CHAPTER VI
If a taxi had lurked in any of the melancholy streets through which Johnwas making his way to Hill Road he would have taken refuge in itgratefully, for there was no atmosphere that preyed upon his mind withsuch a sense of desolation as the hour of evening prayer in arespectable Northern suburb. The occasional footsteps of uninspiredlovers dying away into by-streets; the occasional sounds of stuffyworship proceeding from church or chapel; the occasional bark of a dogtrying to obtain admittance to an empty house; the occasional tread of amorose policeman; the occasional hoot of a distant motor-horn; theoccasional whiff of privet-shrubberies and of damp rusty railings; theoccasional effusions of chlorotic gaslight upon the raw air, half fog,half drizzle; the occasional shadows that quivered upon the dimlyluminous blinds of upper windows; the occasional mutterings ofhousemaids in basements--not even John's buoyant spirit could rise abovesuch a weight of depressing adjuncts to the influential Sabbath gloom.He began to accuse himself of having been too hasty in his treatment ofBertram and Viola; the scene at Church Row viewed in retrospect seemedto him cheerful and, if the water had not reached his Aubusson rug,perfectly harmless. No doubt, in the boarding-house at Earl's Court suchbehavior had been considered impossible. Had not the children talked offinishing Robinson Crusoe and alluded to his own lack of suitable furrugs? Evidently last week the drama had been interrupted by the landladybecause they had been spoiling her fur rugs. John was on the point ofgoing back to Church Row and inviting the children to celebrate hisreturn in a jolly impromptu supper, when he remembered that there wereat least five more Sundays before Christmas. Next Sunday they wouldprobably decide to revive the Argonauts, a story that, so far as hecould recall the incidents, offered many opportunities for destructiveingenuity. Then, the Sunday after, there would be Theseus and theMinotaur; if there were another calf's head in the larder, Bertram mighteasily try to compel Mrs. Worfolk to be the Minotaur and wear it, whichmight mean Mrs. Worfolk's resignation from his service, a prospect thatcould not be faced with equanimity. But would the presence of Beatriceexercise an effective control upon this dressing up, and could he standBeatrice for six weeks at a stretch? He might, of course, engage her toprotect him and his property during the first few days, and after thatto come for every week end. Suppose he did invite Doris Hamilton, but,of course, that was absurd--suppose he did invite Beatrice, would DorisHamilton--would Beatrice come? Could it possibly be held to be one ofthe duties of a confidential secretary to assist her employer inchecking the exuberance of his juvenile relations? Would not MissHamilton decide that her post approximated too nearly to that of agoverness? Obviously such a woman had never contemplated the notion ofbecoming a governess. But had she ever contemplated the notion ofbecoming a confidential secretary? No, no, the plan was fantastic,unreal ... he must trust to Beatrice and hope that Miss Coldwell wouldpresently recover, or that Eleanor's tour would come to a sudden end, orthat George would have paid what he owed his landlady and feel betterable to withstand her criticism of his children. If all these hopesproved unfounded, a schoolboy, like the rest of human nature, had hisprice--his noiselessness could be bought in youth like his silence lateron. John was turning into Hill Road when he made this reflection; he waswithin the area of James' cynical operations.
John's eldest brother was at forty-six an outwardly rather improved, aninwardly much debased replica of their father. The old man had notpossessed a winning personality, but his energy and genuine powers ofaccomplishment had made him a successful general practitioner, becausepeople overlooked his rudeness in the confidence he gave them andforgave his lack of sympathy on account of his obvious devotion to theirwelfare. He with his skeptical and curious mind, his passion formathematics and hatred of idealism, and his unaffected contempt for thehuman race could not conceive a worse hell in eternity than a generalpractice offered him in life; but having married a vain, beautiful, lazyand conventional woman, he could not bring himself to spoil his honestyby blaming for the foolish act anything more tangible than the scheme ofcreation; and having made himself a damned uncomfortable bed with apretty quilt, as he used to say, he had decided that he must lie on it.No doubt, many general practitioners go through life with the convictionthat they were intended to devote themselves to original research; butDr. Robert Touchwood from what those who were qualified to judge used tosay of him had reason to feel angry with his fate.
