Poor Relations

by Compton MacKenzie

  CHAPTER V

  Mrs. George Touchwood--or as she was known on the stage, Miss EleanorCartright--was big-boned, handsome, and hawklike, with the hungry lookof the ambitious actress who is drawing near to forty--she was in factthirty-seven--and realizes that the disappointed adventuresses of whatare called strong plays are as near as she will ever get to the tragedyqueens of youthful aspiration. Such an one accustomed to flash her darkeyes in defiance of a morally but not esthetically hostile gallery andto have the whole of a stage for the display of what well-disposedcritics hailed as vitality and cavaliers condemned as lack of repose,such an one in John's tranquil library was, as Mrs. Worfolk put it,"rather too much of a good thing and no mistake"; and when Eleanor wasthere, John experienced as much malaise as he would have experiencedfrom being shut up in a housemaid's closet with a large gramophone andthe housemaid. This claustrophobia, however, was the smallest strainthat his sister-in-law inflicted upon him; she affected his heart andhis conscience more acutely, because he could never meet her without asensation of guilt on account of his not yet having found a part for herin any of his plays, to which was added the fear he always felt in herpresence that soon or late he should from sheer inability to hold outlonger award her the leading part in his play. George had oftenseriously annoyed him by his unwillingness to help himself; but at thethought of being married for thirteen years to Eleanor he had alwaysexcused his brother's flaccid dependence.

  "George is a bit of a sponge," James had once said, "but Eleanor!Eleanor is the roughest and toughest loofah that was ever known. She isirritant and absorbent at the same time, and by gad, she has theappearance of a loofah."

  The prospect of Eleanor's company at lunch on the morning after hisreturn to town gave John a sensation of having escaped the devil to fallinto the deep sea, of having jumped from the frying-pan into the fire,in fact of illustrating every known proverbial attempt to express thedistinction without the difference.

  "It's a great pity that Eleanor didn't marry Laurence," he thought."Each would have kept the other well under, and she could have playedMary Magdalene in that insane play of his. And, by Jove, if they _had_married, neither of them would have been a relation! Moreover, ifLaurence had been caught by Eleanor, Edith might never have married atall and could have kept house for me. And if Edith hadn't married, Hildamightn't have married, and then Harold would never have been born."

  John's hard pruning of his family-tree was interrupted by a sense of thehouse's having been attacked by an angry mob--an illusion that he hadlearnt to connect with his sister-in-law's arrival. To make sure,however, he went out on the landing and called down to know if anythingwas the matter.

  "Mrs. George is having some trouble with the taxi-man, sir," explainedMaud, who was holding the front-door open and looking apprehensively atthe pictures that were clattering on the walls in the wind.

  "Why does she take taxis?" John muttered, irritably. "She can't affordthem, and there's no excuse for such extravagance when the tube is sohandy."

  At this moment Eleanor reached the door, on the threshold of which sheturned like Medea upon Jason to have the last word with the taxi-driverbefore the curtain fell.

  "Did Mr. Touchwood get my message?" she was asking.

  "Yes, yes," John called down. "I'm expecting you to lunch."

  When he watched Eleanor all befurred coming upstairs, he felt not muchless nervous than a hunter of big game face to face with his firsttiger; the landing seemed to wobble like a howdah; now he had fired andmissed, and she was embracing him as usual. How many times at how manymeetings with Eleanor had he tried unsuccessfully to dodge thatkiss--which always seemed improper whether because her lips were toored, or too full, he could never decide, though he always felt when hewas released that he ought to beg her husband's pardon.

  "You were an old beast not to come and see us when you got back fromAmerica; but never mind, I'm awfully glad to see you, all the same."

  "Thank you very much, Eleanor. Why are you glad?"

  "Oh, you sarcastic old bear!"

  This perpetual suggestion of his senility was another trick of Eleanor'sthat he deplored; dash it, he was two years younger than George, whomshe called Georgieboy.

  "No, seriously," Eleanor went on. "I was just going to wire and ask if Icould send the kiddies down to the country. Lambton wants me for a sixweeks' tour before Xmas, and I can't leave them with Georgie. You see,if this piece catches on, it means a good shop for me in the new year."

  "Yes, I quite understand your point of view," John said. "But what Idon't understand is why Bertram and Viola can't stay with their father."

  "But George is ill. Surely you got my letter?"

  "I didn't realize that the presence of his children might prove fatal.However, send them down to Ambles by all means."

  "Oh, but I'd much rather not after the way Hilda wrote to me, and nowthat you've come back there's no need."

  "I don't quite understand."

  "Well, you won't mind having them here for a short visit? Then they cango down to Ambles for the Christmas holidays."

  "But the Christmas holidays won't begin for at least six weeks."

  "I know."

