“But, even in giving awaysuperfluouswealth, hemaybe denying himself the miser’s pleasure in hoarding?”
“I grant you that, gladly,” said Arthur. “Given that hehasthat morbid craving, he is doing a good deed in restraining it.”
“But, even in spending onhimself,” I persisted, “our typical rich man often does good, by employing people who would otherwise be out of work: and that is often better than pauperising them bygivingthe money.”
“I’m glad you’ve said that!” said Arthur. “I would not like to quit the subject without exposing thetwofallacies of that statement—which have gone so long uncontradicted that Society now accepts it as an axiom!”
“What are they?” I said. “I don’t even seeone, myself.”
“One is merely the fallacy ofambiguity—the assumption that ‘doing good’ (that is, benefiting somebody) is necessarilya good thing to do(that is, arightthing). The other is the assumption that, if one of two specified acts isbetterthan another, it is necessarily agoodact in itself. I should like to call this thefallacy ofcomparison—meaning that it assumes that what iscomparativelygood is thereforepositivelygood.”
“Then what isyourtest of a good act?”
“That it shall beour best,” Arthur confidently replied. “And eventhen‘we are unprofitable servants.’ But let me illustrate the two fallacies. Nothing illustrates a fallacy so well as an extreme case, which fairly comes under it. Suppose I find two children drowning in a pond. I rush in, and save one of the children, and then walk away, leaving the other to drown. Clearly I have ‘done good,’ in saving a child’s life? But——. Again, supposing I meet an inoffensive stranger, and knock him down, and walk on. Clearly that is ‘better’ than if I had proceeded to jump upon him and break his ribs? But——”
“Those ‘buts’ are quite unanswerable,” I said. “But I should like an instance fromreallife.”
“Well, let us take one of those abominations of modern Society, a Charity-Bazaar. It’s an interesting question to think out—how much of the money, that reaches the object inview, isgenuinecharity; and whether eventhatis spent in thebestway. But the subject needs regular classification, and analysis, to understand it properly.”
“I should be glad tohaveit analysed,” I said: “it has often puzzled me.”
“Well, if I am really not boring you. Let us suppose our Charity-Bazaar to have been organised to aid the funds of some Hospital: and that A, B, Cgivetheir services in making articles to sell, and in acting as salesmen, while X, Y, Z buy the articles, and the money so paid goes to the Hospital.
“There are two distinct species of such Bazaars: one, where the payment exacted is merely themarket-valueof the goods supplied, that is, exactly what you would have to pay at a shop: the other, wherefancy-pricesare asked. We must take these separately.
“First, the ‘market-value’ case. Here A, B, C are exactly in the same position as ordinary shopkeepers; the only difference being that they give the proceeds to the Hospital. Practically, they aregiving their skilled labourfor the benefit of the Hospital. This seems tome to be genuine charity. And I don’t see how they could use it better. But X, Y, Z, are exactly in the same position as any ordinary purchasers of goods. To talk of ‘charity’ in connection withtheirshare of the business, is sheer nonsense. Yet they are very likely to do so.
“Secondly, the case of ‘fancy-prices.’ Here I think the simplest plan is to divide the payment into two parts, the ‘market-value’ and the excess over that. The ‘market-value’ part is on the same footing as in the first case: theexcessis all we have to consider. Well, A, B, C do notearnit; so we may putthemout of the question: it is agift, from X, Y, Z, to the Hospital. And my opinion is that it is not given in the best way: far better buy what they choose tobuy, and give what they choose togive, as twoseparatetransactions: then there issomechance that their motive in giving may be real charity, instead of a mixed motive—half charity, half self-pleasing. ‘The trail of the serpent is over it all.’ Andthereforeit is that I hold all such spurious ‘Charities’ inutterabomination!” He endedwith unusual energy, and savagely beheaded, with his stick, a tall thistle at the road-side, behind which I was startled to see Sylvie and Bruno standing. I caught at his arm, but too late to stop him. Whether the stick reached them, or not, I could not feel sure: at any rate they took not the smallest notice of it, but smiled gaily, and nodded to me; and I saw at once that they were only visible tome: the ‘eerie’ influence had not reached toArthur.
“Why did you try to save it?” he said. “That’snot the wheedling Secretary of a Charity-Bazaar! I only wish it were!” he added grimly.
“Doos oo know, that stick went right froo my head!” said Bruno. (They had run round to me by this time, and each had secured a hand.) “Just under my chin! Iareglad I aren’t a thistle!”
“Well, we’ve threshedthatsubject out, anyhow!” Arthur resumed. “I’m afraid I’ve been talking too much, foryourpatience and for my strength. I must be turning soon. This is about the end of my tether.”
