ABOUT A STRUGGLE AT THE GATE OF FAIRYLAND
Old Weevil walked about the moor, because there was no room in the
cottage or garden, and whispered to the sun: "I wish she wasn't so
happy, I wish she wouldn't laugh so, I wish she wouldn't talk about that
boy." A good many other things he wished for. Mr. Bellamie had written
to present his compliments to Abel Cain Weevil, Esquire--though the old
man was not used to that title--and to announce that he proposed giving
himself the pleasure of calling at Lewside Cottage and enjoying a little
conversation with its tenant. Weevil guessed how he would blunder
through that interview in his simple beetle-hearted way; and then he
would have to break his little girl's heart as carefully as he could.
After all she was very young, and hearts broken early can be put
together again. Plants broken off in the spring grow up as well as ever.
It is when they are broken in the late summer that there is no chance,
and no time, to mend.
"She will feel it--like a butcher's knife," he whispered. "I was wrong
to pick her up that night. I ought to have left her. It would have been
all over long ago, and she would have been spared the knife. But no, she
is too nice, too good. She will do it! She will fight her way through!
You'll see, Abel-Cain. You watch her, my old dear! She will beat the
Brute yet." He chuckled, snapped his fingers at the sun, waved his hand
at Ger Tor, and trotted back to the cottage.
Weevil talked in parables with the eccentricity, not of genius, but of
habit. His life had been spoilt by "the Brute." He had done what he
could to fight the monster until he had realised his utter helplessness.
And now his little maid's life was to be spoilt by the Brute, but he
thought she would succeed better than he had done, and fight her way out
into a more serene atmosphere. Old Weevil's Brute was simply cruelty,
the ugly thing that encompassed him.
He was a silly old man in many ways. People with an intense kindness for
animals are probably freaks of Nature, who has tried to teach them to be
cruel, only they have rejected her teaching. Love for animals is,
strictly speaking, no part of the accepted religion. Hebrew literature,
so far from teaching kindness to animals, as the Koran does, recommends
the opposite; and the founder of Christianity in his dealings with
animals destroyed them. Fondness for animals began probably when men
first admitted beasts into their homes as members of the family, as the
Bedouin Arab treated his horse. Such animals developed new traits and
advanced towards a far higher state of evolution than they would have
attained under natural conditions. With higher intelligence came also a
greater sensitiveness to pain. Those animals, such as the horse and dog,
who have been brought up with men, and acquired so much from them, have
an equal right to be protected by the laws which protect men. Such were
some of Weevil's arguments, but perhaps he was mistaken. He had failed
signally to impart the doctrine of kindness to animals to his
neighbours. He went too far, a common fault among men who are obsessed
with a single idea. He attacked the rabbit-trap violently, which was
manifestly absurd, and only convinced people that he was mad. He
declared that the rabbit, caught and held in the iron jaws of the trap
to perish miserably hour by hour, must suffer agonies. He had himself
put his finger into such a trap, and was unable to bear the pain more
than ten minutes. Naturally people laughed at him. What a fool he must
be to put his finger in a trap! It had always been the custom to capture
rabbits in that savage way, and if it had been cruel the clergy would
have preached against it and the law would have prohibited it. But when
Weevil went on to assert that the rabbits had feelings he got beyond
them entirely, and they could only shake their heads at him, and feel
sorry for his insanity, and despise him for being such a bad sportsman.
Even the village constable felt he must draw the line somewhere, and
objected to paying any tribute of respect to a dafty old man who went
about telling people that rabbits could feel pain. When he met Weevil he
grinned, and looked the other way to avoid saluting him.
Weevil spent much of his time drafting petitions to Parliament for the
abolition of various instruments of torture, but of course nobody would
sign them; and he indited lengthy screeds to humane societies upon the
same subject, and these were always courteously acknowledged and placed
on file for future reference, which was another way of saying that they
would not be looked at again. He was himself a member of one society,
and some years back had induced it to prosecute a huntsman who had been
guilty of gross cruelty to a cat; but as the man was popular, and the
master of the hounds was upon the Bench in the company of other
sportsmen, the prosecution failed, although the offence was not denied;
and old Weevil had his windows broken the next day. After that he
quieted down, acknowledging that victory must remain with the strong. He
went on preparing his indictments, writing his letters, and drafting his
useless petitions; and whenever he discovered a rabbit-trap in his walks
he promptly sprung it; and if the river happened to be handy, and nobody
was about, that trap disappeared for ever.
