DIMBIE'S BIRTHDAY
I find, in accordance with Nanty's advice, that I kept Dimbie well out
of the last chapter; but he's bound to figure pretty largely in this,
for he's had a birthday. A birthday cannot very well be touched upon
without referring to the person interested, and Dimbie was extremely
interested because of the omelet Amelia made him for breakfast.
On the morning previous I said to Amelia--
"To-morrow is the master's birthday. Now what shall we give him for
breakfast? It must be something very nice."
"Pigs' feet."
"Pigs' feet?" I ejaculated.
"Yes, mum. Pigs' feet boiled till juicy and tender, and red cabbage."
"But it's for breakfast," I repeated.
"Yes, mum. You mentioned that."
"But you can't eat pigs' feet for breakfast."
"Mr. Tompkins' brother-in-law, Mr. München, was dead nuts on it."
Her attitude was unshaken.
"But wasn't he German, Amelia?"
"P'r'aps he was," she admitted.
"Ah," I said triumphantly, "that makes all the difference."
"What about brawn or sausages, or black puddings or ham, mum?"
"You see they're all--pig," I said hesitatingly.
"Well, you're not Jews, mum. Tompkinses had a friend who----"
"I want something novel," I cut in, leaving the friend till another
time. "I want something we have not had before."
She thought a moment. Then her countenance brightened.
"I know, mum, savoury duck."
"Don't be ridiculous," I commanded. "We're wasting time."
"It isn't a duck really, mum. P'r'aps you thought it was?"
"When you say a duck, I naturally think you mean a duck."
I was getting tired.
"But I don't. It's made of the insides of animals mixed with onions.
You buy them at tripe-shops, and they're real good."
I felt myself turning sick.
"Amelia," I said, trying to be patient, "will you remember it's
breakfast we are discussing. I've called your attention to the fact
several times. I think it will have to end in an omelet--a nice, light
omelet. Do you know how to make one?"
Now Amelia will never allow that she doesn't know everything in the
world, so her reply was guarded.
"It's made of eggs."
"Of course," I rejoined.
"And milk and butter----"
The milk might be right, but I wasn't so sure about the butter.
Amelia pounced on my hesitation.
"Why, I believe you don't know how to make one yourself, mum."
I was bound to confess that I didn't.
"My opportunities to cook have been few," I explained. "The little I
know was learned at a cookery class."
Amelia sniffed derisively.
"And a lot you'd learn there, mum--hentries and hoary doves, I suppose?"
"Hoary doves!" I repeated wonderingly, and vaguely thinking of a very
ancient white-haired dove.
"Yes, them silly things rich folks begins their dinners with--anchovies
and holives."
"You mean _hors-d'oeuvres_?" That I suppressed a smile should go to my
good account, I think.
"That's it, only my tongue won't twist round it like yours."
"And where have you met them?" I inquired with interest.
"At Tompkinses'!"
"And did they have them every night?"
"No, just at dinner parties." She spoke in an airy, careless fashion.
"I see," I said, greatly impressed.
Amelia had been accustomed to _hors-d'oeuvres_ at dinner parties, and
yet she condescended to live with us.
I looked with unusual interest at her closely-curled fringe, her sharp,
eager features, and her shamrock brooch. I listened to her squeaking;
it was the corsets this time. Sometimes a bone cracks in them like the
report of a small pistol, and I think to myself, "Well, there is one
less to break." But the number never seems to diminish. I fancy she
must have a horde of bones, a sort of nest-egg of bones, put by, and as
soon as one cracks it is promptly replaced by a sound one.
Occasionally one bores through her print bodice, and then she puts a
patch on the place, a new print patch, which rarely matches the rest of
her dress. I counted four one day. She will look like a patchwork
quilt soon, and I feel a little depressed at the prospect.
I roused myself with an effort to Dimbie's birthday and the breakfast.
Amelia had produced the cookery book, and was rapidly reading out loud
various recipes for every variety of omelet.
"Stop," I said, "I'm getting muddled."
It ended in our selecting a savoury parsley omelet.
"I hope it will be nice," I said anxiously.
"Of course it will be nice. You leave it to me, mum. I've got a hand
_that_ light the master will be wishin' he had a birthday every day of
his life."
The birthday morning dawned clear and beautiful. My first thought was
of the omelet. I rose softly, dressed quickly, and went out into the
garden with the hope of finding a few flowers to put at the side of
Dimbie's plate. A fresh, springy scent met me everywhere--damp earth,
moist trees, sun-kissed, opening, baby leaves. I inspected our apple
tree, which stands in the middle of the lawn, with close attention. It
is the only tree we possess. I looked for a promise of blossom.