“Take, O boatman, thrice thy fee;Take, I give it willingly;For, invisible to thee,Spirits twain have crossed with me!”
“Take, O boatman, thrice thy fee;
Take, I give it willingly;
For, invisible to thee,
Spirits twain have crossed with me!”
I quoted, involuntarily.
“For utterly inappropriate and irrelevant quotations,” laughed Arthur, “you are ‘ekalled by few, and excelled by none’!” And we strolled on.
As we passed the head of the lane that led down to the beach, I noticed a single figure, moving slowly along it, seawards. She was a good way off, and had her back to us: but it was Lady Muriel, unmistakably. Knowing that Arthur had not seen her, as he had been looking, in the other direction, at a gathering rain-cloud, I made no remark, but tried to think of some plausible pretext for sending him back by the sea.
The opportunity instantly presented itself. “I’m getting tired,” he said. “I don’t think it would be prudent to go further. I had better turn here.”
I turned with him, for a few steps, and as we again approached the head of the lane, Isaid, as carelessly as I could, “Don’t go back by the road. It’s too hot and dusty. Down this lane, and along the beach, is nearly as short; and you’ll get a breeze off the sea.”
“Yes, I think I will,” Arthur began; but at that moment we came into sight of Lady Muriel, and he checked himself. “No, it’s too far round. Yet it certainlywouldbe cooler——” He stood, hesitating, looking first one way and then the other—a melancholy picture of utter infirmity of purpose!
How long this humiliating scene would have continued, ifIhad been the only external influence, it is impossible to say; for at this moment Sylvie, with a swift decision worthy of Napoleon himself, took the matter into her own hands. “You go and driveher, up this way,” she said to Bruno. “I’ll gethimalong!” And she took hold of the stick that Arthur was carrying, and gently pulled him down the lane.
He was totally unconscious that any will but his own was acting on the stick, and appeared to think it had taken a horizontal position simply because he was pointing withit. “Are not thoseorchisesunder the hedge there?” he said. “I think that decides me. I’ll gather some as I go along.”
‘ARE NOT THOSE ORCHISES?’‘ARE NOT THOSE ORCHISES?’
‘ARE NOT THOSE ORCHISES?’
Meanwhile Bruno had run on beyond Lady Muriel, and, with much jumping about and shouting (shouts audible to no one but Sylvie and myself), much as if he were driving sheep, he managed to turn her round and make herwalk, with eyes demurely cast upon the ground, in our direction.
The victory was ours! And, since it was evident that the lovers, thus urged together,mustmeet in another minute, I turned and walked on, hoping that Sylvie and Bruno would follow my example, as I felt sure that the fewer the spectators the better it would be for Arthur and his good angel.
“And what sort of meeting was it?” I wondered, as I paced dreamily on.
“They shooked hands,” said Bruno, who was trotting at my side, in answer to the unspoken question.
“And they lookedeverso pleased!” Sylvie added from the other side.
“Well, we must get on, now, as quick as we can,” I said. “If only I knew the best way to Hunter’s farm!”
“They’ll be sure to know in this cottage,” said Sylvie.
“Yes, I suppose they will. Bruno, would you run in and ask?”
Sylvie stopped him, laughingly, as he ran off. “Wait a minute,” she said. “I must make youvisiblefirst, you know.”
“Andaudibletoo, I suppose?” I said, as she took the jewel, that hung round her neck, and waved it over his head, and touched his eyes and lips with it.
“Yes,” said Sylvie: “andonce, do you know, I made himaudible, and forgot to make himvisible! And he went to buy some sweeties in a shop. And the manwasso frightened! A voice seemed to come out of the air, ‘Please, I want two ounces of barley-sugar drops!’ And a shilling camebangdown upon the counter! And the man said ‘I ca’n’tseeyou!’ And Bruno said ‘It doosn’t sinnify seeingme, so long as oo can see theshilling!’ But the man said he never sold barley-sugar drops to people he couldn’tsee. So we had to—Now, Bruno, you’re ready!” And away he trotted.
Sylvie spent the time, while we were waiting for him, in makingherselfvisible also. “It’s rather awkward, you know,” she explained to me, “when we meet people, and they can seeoneof us, and ca’n’t see theother!”
In a minute or two Bruno returned, looking rather disconsolate. “He’d got friends with him, and he werecross!” he said. “He asked me who I were. And I said ‘I’m Bruno: who isthesepeoples?’ And he said ‘One’s my half-brother, and t’other’s my half-sister: and I don’t want no more company! Go along with yer!’ And I said ‘I ca’n’t go alongwizoutmine self!’ And I said ‘Oo shouldn’t havebitsof peoples lying about like that! It’s welly untidy!’ And he said ‘Oh, don’t talk tome!’ And he pushted me outside! And he shutted the door!”
