willingly waiting. Suddenly she looked at his feet and like a flash she was gone.
“Who in the world is it, Diana?” he asked sternly, but his heart had become as water, and his bones like wax. Here was the child of his dreams, the child he had played Hide-and-Seek with, told his longest stories to, taken to the Zoo, saved from drowning.
“That’s Shan’t-if-I-don’t-want-to! That’s one of her names, but she always does want to. She’s the jolliest little beggar in the world. Mummy says I can’t have her for my own, but she is my own and I am hers. Here she is. She is bound to have fetched something for you. For Heaven’s sake, say ‘Thank you.’”
She had fetched his slippers. Now Marcus Maitland would rather go without breakfast than breakfast in slippers, but he said, “Tha-ank you.”
“Now,” said Diana, “if by chance I ruffled your hair she’d be off for your hair-brushes before you knew where you were.”
“I don’t know where I am, as it is,” said Marcus,edging away from the devastating hands of Diana. He loathed his hair ruffled.
“Put on your slippers,” said Shan’t, pointing to his feet.
“But I have only just put on my boots.”
“Put—them—on and don’t—argue,” said Shan’t.
“But—”
“Pe—lease!” Shan’t looked at him, and Marcus, feeling about as determined as a worm can feel under the steady pressure of a garden-roller, stooped down and began to unlace his boots. To do it properly he must have a button-hook. Could Shan’t know to what an exquisite discomfort she was putting him?
“No,” said Diana, “you needn’t. No, Shan’t, you can fetch something else.”
“No, sit down, Shan’t,” commanded her uncle. “I want to look at you.”
She sat down on a footstool, folded her hands and looked up at her uncle. “Funny old fing!” she said, wrinkling her nose; “you didn’t know I was coming, did you?”
Marcus said he had had no idea.
“Diana said you didn’t.”
“Say your poem, Shan’t,” said Diana. “It’s her own—her very own,” she added. “Go on, Shan’t.”
“I forget it.”
“How can you forget it when it’s your own?”
“Well, I have.”
“Shan’t—One-two-three.”
Marcus knew it to be the fashion among poets to read their own works. He wondered if they needed treatment as drastic as this, or if they did it more willingly? In the muse of charity perhaps they did.
“One—two—three,” said Diana sternly, and Shan’t began:
“Swing me higher,Oh, Delia, oh, Delia!Swing me over the garden wall—Only do not let me fall.“Found in the gardenDead in her beauty.Was she not a dainty dishTo set before the king?”
“Swing me higher,Oh, Delia, oh, Delia!Swing me over the garden wall—Only do not let me fall.“Found in the gardenDead in her beauty.Was she not a dainty dishTo set before the king?”
“Swing me higher,Oh, Delia, oh, Delia!Swing me over the garden wall—Only do not let me fall.
“Swing me higher,
Oh, Delia, oh, Delia!
Swing me over the garden wall—
Only do not let me fall.
“Found in the gardenDead in her beauty.Was she not a dainty dishTo set before the king?”
“Found in the garden
Dead in her beauty.
Was she not a dainty dish
To set before the king?”
All this very, very fast, and at the end of it Shan’t, pink and breathless, as any poet should be after being called upon to recite his own poem half an hour after breakfast.
“Does your aunt know you’re here?” asked Marcus.
“She does—now,” said Shan’t seriously.
“How did you get away without being seen?” Marcus thought that no well-brought-up child could ever escape from its Nannies and nursery-maids.The safety of England depended on the safeguarding of her children. He had heard that said, and he knew there were societies to enforce it because he had subscribed to them.
Up sprang Shan’t, the better to tell her story. A dramatic sense was hers. “I ran down the back stairs—and I ran down the drive—and I ran down the garden—and I ran froo the gates—and I ran down the road and I ran over the be-ridge. And then I didn’t run any—more. I just waited for Diana—and we came.”
A deep sigh followed this statement. The air escaping from an air cushion was the only thing Marcus could think of that compared with the exhaustiveness of the sigh. At that moment Pillar brought a telegram and Mr. Maitland opened it. Pillar glanced quickly at the child and Shan’t’s smile proclaimed him her friend. He was on her side.
“Diana, it is from your aunt,” said Marcus; “she says, ‘Return Shan’t at once’!”
“No,” said Shan’t; “shan’t if I don’t want to.” And she was off and out of the room, out of the front door, opened by the telegraph boy, who boylike was always as ready to let anything out as he was to catch and cage anything, through the door into the street: across the road and into the square through the garden gate that stood ajar.