  "But you don't propose that Bertram and Viola should spend six weekshere?"

  "They'll be no bother, you old crosspatch. Bertram will be at school allday, and I suppose that Maud or Elsa will always be available to takeViola to her dancing-lessons. You remember the dancing-lessons youarranged for?"

  "I remember that I accepted the arrangement," said John.

  "Well, she's getting on divinely, and it would be a shame to interruptthem just now, especially as she's in the middle of a Spanish series.Her _cachucha_ is ..." Eleanor could only blow a kiss to express whatViola's _cachucha_ was. "But then, of course, I had a Spanishgrandmother."

  When John regarded her barbaric personality he could have credited herwith being the granddaughter of a cannibal queen.

  "So I thought that her governess could come here every morning just aseasily as to Earl's Court. In fact, it will be more convenient, or atany rate, equally convenient for her, because she lives at Kilburn."

  "I dare say it will be equally convenient for the governess," said John,sardonically.

  "And I thought," Eleanor continued, "that it would be a good opportunityfor Viola to have French lessons every afternoon. You won't want to haveher all the time with you, and the French governess can give thechildren their tea. That will be good for Bertram's accent."

  "I don't doubt that it will be superb for Bertram's accent, but Iabsolutely decline to have a French governess bobbing in and out of myhouse. It's bound to make trouble with the servants who always thinkthat French governesses are designing and licentious, and I don't wantto create a false impression."

  "Well, aren't you an old prude? Who would ever think that you had anysort of connection with the stage? By the way, you haven't told me ifthere'll be anything for me in your next."

  "Well, at present the subject of my next play is a secret ... and as forthe cast...."

  John was so nearly on the verge of offering Eleanor the part of Mary ofAnjou, for which she would be as suitable as a giraffe, that in order toeffect an immediate diversion he asked her when the children were toarrive.

  "Let me see, to-day's Saturday. To-morrow I go down to Bristol, where weopen. They'd better come to-night, because to-morrow being Sundaythey'll have no lessons, which will give them time to settle down.Georgie will be glad to know they're with you."

  "I've no doubt he'll be enchanted," John agreed.

  The bell sounded for lunch, and they went downstairs.

  "I've got to be back at the theater by two," Eleanor announced, lookingat the horridly distorted watch upon her wrist. "I wonder if we mightn'task Maud to open half-a-bottle of champagne? I'm dreadfully tired."

  John ordered a bottle to be opened; he felt rather tired himself.

  "Let us be quite clear about this arrangement," he began, when afterthree glasses of wine he f
elt less appalled by the prospect, and hadconcluded that after all Bertram and Viola would not together be as badas Laurence with his play, not to mention Harold with his spectacles andentomology, his interrogativeness and his greed. "The English governesswill arrive every morning for Viola. What is her name?"

  "Miss Coldwell."

  "Miss Coldwell then will be responsible for Viola all the morning. TheFrench governess is canceled, and I shall come to an arrangement withMiss Coldwell by which she will add to her salary by undertaking allresponsibility for Viola until Viola is in bed. Bertram will go toschool, and I shall rely upon Miss Coldwell to keep an eye on hisbehavior at home."

  "And don't forget the dancing-lessons."

  "No, I had Madame What's-her-name's account last week."

  "I mean, don't forget to arrange for Viola to go."

  "That pilgrimage will, I hope, form a part of what Miss Coldwell wouldprobably call 'extras.' And after all perhaps George will soon be fit."

  "The poor old boy has been awfully seedy all the summer."

  "What's he suffering from? Infantile paralysis?"

  "It's all very well for you to joke about it, but you don't live in awretched boarding-house in Earl's Court. You mustn't let success spoilyou, John. It's so easy when everything comes your way to forget theless fortunate people. Look at me. I'm thirty-four, you know."

  "Are you really? I should never have thought it."

  "I don't mind your laughing at me, you old crab. But I don't like you tolaugh at Georgie."

  "I never do," John said. "I don't suppose that there's anybody alive whotakes George as seriously as I do."

  Eleanor brushed away a tear and said she must get back to the rehearsal.

  When she was gone John felt that he had been unkind, and he reproachedhimself for letting Laurence make him cynical.

  "The fact is," he told himself, "that ever since I heard Doris Hamiltonmake that remark in the saloon of the _Murmania_, I've become suspiciousof my family. She began it, and then by ill luck I was thrown too muchwith Laurence, who clinched it. Eleanor is right: I _am_ letting myselfbe spoilt by success. After all, there's no reason why those twochildren shouldn't come here. _They_ won't be writing plays aboutapostles. I'll send George a box of cigars to show that I didn't mean tosneer at him. And why didn't I offer to pay for Eleanor's taxi? Yes, Iam getting spoilt. I must watch myself. And I ought not to have jokedabout Eleanor's age."