James, who as a boy had shown considerable talent, was chosen by hisfather to inherit the practice. It was typical of the old gentleman thathe did not assume this succession as the right of the eldest son, butthat he deliberately awarded it to James as the most apparently adequateof his offspring. Unfortunately James, who was dyspeptic even at school,chose to imitate his father's mannerisms while he was still a student atGuy's and helping at odd hours in the dispensary. Soon after he hadtaken his finals and had seen his name engraved upon the brass plateunderneath his father's, old Dr. Touchwood fell ill of an incurabledisease and James found himself in full charge of the practice, which heproceeded to ruin, so that not long after his father's death he wascompelled to sell it for a much smaller sum than it would have fetched afew years before. For a time he played alternately with the plan ofsetting up as a specialist in Harley Street or of burying himself in thecountry to write a monograph on British dragon-flies--for some reasonthese fierce and brilliant insects touched a responsive chord in James.He finally decided upon the dragon-flies and went down to Ockham Commonin Surrey to search for _Sympetrum Fonscolombii_, a rare migrant thatwas reported from that locality in 1892. He could not prove that it wasany more indigenous than himself to the sophisticated county, but in thecourse of his observations he met Beatrice Pyrke, the daughter of aprosperous inn-keeper in a neighboring town, and married her.Notwithstanding such a catch--he used to vow that she was moreresplendent than even _Anax Imperator_--he continued to take an interestin dragon-flies, until his monograph was unluckily forestalled a fewyears later. It was owing to an article of his in one of theentomological journals that he encountered Daniel Curtis--a meetingwhich led to Hilda's marriage. In those days--John had not yet made afinancial success of literature--this result had seemed to theembittered odonatist a complete justification of the many hours he hadwasted in preparing for his never-to-be written monograph, because hissister's future had for some time been presenting a disagreeable andinsoluble problem. Besides observing dragon-flies, James spent one yearin making a clock out of fishbones, and another year in perfecting amethod of applying gold lacquer to poker-work.
A more important hobby, however, that finally displaced all the otherswas foreign literature, in the criticism of which he frequently occupiedpages in the expensive reviews, pages that gradually grew numerousenough to make first one book and then another. James' articles onforeign literature were always signed; but he also wrote many criticismsof English literature that were not signed. This hack-work exasperatedhim so much that he gradually came to despising the whole of Englishliterature after the eighteenth century with the exception of the novelsof George Meredith. These he used to read aloud to his wife when he wasfeeling particularly bilious and derive from her nervous bewilderment asavage satisfaction. In her the critic possessed a perpetual incarnationof the British public that he so deeply scorned, and he treated hiswife in the same way as he fancied he treated the larger entity: withouteither of them he would have been intellectually at a loose end. For allhis admiration of French literature James spoke the language with ahideous British accent. Once on a joint holiday John, who for the wholeof a channel-crossing had been listening to his brother's tiradesagainst the rottenness of modern English literature and his paeans onbehalf of modern French literature, had been much consoled when theyreached Calais to find that James could not make himself intelligibleeven to a porter.
"But," as John had said with a chuckle, "perhaps Meredith couldn't havemade himself intelligible to an English porter."
"It's the porter's fault," James had replied, sourly.
For some years
now the critic with his wife and a fawn-coloured bulldoghad lived in furnished apartments at 65 Hill Road, a creeper-mattedhouse of the early 'seventies which James characterized as quiet andBeatrice as handy; in point of fact it was neither, being exposed tobarrel-organs and remote from busses. A good deal of the originalfurniture still incommoded the rooms; but James had his own chair,Beatrice had her own footstool, and Henri Beyle the bulldog his ownbasket. The fire-place was crowned by an overmantel of six decorativepanels, all that was left of James' method of applying gold lacquer topoker-work. There were also three or four family portraits, which Johnfor some reason coveted for his own library, and a drawer-cabinet offaded and decrepit dragon-flies. Some bookshelves filled with yellowFrench novels gave an exotic look to the drab room, which, wheneverJames was not smoking his unusually foul pipes, smelt of gravy and maltvinegar except near the window, where the predominant perfume was offerns and oilcloth. Between the living-room and the bedroom weredouble-doors hidden by brown plush curtains, which if opened quicklyrevealed nothing but a bleak expanse of bed and a gray window fringedwith ragged creepers. When a visitor entered this room to wash hishands he used to look at James' fishbone clock under its bell-glass on ahigh chest of drawers and shiver in the dampness; the fireplace wascovered by a large wardrobe, and one of Beatrice's hats was often on thebed, the counterpane of which was stenciled with Beyle's paws. John, wholoathed this bedroom, always said he did not want to wash his hands,when he took a meal at Hill Road.
The depression of his Sunday evening walk had made John less criticalthan he usually was of James' rooms, and he heard the gate of thefront-garden swing back behind him with a sense of pleasurableexpectation.
"There will be cold mutton for supper," he said to himself, thinkingrather guiltily of the calf's head that he might have eaten and topartake of which he had not invited his brother and Beatrice. "Coldmutton and a very wet salad, with either tinned pears or tinnedpineapple to follow--or perhaps stewed figs."
When John entered, James was deep in his armchair with Beyle snoring onhis lap, where he served as a rest for the large book that his masterwas reading.
"Hullo," the critic exclaimed without attempting to rise. "You are backin town then?"
"Yes, I came back on Friday."
"I thought you wouldn't be able to stand the country for long. Rememberwhat Horry Walpole said about the country?"
"Yes," said John, quickly. He had not the least idea really, but he hadlong ago ceased to have any scruples about preventing James first of allfrom trying to remember a quotation, secondly from trying to find it,thirdly from asking Beatrice where she had hidden the book in which itwas to be found, and finally from not only reading it when the book wasfound, but also from reading page after page of irrelevant matter in thecontext. "Though Ambles is really very jolly," he added. "I'm expectingyou and Beatrice to spend Christmas with me, you know."