“And you never asked where Hunter’s farm was?” queried Sylvie.
“Hadn’t room for any questions,” said Bruno. “The room were so crowded.”
“Three peoplecouldn’tcrowd a room,” said Sylvie.
“Theydid, though,” Bruno persisted. “Hecrowded it most. He’s such a wellythickman—so as oo couldn’t knock him down.”
I failed to see the drift of Bruno’s argument. “Surelyanybodycould be knocked down,” I said: “thick or thin wouldn’t matter.”
“Oo couldn’t knockhimdown,” said Bruno. “He’s more wider than he’s high: so, when he’s lying down, he’s more higher than when he’s standing: so a-course oo couldn’t knock himdown!”
“Here’s another cottage,” I said: “I’llask the way,thistime.”
There was no need to go in, this time, as the woman was standing in the doorway, with a baby in her arms, talking to a respectably dressed man—a farmer, as I guessed—who seemed to be on his way to the town.
“—and when there’sdrinkto be had,” he was saying, “he’s just the worst o’ the lot, is your Willie. So they tell me. He gets fairly mad wi’ it!”
“I’d have given ’em the lie to their faces, a twelvemonth back!” the woman said in a broken voice. “But a’ canna noo! A’ canna noo!” She checked herself, on catching sight of us, and hastily retreated into the house, shutting the door after her.
“Perhaps you can tell me where Hunter’s farm is?” I said to the man, as he turned away from the house.
“I canthat, Sir!” he replied with a smile. “I’m John Hunter hissel, at your sarvice. It’s nobbut half a mile further—the only house in sight, when you get round bend o’ the road yonder. You’ll find my good woman within, if so be you’ve business wi’her. Or mebbe I’ll do as well?”
“Thanks,” I said. “I want to order some milk. Perhaps I had better arrange it with your wife?”
“Aye,” said the man. “Sheminds allthat. Good day t’ye, Master—and to your bonnie childer, as well!” And he trudged on.
“He should have said ‘child,’ not ‘childer’,” said Bruno. “Sylvie’s not achilder!”
“He meantbothof us,” said Sylvie.
“No, he didn’t!” Bruno persisted. “’cause he said ‘bonnie’, oo know!”
“Well, at any rate helookedat us both,” Sylvie maintained.
“Well, then hemusthave seen we’re notbothbonnie!” Bruno retorted. “A-courseI’m much uglier thanoo! Didn’t he meanSylvie, Mister Sir?” he shouted over his shoulder, as he ran off.
But there was no use in replying, as he had already vanished round the bend of the road. When we overtook him he was climbing a gate, and was gazing earnestly into the field, where a horse, a cow, and a kid were browsing amicably together. “For its father, aHorse,” he murmured to himself. “For its mother, aCow. For their dear little child, alittleGoat, is the most curiousest thing I ever seen in my world!”
“Bruno’s World!” I pondered. “Yes, I suppose every child has a world of his own—and every man, too, for the matter of that. I wonder ifthat’sthe cause for all the misunderstanding there is in Life?”
“Thatmustbe Hunter’s farm!” said Sylvie, pointing to a house on the brow of the hill, led up to by a cart-road. “There’s no other farm in sight,thisway; and yousaidwe must be nearly there by this time.”
I hadthoughtit, while Bruno was climbing the gate, but I couldn’t remember havingsaidit. However, Sylvie was evidently in the right. “Get down, Bruno,” I said, “and open the gate for us.”
“It’s a good thing we’s with oo,isn’tit, Mister Sir?” said Bruno, as we entered the field. “That big dog might have bited oo, if oo’d been alone! Oo needn’t beflightenedof it!” he whispered, clinging tight to my hand to encourage me. “It aren’t fierce!”
“Fierce!” Sylvie scornfully echoed, as the dog—a magnificent Newfoundland—that had come galloping down the field to meet us, began curveting round us, in gambols full of graceful beauty, and welcoming us with short joyful barks. “Fierce! Why, it’s as gentle as a lamb! It’s—why, Bruno, don’t you know it? It’s——”
“So itare!” cried Bruno, rushing forwards and throwing his arms round its neck. “Oh, youdeardog!” And it seemed as if the two children would never have done hugging and stroking it.
“And howeverdid he gethere?” said Bruno. “Ask him, Sylvie. I doosn’t know how.”
And then began an eager talk in Doggee, which of course was lost uponme; and I could onlyguess, when the beautiful creature, with a sly glance at me, whispered something inSylvie’s ear, thatIwas now the subject of conversation. Sylvie looked round laughingly.
“He asked me who you are,” she explained. “And I said ‘He’s ourfriend.’ And he said ‘What’s his name?’ And I said ‘It’sMister Sir.’ And he said ‘Bosh!’”