It was unfortunate for Weevil that he was more eccentric in appearance
than in habits. He had a comic face and a nervous smile. The more in
earnest he was the more he grinned; and that helped to convince people
of his insanity. Then he was a loose character, and had evidently
enjoyed a lurid past. People were not going to be lectured by a wicked
old fellow, with a face like a rag-doll and a foolish smile, who lived
in a small cottage with an illegitimate daughter. Weevil had never
openly denied the paternity; he did not want it to be known that Boodles
was a child of shame for her own sake; and he was in his heart rather
proud to think people believed he was the father of such a radiant
little maid.
"You must do it," he said, as he trotted into the cottage. "You must
prepare the child, Abel-Cain. Don't be a fool now."
The little sitting-room was very neat. Boodles was not there, but
visible tokens of her industry were everywhere. A big bowl of late
heather from the moor, with rowan and dogwood berries from Tavy woods,
stood upon the table. A little stocking, rather plentifully darned, was
being darned again. A blotting-book was open, and a sheet of paper was
upon it, and all that was written on the sheet was the beginning of a
letter: "My dearest Boy," that and nothing more. It would have been a
pretty little room had it not been for that sheet of paper. The silly
old man bent over it, and a very good imitation of a tear splashed upon
the "dearest Boy" and blotted it out. "You must not be such an old fool,
Abel-Cain," he said, in his kindly scolding voice.
Then Boodles came in laughing, with a head like the rising sun. She had
been washing her hair, and it was hanging down to dry, and sparkling in
the strong light just as the broken granite on Dartmoor sparkles when
the sun casts a beam across and seems to fill the path with diamonds.
"Oh, what a grumpy face, old man!" she cried. "Such a toothachy face for
as butiful a morning as ever was! Have you been cruel and caught a wee
mousie and hurt it so much that you couldn't let it go? I think I shall
throw away that trap and get a benevolent pussycat instead."
Lewside Cottage was infested with mice, very much as Hamelin town was
once overrun with rats, and as Weevil could not pipe them into the Tavy
he had invested in a humane trap which caught the little victims alive.
Then the difficulty of disposing of them arose. Weevil solved it in a
simple fashion. He caught a mouse every night and let it go in the
morning. In spite of these methods of extermination the creatures
continued to increase and multiply.
"I was going out this afternoon," said Boodles, tugging at her hair with
a comb. "But if you have got one of your umpy-umpy fits I shall stop at
home. I want to go, daddy-man, 'cause my boy hasn't got much longer at
home, and he says it is nice to have Boodles with him, and Boodles
thinks, it is nice too."
"Boodle-oodle, my darling," quavered Weevil, "the sun may be shining
outside, but it is damp and clammy in here. The Brute has got hold of me
again."
"No, it isn't clamp and dammy, daddy," she laughed. "It's only a stupid
old cloud going by. There are lots of butterflies, if you will look out.
See! I can nearly tread upon my hair. Isn't it butiful?"
"You must try and grow up, little girl."
"Not till I'm twenty," said she.
"You mustn't laugh so much, my little maid."
"Why, daddy?" she cried quickly. "You mustn't say that. Oh, I don't
laugh too much; I couldn't. I'm not always so very happy when I laugh,
because it's not always afternoon out with me, but it does us good to
make believe, and I thought it helped you to forget things. You telling
me I mustn't laugh! You've been and killed a mouse."
"They say fair-haired girls don't feel it like the dark-haired ones,"
muttered Weevil.
"What are you talking about?" cried Boodles. She had stopped laughing.
The clouds were coming up all round and it was nearly snow time; and
there is little laughter in a Dartmoor winter. "Is it the Brute, daddy?"
she said sympathetically.
"Yes, Boodle-oodle," said the sorrowful old man, with his nervous grin.
"It is the Brute."
"I wish you could catch him in your trap. You wouldn't let him go," said
Boodles, with a little smile.
Weevil was kneeling at the table, his comic head jerking from side to
side, while his fingers tried to make a paper-boat out of the "dearest
Boy" sheet of note-paper.