James grunted.
"Well, we'll see about that. I don't belong to the Dickens Fellowshipand I shall be pretty busy. You popular authors soon forget what itmeans to be busy. So you've had another success? Who was it thistime--Lucretia Borgia, eh?" he laughed, bitterly. "Good lord, it'sincredible, isn't it? But the English drama's in a sick state--a verysick state."
"All contemporary art is in a sick state according to the critics," Johnobserved. "Critics are like doctors; they are not prejudiced in favor ofgeneral good-health."
"Well, isn't it in a sick state?" James demanded, truculently.
"I don't know that I think it is. However, don't let's begin an argumentbefore supper. Where's Beatrice?"
"She bought a new hat yesterday and has gone to demonstrate itsbecomingness to God and woman."
"I suppose you mean she's gone to church? I went to church myself thismorning."
"What for? Copy?"
"No, no, no. I took George's children."
"You don't mean to say that you've got _them_ with you?"
John nodded, and his brother exploded with an uproarious laugh.
"Well, I was fool enough to marry before I was thirty," he bellowed."But at any rate I wasn't fool enough to have any children. So you'regoing to sup with us. I ought to warn you it's cold mutton to-night."
"Really? Capital! There's nothing I like better than cold mutton."
"Upon my soul, Johnnie, I'll say this for you. You may write staleromantic plays about the past, but you manage to keep plenty of romanticsauce for the present. Yes, you're a born optimist. Look at yourskin--pink as a baby's. Look at mine--yellow as a horse's tooth. Haveyou heard my new name for your habit of mind? Rosification. Rather good,eh? And you can rosify anything from Lucretia Borgia to cold mutton.Now don't look angry with me, Johnnie; you must rosify my ill-humor.With so many roses you can't expect not to have a few thorns as well,and I'm one of them. No, seriously, I congratulate you on your success.And I always try to remember that you write with your tongue in yourcheek."
"On the contrary I believe I write as well as I can," said John,earnestly. "I admit that I gave up writing realistic novels, but thatwas because they didn't suit my temperament."
"No, by gad, they didn't! And, anyway, no Englishman can write arealistic novel--or any other kind of a novel if it comes to that. Mylord, the English novel!"
"Look here," John protested. "I do not want to argue about either playsor novels to-night. But if you must talk about books, talk about yourown, not mine. Beatrice wrote to me that you had something coming alongabout the French Symbolists. I shouldn't have thought that they wouldhave appealed to you."
"They don't. I hate them."
"Well, why write a book about them? Their day has been over a longtime."
"To smash them. To prove that they were a pretentious set of epileptichumbugs."
"Sort of Max Nordau business?"
"Max Nordau! I hope you aren't going to compare me with that flat-footedbus-conductor. No, no, Johnnie, the rascals took themselves seriouslyand I'm going to smash them on their own estimate of their ownimportance. I'm going to prove that they were on the wrong track and lednowhere."
"It's consoling to learn that even French literature can go off thelines sometimes."
"Of course it can, because it runs on lines. English literature on thecontrary never had any lines on which to run, though in the eighteenthcentury it followed a fairly decent coaching-road. Modern Englishliterature, however, is like a rogue elephant trampling down the junglethat its predecessors made some attempt to cultivate."
"I never knew that even moral elephants had taken up agricultureseriously."
James blew all the ashes of his pipe over Beyle in a gust of contempt,and rose from his chair.
"The smirk!" he cried. "The traditional British smirk! The gerumky-gerumhorse-laugh! British humor! Ha-ha! Begotten by Punch out of Mrs. Grundywith the Spectator for godfather. '_Go to, you have made me mad._'"
"It's a pity you can't tell me about your new book without flying into arage," John said, mildly. "You haven't told me yet when it's to appear."
"My fourteen readers aren't languishing. But to repay politeness bypoliteness, my book will come out in March."
"I'm looking forward to it," John declared. "Have you got good termsfrom Worrall?"
"As good terms as a consumptive bankrupt might expect from Shylock. Whatdoes the British public care for criticism? You should hear me readingthe proofs to Beatrice. You should really have the pleasure of watchingher face, and listening to her comments. Do you know why Beatrice goesto church? I'll tell you. She goes to indulge in a debauch of theaccumulated yawns of the week."
"Hush, here she is," John warned him.
James laughed again.
"Johnnie, you're _impayable_. Your sensitiveness to Beatrice betrays thefount of your success. You treat the British public with just the samegentlemanly gurgle. And above all you're a good salesman. That's whereGeorge failed when he tried whisky on commission."
"I don't believe you're half the misanthropist you make yourself out."
; "Of course, I'm not. I love human nature. Didn't I marry Beatrice, anddidn't I spend a year in making a clock out of fishbones to amuse mylandlady's children, and wasn't I a doctor of medicine without onceusing my knowledge of poisons? I love mankind--but dragon-flies weremore complex and dogs are more admirable. Well, Beatrice, did you enjoythe sermon?"