“What is ‘Bosh!’ in Doggee?” I enquired.
“It’s the same as in English,” said Sylvie. “Only, when adogsays it, it’s a sort of a whisper, that’s half acoughand half abark. Nero, say ‘Bosh!’”
And Nero, who had now begun gamboling round us again, said “Bosh!” several times; and I found that Sylvie’s description of the sound was perfectly accurate.
“I wonder what’s behind this long wall?” I said, as we walked on.
“It’s theOrchard,” Sylvie replied, after a consultation with Nero. “See, there’s a boy getting down off the wall, at that far corner. And now he’s running away across the field. I do believe he’s been stealing the apples!”
Bruno set off after him, but returned to us in a few moments, as he had evidently no chance of overtaking the young rascal.
“I couldn’t catch him!” he said. “I wiss I’d started a little sooner. His pocketswasfull of apples!”
The Dog-King looked up at Sylvie, and said something in Doggee.
“Why, ofcourseyou can!” Sylvie exclaimed. “How stupid not to think of it!Nero’ll hold him for us, Bruno! But I’d better make him invisible, first.” And she hastily got out the Magic Jewel, and began waving it over Nero’s head, and down along his back.
“That’ll do!” cried Bruno, impatiently. “After him, good Doggie!”
“Oh, Bruno!” Sylvie exclaimed reproachfully. “You shouldn’t have sent him off so quick! I hadn’t done the tail!”
Meanwhile Nero was coursing like a greyhound down the field: so at least I concluded from allIcould see of him—the long feathery tail, which floated like a meteor through the air—and in a very few seconds he had come up with the little thief.
“He’s got him safe, by one foot!” cried Sylvie, who was eagerly watching the chase. “Now there’s no hurry, Bruno!”
So we walked, quite leisurely, down the field, to where the frightened lad stood. A more curious sight I had seldom seen, in all my ‘eerie’ experiences. Every bit of him was in violent action, except the left foot, which was apparently glued to the ground—there being nothing visibly holding it: while, at some little distance, the long feathery tail was waving gracefully from side to side, showing that Nero, at least, regarded the whole affair as nothing but a magnificent game of play.
“What’s the matter with you?” I said, as gravely as I could.
“Got the crahmp in me ahnkle!” the thief groaned in reply. “An’ me fut’s gone to sleep!” And he began to blubber aloud.
“Now, look here!” Bruno said in a commanding tone, getting in front of him. “Oo’ve got to give up those apples!”
The lad glanced at me, but didn’t seem to reckonmyinterference as worth anything. Then he glanced at Sylvie:sheclearly didn’t count for very much, either. Then he took courage. “It’ll take a better man than any ofyerto get ’em!” he retorted defiantly.
A ROYAL THIEF-TAKERA ROYAL THIEF-TAKER
A ROYAL THIEF-TAKER
Sylvie stooped and patted the invisible Nero. “Alittletighter!” she whispered. And a sharp yell from the ragged boy showed how promptly the Dog-King had taken the hint.
“What’s the matternow?” I said. “Is your ankle worse?”
“And it’ll get worse, and worse, and worse,” Bruno solemnly assured him, “till oo gives up those apples!”
Apparently the thief was convinced of this at last, and he sulkily began emptying his pockets of the apples. The children watched from a little distance, Bruno dancing with delight at every fresh yell extracted from Nero’s terrified prisoner.
“That’s all,” the boy said at last.
“Itisn’tall!” cried Bruno. “There’s three more in that pocket!”
Another hint from Sylvie to the Dog-King—another sharp yell from the thief, now convicted of lying also—and the remaining three apples were surrendered.
“Let him go, please,” Sylvie said in Doggee, and the lad limped away at a great pace, stooping now and then to rub the ailing ankle, in fear, seemingly, that the ‘crahmp’ might attack it again.
‘SUMMAT WRONG WI’ MY SPECTACLES!’‘SUMMAT WRONG WI’ MY SPECTACLES!’
‘SUMMAT WRONG WI’ MY SPECTACLES!’
Bruno ran back, with his booty, to the orchard wall, and pitched the apples over it one by one. “I’s welly afraidsomeof them’s gone under the wrong trees!” he panted, on overtaking us again.
“Thewrongtrees!” laughed Sylvie. “Treesca’n’tdo wrong! There’s no such things aswrongtrees!”
“Then there’s no such things asrighttrees, neither!” cried Bruno. And Sylvie gave up the point.
“Wait a minute, please!” she said to me. “I must make Nerovisible, you know!”
“No,pleasedon’t!” cried Bruno, who had by this time mounted on the Royal back, and was twisting the Royal hair into a bridle. “It’ll besuchfun to have him like this!”