"I want to talk to you, my little maid," he said. "I want to remind you
that we cannot get away from the Brute. I came to this lonely cottage to
hide from him, because he was making my life miserable. I could not go
out without meeting him. But it was no good. Boodles. Doors and bolts
won't keep him out. Do you know why? It is because he is a part of
ourselves."
"Such nonsense," said she. "Silly old man to call yourself cruel."
"The Brute is only ourself after all. I cannot put my foot to the ground
without crushing some insect. I cannot see the use of it--this prolific
creation of things, this waste of life. It drives me nearly mad,
tortures me, makes me a brute to myself."
"But you're such a--what do you call it?--such a whole-hogger," said the
child. "Try and not worry, daddy. You only make yourself wretched, and
you make me wretched too, and then you're being cruel to me--and that's
how things get cold and foggy," said she. "May I laugh now?"
"No, Boodles," he said, quite sternly. "I was cruel when I picked you up
that night and brought you in."
The girl winced a little. She wanted to forget all about that.
"Nature preserves only that she may destroy," he rambled on. "Take the
plants--"
"I've taken them," broke in Boodles merrily.
"Be serious, Boodle-oodle," said the old man, grinning worse than ever.
"The one and only duty of the flower is to bear seed, and when it has
done that it is killed, and that it may do so Nature protects it in a
number of different ways, many of which cause suffering to others. Some
plants are provided with thorns, others with stinging-cells, others with
poison, so that they shall not be destroyed by animals. These are
generally the less common plants. Those that are common are unprotected,
because they are so numerous that some are certain to survive. All the
plants of the desert have thorns, because vegetation is so scarce there
that any unprotected plant would soon be devoured. The rabbit is an
utterly defenceless creature among animals, and almost every living
thing is its enemy; but lest the animal should cease to survive Nature
compels it to breed rapidly. Surely it would have been kinder to have
given it the means of protecting itself. I cannot understand it,
Boodles. There seems to be no fixed law, no limit to Nature's cruelty,
although there is to her kindness. The world is a bloody field of
battle; everything fighting for life; a pitiful drama of cowardice right
through. I don't know whether I am talking nonsense, Boodles. I expect I
am, but I can't speak calmly about these things, I lose control over
myself, and want to hit my head against the wall."
Boodles slipped her arm about his neck and patted his white whiskers.
The paper-boat was a heap of pulp by this time.
"Now it's my turn," she said gaily. "Let Boodles preach, and let old men
be silent. Dear old thing, there are lots of queer puzzles, and I'm sure
it is best to leave them all alone. 'Let 'em bide,' as Mary would say.
We can't know much, and it's no use trying. You might as well worry your
dear white head about the queer thing called eternity. You start, and
you go round, and then you go round again faster until you begin to
whirl, and you see stars, and your head aches--that's as far as you can
ever get when you think about queer puzzles. And that's all I've got to
say. Don't you think it rather a good sermon for a babe and suckling?"
"It's no use. She doesn't see what I'm driving at," muttered poor old
Weevil.
"My hair is nearly dry. I think I'll go and do it up now," said Boodles.
"I'm going to wear my white muslin. Shan't I look nice?"
"She doesn't know why she looks nice," murmured the silly old man. "It
is Nature's cruel trick to make her attract young men. Just as the
flowers are given sweetness to attract the fertilising bee. There it is
again--no fixed law. Every sweet flower attracts its bees, but it is not
every sweet girl who may."
"What's all that about bees?" laughed Boodles. "Oh, I forgot! I'm not to
laugh."
"Boodle-oodle, do try and take things seriously. Do try and remember,"
he pleaded.
"Remember--what?" she said.
"We cannot get away from the Brute."
"But I'm not going to be grumpy until I have to," she said. "It would be
such nonsense. I expect there will be lots of worries later on. I must
be happy while I can. Girls ought not to be told anything about
unhappiness until they are twenty. There ought to be a law made to
punish any one who made a little girl grumpy. If there was you would go
to prison, old man."
"You must think, Boodles. We are putting it off too long--the question
of your future," he said blunderingly. Now he had got at the subject! "I
am getting old, I have only an annuity, and there will be nothing for
you when I die. I do not know what I shall do without you, but I must
send you away, and have you trained for a nurse, or something of the
kind. It will be bad to be alone again, with the Brute waiting for me at
every corner, but worse to think of you left unprovided for."