His wife had come in and was greeting John broadly and effusively, forwhen she was excited her loud contralto voice recaptured many rusticinflections of her youth. She was a tall woman, gaudily handsome,conserving in clothes and coiffure the fashions of her prime as queensdo and barmaids who become the wives of publicans. On Sundays she wore alilac broadcloth with a floriated bodice cut close to the figure; butshe was just as proud of her waist on weekdays and discreet about herlegs, which she wrapped up in a number of petticoats. She was as real oras unreal as a cabinet-photograph of the last decade of the nineteenthcentury: it depended on the attitude of the observer. Although there wastoo much of her for the apartments, it could not be said that sheappeared out of place in them; in fact she was rather like a daughter ofthe house who had come home for the holidays.
"Why, it's John," she expanded in a voice rich with welcome. "How areyou, little stranger?"
"Thank you very much for the flowers, Beatrice. They were muchappreciated."
"I wanted you to know that we were still in the land of the livin'.You're goin' to stay to supper, of course? But you'll have to be contentwith cold mutton, don't you know."
There was a tradition among novelists that well-bred people leave outtheir final "g's"; so Beatrice saved on these consonants what shesquandered upon aspirates.
"And how do you think Jimmie's lookin'?" she went on. "I suppose he'stold you about his new book. Comin' out in March, don't you know. I feelawfully up in French poitry since he read it out to me. Don't lightanother pipe now, dear. The girl's gettin' the supper at once. I thinkyou're lookin' very well, Johnnie, I do indeed. Don't you think he'slookin' very well, Jimmie? Has Bill Bailey been out for his run?" Thiswas Beatrice's affectionate diminutive for Henri Beyle, the dog.
"No, I won't bother about my hands," John put in hastily to forestallBeatrice's next suggestion.
"We had such a dull sermon," she sighed.
Her husband grunted a request to spare them the details.
"Well, don't you know, it's a dull time for sermons now beforeChristmas. But it didn't matter, as what I really wanted was a puff offresh air. Yes, I'd begun to think you'd forgotten all about us," sherambled on, turning archly to John. "I know we must be dull company, butall work and no play, don't you know ... yours is all plays and no work.Jimmie, I made a joke," she laughed, twitching her husband's sleeve tosecure his attention. "Did you hear?"
"Yes, I heard," he growled.
"I thought it was rather good, didn't you, Johnnie?"
"Very good indeed," he assented, warmly. "Though I do workoccasionally."
"Oh, of course, you silly thing, I wasn't bein' serious. I told you itwas a joke. I know you must work a bit. Here comes the girl with supper.You'll excuse me, Johnnie, while I go and titivate myself. I sha'n't bea minute."
Beatrice retired to the bedroom whence she could be heard humming overher beautification.
"You're not meditating marriage, are you?" James mocked.
The bachelor shook his head.
"At the same time," he protested, stoutly, "I don't think you'reentitled to sneer at Beatrice. Considering--" he was about to say"everything," but feeling that this would include his brother toopointedly he substituted, "the weather, she's wonderfully cheerful. Andyou know I've always insisted that these rooms are cramped."
"Yes, well, when a popular success oils my palm, John, we'll move nextdoor to you in Church Row."
John wished that James would not always harp upon their respectivefortunes: it made him feel uncomfortable, especially when he wassitting down to cold mutton. Besides, it was unfair; had he not onceadvised James to abandon criticism and take up--he had been going tosuggest "anything except literature," but he had noticed James' angrydismay and had substituted "creative work." What had been the result? Anoutburst of contemptuous abuse, a violent renunciation of anything thatapproximated to his own work. If James despised his romantic plays, whycould he not be consistent and despise equally the wealth they broughthim? He honored his brother's intellectual sincerity, why could not hisbrother do as much for his?
"What beats me," James had once exclaimed, "is how a man like you whoprofesses to admire--no, I believe you're honest--who does admireStendhal, Turgenev, Flaubert and Merimee, who recognizes the perfectionof _Manon Lescaut_ and _Adolphe_, who in a word has taste, can bringhimself to eructate the _Fall of Babylon_."
"It's all a matter of knowing one's own limitations," John had replied."I tried to write realistic novels. But my temperament is notrealistic."
"No, if it were," James had murmured, "you wouldn't stand my affectationof superiority."
It was this way James had of once in a very long while putting himselfin the wrong that used always to heal John's wounded generosity. Butthese occasional lapses--as he supposed his cynical brother would callthem--were becoming less and less frequent, and John had no longer muchexcuse for clinging to his romantic reverence for the unlucky head ofhis family.
During the first half of supper Beatrice delivered a kind of lecture onhousekeeping in London on two pounds twelve shillings and sixpence aweek, including bones for the dog; by the time that the stewed figs wereput on the table this monologue had reduced both brothers to such astate of gloom by striking at James' experience and John's imagination,that the sourness of the cream came as a natural corollary; anything butsour cream would have seemed an obtrusive reminder of housekeeping onmore than two pounds twelve shillings and sixpence a week, includingbones for the dog. John was convinced by his sister-in-law's mood thatshe would enjoy a short rest from speculating upon the comparativeversatility of mutton and beef, and by James' reception of her remarksthat he would appreciate her housekeeping all the more after beingcompelled to regard for a while the long procession of chops that hislandlady would inevitably marshal for him while his wife was away. Themoment seemed propitious to the unfolding of his plan.