“Well, itdoeslook funny,” Sylvie admitted, and led the way to the farm-house, where the farmer’s wife stood, evidently much perplexed at the weird procession now approaching her. “It’s summat gone wrong wi’ my spectacles, I doubt!” she murmured, as she took themoff, and began diligently rubbing them with a corner of her apron.
Meanwhile Sylvie had hastily pulled Bruno down from his steed, and had just time to make His Majesty wholly visible before the spectacles were resumed.
All was natural, now; but the good woman still looked a little uneasy about it. “My eyesight’s getting bad,” she said, “but I see younow, my darlings! You’ll give me a kiss, wo’n’t you?”
Bruno got behind me, in a moment: however Sylvie put upherface, to be kissed, as representative ofboth, and we all went in together.
“Come to me, my little gentleman,” said our hostess, lifting Bruno into her lap, “and tell me everything.”
“I ca’n’t,” said Bruno. “There wouldn’t be time. Besides, I don’tknoweverything.”
The good woman looked a little puzzled, and turned to Sylvie for help. “Does he likeriding?” she asked.
“Yes, Ithinkso,” Sylvie gently replied. “He’s just had a ride onNero.”
“Ah, Nero’s a grand dog, isn’t he? Were you ever outside ahorse, my little man?”
“Always!” Bruno said with great decision. “Never wasinsideone. Wasoo?”
Here I thought it well to interpose, and to mention the business on which we had come, and so relieved her, for a few minutes, from Bruno’s perplexing questions.
“And those dear children will like a bit of cake,I’llwarrant!” said the farmer’s hospitable wife, when the business was concluded, as she opened her cupboard, and brought out a cake. “And don’t you waste the crust, little gentleman!” she added, as she handed a good slice of it to Bruno. “You know what the poetry-book says about wilful waste?”
“No, I don’t,” said Bruno. “What doos he say about it?”
“Tell him, Bessie!” And the mother looked down, proudly and lovingly, on a rosy little maiden, who had just crept shyly into the room, and was leaning against her knee. “What’s that your poetry-book says about wilful waste?”
“For wilful waste makes woeful want,” Bessie recited, in an almost inaudible whisper: “and you may live to say ‘How much I wish I had the crust that then I threw away!’”
“Now try ifyoucan say it, my dear!For wilful——”
“For wifful—sumfinoruvver—” Bruno began, readily enough; and then there came a dead pause. “Ca’n’t remember no more!”
“Well, what do youlearnfrom it, then? You can tell usthat, at any rate?”
Bruno ate a little more cake, and considered: but the moral did not seem to him to be a very obvious one.
“Always to——” Sylvie prompted him in a whisper.
“Always to——” Bruno softly repeated: and then, with sudden inspiration, “always to look where it goes to!”
“Wherewhatgoes to, darling?”
“Why thecrust, a course!” said Bruno. “Then, if I lived to say ‘How much I wiss I had the crust—’ (and all that), I’d know where I frew it to!”
This new interpretation quite puzzled the good woman. She returned to the subject of ‘Bessie.’ “Wouldn’t you like to see Bessie’s doll, my dears! Bessie, take the little lady and gentleman to see Matilda Jane!”
Bessie’s shyness thawed away in a moment. “Matilda Jane has just woke up,” she stated, confidentially, to Sylvie. “Wo’n’t you help me on with her frock? Them stringsissuch a bother to tie!”
“I can tiestrings,” we heard, in Sylvie’s gentle voice, as the two little girls left the room together. Bruno ignored the whole proceeding, and strolled to the window, quite with the air of a fashionable gentleman. Little girls, and dolls, were not at all in his line.
And forthwith the fond mother proceeded to tell me (as what mother is not ready to do?) of all Bessie’s virtues (and vices too, for the matter of that) and of the many fearful maladies which, notwithstanding those ruddy cheeks and that plump little figure, had nearly, time and again, swept her from the face of the earth.
When the full stream of loving memories had nearly run itself out, I began to question her about the working men of that neighbourhood, and specially the ‘Willie,’ whom we had heard of at his cottage. “He was a good fellow once,” said my kind hostess: “but it’s the drink has ruined him! Not that I’d rob them of thedrink—it’s good for the most of them—but there’s some as is too weak to stand agin’ temptations: it’s a thousand pities, forthem, as they ever built the Golden Lion at the corner there!”
“The Golden Lion?” I repeated.
“It’s the new Public,” my hostess explained. “And it stands right in the way, and handy for the workmen, as they come back from the brickfields, as it might be to-day, with their week’s wages. A deal of money gets wasted that way. And some of ’em gets drunk.”
“If only they could have it in their own houses—” I mused, hardly knowing I had said the words out loud.