"My dear daddy-man," sighed Boodles, with wide-open eyes. "So that's the
trouble! Aren't you worrying your dear old head about another queer
puzzle? I don't think I shall have to work very dreadful hard for my
living."
"Why not?" said the old man, hoping his voice was stern.
"Why?" murmured Boodles prettily. "Well, you know, dear old silly, some
one says that my head is lovely, and my skin is golden, and I'm such a
jolly nice little girl--and I won't repeat it all, or I might swell up
with pride, and you might believe it and find out what an angel you have
been keeping unawares--"
"Believe," he broke in, catching at the straw as he went down with a
gurgle. "You mustn't believe too much, Boodle-oodle. You are so young.
You don't in the least know what is going to happen to you."
"Of course I know," declared Boodles; "I'm going to marry Aubrey when
I'm twenty."
"But his parents--" began Weevil, clutching at the edge of the table,
and wondering what made it feel so sharp.
"They are dears," said Boodles. "Such nice pretty people, and so kind.
He is just an old Aubrey, and I expect he had the same girl's face when
he fell in love with his wife. She's so fragile, with beautiful big
eyes. It's such a lovely house. Much too good for me."
"That's just it," he said eagerly, wishing she would not be dense. "It's
much too good for you, darling."
"Yes, but I don't think you ought to say it," pouted Boodles.
"We are ordinary people. I am not quite what the Bellamies would call a
gentleman. My father was only a piano-maker," old Weevil faltered,
hoping that the girl would think of her unknown parents when she heard
him refer to his. "I went to a grammar-school, then became a bank-clerk
until I was shelved, partly on account of my grey hairs, but chiefly
because I hit the cashier on the head with a ruler for kicking a dog. I
could not go into Mr. Bellamie's house, Boodles. It is too good for both
of us. There is nothing to be ashamed of in my name, but it is not a
genteel one. We are only unimportant beetles, and the Bellamies are big
bugs," he said, laughing in spite of his feelings at his joke because it
was so seldom that he made one.
"Aubrey knows all about it. He doesn't care," declared Boodles, nodding
cheerfully. "Besides, I'm not really your daughter anyhow."
Weevil gasped at her innocent impertinence. Here he was trying to make
her understand that she was a nameless little lady who could not
possibly marry any one of gentle birth, and she was calmly suggesting
she might be superior to him. It was only a thoughtless remark, but it
served to show him that nothing but plain speaking would serve with a
girl in love. She looked at everything through Aubrey's eyes; and Aubrey
was only a boy who could hardly know his own mind. A boy does not care
whether his sweetheart's father is a tinker or a rake; but a man, and an
only son, who has reached an age when he can understand what his family
and society and his profession demand of him, cares a great deal. There
comes a time for every young person when he or she must leave fairyland
and go into the world; and the pity of it is they cannot return. They
look back, but the gate is shut. It is a gate which opens only one
way--to exclude. For every child is born inside. They grow up, and see
their children in that pleasant land, and wish they could join them
there; but if they could go back they would not be happy, for it would
be to them no longer a place of romance and sunshine, but a place of
shadow, and dead selves, and memories. It would not be spring, with
primroses and bluebells in flower, but a Christmas Eve when the dead
life and the dead companions haunt the house, and grim Mother Holle is
plucking her geese and dropping the feathers down the chimney. Aubrey at
twenty adored Boodles. Aubrey at thirty might worry his head about her
parents and her birth-name. Boodles at thirty would be the same as she
was then, loving, and wanting nothing else. Weevil was right in some of
his theories. Every one must suffer from the Brute, except those who
deserve it most. The innocent have to suffer for them. Boodles too was
right. It is no use trying to solve queer puzzles.
"No, darling; you are not my daughter. I wish you were. I wish you
were."
"You are too old, daddy-man--at least rather too old," said Boodles
gently. "I should have been born when you were past fifty. Why, what's
the matter? You are dreadful funny to-day, old man."
Weevil had jumped up nimbly, and running to the window poked his head
out to gulp into his lungs a good mouthful of air. He ran back to the
astonished little girl, took her by the shoulders, shook her severely,
grinned at her; then he stumbled back into his chair and began to laugh
furiously.
"Shall I tell you a story, Boodle-oodle, a beautiful story of a little
girl who wasn't what she thought she was, though she didn't know who she
was, and didn't care, and wouldn't think, and couldn't listen when
people tried to tell her? Shall I tell you all that, darling?"