"Perhaps ... yes, in a month's time," I said. I wandered down the
garden to the fence which divides us from the frog-pond field. A
garden set at the edge of a field is a most cunning device, especially
when the field contains well-grown trees (which hang over the fence,
dipping and swaying and holding converse of the friendliest description
with your own denizens of the garden) and a frog-pond into the bargain.
The croaking of frogs may not be musical, but it may be welcomed as one
of the surest notifications of the advent of spring. Mr. Frog is
courting Miss Frog. He says, "Listen to my voice," on which he emits a
harsh, rasping sound, somewhat resembling the note of the corncrake.
Miss Frog is probably very impressed. So are Dimbie and I.
"So countrified," says Dimbie, drawing a long, deep breath of the
sweet, pure air.
"So far from the madding crowd," say I. "Who ever hears a frog near
the big, noisy towns?"
By and by we shall see little black eggs, embedded in a gelatinous
substance, floating about the surface of the water. Later on there
will be tadpoles, and then more frogs.
The beech tree, I think, is the most kindly disposed of all the
brethren to us dwellers of the garden. A lime nods to the apple tree,
which is exactly in its line of vision, but the beech leans and leans
over the fence, craning its neck, holding out long, beautiful branches,
which so soon will be decorated with a delicate lace-work of the most
exquisitely tender of all the spring greens. The beech is a long time
in unfolding her treasures--the sycamore and chestnut can give her many
days; but when she does consent to open out her leaves, what a wealth
of beauty!
On this morning I thought I could almost see them uncurling in the
sunshine, hear them laughing at their old friend the lime. I could
have dallied with them, anxious to hear what they had to say, what sort
of a winter had been theirs, but Dimbie and breakfast must be waiting
for me.
I sped into the house, just in time to see Dimbie removing the dish
cover. I paused in the doorway to witness his smile of pleasure at
finding an omelet--a savoury parsley omelet--before him, but no smile
came. In its place was a blank look of inquiry.
"What's the matter?" I asked.
"What's this?" he returned.
"An omelet." I walked quickly to the table.
"Oh, is it?" he said quite politely.
We stood together and looked at the thing, was very small and thin, and
hard and spotty.
"I thought it was veal stuffing." He was grave and still quite
courteous.
"It looks like a bit of old blanket," I observed.
"It doesn't look wholesome, do you think so?"
"I think it looks most unwholesome." I put my hand on the bell.
"Wait," he said, "Amelia might be hurt: let's give it to Jumbles."
But Jumbles was a wise cat. He smelt it, stood up his hair on end, and
walked away. And so we burnt it.
When I ordered some bacon to be cooked Amelia asked me how we had
enjoyed the omelet.
"It was a little small," I said evasively.
"Just a little small," said Dimbie cheerfully.
"That must be the fault of the egg-powder, there was no eggs in the
house," she said as she bustled out of the room.
Dimbie peeped at me and I peeped at Dimbie, and we both broke into
suppressed laughter.
"I always said she was the most resourceful girl I had ever met."
"She is," I groaned; "and I thought it would be such a beautiful
surprise to you."
"It was, dearest," he assured me; "never was so surprised at anything
in my life."
I handed him my present and looked at him anxiously. Would this too be
a disappointment? He had talked of pipe-racks so frequently--of the
foolish construction of the ordinary rack, which, supporting the bowl
of the pipe at the top, naturally encourages the evil-tasting nicotine
to flow down the stem. This I had had made specially for him of the
most beautiful fumed oak. The bowls of his pipes could now rest
sensibly, the stems pointing skywards. His pleasure was unfeigned. He
left his breakfast to hang it up and kiss me.
"How clever you are, Marg," he said. "How did you know?"
"You have sometimes mentioned it."
He laughed.
"I have derived a considerable amount of useful information from you
one way or another. I may even become capable in the end."
"There's no knowing," he agreed.
Then we fell to making our plans for the day. It was not often that
Dimbie took a holiday, we must make the most of it. We would cycle to
some pine woods at Oxshott which we knew well and loved greatly. We
would lunch there by the side of a little pool set in a hollow--Sleepy
Hollow we called it. It would be warm there and sunny, for the trees
had withdrawn to the right and left, and it was open to the sun and
rain and wind of heaven. When we had rested we would go to a dingle
where I knew primrose roots were to be found. What corner and nook and
hidden by-way and bridle-path in our beautiful Surrey were unknown to
me? I had flown to them from Peter. I had spent long days in the
fields, on the commons, in the pine woods away from Peter. My bicycle
was a friend in need. Peter couldn't cycle. Nothing short of a
motor-car could catch me on my bicycle. Peter hadn't a motor-car.