  Luckily his sister-in-law had finished the champagne, for if John haddrunk another glass he might have offered her the part of the Maidherself.

  The actual arrival of Bertram and Viola passed off more successfully.They were both presentable, and John was almost flattered when Mrs.Worfolk commented on their likeness to him, remembering what a nightmareit had always seemed when Hilda used to excavate points of resemblancebetween him and Harold. Mrs. Worfolk herself was so much pleased to havehim back from Ambles that she was in the best of good humours, and eventhe statuesque Maud flushed with life like some Galatea.

  "I think Maud's a darling, don't you, Uncle John?" exclaimed Viola.

  "We all appreciate Maud's--er--capabilities," John hemmed.

  He felt that it was a silly answer, but inasmuch as Maud was present atthe time he could not, either for his sake or for hers give anunconditional affirmative.

  "I swopped four blood-allys for an Indian in the break," Bertramannounced.

  "With an Indian, my boy, I suppose you mean."

  "No, I don't. I mean for an Indian--an Indian marble. And I swopped fourGuatemalas for two Nicaraguas."

  "You ought to be at the Foreign Office."

  "But the ripping thing is, Uncle John, that two of the Guatemalas arefudges."

  "Such a doubtful coup would not debar you from a diplomatic career."

  "And I say, what is the Foreign Office? We've got a French chap in myclass."

  "You ask for an explanation of the Foreign Office. That, my boy, mightpuzzle the omniscience of the Creator."

  "I say, I don't twig very well what you're talking about."

  "The attributes of the Foreign Office, my boy, are rigidity where thereshould be suppleness, weakness where there should be firmness, and forintelligence the substitution of hair brushed back from the forehead."

  "I say, you're ragging me, aren't you? No, really, what is the ForeignOffice?"

  "It is the ultimate preserve of a privileged imbecility."

  Bertram surrendered, and John congratulated himself upon the possessionof a nephew whose perseverance and curiosity had been sapped by ascholastic education.

  "Harold would have tackled me word by word during one of our walks. Ishall enter into negotiations with Hilda at Christmas to provide for hismental training on condition that I choose the school. Perhaps I shallhear of a good one in the Shetland Islands."

  When Mrs. Worfolk visited John as usual at ten o'clock to wish himgood-night, she was enthusiastic about Bertram and Viola.

  "Well, really, sir, if yaul pardon the liberty, I must say I wouldn'tnever of believed that Mrs. George's children _could_ be so quiet andnice-behaved. They haven't given a bit of trouble, and I've never heardMaud speak so highly of anyone as of Miss Viola. 'That child's a regularlittle angel, Mrs. Worfolk,' she said to me. Well, sir, I'm bound to saythat children does brighten up a house. I'm sure I've done my best whatwith putting flowers in all the vawses and one thing and another, butreally, well I'm quite taken with your little nephew and niece, and I'vehad some experience of them, I mean to say, what with my poor sister'sHerbert and all. I _have_ put the tantalus ready. Good-night, sir."

  "The fact of the matter is," John assured himself, "that when I'm alonewith them I can manage children perfectly. I only hope that MissColdwell will fall in with my ideas. If she does, I see no reason why weshouldn't spend an extremely pleasant time all together."

  Unfortunately for John's hope of a satisfactory coalition with thegoverness he received a hurried note by messenger from his sister-in-lawnext morning to say that Miss Coldwell was laid up: the precise diseasewas illegible in Eleanor's communication, but it was serious enough tokeep Miss Coldwell at home for three weeks. "_Meanwhile_," Eleanorwrote, "_she is trying to get her sister to come down from_"--the abodeof the sister was equally illegible. "_But the most important thingis," Eleanor went on, "that little V. shouldn't miss herdancing-lessons. So will you arrange for Maud to take her every Tuesdayand Friday? And, of course, if there's anything you want to know,there's always George._"

  Of George's eternal being John had no doubts; of his knowledge he wasless sanguine: the only thing that George had ever known really well wasthe moment to lead trumps.

  "However," said John, in consultation with his housekeeper, "I dare saywe shall get along."

  "Oh, certainly we shall, sir," Mrs. Worfolk confidently proclaimed,"well, I mean to say, I've been married myself."

  John bowed his appreciation of this fact.

  "And though I never had the happiness to have any little toddlers of myown, anyone being married gets used to the idea of having children.There's always the chance, as you might say. It isn't like as if I wasan old maid, though, of course, my husband died in Jubilee year."

  "Did he, Mrs. Worfolk, did he?"