"Not now," gasped Boodles. "I must go and dress. And I shall laugh as
much as I like--mean old thing! Telling me I mustn't laugh, and then
shaking the house down. Dad, if you go on making explosions you'll bring
up rain-clouds, and my afternoon will be spoilt, and so will my frock;
and then I shall have to tell you a story of a horrid old man, who
wasn't a bit like what he hoped his daughter thought he was, though he
didn't know how horrid he was, and didn't care, and wouldn't listen when
people tried to tell him. Well, I'll give you a kiss anyhow, though you
are mad."
"Not daughter," cried the excited old man. "Remember you are not my
daughter, Boodles."
"I know. You needn't rub it in."
"I've got the Brute! I've got him by the neck. He's made me suffer, but
I'll pay him now. Run away, darling. Run away and put on your white
muslin. Laugh as much as you can, and be as pretty as you like. The
Brute shan't touch you. I'll put a muzzle on him. Don't forget to tell
them I am not your father. I've got the whole story in my head. Run
away, little girl, while I think it out."
Boodles was used to these fits, but usually she understood them. They
were generally provoked by rabbit-traps. She could not understand this
one. Evidently the old man had got hold of something new; but she
couldn't stop any longer, as it was nearly time to go down to the Tavy
and turn up the stones to look for fairies.
Weevil certainly had got hold of something new. When Boodles had gone he
jumped up and locked the door. Then he looked at his watch. Mr. Bellamie
might arrive at any time; and he was not nearly ready. He began to jump
about the room in a most eccentric way, snapping his fingers, and
grinning at his comic features in the mantel-glass.
"You've got to be a liar, Abel-Cain, the worst liar that ever lived, as
big a rogue as your namesake Cain, who murdered your namesake Abel.
You're an old man, and you ought not to do it, but if lies can save her
from the Brute lies shall. They'll punish you for it when you're dead,
but if she is saved no matter, none at all. I shall tell them they ought
not to have created the Brute. I won't be afraid of them. Now you
mustn't make a mess of it. I'm afraid you will, Abel-Cain. You're a
shocking old fool sometimes. Put it all down--write it out, then learn
it by heart. The old hands are shaking so. Steady yourself, old fool,
for her sake, for the sake of that pretty laugh. Come along now!
Abel-Cain _versus_ the Brute. We must begin with the marriage."
He pressed his cold hands upon his hot face, and began to scribble
tremulously on the paper.
"You were married at the age of twenty-five to a girl who was superior
to you socially. Her name--let me see--what was her name? You must find
one that sounds well. Fitzalan is a good name. You married Miss Fitzalan
at--at, why, of course, St. George's, Hanover Square. She's dead now.
She died of--of, well, it don't matter; she's dead. We had a daughter,
or was it a son? Better keep to one sex, and then there will be no
saying hims for hers, and you mustn't get confused, Abel-Cain, you must
keep your brain as clear as glass. We had a daughter, and called
her--now it must be something easy to remember. Titania is a pretty
name. We called her Tita for short, Titania Fitzalan-Weevil That's it!
You are doing it, Abel-Cain! Keep it up, you old liar. He'll be here
presently. You took the name of Fitzalan-Weevil because it sounded
better, but when your wife died you went back to your own. She was
buried in Hendon churchyard. You don't know why it should be Hendon. Ah
yes, you do, Abel-Cain. Don't you remember how you used to walk along
that road on Sundays and holidays, and have some bread and cheese in the
little tea-garden at Edgware; and then by Mill Hill and Arkley to
Barnet, and back by Hampstead Heath to your lodgings in Kentish Town?
That's why your wife was buried in Hendon churchyard. Then Titania was
married, a very grand marriage, Hanover Square again. It's a pity you
haven't got the press-cuttings, but they are lost--burnt, or something
of the sort--and Titania's husband was the youngest son of the Earl
of--No, that won't do. You mustn't lie too high, or you'll spoil the
story. He was Mr. Lascelles, Harold Lascelles, second son of the late
Reverend Henry Arthur Lascelles, sometime rector of St. Michael's,
Cornhill, and honorary canon of St. Paul's Cathedral. Drag the clergy
in, Abel-Cain. It's respectable. They lived in Switzerland for his
health. You remember he was rather delicate, and Titania wasn't very
strong either; and Boodles was born there. It's working out fine. You
can't be her father, but you can be her grandfather. Boodles was born in
Lausanne, at the hotel where Gibbons wrote his history.