"I want to ask you both a favor," he began. "No, no, Beatrice, Idisagree with you. I don't think the cream is really sour. I find itdelicious, but I daren't ever eat more than a few figs. The cream,however, is particularly delicious. In fact I was on the point ofinquiring the name of your dairy."
"If we have cream on Sundays," Beatrice explained, "Jimmie has to put upwith custard-powder on Wednesdays. But if we don't have cream onSundays, I can spare enough eggs on Wednesdays for real custard."
"That's very ingenious of you," John declared. "But you didn't hear whatI was saying when I broke off in defense of the cream, _which_ isdelicious. I said that I wanted to ask a favor of you both."
"King Cophetua and the Beggar Maid," James chuckled. "Or were you goingto suggest to Beatrice that next time you have supper with us she shouldexperiment not only with fresh cream, but also with some rare dish likenightingales' tongues--or even veal, for instance?"
"Now, Jimmie, you're always puttin' hits in at me about veal; but if Iget veal, it throws me out for the whole week."
John made another effort to wrench the conversation free from the topicof food:
"No, no, James. I was going to ask you to let Beatrice come and give mea hand with our nephew and our niece." He slightly accentuated thepronoun of plural possession. "Of course, that is to say, if Beatricewould be so kind."
"What do you want her to do? Beat them?" James asked.
"No, no, no, James. I'm not joking. As I explained to you, I've gotthese two children--er--staying with me. It appears that George is toooverstrained, too ill, that is, to manage them during the few weeks thatEleanor will be away on tour, and I thought that if Beatrice could be myguest for a week or two until the governess has re-created her nervoussystem, which I understand will take about a month, I should
feel agreat weight off my mind. A bachelor household, you know, is notprimarily constructed to withstand an invasion by children. You'd findthem very difficult here, James, if you hadn't got Beatrice."
"Oh, Johnnie, I should love it," his sister-in-law cried. "That is ifJimmie could spare me."
"Of course, I could. You'd better take her back with you to-night."
"No, really?" said John. "Why that would be splendid. I'm immenselyobliged to you both."
"He's quite anxious to get rid of me," Beatrice laughed, happily. "Isha'n't be long packin'. Fancy lookin' after Eleanor's two youngsters.I've often thought I _would_ rather like to see if I couldn't bring upchildren."
"Now's your chance," John jovially offered.
"Jimmie didn't ever care much for youngsters," Beatrice explained.
Her husband laughed bitterly.
"Quite enough people hate me, as it is," he sneered, "withoutdeliberately creating a child of my own to add to the number."
"Oh, no, of course, dear, I know we're better off as we are," Beatricesaid with a soothing pat for her husband's round shoulders. "Only theidea comes into my head now and again that I'd just like to see if Icouldn't manage them, that's all, dear. I'm not complaining."
"I don't want to hurry you away," James muttered. "But I've got somework to do."
"We'd better send the servant out to look for a taxi at once," Johnsuggested. "It's Sunday night, you know."
Twenty minutes later, Beatrice looking quite fashionable now in herexcitement--so many years had it obliterated--was seated in the taxi;John was half-way along the garden path on his way to join her, when hisbrother called him back.
"Oh, by the way, Johnnie," he said in gruff embarrassment, "I've got anarticle on Alfred de Vigny coming out soon in _The Nineteenth Century_.It can't bring me in less than fifteen guineas, but it might not bepublished for another three months. I can show you the editor's letter,if you like. I wonder if you could advance me ten guineas? I'm a littlebothered just at the moment. There was a vet's bill for the dog and...."
"Of course, of course, my dear fellow. I'll send you a check to-night.Thanks very much for--er--releasing Beatrice, I mean--helping me out ofa difficulty with Beatrice. Very good of you. Good-night. I'll send thecheck at once."
"Don't cross it," said James.
On the way back to Hampstead in the dank murkiness of the cab, Beatricebecame confidential.