“Let her run!” called Diana to her vanishing uncle; “she’ll soon tire.” But Marcus had gone in eager pursuit. He crossed the street, was through the gate and on to Shan’t before she had gone many yards down the straight path that ran through the square. He caught her in his arms. “By Jove, how she wriggles!” There was imminent danger of the uncle being left with the clothes of Shan’t in his arms, and no Shan’t. Appreciating the danger he relaxed his hold. Off she went, but to be caught again, and easily enough. She was hot. He could feel her heart beating in her small body, as a bird might flutter against the bars of the cage that imprisons it. She was such a little thing. “Shan’t,” he said, “come here.” He drew her towards him; he sat down and lifted her on to his knee.
“Shan’t if I don’t want to!” she whispered.
“But you’re going to want to.”
“Always do—mostly always do,” she said, crying softly; not really crying, she assured him, smiling.
“Look here,” said her uncle, “d’you know what you are?”
“Lucky little devil,” she hazarded.
“Well—but seriously—a good little girl—and such a willing little beggar, isn’t that it?”
She nodded. “Always—mostly always.”
“Look here—willing little beggars always do what they are asked and Aunt”—Marcus paused—“Aunt—what do you call her?”
“Elsie—only-aunt-in-the-world.”
“There are others, of course,” said Marcus stiffly; “Aunt Elsie—”
“Only-aunt-in-the-world,” said Shan’t; “say it!” She laid a finger on his lips.
“Well, Aunt Elsie-only-aunt-in-the-world wants you to go back to her because she’s lonely.”
“She’s got free dogs!”
“Free?”
“One—two—free—” “Free” found the tip of Shan’t’s forefinger lightly laid on the tip of Marcus’s nose.
“Yes; but she wants you—and if you are a good little girl and go back you shall come again and stay—”
“When?”
“We might say Christmas-time.”
“When else?”
“—Easter, perhaps.”
“We have eggs at Easter,”—this softly reminiscent.
“You shall have eggs here.”
“What inside of them?”
“Oh—little presents.”
“What little presents? Whistles?”
“Yes, I dare say.”
“And knives?”
“I shouldn’t be surprised.”
“Why wouldn’t you?”
“Because I should know.”
“What would you know?”
“Well, about the knives.”
“Would you guess?”
“I expect so.”
“I’ve thought of something—No,youdo!”
“Ithink of something?”
“Yes. Have you?”
“Yes.”
“Is it animal, vegetable, or amiable?”
“It’s animal.”
“Is it in this room?”
Marcus gently pointed out that they were not in a room, and Shan’t pointed out less gently that he wasn’t playing properly. Marcus had had very serious thoughts as to whether he should allow Shan’t’s version of animal, vegetable, or mineral to pass unquestioned, or whether he should tell her she wasn’t playing the game?
“Is it the poker?” asked Shan’t.
“A poker isn’t animal.”
“Then you should have said it was amiable—that’s what pokers are. I did guess quickly, didn’t I?”
At this moment Diana joined them, and the inhabitants of the square garden saw the unusual sight of that rather unfriendly Mr. Maitland sitting on a garden seat, with a child on his knee, while a girl, a very attractive girl, stood by, egging him on as it were.
“She’s going back to Aunt Elsie, Diana,” he said.
“Only-aunt-in-the-world—Say it,” said Shan’t.
He said it, repeating, “She’s going back.”
“Shan’t if I don’t want to.”
“But you will, Shan’t,” said Diana, “because—look at me!”
Shan’t threw back her head and looked at Diana.
“BecauseI—wantyou to,” said Diana.
Shan’t slipped off her uncle’s knee, ran across the grass, over the road, in at the hall door, at which Pillar was standing, into the dining-room, and laid her head on a chair and sobbed.
“Poor little beggar,” said Diana.
“Diana, shall I?” He was longing to comfort her.
“No, you’ll spoil it all. You can’t give in now—if you say a child must do a thing, make her do it. You have lost your chance.”
As one convicted of a crime Marcus returned to the dining-room. When Pillar came into the room he looked at Mr. Maitland as he had never looked at him before—looked as if he were saying: “Alittle sunshine comes into the house and you shut it out—you draw down the blinds!”
It fell to the lot of Mrs. Oven to take Miss Shan’t back to her aunt. She called her Miss Charlotte, thinking Shan’t was but the correct way of pronouncing Charlotte. She had lived with a Lady Harriet who had been very particular to pronounce her name curiously, and Mrs. Oven recognized a distinction attached to curiously pronounced names and respected those who knew how to pronounce them.