"Now you come to the mystery; there must be a mystery about Boodles, but
it must be respectable, a tragedy in high life, a regrettable incident,
not a shameful episode. Titania disappeared. What happened to her nobody
knows. You don't know, and Harold doesn't know. She may have gone for a
walk in the mountains and never come back, or she may have gone out in a
boat on Lake Geneva and been drowned, or she may have been murdered by a
madman in a pine-wood. It was all very sad and dreadful, and has
naturally cast a cloud over Boodles's life, though she knows nothing
about it, as she was scarcely a year old when her mother disappeared.
You have never got over it, Abel-Cain, and you don't think you ever
will, as Titania was your only child. You couldn't bear to keep any of
her photographs, so you destroyed them all.
"Now there is Harold. You can't kill him, Abel-Cain. So much mortality
might be suspicious, and if you let him marry again that would mean a
lot more names to remember. Harold went into the Catholic Church and
became a priest. At the present time he is in charge of a mission in
British Guiana. That's a good long way off, but you must look it up in
the map and make sure where it is."
The old man leaned back and mopped his face. He was working under a kind
of inspiration, and was afraid it might die out before he had got to the
end of the story. Again he plunged into the narrative, and continued--
"Harold didn't know what to do with Boodles. Young Catholic priests
cannot be bothered with babies, so he sent her to you, to old
grandfather, and asked you to bring her up. He couldn't pay anything, as
he had devoted his fortune to building a church and establishing his
mission, and besides, you didn't need it in those days, He was a good
fellow, Harold, an earnest, devoted man, but you haven't heard anything
of him for a long time. You called the child Boodles when she was a baby
because it was the sort of name that seemed to suit her, and you have
never got out of it. Her real name is--There must be a lot of them. They
always have a lot in high life. No girl with a long string of names
could be anything but well-born. Her name is Titania Katherine Mary
Fitzalan-Lascelles."
He read out the list again and again, grinning and crying at the same
time, and chuckling joyfully: "There's nothing of the Weevil in her
now."
"Then there came the smash," he went on, resuming his pen to add the
finishing touches to the story. "You lost your money. It was gold-mines.
That is quite safe. One always loses money in gold-mines, and you were
never much of a man of business, always ready to listen to any one, and
so you were caught. You retired with what little you could reclaim from
the wreck of your shattered fortunes--that's a fine sentence. You must
get that by heart. It would convince any one that you couldn't tell a
lie. You retired, broken in health and mind and fortune, to this little
cottage on Dartmoor, and you have lived here ever since with Boodles,
whom you have brought up to the best of your ability, although you have
lacked the means to give her that education to which she is entitled by
her name and birth. It is almost unnecessary to add, Abel-Cain," he
concluded, "that you have told the child nothing about her parents lest
she should become dissatisfied with her present humble position. You are
keeping it all from her until she comes of age."
It was finished. Weevil stared at the blotted manuscript, jabbered over
it, and decided that it was a strong and careful piece of work which
would deceive any one, even the proudest father of an only son who was
much too precious to be thrown away. He was still jabbering when there
were noises outside the door, and he hurried to open it, and discovered
Titania Katherine Mary Fitzalan-Lascelles, looking every syllable of her
names; her beautiful hair coiled under her poppy-trimmed hat, the white
muslin about her dainty limbs, her lips and little nostrils sweet enough
to attract bees with their suggestion of honey, and about her that
wonderful atmosphere of perfect freshness which is the monopoly of such
pretty creatures as herself.
"You're looking quite wild, old man. What have you been doing?" she
said.
"Story-writing. About the little girl who--"
"I can't stop to listen. I must hurry. I just came to say good-bye," she
said, putting up her mouth. "Be good while I am gone. Don't fall into
the fire or play with the matches. You can say if this frock suits me."
"If I was a boy I shouldn't bother whether it suited you or not," said
Weevil, nodding at her violently.
"But as you are only an old daddy-man?" she suggested.
"It will do, Boodle-oodle. Sackcloth would look quite as well--on you."