  "Yes, sir, he planed off his thumb when he was working on one of thebenches for the stands through him looking round at a black fellow in aturban covered in jewelry who was driving to Buckingham Palace. One ofthe new arrivals, it was; and his arm got blood poisoning. That's how Iremember it was Jubilee year, though usually I'm a terror for knowingwhen anything did occur. He wouldn't of minded so much, he said, only hewas told it was the Char of Persia and that made him mad."

  "Why? What had he got against the Shah?"

  "He hadn't got nothing against the Char. But it wasn't the Char; and ifhe'd of known it wasn't the Char he never wouldn't of turned round soquick, and there's no saying he wouldn't of been alive to this day. No,sir, don't you worry about this governess. I dare say if she'd of comeshe'd only of caused
a bit of unpleasantness all round."

  At the same time, John thought, when he sent for the children in orderto make the announcement of Miss Coldwell's desertion, notwithstandingMrs. Worfolk's optimism it was a pity that the first day of their visitshould be a Sunday.

  "I'm sorry to say, Viola, and, of course, Bertram, this applies equallyto you, that poor Miss Coldwell has been taken very ill."

  That strange expression upon the children's faces might be an awkwardattempt to express their youthful sympathy, but it more ominouslyresembled a kind of gloating ecstacy, as they stood like two cherubsoutside the gates of paradise, or two children outside a bunshop.

  "Very ill," John went on, "so ill indeed that it is feared she will notbe able to come for a few days, and so...."

  Whatever more John would have said was lost in the riotous acclamationswith which Bertram and Viola greeted the sad news. After the first criesand leaps of joy had subsided to a chanted duet, which ran somehow likethis:

  "Oh, oh, Miss Coldwell,

  She can't come to Hampstead,

  Hurrah, hurrah, hurrah,

  Miss Coldwell's not coming:"

  John ventured to rebuke the singers for their insensibility to humansuffering.

  "For she may be dangerously ill," he protested.

  "How _fizzing_," Bertram shouted.

  "She might die."

  The prospect that this opened before Bertram was apparently toobeautiful for any verbal utterance, and he remained open-mouthed in amute and exquisite anticipation of liberty.

  "What and never come to us ever again?" Viola breathed, her blue eyesaglow with visions of a larger life.

  John shook his head, gravely.

  "Oh, Uncle John," she cried, "wouldn't that be glorious?"

  Bertram's heart was too full for words: he simply turned head overheels.

  "But you hard-hearted little beasts," their uncle expostulated.

  "She's most frightfully strict," Viola explained.

  "Yes, we shouldn't have been able to do anything decent if she'd come,"Bertram added.

  A poignant regret for that unknown governess suffering from herillegible complaint pierced John's mind. But perhaps she would recover,in which case she should spend her convalescence at Ambles with Harold;for if when in good health she was strict, after a severe illness shemight be ferocious.

  "Well, I'm not at all pleased with your attitude," John declared. "Andyou'll find me twice as strict as Miss Coldwell."

  "Oh, no, we shan't," said Bertram with a smile of jovial incredulity.

  John let this contradiction pass: it seemed an imprudent subject fordebate. "And now, to-day being Sunday, you'd better get ready forchurch."

  "Oh, but we always dress up on Sunday," Viola said.

  "So does everybody," John replied. "Go and get ready."

  The children left the room, and he rang for Mrs. Worfolk.

  "Master Bertram and Miss Viola will shortly be going to church, and Iwant you to arrange for somebody to take them."

  Mrs. Worfolk hesitated.

  "Who was you thinking of, sir?"

  "I wasn't thinking of anybody in particular, but I suppose Maud couldgo."

  "Maud has her rooms to do."

  "Well, Elsa."

  "Elsa has her dinner to get."

  "Well, then, perhaps you would ..."

  "Yaul pardon the liberty, sir, but I never go to church except of anevening _some_times; I never could abide being stared at."

  "Oh, very well," said John, fretfully, as Mrs. Worfolk retired. "ThoughI'm hanged if _I'm_ going to take them," he added to himself, "at anyrate without a rehearsal."

  The two children soon came back in a condition of complete preparationand insisted so loudly upon their uncle's company that he yielded;though when he found himself with a child on either side of him in thesabbath calm of the Hampstead streets footfall-haunted, he was appalledat his rashness. There was a church close to his own house, but with aninstinct to avoid anything like a domestic scandal he had told hisnephew and niece that it was not a suitable church for children, and hadled them further afield through the ghostly November sunlight.

  "But look here," Bertram objected, "we can't go through any slums, youknow, because the cads will bung things at my topper."

  "Not if you're with me," John argued. "I am wearing a top-hat myself."

  "Well, they did when I went for a walk with Father once on Sunday."

  "The slums round Earl's Court are probably much fiercer than the slumsround Hampstead," John suggested. "And anyway here we are."