“That’s it!” she eagerly exclaimed. It was evidently a solution, of the problem, that she had already thought out. “If only you could manage, so’s each man to have his own little barrel in his own house—there’d hardly be a drunken man in the length and breadth of the land!”
And then I told her the old story—about a certain cottager who bought himself a little barrel of beer, and installed his wife as bar-keeper:and how, every time he wanted his mug of beer, he regularly paid her over the counter for it: and how she never would let him go on ‘tick,’ and was a perfectly inflexible bar-keeper in never letting him have more than his proper allowance: and how, every time the barrel needed refilling, she had plenty to do it with, and something over for her money-box: and how, at the end of the year, he not only found himself in first-rate health and spirits, with that undefinable but quite unmistakeable air which always distinguishes the sober man from the one who takes ‘a drop too much,’ but had quite a box full of money, all saved out of his own pence!
“If only they’d all do like that!” said the good woman, wiping her eyes, which were overflowing with kindly sympathy. “Drink hadn’t need to be the curse it is to some——”
“Only acurse,” I said, “when it is used wrongly. Any of God’s gifts may be turned into a curse, unless we use it wisely. But we must be getting home. Would you call the little girls? Matilda Jane has seen enough of company, foroneday, I’m sure!”
“I’ll find ’em in a minute,” said my hostess, as she rose to leave the room. “Maybe that young gentleman saw which way they went?”
“Where are they, Bruno?” I said.
“They ain’t in the field,” was Bruno’s rather evasive reply, “’cause there’s nothing butpigsthere, and Sylvie isn’t a pig. Now don’t imperrupt me any more, ’cause I’m telling a story to this fly; and it won’t attend!”
“They’re among the apples, I’ll warrant ’em!” said the Farmer’s wife. So we left Bruno to finish his story, and went out into the orchard, where we soon came upon the children, walking sedately side by side, Sylvie carrying the doll, while little Bess carefully shaded its face, with a large cabbage-leaf for a parasol.
As soon as they caught sight of us, little Bess dropped her cabbage-leaf and came running to meet us, Sylvie following more slowly, as her precious charge evidently needed great care and attention.
“I’m its Mamma, and Sylvie’s the Head-Nurse,” Bessie explained: “and Sylvie’s taught me ever such a pretty song, for me to sing to Matilda Jane!”
“Let’s hear it once more, Sylvie,” I said, delighted at getting the chance I had long wished for, of hearing her sing. But Sylvie turned shy and frightened in a moment. “No,pleasenot!” she said, in an earnest ‘aside’ to me. “Bessie knows it quite perfect now. Bessie can sing it!”
“Aye, aye! Let Bessie sing it!” said the proud mother. “Bessie has a bonny voice of her own,” (this again was an ‘aside’ to me) “though I say it as shouldn’t!”
Bessie was only too happy to accept the ‘encore.’ So the plump little Mamma sat down at our feet, with her hideous daughter reclining stiffly across her lap (it was one of a kind that wo’n’t sit down, underanyamount of persuasion), and, with a face simply beaming with delight, began the lullaby, in a shout thatoughtto have frightened the poor baby into fits. The Head-Nurse crouched down behind her, keeping herself respectfully in the back-ground, with her hands on the shoulders of her little mistress, so as to be ready to act as Prompter, if required, and to supply ‘each gap in faithless memory void.’
BESSIE’S SONGBESSIE’S SONG
BESSIE’S SONG
The shout, with which she began, proved to be only a momentary effort. After a very few notes, Bessie toned down, and sang on in a small but very sweet voice. At first her great black eyes were fixed on her mother, but soon her gaze wandered upwards, among the apples, and she seemed to have quite forgotten that she had any other audience than her Baby, and her Head-Nurse, who once or twice supplied, almost inaudibly, the right note, when the singer was getting a little ‘flat.’
“Matilda Jane, you never lookAt any toy or picture-book:I show you pretty things in vain—You must be blind, Matilda Jane!
“Matilda Jane, you never look
At any toy or picture-book:
I show you pretty things in vain—
You must be blind, Matilda Jane!
“I ask you riddles, tell you tales,Butallour conversation fails:Youneveranswer me again—I fear you’re dumb, Matilda Jane!
“I ask you riddles, tell you tales,
Butallour conversation fails:
Youneveranswer me again—
I fear you’re dumb, Matilda Jane!
“Matilda, darling, when I call,You never seem to hear at all:I shout with all my might and main—But you’resodeaf, Matilda Jane!
“Matilda, darling, when I call,
You never seem to hear at all:
I shout with all my might and main—
But you’resodeaf, Matilda Jane!
“Matilda Jane, you needn’t mind;For, though you’re deaf, and dumb, and blind,There’ssome oneloves you, it is plain—And that isme,Matilda Jane!”