"Jimmie always hated me to pass remarks about havin' children, don't youknow, but it's my belief that he feels it as much as anyone. Look at thefuss he makes of poor old Bill Bailey. And bein' the eldest son andhavin' the pictures of his grandfather and grandmother, I'm sure thereare times when he'd give a lot to explain to a youngster of his own whothey really were. It isn't so interestin' to explain to me, don't youknow, because they aren't my relations, except, of course, by marriage.I always feel myself that Jimmie for an eldest son has been veryunlucky. Well, there's you, for instance. I don't mean to say he'sjealous, because he's not; but still I dare say he sometimes thinks thathe ought to be where you are, though, of course, that doesn't mean tosay that he'd like you to be where he is. But a person can't helpfeelin' that there's no reason why you shouldn't both have been whereyou are. The trouble with Jimmie was that he wasted a lot of time whenhe was young, and sometimes, though I wouldn't say this to anybody butyou, sometimes I do wonder if he doesn't think he married too much in ahurry. Then there were his dragon-flies. There they all are falling topieces from want of interest. I don't suppose anybody in England hastaken so much trouble as Jimmie over dragon-flies, but what is adragon-fly? They'll never be popular with the general public, becausethough they don't sting, people think they do. And then that fellow--whois it--it begins with an M--oh dear, my memory is something chronic!Well, anyway, he wrote a book about bees, and it's tremendously popular.Why? Because a bee is well-known. Certainly they sting too, but thenthey have honey and people keep them. If people kept dragon-flies, itwould be different. No, my opinion is that for an eldest son Jimmie hasbeen very unlucky."
The next day Bertram disappeared to school at an hour of the morningwhich John remembered did exist in his youth, but which he had for longregarded as a portion of the great backward and abysm of time. Beatricetactfully removed his niece immediately after breakfast, not the auroralbreakfast of Bertram, but the comfortable meal of ten o'clock; andexcept for a rehearsal of the _bolero_ in the room over the library Johnwas able to put in a morning of undisturbed diligence. Beatrice tookViola for a walk in the afternoon, and when Bertram arrived back fromschool about six o'clock she nearly spoilt her own dinner by theassistance she gave him with his tea. John had a couple of quiet hourswith _Joan of Arc_ before dinner, when he was only once interrupted byBeatrice's coming as her nephew's ambassador to ask what was the pastparticiple of some Latin verb, which cost him five minutes' search for adictionary. After dinner John played two sets of piquet with hissister-in-law and having won both began to feel that there was a gooddeal to be said for a woman's presence in the house.
But about eleven o'clock on the morning of the next day James arrived,and not only James but Beyle the bulldog, who had, if one might judge byhis behavior, as profound a contempt as his master for John's library,and a much more unpleasant way of showing it.
"I wish you'd leave your dog in the hall," John protested. "Look at himnow; he's upset the paper-basket. Get down off that chair! I say, dolook at him!"
Beyle was coursing round the room, steering himself with the kinked blobthat served him for a tail.
"He likes the soft carpet," his master explained. "He thinks it'sgrass."
"What an idiotic dog," John scoffed. "And I suppose he thinks myAubusson is an herbaceous border. Drop it, you brute, will you. I say,do put him downstairs. He's going to worry it in a minute, and all agreethat bulldogs can't be induced to let go of anything they've once fairlygripped. Lie down, will you!"
James roared with laughter at his brother's disgust, but finally heturned the dog out of the room, and John heard what he fancied was apanic-stricken descent of the stairs by Maud or....
"I say, I hope he isn't chasing Mrs. Worfolk up and down the house," heejaculated as he hurried out on the landing. What ever Beyle had beendoing, he was at rest now and smiling up at John from the front-doormat. "I hope it wasn't Mrs. Worfolk," he said, coming back. "She's in avery delicate state just at present."
"What?" James shouted, incredulously.
"Oh, not in that way, my dear fellow, not in that way. But she's notused to having so many visitors in the house."
"I'm going to take one of them away with me, if that'll be anyconsolation to her," James announced.
"Not Beatrice?" his brother stammered.
James nodded grimly.
"It's all very fine for you with a mob of servants to look after you:but I can't spare Beatrice any more easily than you could spare Mrs.Worfolk. I've been confoundedly uncomfortable for nearly two days, andmy wife must come back."
"Oh, but look here," John protested. "She's been managing the childrenmagnificently. I've hardly known they were in the house. You can't takeBeatrice away."
"Sorry, Johnnie, but my existence is not so richly endowed with comfortsas yours. You'd better get a wife for yourself. You can afford one."
"But can't we arrive at a compromise?" John pleaded. "Why don't you comeand camp out with me, too?"
"Camp out, you hypocrite!" the critic jeered. "No, no, you can't bribeme with your luxuries. Do you think that I could work with two childrencareering all over the place? I dare say they don't disturb your plays.I dare say you can't hear them above the clash of swords and the rollingof thunder, but for critical work I want absolute quiet. Sorry, but I'mafraid I must carry off Beatrice."
"Well, of course, if you must...." John murmured, despondently. And itwas very little consolation to think, while Viola practised the_fandango_ in the library preparatory to dislocating the household byremoving Maud from her work to escort her to the dancing-class, thatBeatrice
herself would have liked to stay.
"However," John sternly resolved, "the next time that James tries toscoff at married life I shall tell him pretty plainly what I think ofhis affectation."
He decided ultimately to keep the children at Church Row for a week, togive them some kind of treat on Saturday, and on Saturday evening,before dinner, to take them back to their father and insist upon hisbeing responsible for them. If by chance George proved to be really ill,which he did not suppose for a moment that he would, he should takematters firmly into his hands and export the children to Ambles untiltheir mother came home: Viola could practise every known variety ofSpanish dance over Laurence's head, or even in Laurence's room; and asfor Bertram he could corrupt Harold to his heart's content.
