AN IRON SEAT
He sat at one end of the seat, she at the other, and the seat was on the cliffs overlooking the sea at Wolsuth on the Suffolk coast. They say that if your eyes were strong enough you could see the coast of Holland; but even with telescopes no one has yet succeeded in doing that.
At first he hardly noticed her—she was so small and still and read her book so assiduously; but she could have passed a searching examination as to his appearance, for she had studied it carefully. She would have told you that he was tall, and thin, and dark, and “rather old”; that his beard was grey, though his hair was black and decidedly thin on the top; that his spectacles had gold rims and the eyes behind them were very kind; that his manner struck you as extremely grave and decorous: what impressed her most, however, was that big, dull, paper-covered book he was always reading. She was sure it was dull, forshecouldn’t read a word of it; it was in German—she knew that much, and she had tried to pronounce the title to herself in bed at night, but never came near it at all, for it looked like this: “Mendelejeef Chemie,” and it would take a very sharp little girl of ten to make much out of that.
No one ever came to sit between them on that iron seat; it was far from the esplanade, and overlooked a lonely part of the beach where there were no “entertainments.” When they had sat there for several days, the man who read “Mendelejeef Chemie” looked up suddenly to find that his companion at the other end of the seat was wiping her eyes with the absurdest little red-bordered handkerchief. She held her book in one hand—a somewhat large and heavy book for such a little hand—and wiped her eyes with the other, and yet the man was sure that she was not unhappy, for her thin brown cheeks were flushed, and though her mouth was tremulous it wore a proud and happy smile. He was devoured by curiosity. What book could it be that had the power to move a little girl in so complex a fashion?
He shifted down the seat toward her; but she was so absorbed in what she was reading that she never looked his way, and he found that the book she held in her hand was “From London to Ladysmith via Pretoria.”
Suddenly she looked round and saw him. Quite simply and naturally she offered him a share of her book, saying enthusiastically:
“Isn’t it splendid? And my daddie was there through it all.”
“Are you ready?” she said presently.
The man nodded, and she turned the page. Then, with tears still shining on her cheeks, she began to read aloud:
“It was a procession of lions. And presently, when the two battalions of Devons met—both full of honors—and old friends breaking from the ranks gripped each other’s hands and shouted, everyone was carried away, and I waved my feathered hat and cheered and cheered until I could cheer no longer for joy that I had lived to see the day....”
“It was a procession of lions. And presently, when the two battalions of Devons met—both full of honors—and old friends breaking from the ranks gripped each other’s hands and shouted, everyone was carried away, and I waved my feathered hat and cheered and cheered until I could cheer no longer for joy that I had lived to see the day....”
Here she stopped, and, turning her radiant face to the man beside her, cried:
“Aren’t you glad you weren’t born in any other century? Isn’t it a good thing to be in the world when there are such splendid things happening?”
The man smiled down at her, saying heartily: “It is, indeed!” And straightway they were friends.
Ever afterward they sat in the middle of the seat quite close together, and although Winny—that was her name—continued to read “From London to Ladysmith,” she read it aloud, and “Mendelejeef” lay neglected on the far end of the seat.
They talked a great deal about the war, and the man found that this little girl knew all about it, from the battle of Glencoe to the relief of Ladybrand, the name and whereabouts of every regiment, the result of every single engagement big or little.
He learned that last year her father had been home on long leave and had brought them all to Wolsuth, “and oh! we did have a lovely time!” but that this year mother couldn’t afford it, “War risks are so expensive, you know,” that she—Winny—had been silly enough to get influenza inJuly, and an aunt had consented to let her come with her own family.
“Mother and the boys—there’s three boys younger than me: I’m the eldest—have got to stay at home this year. I’m so sorry, though I’d far rather be with them, only I’vegotto get strong. Daddie said so in his last letter.”
The man gathered that her aunt and cousins were not altogethersimpatica, though Winny never said so; still, every day she came and sat on the iron seat after her bath and talked of her book, for which she had unbounded admiration, and of her own small affairs. Being an excellent listener, the man found himself well amused, for he was one of those people who keep the best part of themselves for old friends and little children, and are always quite misunderstood and unappreciated by casual acquaintances, which lack of appreciation doesn’t trouble them in the least.
He learned that one of the “boys” was going into the Royal Engineers, “because there you can live on your pay from the first if you’re careful,” another into the Artillery, “and we may spare one for the Navy.”
“And what are you going to be?” he asked one day, after they had exhaustively discussed the futures of the three boys.
“Oh, I’m going to be a mother,” she replied, with immense decision. “You see, you have such a lot of people to take care of you and love you, if you’re a mother.”
“But you have to take care of them first, haven’t you?” he asked.
“Oh, yes, just at first—but afterwards—— You should just see the care we take of mother, daddie and all.”