“Matilda Jane, you needn’t mind;
For, though you’re deaf, and dumb, and blind,
There’ssome oneloves you, it is plain—
And that isme,Matilda Jane!”
She sang three of the verses in a rather perfunctory style, but the last stanza evidently excited the little maiden. Her voice rose, ever clearer and louder: she had a rapt look on her face, as if suddenly inspired, and, as she sang the last few words, she clasped to her heart the inattentive Matilda Jane.
“Kiss it now!” prompted the Head-Nurse. And in a moment the simpering meaningless face of the Baby was covered with a shower of passionate kisses.
“What a bonny song!” cried the Farmer’s wife. “Who made the words, dearie?”
“I—I think I’ll look for Bruno,” Sylvie said demurely, and left us hastily. The curious child seemed always afraid of being praised, or even noticed.
“Sylvie planned the words,” Bessie informed us, proud of her superior information: “and Bruno planned the music—andIsang it!” (this last circumstance, by the way, we did not need to be told).
So we followed Sylvie, and all entered the parlour together. Bruno was still standing at the window, with his elbows on the sill. He had, apparently, finished the story that he was telling to the fly, and had found a new occupation. “Don’t imperrupt!” he said as we came in. “I’m counting the Pigs in the field!”
“How many are there?” I enquired.
“About a thousand and four,” said Bruno.
“You mean ‘about a thousand,’” Sylvie corrected him. “There’s no good saying ‘and four’: youca’n’tbe sure about the four!”
“And you’re as wrong as ever!” Bruno exclaimed triumphantly. “It’s just thefourIcanbe sure about; ’cause they’re here, grubbling under the window! It’s thethousandI isn’t pruffickly sure about!”
“But some of them have gone into the sty,” Sylvie said, leaning over him to look out of the window.
“Yes,” said Bruno; “but they went so slowly and so fewly, I didn’t care to countthem.”
“We must be going, children,” I said. “Wish Bessie good-bye.” Sylvie flung her arms round the little maiden’s neck, and kissed her: but Bruno stood aloof, looking unusually shy. (“I never kissnobodybut Sylvie!” he explained to me afterwards.) The farmer’s wife showed us out: and we were soon on our way back to Elveston.
“And that’s the new public-house that we were talking about, I suppose?” I said, as we came in sight of a long low building, with the words ‘The Golden Lion’ over the door.
“Yes, that’s it,” said Sylvie. “I wonder ifherWillie’s inside? Run in, Bruno, and see if he’s there.”
I interposed, feeling that Bruno was, in a sort of way, inmycare. “That’s not a place to send a child into.” For already the revelers were getting noisy: and a wild discord of singing, shouting, and meaningless laughter came to us through the open windows.
“They wo’n’tseehim, you know,” Sylvie explained. “Wait a minute, Bruno!” She clasped the jewel, that always hung round her neck, between the palms of her hands, and muttered a few words to herself. What they were I could not at all make out, but some mysterious change seemed instantly to pass over us. My feet seemed to me no longer to press the ground, and the dream-like feeling came upon me, that I was suddenly endowed with the power of floating in the air. I could still justseethe children: but their forms were shadowy and unsubstantial, and their voices sounded as if they came from some distant place and time, they were so unreal. However, I offered no further opposition to Bruno’sgoing into the house. He was back again in a few moments. “No, he isn’t come yet,” he said. “They’re talking about him inside, and saying how drunk he was last week.”
While he was speaking, one of the men lounged out through the door, a pipe in one hand and a mug of beer in the other, and crossed to where we were standing, so as to get a better view along the road. Two or three others leaned out through the open window, each holding his mug of beer, with red faces and sleepy eyes. “Canst see him, lad?” one of them asked.
“I dunnot know,” the man said, taking a step forwards, which brought us nearly face to face. Sylvie hastily pulled me out of his way. “Thanks, child,” I said. “I had forgotten he couldn’t see us. What would have happened if I had staid in his way?”
“I don’t know,” Sylvie said gravely. “It wouldn’t matter tous; butyoumay be different.” She said this in her usual voice, but the man took no sort of notice, though she was standing close in front of him, and looking up into his face as she spoke.
“He’s coming now!” cried Bruno, pointing down the road.
“He be a-coomin noo!” echoed the man, stretching out his arm exactly over Bruno’s head, and pointing with his pipe.
“Thenchorusagin!” was shouted out by one of the red-faced men in the window: and forthwith a dozen voices yelled, to a harsh discordant melody, the refrain:—
“There’s him, an’ yo’ an’ me,Roarin’ laddies!We loves a bit o spree,Roarin’ laddies we,Roarin’ laddiesRoarin’ laddies!”