On the whole, the week passed off well. Although Viola had fallen likeLucifer from being an angel in Maud's mind, she won back her esteem bybehaving like a human little girl when they went to the dancing-classtogether and did not try to assume diabolic attributes in exchange forthe angelic position she had forfeited. John was allowed to gather thatViola's chief claim to Maud's forgiveness was founded upon herencouragement of the advances made to her escort by a handsome youngsergeant of the Line whom they had encountered in the tube.
"Miss Viola behaved herself like a little lady," Maud had informed Johnwhen they came home.
"You enjoyed taking her?"
"Yes, indeed, sir, it's a pleasure to go about with anyone so lady-like.Several very nice people turned round to admire her."
"Did they, Maud, did they?"
Later, when Viola's account of the afternoon reached him he wondered ifthe sergeant was one of those nice people.
Mrs. Worfolk, too, was reconciled to Bertram by the profound respect heaccorded to her tales and by his appreciation of an album of familyphotographs she brought out for him from the bottom of her trunk.
"The boy can be as quiet as a mouse," she assured John, "as long as heisn't encouraged to make a hullabaloo."
"You think I encourage him, Mrs. Worfolk?"
"Well, sir, it's not my place to offer an opinion about managingchildren, but giving them a calf's head is as good as telling them tomisbehave theirselves. It's asking for trouble. There he is now, doingwhat he calls his home work with a little plate of toffee I made forhim--as good as gold. But what I do ask is where's the use in filling upa child's head with Latin and Greece. Teach a child to be a heathengoddess and a heathen goddess he'll be. Teach him the story of theInfant Samuel and he'll behave like the Infant Samuel, though I must saythat one child who I told about God's voice, in the family to which Iwas nursemaid, had a regular fit and woke up screaming in the middle ofthe night that he could hear God routing about for him under the bed.But then he was a child with very old-fashioned notions and took thewhole story for gospel, and his mother said after that no one wasn't toread him nothing except stories about animals."
"What happened to him when he grew up?" John asked.
"Well, sir, I lost sight of the whole family, but I dare say he became aclergyman, for he never lost this habit of thinking God was dodging himall the time. It was God here, and God there, till I fairly got thejumps myself and might have taken up with the Wesleans if I hadn't goneas third housemaid to a family where the master kept race-horses whichgave me something else to think about, and I never had anything more todo with children until my poor sister's Herbert."
"That must have been a great change, Mrs. Worfolk."
"Yes, sir, so it was; but life's only one long changing about, thoughthey do say there's nothing new under the sun. But good gracious me,fellows who make up mottoes always exaggerate a bit: they've got to, soas to keep up with one another."
When Friday evening arrived John nearly emphasized Mrs. Worfolk'sagreement with Heraclitus by keeping the children at Church Row. But bythe last post there came a letter from Janet Bond to beg an earlierproduction of _Joan of Arc_ if it was by any means possible, and Johnlooking at the infinitesimal amount he had written during the weekresolved that he must stick to his intention of taking the children backto their father on the following day.
"What would you like to do to-morrow?" he inquired. "I happen to have afree afternoon, and--er--I'm afraid your father wants you back in Earl'sCourt, so it will be your last opportunity of enjoying yourselves forsome time--I mean of our enjoying ourselves for some time, in fact,until we all meet at Ambles for Christmas."
"Oh, I say," Bertram protested. "Have we got to go back to rotten oldEarl's Court? What a sell!"
"I thought we were going to live here always," Viola exclaimed.
"But don't you want to go back to your father?" John demanded in what hehoped was a voice brimming with reproaches for their lack of filialpiety, but which he could not help feeling was bubbling over withsomething very near elation.
"Oh, no," both children affirmed, "we like being with you much best."
John's gratification was suddenly darkened by the suspicion that perhapsEleanor had told them to flatter him like this; he turned swiftly asideto hide the chagrin that such a thought gave him, and when he spokeagain it was almost roughly, because in addition to being suspicious oftheir sincerity he was vexed with himself for displaying a spirit ofcompetitive affection. It occurred to him that it was jealousy ratherthan love which made the world go round--a dangerous reflection for aromantic playwright.
"I'm afraid it can't be helped," he said. "To-morrow is definitely ourlast day. So choose your own method of celebrating it without dressingup."
"Oh, we only dress up on Sundays," Viola said, loftily.
"I vote we go to the Zoo," Bertram opinionated after a weighty pause.
Had his nephew Harold suggested a visit to the Zoo, John would haveshunned the proposal with horror; but with Bertram and Viola theprospect of such an expedition was positively enticing.
"I must beware of favoritism," John warned himself. "Yes, and I mustbeware of being blarneyed." Then aloud he added:
"Very well, we will visit the Zoo immediately after lunch to-morrow."
"Oh, but we must go in the morning," Bertram cried. "There won't benearly time to see everything in the afternoon."
"What about our food?"
"We can eat there."