  He had caught a glimpse of an ecclesiastical building, whichunfortunately turned out to be a Jewish tabernacle and not open: a fewminutes later, however, an indubitably Anglican place of worship invitedtheir attendance, and John trying not to look as bewildered as he feltlet himself be conducted by a sidesman to the very front pew.

  "I wonder if he thinks I'm a member of parliament. But I wish togoodness he'd put us in the second row. I shall be absolutely lost whereI am."

  John looked round to catch the sidesman's eye and plead for a lessconspicuous position, but even as he turned his head a terrific crashfrom the organ proclaimed that it was too late and that the service hadbegun.

  By relying upon the memories of youthful worship John might have beenable to cope successfully with Morning Prayer, even with that floridvariation of it which is generally known as Mattins. Unluckily thechurch he had chosen for the spiritual encouragement of his nephew andniece was to the church of his recollections as Mount Everest to amolehill. As a simple spectator without encumbrances he might haveenjoyed the service and derived considerable inspiration from it for thedecorative ecclesiasticism of his new play; as an uncle it alarmed andconfused him. The lace-hung acolytes, the candles, the chrysanthemums,the purple vestments and the ticking of the thurible affected himneither with Protestant disgust nor with Catholic devoutness, but muchmore deeply as nothing but incentives to the unanswerable inquiries ofBertram and Viola.

  "What are they doing?" whispered his nephew.

  "Hush!" he whispered back in what he tried to feel was the rightintonation of pious reproof.

  "What's that little boy doing with a spoon?" whispered his niece.

  "Hush!" John blew forth again. "Attend to the service."

  "But it isn't a real service, is it?" she persisted.

  Luckily the congregation knelt at this point, and John plunged down witha delighted sense of taking cover. Presently he began to be afraid thathis attitude of devotional self-abasement might be seeming a littleostentatious, and he peered cautiously round over the top of the pew; tohis dismay he perceived that Bertram and Viola were still standing up.

  "Kneel down at once," he commanded in what he hoped would be anauthoritative whisper, but which was in the result an agonized croak.

  "I want to see what they're doing," both children protested.

  Bertram's Etons appeared too much attentuated for a sharp tug, nor didJohn feel courageous enough in the front row to jerk Viola down upon herknees by pulling her petticoats, which might come off. He thereforecovered his face with his hands in what was intended to look like aspasm of acute reverence and growled at them both to kneel down, unlessthey wanted to be sent back instantly to Earl's Court. Evidentlyimpressed by this threat the children knelt down; but they were nosooner upon their knees than the perverse congregation rose to its feet,the concerted movement taking John so completely unawares that he wasleft below and felt when he did rise like a naughty boy who has beendiscovered hiding under a table. He was not put at ease by Viola'sasking him to find her place in the prayer-book; it seemed to himterrible to discern the signs of a vindictive spirit in one so young.

  "Hush," he whispered. "You must remember that we're in the front row andmust be careful not to disturb the--" he hesitated at the word"performers" and decided to envelop whatever they were in a cough.

  There were no more questions for a while, nothing indeed but tiptoefidgetings until two acolytes advanced with
lighted candles to aposition on each side of the deacon who was preparing to read thegospel.

  "Why can't he see to read?" Bertram asked. "It's not dark."

  "Hush," John whispered. "This is the gospel"

  He knew he was safe in affirming so much, because the announcement thathe was about to read the gospel had been audibly given out by thedeacon. At this point the congregation crossed its innumerable featuresthree times, and Bertram began to giggle; immediately afterward fumespoured from the swung censer, and Viola began to choke. John felt thatit was impossible to interrupt what was presumably considered the _piecede resistance_ of the service by leading the two children out along thewhole length of the church; yet he was convinced that if he did not leadthem out their gigglings and snortings would have a disastrous effectupon the soloist. Then he had a brilliant idea: Viola was obviously muchupset by the incense and he would escort her out into fresh air withthe solicitude that one gives to a sick person: Bertram he should leavebehind to giggle alone. He watched his nephew bending lower and lower tocontain his mirth; then with a quick propulsive gesture he hurried Violainto the aisle. Unfortunately when with a sigh of relief he stood uponthe steps outside and put on his hat he found that in his confusion hehad brought out Bertram's hat, which on his intellectual head felt likea precariously balanced inkpot; and though he longed to abandon Bertramto his well merited fate he could not bring himself to walk upFitzjohn's Avenue in Bertram's hat, nor could he even contemplate withequanimity the notion of Bertram's walking up under his. Had it been aweek-day either of them might have passed for an eccentricadvertisement, but on a Sunday....

  "And if I stand on the steps of a church holding this minute hat in myhand," he thought, "people will think I'm collecting for some charity.Confound that boy! And I can't pretend that I'm feeling too hot in themiddle of November. Dash that boy! And I certainly can't wear it. AJapanese juggler wouldn't be able to wear it. Damn that boy!"