Motor-cars, bicycles, and truant girls were an invention of the devil.
I would laugh in my sleeve, while Peter swore.
I am introducing Dimbie to a lot of my old haunts. Two on their
travels are better than one.
Amelia packed our lunch and asked when we would be home.
"It is impossible to say," I told her. "When one rides away into the
country or into a sunset or into a moonrise one may never return."
And Amelia stared as she does sometimes when I cannot keep the laughter
and happiness out of my voice.
"There's the steak," she said.
"Cook it when we come in," I called as I followed Dimbie through the
wooden gate--which is such a joy to me, as it might have been iron--and
down the lane.
How glorious it was as we spun along the smooth, red roads, and felt
the sun and wind on our faces, and breathed spring--for spring was
everywhere!
"Go on in front, Marg," commanded Dimbie. "I want to look at the sun
on your hair. It's like pure gold."
I humoured his fancy.
"I want to feel it," he called, "to stroke it, it looks quite hot.
Let's stop for a rest."
We dismounted, and sat down on a bank.
"You won't ruffle it?" I said.
"No," he replied, "I'll be awfully careful."
Then he stroked the back of my head the wrong way, the dear old way he
has always stroked it.
"I _do_ love you, sweetheart," he murmured, kissing the nape of my
neck. "There never was a Marguerite like mine."
It is at such moments that the tears come unbidden, tears of intense
happiness.
Will Dimbie ever realise how much I love him? My words are few. I
remember what Nanty said, although she has now recalled her advice. I
don't seem to be able to let Dimbie know what he is to me. Human
language is not sufficient, speech is so bald. Sometimes in the night,
when he is asleep, I press my lips to his kinky hair, but I'm always
afraid he will awake and find me out, and I whisper, "God, I thank Thee
for Dimbie."
A lark was singing rapturously above us far away out of sight, a thrush
was breathing forth liquid notes of silver, and a little golden gorse
bush was giving of its best and sweetest to the inmates of the grassy
lane.
What a beautiful thing is a lane in which the grass runs softly
riotous. A street of pure gold, as it were transparent glass, was what
St. John saw in his vision. To me such a street, hard and metallic,
would be a disappointment. I want in my heaven cool, grassy lanes,
soothing and comforting to tired feet.
"What a birthday!" said Dimbie. "I want always to stop at thirty-one,
and sit on a bank with you and look at your hair in the sun,
sweetheart."
"You'd get tired of it."
"Never," he vowed. "What a lucky thing it was for me your getting
mixed up in that wire netting. Girls are very helpless."
"But they manage somehow to get out of their difficulties," I laughed,
and we sat a little closer. "Marguerite," he said suddenly, "would you
like a--child?"
I felt the colour rise to my cheeks as I shook my head.
He stooped and kissed me.
"I'm so glad," he whispered. "I wouldn't either. We don't want anyone
but each other, do we?"
"Perhaps--some day," I faltered.
"Well, perhaps _some_ day," he assented a little reluctantly. "People
with children seem so beastly selfish to everybody _but_ the children.
They've no thought for anybody else, no interest. You say to 'em, 'My
house was burnt down last night.' They look a little vague and reply,
'How unfortunate. Johnny has contracted measles.' Really anxious to
impress them, you go on to tell them that your mother has just died
from heart failure, and they say, 'How distressing. Mary has passed
her matric.' You want to curse Mary, but you daren't. They represent
all that is holy, all that is extraordinary (in their own eyes), all
that is happiness; they are parents. You stand outside the door of the
holy of holies. You know not the meaning of the words life, joy,
fatherhood, motherhood. The sun and the moon only shine for them. The
stars twinkle, and the flowers bloom, only for the children."
He paused and sighed deeply. I laughed, and patted his hand.
"How do you know all this?"
"I have a married sister, remember. When she went abroad with Gladys
and Maxwell I was unfeignedly relieved. They were getting on my
nerves, father included."
"But this is the age of children, remember, the golden age. Before
they were kept in the background, now----"
"They are never off the foreground," said Dimbie gloomily. "They are
in the drawing-room monopolising the entire attention of the guests.
If the guests don't want 'em the mothers are pained. You are a
heartless brute, selfish and self-centred. It never seems to strike
them _they_ are the ones who are self-centred."
"But that is not the poor children's fault," I said. "Children are
dears when they are properly trained."
"No, perhaps not. The children _might_ be jolly, simple,
unself-conscious little beggars if they got the chance, but they don't.
As it is, most of 'em are detestable."
"But"--I began.
"Come on, Marg," he said, helping me up. "You can't make out a good
case for the modern parents however hard you try. Let us be getting
on."