The man looked out to sea and tried to picture the eager little figure at his side as a large comfortable mother of many children. He tried so hard that he forgot to answer her last remark, and she asked anxiously:
“Don’t you think it’s a good thing to be?”
“Excellent!” he answered heartily. “It is one of the oldest and most honorable professions; mothers are people we can in nowise ever do without.”
“That’s what I thought,” said Winny, in a satisfied voice, “and that’s what I’m going to be; I made up my mind years ago.”
One day as he arrived at their trysting place he discovered that Winny was crying in right down earnest, and not for joy that Ladysmith had been relieved. The little red-bordered handkerchief was screwed up into a tight, wet ball, and the small figure in blue serge looked very woebegone indeed. She had taken off her fisherman’s cowl, and cast it on the ground beside her; and when she saw her friend, instead of waving him a gay welcome as he came up, she shook her curly brown hair round her cheeks to hide her face.
All this was so unlike Winny that the man immediately reflected with dismay that he had not read the morning paper at all carefully. It was possible that some disaster had happened to herfather. In those days we were apt to trace all sorrows to South Africa.
“No bad news, I hope?” he said in rather a hesitating way as he came up.
Winny shook her head till her face was entirely hidden by her hair; but she did not answer otherwise.
“You may as well tell me what’s the matter,” said the man; “it may not be past mending.”
Now there was something about this man that inspired confidence; moreover, he offered Winny his own handkerchief, which was large and clean and comforting. So she accepted it, mopped her wet face, shook back her hair, and began: “I don’t bathe with the others, you know.” Here she paused so long that the man said, “Well?” though it was against his principles to interrupt anybody’s narrative.
“I bathe at Herrington’s machines,” she continued, “where we always bathed last year—daddie too—right far away at the end of the beach. My aunt and cousins bathe where the niggers are, and the concert, and such crowds of people you have to wait ever so long for a machine. So I asked if I might bathe with Herrington like last year, for he’s such a nice man, and he takes such care of me, and daddie liked him awfully. There’s been Herringtons in Wolsuth since 1400!”
Winny paused after this announcement, evidently expecting comment of some sort.
“That’s a long record,” said the man, rising to the occasion. “And what was Mr. Herrington before he took to keeping bathing-machines?”
“He was mate on a schooner, and one of his sons is a captain of a merchantman; he’s raised himself tremendously. Then there’s two sons who help Herrington, and are fishermen in winter; and Mrs. Herrington does washing. Oh, they’re such a nice family!” she exclaimed ecstatically.
The man looked out to sea, wondering what on earth all this had to do with her tears. But he was a patient person; so he waited.
“I go home to-morrow,” she continued, “and I’ve had one of Herrington’s bathing-machines ever since I came—going on for three weeks now—and he’s taken me out in the boat and let me dive and swim, and been so kind and jolly, and to-day, when I asked my aunt for the money to pay him—it’s fourpence each time—she wouldn’t give it me, and laughed and said that it wouldn’t hurt him to take me for nothing this year, he made such a lot out of us last. Think of it!” she exclaimed, clasping and unclasping her hands. “It’s his living! It’s like taking a leg of mutton from a butcher for nothing. I told auntie that mother would send it to her if she’d let me have it, but she only laughed and said it was nonsense. Of course mother will send it tohim, but that’s not the same. He’ll have to think me shabby and ungrateful for nearly three days, for I can’t go and say good-bye to him when I’ve nothing to give him. I’ve only sixpence. Isn’t it dreadful?”
The man reflected that there were people who had no objection to accepting legs of mutton from their butchers, who rather resented the fact that these same butchers ventured on occasion to sendin a bill; but evidently the soldier who had been shut up in Ladysmith brought up his children with a different view of their obligations. He was very sorry for Winny, but he didn’t dare to offer her the money. There are people to whom one cannot offer money.
“Can’t you tell Herrington how you are placed?” he feebly suggested.
“Of course not,” the child answered scornfully. “He’d say I was ‘more’n welcome’ to my baths, and that it didn’t matter a pin. It’s just because I know he’d gladly give me my baths that it hurts so. It’s hisliving,” she repeated. As she spoke she stood up and stuffed the little wet handkerchief into her pocket.
The man was sitting with his hands thrust deep into his own, as men will when perplexed or troubled. Winny stood with her back to him, gazing sorrowfully at Herrington’s bathing-machines on the distant beach.
The little pocket gaped, and the man succumbed to temptation. Very gingerly he dropped a crown piece into the opening which displayed the drenched handkerchief. Then he stood up. “I’m going by the afternoon train,” he said, “so I fear I must say good-bye. But I hope we shall meet again some day.”
“I hope so,” sighed Winny, as she held up her face to be kissed, and wondered why he seemed in such a hurry and never even asked her to walk back with him.