  Yet John would rather have gone home in a baby's bonnet than enter thechurch again, and the best that could be hoped was that Bertram dismayedat finding himself alone would soon emerge. Bertram, however, did notemerge, and John had a sudden fear lest in his embarrassment he mighthave escaped by another door and was even now rushing blindly home.Blindly was the right adverb indeed, for he would certainly be unable tosee anything from under his uncle's hat. Viola, having recovered fromher choking fit, began to cry at this point, and an old lady who musthave noted with tender approval John's exit came out with a bottle ofsmelling-salts, which she begged him to make use of. Before he coulddecline she had gone back inside the church leaving him with the bottle.If he could have forced the contents down Viola's throat withoutattracting more attention he would have done so, but by this time oneor two passers-by had stopped to stare at the scene, and he heard one ofthem tell his companion that it was a street conjurer just going toperform.

  "Will anything make you stop crying?" he asked his niece in despair.

  "I want Bertram," she wailed.

  And at that moment Bertram appeared, led out by two sidesmen.

  "Your little boy doesn't know how to behave himself in church," one ofthem informed John, severely.

  "I was only looking for my hat," Bertram explained. "I thought it hadrolled into the next pew. Let go of my arm. I slipped off the hassock. Icouldn't help making a little noise, Uncle John."

  John was grateful to Bertram for thus exonerating him publicly from theresponsibility of having begotten him, and he inquired almost kindlywhat had happened.

  "The hassock slipped, and I fell into the next pew."

  "I'm sorry my nephew made a noise," said John to the sidesman. "My niecewas taken ill, and he was left behind by accident. Thank you for showinghim the way out, yes. Come along, Bertram, I've got your hat. Where'smine?" Bertram looked blankly at his uncle.

  "Do you mean to say--" John began, and then he saw a passing taxi towhich he shouted.

  "Those smelling-salts belong to an old lady," he explained hurriedly andquite inadequately to the bewildered sidesman into whose hands he hadthrust the bottle. "Come along," he urged the children, and when theywere scrambling into the taxi he called back to the sidesmen, "You cangive to the jumble sale any hat that is swept up after the service."

  Inside the taxi John turned to the children.

  "One would think you'd never been inside a church before," he said,reproachfully.

  "Bertram," said Viola, in bland oblivion of all that her uncle hadendured, "when we dress up to-day shall we act going to church, orfinish Robinson Crusoe?"

  "Wait till we see what we can find for dressing up," Bertram advised.

  John displayed a little anxiety.

  "Dressing up?" he repeated.

  "We always dress up every Sunday," the children burst forth in unison.

  "Oh, I see--it's a kind of habit. Well, I dare say Mrs. Worfolk will beable to find you an old duster or something."

  "Duster," echoed Viola, scornfully. "That's not enough for dressing up."

  "I didn't suggest a duster as anything but a supplement to your ordinarycostume. I didn't anticipate that you were going to rely entirely uponthe duster."

  "I say, V, can you twig what Uncle John says?"

  Viola shook her head.

  "Nor more can I," said Bertram, sympathetically.

  Before the taxi reached Church Row, John found himself adopting apositively deferential manner towards his nephew and his niece, and whenthey were once again back in the quiet house, the hall of which wasfaintly savoury with the maturing lunch he asked them if they would mindamusing themselves for an hour while he wrote some letters.

  "For I take it you won't want to dress up immediately," he added as anexcuse for attending to his own business.

  The children confirmed his supposition, but went on to inform him thatthe domenical regime at Earl's Court prescribed a walk after church.

  "Owing to the accident to my hat I'm afraid I must ask you to let me offthis morning."

  "Right-o," Bertram agreed, cheerfully. "But I vote we come up and sitwith you while you write your letters. I think letters are a beastlyfag, don't you?"

  John felt that the boy was proffering his own and his sister's companyin a spirit of altruism, and he could not muster enough gracelessnessto decline the proposal. So upstairs they all went.

  "I think this is rather a ripping room, don't you, V?"

  "The carpet's very old," said Viola.

  "Have you got any decent books?" Bertram inquired, looking round at theshelves. "Any Henty's, I mean, or anything?"

  "No, I'm afraid I haven't," said John, apologetically.

  "Or bound up Boys Own Papers?"

  John shook his head.

  "But I'll tell you what I have got," he added with a sudden inspiration."Kingsley's _Heroes_."

  "Is that a pi book?" asked Bertram, suspiciously.

  "Not at all. It's about Greek gods and goddesses, essentiallybroad-minded divinities."

  "Right-o. I'll have a squint at it, if you like," Bertram volunteered."Come on, V, don't start showing off your rotten dancing. Come and lookat this book. It's got some spiffing pictures."