We made straight for Sleepy Hollow and our pool when we arrived at the
woods, and set our cloth at the edge of its banks. Such a quiet pool,
it might be fast asleep. No insects hum o'er its unruffed surface. No
birds twitter in the tall sedges which hug it on three sides. No fish
rise, for what would be the use when there are no insects or flies.
Away in every direction the pine trees stretch, filling the air with
their clean, resinous odour.
We spread our mackintoshes in the very sunniest spot, and Dimbie threw
himself on his back, while I sat cross-legged in tailor fashion.
"Don't you want any lunch?" I asked presently.
"Rather," he returned, sitting up. "What have you got--omelets?"
"That," I said, "is disagreeable of you. Amelia's efforts were well
meant."
"Hope she won't have any more," he said, with his mouth full of pie.
"Amelia will never cease to surprise us as long as she lives with us.
She is a curious mixture of extreme cleverness and astonishing
simplicity. And I believe her heart's in the right place, though it is
difficult to tell, so surrounded is it by bones and patches."
I fell to thinking of her, and forgot Dimbie and the lunch. Amelia
will have much to answer for, for displacement of my thoughts. Before
I only thought of Dimbie; now Amelia edges in, try as I will to keep
her out. Why should my mind be taken up with a Cockney girl educated
in the Mile End Road? I object.
Dimbie took me away from her.
"By Jove, isn't it stunning here! The sun is as hot as in June. I
want a series of birthdays in which to ride away with you farther and
farther till we reach the sea. Then we can sit upon the sands and tell
glad stories of our love. And you must always wear that blue serge
frock and let the sun wander through your hair as it is doing now."
"Are you quite sure there is nothing more you want?" I inquired.
"Yes, I want to kiss you--that little spot on your right cheek which is
pink and sunburnt."
"Well, you can't," I replied. "If you move you will upset the claret
and glasses."
"Don't care," he said, and as he kissed me a man appeared from among
the pine trees.
"Oh!" we both ejaculated, shooting back our heads.
He stood and looked at us with an amused expression.
"Don't mind me," he said quite politely, seating himself on the stump
of a tree pretty close to us.
"But I am afraid we do," Dimbie said equally politely.
"I've seen that sort of thing dozens of times," he continued in a
detached sort of manner.
We sat and eyed him indignantly.
"In fact, I rather like it," he went on imperturbably.
"Oh, do you?" Dimbie's sarcasm was sharp as a knife.
"Yes, I find it refreshing after my work. I am a balloonist, and have
done considerable research work in aerial flight. I built an aerodrome
once, a steam-driven flying machine. It went about a quarter of a mile
and killed my mother on the way."
"Oh!" I said, shocked. Dimbie was staring at the sky.
"Yes; sad, wasn't it? But she was eighty-seven. And I am sure, could
she have had the choice, she would have preferred a sudden, practically
painless death to a long, lingering illness."
"So did you build this aerodrome on purpose to finish her off?" I
inquired with interest.
Dimbie smothered a laugh, and the man looked at me thoughtfully, but
didn't seem offended.
"Well, no," he replied, "I can hardly say that. I merely meant that it
was just a bit of luck for my mother. I hope, by the way, I am not
disturbing you."
"Not very much," I answered, before Dimbie could speak.
"That's right. I don't like being _de trop_, or in the way; get
yourself disliked."
There seemed to be nothing to say to this, and Dimbie and I peeped at
one another and endeavoured not to laugh.
[Illustration: PROFESSOR LEIGHRAIL]
The stranger looked at us thoughtfully, benevolently almost. His face
was extremely thin and worn, his hands delicate, and his boots too
large for him. There was a refinement about his whole personality
above the ordinary, and I liked him.
"Have some lunch?" Dimbie said, beginning to unbend. "There isn't any
pie left, but there's lots of bread and cheese and some fruit."
"No, thank you. I have some lunch in my pocket, so with your
permission I will eat it with you."
He produced an envelope, and taking out a brown lozenge began to suck
it. When he had finished this he extracted a second, and then a third.
Then from his coat pocket he produced a tin cup, dipped it into a
stream which feeds the pool, drank, returned it to his pocket, and
leant back in a finished way.
"Is that all you are going to have?" I couldn't resist asking in
astonishment.
"Yes," he said. "Being a balloonist, I am obliged to eat sparingly, so
take my meat in a concentrated form. I'm one of the thinnest men in
Great Britain, and usually wear two coats to hide my lean appearance.
Would you like to feel my ribs?"
He asked this simple though somewhat unusual question in exactly the
same way as a man might ask you to see his Velasquez.