“You see, Diana,” explained her uncle, “I am delighted to have you, but two extra in the house do make a difference, especially when the second one is a child. There are the servants to consider, and besides there is your aunt—”
Diana said Aunt Elsie would never let him have Shan’t, so he needn’t worry.
“My dear Diana, your aunt has not the power to prevent me from having Shan’t if I wish to—”
“Youwillwish to. The day will come when you will find you can’t live without her. I can’t imagine what I shall do without her, but I quite see you can’t have two of us—it’s too darling of you to have me, and Aunt Elsie must be considered.”
“With your Aunt Elsie I have nothing whatever to do. I owe her no consideration. I don’t know her—”
“All right, darling, don’t be flurried. She doesn’t want to know you. She dislikes you quite amazingly.”
“Why should she?” asked Marcus, finding the unreasonableness of women difficult to understand.
That evening Mr. Maitland offered Pillar Zoo tickets for Sunday.
“No, thank you, sir; I would not deprive another more fitted—”
“There’s a new baby giraffe.” This was an attraction never before known to fail in its lure.
“Oh, well, sir, at the Zoölogical Gardens one’s mind harks back, as it were, to children. It’s better not to think of children when you’re in a house where there are none, and none to come—so to speak.”
The next day Marcus got a letter from the only aunt in the world and the letter ran as follows:
Dear Mr. Maitland,—I think it should be clearly understood before we go any further that I have as much right to my brother’s children as you have to the children of your sister. I do not wish to stand in Diana’s way and I am delighted she should have such a chance as you are giving her, but Shan’t is mine. Her mother did not leave her in your charge. She left her in mine. She is a most charmingcompanion, but would be utterly lost upon a bachelor—as you appear to be—living in London.If, however, at any time you should agree to lend me Diana for a week, I will lend you Shan’t. But it must be quite clearly understood that you do not have both together, at any time. If the two sisters should wish to be together, and it is only natural they should, I think their mother would say the place for them to be together is here. You are not likely to appreciate the extraordinary character of Shan’t, and it is quite possible the child would wear herself out as your slave. With Diana there is no such danger. You will find her delightful, but the slaving must be on your side. Shan’t has just returned safely, so far as I can see none the worse for her adventure. I must thank you for sending her back in the care of so respectable and excellent a woman. Shan’t has a name, by the way: it is Elsie; you must have known it.Yours truly,Elsie Carston
Dear Mr. Maitland,—I think it should be clearly understood before we go any further that I have as much right to my brother’s children as you have to the children of your sister. I do not wish to stand in Diana’s way and I am delighted she should have such a chance as you are giving her, but Shan’t is mine. Her mother did not leave her in your charge. She left her in mine. She is a most charmingcompanion, but would be utterly lost upon a bachelor—as you appear to be—living in London.
If, however, at any time you should agree to lend me Diana for a week, I will lend you Shan’t. But it must be quite clearly understood that you do not have both together, at any time. If the two sisters should wish to be together, and it is only natural they should, I think their mother would say the place for them to be together is here. You are not likely to appreciate the extraordinary character of Shan’t, and it is quite possible the child would wear herself out as your slave. With Diana there is no such danger. You will find her delightful, but the slaving must be on your side. Shan’t has just returned safely, so far as I can see none the worse for her adventure. I must thank you for sending her back in the care of so respectable and excellent a woman. Shan’t has a name, by the way: it is Elsie; you must have known it.
Yours truly,Elsie Carston
“A most disagreeable letter,” said Marcus as he folded it and put it into his pocket, to re-read later. “A most uncalled-for letter. I sent the child back at once. Most men would have kept her.”
He began then and there to wonder why he had not kept her. Talk of dogs! (Miss Carston was devotedto dogs, it seemed.) What dog had ever attracted him as Shan’t had done? What dog had ever looked so willing? Not even a retriever was so humbly anxious to do anything in the world to please. She was such a jolly little thing to hold—so small—so easily crushed—funny, jolly little thing! Why should Miss Carston have her? Under the care of Miss Carston she would grow up a suffragette; would grow up everything a man would wish a girl not to be; self-opinionated, strong-minded, argumentative; always right, never wrong. It was a horrible thought. And Pillar had been perfectly willing that Shan’t should stay. If Pillar didn’t mind, who should?
It was only right that Diana and Shan’t should not be separated. Miss Carston could have Dick in the holidays. That should satisfy her. If anything could satisfy a nature so exacting!