  "Lunch won't be very long," John announced in order to propitiate anyimpatience at what they might consider the boring entertainment he wasoffering.

  Presently the two children left their uncle alone, and he observed withpride that they took with them the book. He little thought that so milda dose of romance as could be extracted from Kingsley's _Heroes_ wouldbefore the twilight of that November day run through 36 Church Row likefire. But then John did not know that there was a calf's head for dinnerthat night; he had not realized the scenic capacity of the cisterncupboard at the top of the house; and most of all he had not associatedwith dressing up on Sunday afternoon the histrionic force that Bertramand Viola inherited from their mother.

  "Is it Androm[e]da or Andr[o]meda?" Bertram asked at lunch.

  "Andr[o]meda, my boy," John answered. "Perseus and Andromeda."

/>   "I think it would make a jolly good play, don't you?" Bertram went on.

  Really, thought John, this nephew was a great improvement upon thatspectacled inquisitor at Ambles.

  "A capital play," he agreed, heartily. "Are you thinking of writing it?"

  "V and I thought we'd do it instead of finishing Robinson Crusoe. Well,you see, you haven't got any decent fur rugs, and V's awfully stupidabout having her face blacked."

  "It's my turn not to be a savage," Viola pleaded in defense of hersqueamishness.

  "I said you could be Will Atkins as well. I know I'd jolly well like tobe Will Atkins myself."

  "All right," Viola offered. "You can, and I'll be Robinson."

  "You can't change like that in the middle of a play," her brotherargued.

  John, who appreciated both Viola's dislike of burnt-cork and Bertram'sesthetic objection to changing parts in the middle of a piece, stronglyrecommended Perseus and Andromeda.

  "Of course, you got the idea from Kingsley? Bravo, Bertram," he said,beaming with cordial patronage.

  "And I suppose," his nephew went on, "that you'd rather we played at thetop of the house. I expect it would be quieter, if you're writingletters. Mother said you often liked to be quiet." He alluded to thisdesire rather shamefully, as if it were a secret vice of his uncle, whohurriedly approved the choice of the top landing for the scene of theclassic drama.

  "Then would you please tell Mrs. Worfolk that we can have the calf'shead?"

  "The what?"

  "V found a calf's head in the larder, and it would make a fizzingGorgon's head, but Mrs. Worfolk wouldn't let us have it."

  John was so much delighted with the trend of Bertram's ingenuity thathe sent for Mrs. Worfolk and told her that the calf's head might beborrowed for the play.

  "I'll take no responsibility for your dinner," said his housekeeper,warningly.

  "That's all right, Mrs. Worfolk. If anything happens to the head Ishan't grumble. There'll always be the cold beef, won't there?"

  Mrs. Worfolk turned up her eyes to heaven and left the room.

  "Well, I think I've arranged that for you successfully."

  "Thank you, Uncle John," said Bertram.

  "Thank you, Uncle John," said Viola.

  What nice quiet well-mannered children they were, after all; and he byno means ought to blame them for the fiasco of the churchgoing; thesetting had of course been utterly unfamiliar; these ritualistic placesof worship were a mistake in an unexcitable country like England. Johnretired to his library and lit a Corona with a sense that he thoroughlydeserved a good cigar.

  "Children are not difficult," he said to himself, "if one tries to putoneself in their place. That request for the calf's head undoubtedlyshowed a rare combination of adaptiveness with for a schoolboy what wasalmost a poetic fancy. Harold would have wanted to know how much thehead weighed, and whether in life it preferred to browse on buttercupsor daisies; but when finally it was cooked he would have eaten twice asmuch as anybody else. I prefer Bertram's attitude; though naturally Ican appreciate a housekeeper's feelings. These cigars are in capitalcondition. Really, Bertram's example is infectious, and by gad, I feelquite like a couple of hours with Joan. Yes, it's a pity Laurence hasn'tgot Bertram's dramatic sense. A great pity."

  The sabbath afternoon wore on, and though John did not accumulate enoughenergy to seat himself at his table, he dreamed a good deal of wonderfulsituations in the fourth act, puffing away at his cigar and hearing fromtime to time distant shouts and scamperings; these, however, did notkeep him from falling into a gentle doze, from which he was abruptlywakened by the opening of the library door.

  "Ah, is that tea?" he asked cheerfully in that tone with which theroused sleeper always implies his uninterrupted attention to time andspace.

  "No, sir, it's me," a grim voice replied. "And if you don't want us allto be drowned where we stand, it being a Sunday afternoon, and not aplumber to be got, and Maud in the hysterics, and those two youngTartars screaming like Bedlamites, and your dinner ruined and done for,and the feathers gone from Elsa's new hat, per-raps you could comeupstairs, Mr. Touchwood. Gordon's head indeed, and the boy as naked as astitch!"