"No, thank you," we both said together.
"They're worth feeling," he said, a little disappointed.
We assured him of our belief in his veracity.
"A bit prudish, eh?" He turned towards me.
"Not in the least," I replied indignantly; "but to be quite candid, I'm
not very interested in your ribs. You see, we don't know you very well
yet," I added, to soften the blow.
"Where do you live?" he asked.
We told him in guarded language.
"Within two miles of Leith Hill. Pretty country?"
We nodded.
"What's the name of your house?" was his next question.
"Have you taken a great fancy to us?" Dimbie inquired sweetly.
"Very," he said. "Don't remember taking a greater fancy to anybody.
You seem so ridiculously happy and young."
Dimbie's and my face, I fear, wore the expression of happiness fleeting.
"I'm going now," he said rising. "If you had favoured me with the name
of your house I might have dropped in on you some day from my balloon."
This sounded rather interesting.
"One Tree Cottage," we said together.
He laughed.
"Might have known it would be a cottage. You both look so exactly like
a cottage--lattice windows, roses and honeysuckle thrown in. Quite
common-place, if you only knew it."
"Good afternoon, sir," said Dimbie in an extinguishing voice.
The stranger smiled good-humouredly.
"Now you're going to get offended with me," said he, "and I am sorry.
But you take my word for it, there are scores of young couples in
lattice-windowed cottages--or would like to be in lattice-windowed
cottages--with honeysuckle and roses and a baby. It's the craze now to
live in a cottage. We avoided them as you would the plague in my young
days--insanitary, stuffy, no gas, no hot water, floors with hills in
them, walls with mould in them, skirtings with rats in them. Yours is
like that, I expect."
We vouchsafed no reply.
"And your drains--I expect they're all wrong. Most cottage drains are
abominable."
"We have a drain-bamboo," I said eagerly. "Amelia uses it regularly."
"Amelia sounds a sensible young person. I should like to see her and
the cottage. I'm interested in young people. I was young myself once,
though you mightn't think it."
"Perhaps it was some time ago," I observed.
"Yes, it's a long time." His eyes became reminiscent. "I jumped into
an old man the day my wife died, very old. Then I took up ballooning.
I thought that might prove the surest method of ending myself--short of
suicide. Don't like suicide--unpleasant and dramatic." He still spoke
with cheerful detachment.
"And are you a professional balloonist--ascend from the Crystal Palace
and that sort of thing?" I asked.
He looked at me with amused surprise, I imagined, for an instant; in
fact, he laughed.
"Oh, no, I am not a professional. I am engaged on various work.
Generally pretty busy. Ballooning is my hobby. If you've plenty to do
you can't be lonely."
"We shall be very glad to see you," I said, suddenly feeling very sorry
for this eccentric person. A shadow had crept across his face as he
had spoken. How dreadful to be lonely, I thought. "Our village is
Pine Tree Valley. We searched about till we found a place set among
the pines. I love them so. Perhaps you will dine with us one evening?"
"It is very kind of you," he said quickly, "but I never dine with
people. They invariably eat fattening, indigestible things. If I went
out to dinner I shouldn't have ribs like knife blades." He spoke quite
proudly. "But I should like to call and see the baby."
"There isn't a baby." Dimbie's voice was irritable, and my cheeks were
scarlet.
"I'm sorry," he said. "We hadn't one either."
"And did you mind?" I asked.
"Not a bit while Amabella was alive. But when she died I was a great
deal alone, and the house seemed big and empty. I think it is a
mistake not to have children." He looked at me a trifle severely.
"We've only been married a little over three months," Dimbie explained
apologetically.
"Ah, well, that makes a difference, of course. You've got plenty of
time. Good-bye, and may I give you my card?"
He fished one out of the pocket which contained the tin mug. It was a
little soiled and wet.
"It is unnecessary to give me one of yours," he said with a smile. "I
don't want to know your name. I shall just ask for Mr. and Mrs.
Smilingface, who live in a tiresome, typhoid-inviting, creeper-covered
cottage. Good-bye," and before we could speak he had gone.
With interest we examined the card:--
Mr. MONTGOMERY LEIGHRAIL,
THE GREY HOUSE,
ESHER.
Dimbie sat down and opened his blue eyes so wide that the crook in his
nose moved in sympathy.
"What's the matter?" I asked.
"Marg," he said solemnly, "do you know what you have done?"
"No," I replied; "hurry up and tell me."
"You have refused to feel the ribs of one of the greatest scientists of
the world. That was Professor Leighrail."
"Well, he ought to have known better than to have asked me," I said,
refusing to be impressed.
At which Dimbie fell back and chuckled softly for some minutes.