"But, my dear boy," John said. "You are confusing us with the lions. Imuch doubt if a human being _can_ eat at the Zoo, unless he has apassion for peanuts and stale buns, which I have not."
"I swear you can," Bertram maintained. "Anyhow, I know you can get icesthere in the summer."
"We'll risk it," John declared, adventurously; and the children echoedhis enthusiasm with joy.
"We must see the toucans this time," Bertram announced in a grave voice,"and last time we missed the zebu."
"I shouldn't have thought that possible," John demurred, "with all thosestripes."
"Not the zebra," Bertram severely corrected him. "The zebu."
"Never heard of the beast," John said.
"I say, V," Bertram exclaimed, incredulously. "He's never heard of thezebu."
Viola was too much shocked by her uncle's ignorance to do more thansmile sadly.
"We'll show it you to-morrow," Bertram promised.
"Thanks very much. I shall enjoy meeting the zebu," John admitted,humbly. "And any other friends of yours in the animal world whose namesbegin with Z."
"And we also missed the ichneumon," Viola reminded her brother.
"Your last visit seems to have been full of broken appointments. It'sjust as well you're going again to-morrow. You'll be able to explainthat it wasn't your fault."
"No, it wasn't," said Bertram, bitterly. "It was Miss Coldwell's."
"Yes," said Viola. "She simply tore past everything. And when Bertramgave the chimpanzee a brown marble instead of a nut and he nearly brokeone of his teeth, she said it was cruel."
"Yes, fancy thinking _that_ was cruel," Bertram scoffed. "He was in anawful wax, though; he bunged it back at me like anything. But I swoppedthe marble on Monday with Higginbotham Minor for two
green commonys: atleast I said it was the marble; only really I dropped it while we werewaiting for the bus."
"You're a kind of juvenile Lord Elgin," John declared.
"What did he do?"
"He did the Greek nation over marbles, just as you did the chimpanzeeand Higginbotham Minor."
Next morning John made arrangements to send the children's luggage toEarl's Court so that he should be able when the Zoological Gardens wereclosed to take them directly home and not be tempted to swerve from hisdetermination: then under the nearest approach to a blue sky that Londoncan produce in November they set out for Regent's Park.
John with his nephew and niece for guides spent a pleasant if exhaustingday. Remembering the criticism leveled against Miss Coldwell's rapidityof transit, he loitered earnestly by every cage, although he had reallyhad no previous conception of how many animals the Zoo included andbegan to dread a long list of uninvited occupants at the day's end. Hehad a charming triumph in the discovery of two more animals beginningwith Z, to wit, the zibet and the zoril, which was the sweeter for thefact that they were both new beasts to the children. There was anargument with the keeper of the snake's house, because Bertram nearlyblinded a lethargic alligator with his sister's umbrella, and anotherwith the keeper of the giraffes, because in despite of an earnest pleanot to feed them, Viola succeeded in tempting one to sniff moistly apiece of raspberry noyau. If some animals were inevitably missed, therewere several welcome surprises such as seeing much more of thehippopotamus than the tips of his nostrils floating like two bits ofmud on the surface of the water; others included the alleged visibilityof a beaver's tail, a conjugal scene between the polar-bears, a trulydemoniac exhibition of rage by the Tasmanian-devil, some wonderfulgymnastics by a baby snow-leopard, a successful attempt to touch akangaroo's nose, an indisputable wriggle of vitality from the anaconda,and the sudden scratching of its ear by a somnolent fruit-eating bat.
About ten minutes before the Gardens closed John, who was tired out andhad somehow got his cigar-case full of peanuts, declared it was time togo home.
"Oh, but we must just have a squint at the Small Cats' House," Bertramcried, and Viola clasped her hands in apprehension at the bare idea ofnot doing so.
"All right," John agreed. "I'll wait for you three minutes, and then I'mgoing slowly along towards the exit."
The three minutes passed, and since the children still lingered hewalked on as he had promised. When they did not catch him up as soon ashe expected, he waited for a while and then with an exclamation ofannoyance turned back.
"What on earth can they find to enjoy in this awful smell?" he wondered,when he entered the Small Cats' House to drag them out. The house wasempty except for a bored keeper thinking of his tea.
"Have you seen two children?" John asked, anxiously.
"No, sir, this is the Small Cats' House," replied the keeper.
"Children," repeated John, irritably.
"No, sir. Or, yes, I believe there _was_ a little boy and a little girlin here, but they've been gone some minutes now. It's closing time," headded, significantly.
John rushed miserably along deserted paths through the dusk, lookingeverywhere for Bertram and Viola without success.
"All out," was being shouted from every direction.
"Two children," he panted to a keeper by the exit.
"All out"
"But two children are lost in the Gardens."
"Closing time, sir. They must have gone out by another gate."
He herded John through the turnstile into the street as he would haveherded a recalcitrant gnu into its inclosure.
"But this is terrible," John lamented. "This is appalling. I've lostGeorge's children."
He hailed a taxi, drove to the nearest police-station, left theirdescriptions, and directed the driver to Halma House, Earl's CourtSquare.
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