“There’s him, an’ yo’ an’ me,
Roarin’ laddies!
We loves a bit o spree,
Roarin’ laddies we,
Roarin’ laddies
Roarin’ laddies!”
The man lounged back again to the house, joining lustily in the chorus as he went: so that only the children and I were in the road when ‘Willie’ came up.
He made for the door of the public-house, but the children intercepted him. Sylvie clung to one arm; while Bruno, on the opposite side, was pushing him with all his strength, with many inarticulate cries of “Gee-up! Gee-back! Woah then!” which he had picked up from the waggoners.
‘Willie’ took not the least notice of them: he was simply conscious thatsomethinghad checked him: and, for want of any other way of accounting for it, he seemed to regard it as his own act.
THE RESCUE OF WILLIETHE RESCUE OF WILLIE
THE RESCUE OF WILLIE
“I wunnut coom in,” he said: “not to-day.”
“A mug o’ beer wunnut hurt ’ee!” his friends shouted in chorus. “Twomugs wunnut hurt ’ee! Nor a dozen mugs!”
“Nay,” said Willie. “I’m agoan whoam.”
“What, withouten thy drink, Willie man?” shouted the others. But ‘Willie man’ would have no more discussion, and turned doggedly away, the children keeping one on each side of him, to guard him against any change in his sudden resolution.
For a while he walked on stoutly enough, keeping his hands in his pockets, and softly whistling a tune, in time to his heavy tread: his success, in appearing entirely at his ease, wasalmostcomplete; but a careful observer would have noted that he had forgotten the second part of the air, and that, when it broke down, he instantly began it again, being too nervous to think of another, and too restless to endure silence.
It was not the old fear that possessed him now—the old fear, that had been his dreary companion every Saturday night he could remember, as he had reeled along, steadying himself against gates and garden-palings, and when the shrill reproaches of his wife had seemed to his dazed brain only the echo of a yet more piercing voice within, the intolerablewail of a hopeless remorse: it was a wholly new fear that had come to him now: life had taken on itself a new set of colours, and was lighted up with a new and dazzling radiance, and he did not see, as yet, how his home-life, and his wife and child, would fit into the new order of things: the very novelty of it all was, to his simple mind, a perplexity and an overwhelming terror.
And now the tune died into sudden silence on the trembling lips, as he turned a sharp corner, and came in sight of his own cottage, where his wife stood, leaning with folded arms on the wicket-gate, and looking up the road with a pale face, that had in it no glimmer of the light of hope—only the heavy shadow of a deep stony despair.
“Fine an’ early, lad! Fine an’ early!” The words might have been words of welcoming, but oh, the bitterness of the tone in which she said it! “What brings thee from thy merry mates, and all the fiddling and the jigging? Pockets empty, I doubt? Or thou’st come, mebbe, for to see thy little one die? The bairnie’s clemmed, and I’ve nor bite nor supto gie her. But what doesthoucare?” She flung the gate open, and met him with blazing eyes of fury.
The man said no word. Slowly, and with downcast eyes, he passed into the house, while she, half terrified at his strange silence, followed him in without another word; and it was not till he had sunk into a chair, with his arms crossed on the table and with drooping head, that she found her voice again.
It seemed entirely natural for us to go in with them: at another time one would have asked leave for this, but I felt, I knew not why, that we were in some mysterious way invisible, and as free to come and to go as disembodied spirits.
The child in the cradle woke up, and raised a piteous cry, which in a moment brought the children to its side: Bruno rocked the cradle, while Sylvie tenderly replaced the little head on the pillow from which it had slipped. But the mother took no heed of the cry, nor yet of the satisfied ‘coo’ that it set up when Sylvie had made it happy again: she only stood gazing at her husband, and vainly trying, with whitequivering lips (I believe she thought he was mad), to speak in the old tones of shrill upbraiding that he knew so well.
“And thou’st spent all thy wages—I’ll swear thou hast—on the devil’s own drink—and thou’st been and made thysen a beast again—as thou allus dost——”
“Hasna!” the man muttered, his voice hardly rising above a whisper, as he slowly emptied his pockets on the table. “There’s th’ wage, Missus, every penny on’t.”
The woman gasped, and put one hand to her heart, as if under some great shock of surprise. “Thenhow’s thee gotten th’ drink?”
“Hasnagotten it,” he answered her, in a tone more sad than sullen. “I hanna touched a drop this blessed day. No!” he cried aloud, bringing his clenched fist heavily down upon the table, and looking up at her with gleaming eyes, “nor I’ll never touch another drop o’ the cursed drink—till I die—so help me God my Maker!” His voice, which had suddenly risen to a hoarse shout, dropped again as suddenly: and once more he bowed his head, and buried his face in his folded arms.