  John jumped to his feet and hurried out on the landing; at the samemoment Bertram with nothing to cover him except a pudding-shape on hishead, a tea-tray on his arm, a Turkish scimitar at his waist, and thepinions of a blue and green bird tied round his ankles leapt six stairsof the flight above and alighting at his uncle's feet, thrust the calf'shead into his face.

  "You're turned to stone, Phineus," he yelled. "You can't move. You'veseen the Gorgon."

  "There he goes again with his Gordon and his Gladstone," said Mrs.Worfolk. "How dare you be so daring?"

  "The Gorgon's sister," cried Bertram lunging at her with the scimitar."Beware, I am invisible."

  Whereupon he enveloped the calf's head in a napkin, held the tea-traybefore his face, and darted away upstairs.

  "I'm afraid he's a little over-excited," said John, doubtfully.

  At this moment a stream of water began to flow past his feet and pourdown upon him from the landing above.

  "Why, the house is full of water," he gasped.

  "It's what I'm trying to tell you, sir," Mrs. Worfolk fumed. "He's donesomething with that there cistern and burst it. I can't stop thewater."

  John followed Perseus on his wild flight up the stairs down which everymoment water was flowing more freely. When he reached the cisterncupboard he discovered Maud bound fast to the disordered cistern, whileViola holding in her mouth a large ivory paper-knife and wearing whatlooked like Mrs. Worfolk's sealskin jacket that John had given her lastChristmas was splashing at full length in a puddle on the floor andclawing at Maud's skirts with ferocious growls and grunts.

  "You dare try to undress me again, Master Bertram," the statuesque Maudwas screaming.

  "Well, Andromeda's got practically nothing on in the book, and you saidyou'd rather not be the sea-monster," Bertram was arguing. "Andromeda,"he cried seeing by the manner of his uncle's advance that the curtainmust now be rung down upon the play, "I have turned the monster tostone. Go on, V, you can't move from now on."

  Viola stiffened and without a twitch let the stream of water pour downupon her, while Bertram planting his foot in the small of her back wavedtriumphantly the Gorgon's head, both of whose ears gave way under thestrain, so that John's dinner was soon as wet as he was.

  The cistern emptied itself at last; Maud was released; Bertram and Violawere led downstairs to be dried and on Mrs. Worfolk's recommendationsent instantly to bed.

  "I told you," said Bertram, "that if Miss Coldwell had come, we couldn'thave done anything decent."

  What woman, John wondered, might serve as a comparable deterrent? Thefantastic idea of appealing for aid to Doris Hamilton flashed throughhis mind, but on second thoughts he felt that there would be somethingundignified in asking her to come at such a moment. Then he rememberedhow often he had heard his sister-in-law Beatrice lament herchildlessness. Why should he not visit James and Beatrice this veryevening? He owed them a visit, and his domestics were all obviously toomuch agitated even to contemplate the preparation of dinner. Mrs.Worfolk would perhaps be in a better temper when he got back and hewould explain to her that the seal was a marine animal, the skin ofwhich would not be injured by water.

  "I think I'll ask Mrs. James to give us a helping hand this week," Johnsuggested. "I shall be rather busy myself."

  "Yes, sir, and so shall I, trying to get the house straight again whichit looks more like Shooting the Chutes at Earl's Court than agentleman's house, I'm bound to say."

  "Still it might have been worse, Mrs. Worfolk. They might have playedwith another element. Fire, for instance. That would have been much moreawkward."

  "And it's thanks to me the house isn't on fire as well," Mrs. Worfolkshrilled in her indignation. "For if that young Turk didn't comecharging down into the kitchen and trying to tell me that thekitchen-fire was a serpent and start attack
ing it tooth and nail. Andthere was poor Elsa shut up in the coal-cellar and hollering fit tobreak anyone's heart. 'She's Daniel in a tower of brass,' he says asbold as a tower of brass himself."

  "And what were you, Mrs. Worfolk?" John asked.

  "Oh, his lordship had the nerve to say I was an atlas. 'Yes,' I said,'my lord, you let me catch hold of you and I'll make your behind looklike an atlas before I've done with it.'"

  "Do you think that Mrs. James could control them?" John asked.

  "I wouldn't say as the Lord Mayor himself could control them, but it'snot for me to give advice when good food can be turned into Gordon'sheads. And whatever give them the idea, I don't know, for I'm sureGeneral Gordon was a very handsome man to look at. Yaul excuse me, sir,but if you don't want to catch your death, you'd better change yourthings."

  John followed Mrs. Worfolk's advice, and an hour later he was walkingthrough the misty November night in the direction of St. John's Wood.