"I'll wear sackcloth presently; when Aubrey goes and winter comes," she
laughed.
Weevil became excited again. He wished she would not make such heedless
and innocent remarks. They suggested the possibility of weak points in
his amazing story. Another unpleasant idea occurred as he looked at the
charming little maid. She was always walking about the moor alone. The
Brute might seize her in one of his Protean forms, and she might
disappear just as her fictitious mother had done. Weevil had invoked his
imagination, and as a result all sorts of ghostly things occurred to his
mind to which it had been a stranger hitherto. There were traps lying
about for girls as well as rabbits.
"Where are you going, little radiance?" he said.
"Down by the Tavy. Our walk. We have only one."
Boodles answered from the door, and then she went. She had only one
walk. On all Dartmoor there was only one. Weevil caught up his
manuscript and began to jabber again. She must not have that one walk
taken away from her.
For two hours he worked, like a student on the brink of an examination,
trying to commit his story to memory. Each time he read the fictions
they became to him more probable. He scarcely knew himself what a
miserable memory he had, but he was well aware how nervous he could be
in the presence of strangers, and how liable he was to be confused when
any special eccentricity asserted itself. As the time when his visitor
might be expected approached he went and put on his best clothes, tidied
himself, brushed his hair and whiskers, tried to make himself look less
like a Hindoo idol, burnished his queer face with scented soap, and
practised a few genteel attitudes before the glass. He hoped somebody
had told Mr. Bellamie he was eccentric.
Weevil was still poring over his manuscript when the visitor arrived.
With a frantic gesture the old man went to admit him. People were not
announced in that household. Mr. Bellamie entered with a kindly
handshake and a courteous manner; but his impressions were at once
unfavourable. Well-bred men tell much by a glance. The grotesque host,
the pictures, furniture, and ornaments, were alike inartistic. Mr.
Bellamie was a perfect gentleman. He had come merely as a matter of duty
to make the acquaintance of the tenant of Lewside Cottage, not because
it was a pleasure, but he had received Boodles at his house, and his
son's attachment for the little girl was becoming serious. He could not
definitely oppose himself to Aubrey's love-making until he had
ascertained what manner of people the Weevils were. The pictures and
ornaments told him. The cottage represented poverty, but it was hardly
genteel poverty. A poor gentleman's possessions proclaim his station as
clearly as those of a retired pork-butcher betray his lack of taste. A
few good engravings, a shelf or two of classical works, and a cabinet of
old china, would have done more for Boodles than all the wild romances
of her putative grandfather.
"You have a glorious view," said the visitor, turning his back upon art
that was degraded and rejoicing in that which was natural. "I have been
admiring it all the way up from the station. But you must get the wind
in the winter time."
"Yes, a great deal of it. But it is very fine and healthy, and we have
our windows open most days. Tita insists upon it."
"Tita?" questioned Mr. Bellamie, turning and looking puzzled. "I
understood that--"
"Her name is not Boodles," said Weevil decidedly. "That is only a pet
name I gave her when she was a baby, and I have never been able to break
myself of it. She is my grand-daughter, Mr. Bellamie, and her name is
Titania Katherine Mary Fitzalan-Lascelles," he said, reading carefully
from the manuscript. "I think she must have inherited her love of open
windows and fresh air from her father, who was the Reverend Henry--no, I
mean Harold Lascelles, second son of the Reverend Henry Arthur
Lascelles--the late, I should have said--sometime Director of St.
Michael's, Cornhill, and minor canon--no, honorary--honorary canon of
St. Paul's Cathedral. He was rather delicate and lived in Switzerland a
good deal, and died there--no, he didn't, that was Tita's mother. He is
in charge of a Catholic mission in British Guiana."
Polite astonishment was upon every feature of the visitor's fragile
face. He had not come there to talk about Boodles, but to see Weevil and
Lewside Cottage, that he might judge for himself whether the girl could
by any chance be considered a suitable subject for Aubrey's adoration;
to look at the pictures, and make a few conventional remarks upon the
view and the weather; then to return home and report to his wife. He had
certainly not expected to find Weevil bubbling over with family history,
pedigrees, and social intelligence, regarding the child whom he had been
led to suppose was not related to him. Mr. Bellamie glanced at Weevil's
excited face, at the pencil he held in one hand and at the sheet of
paper in the other; and just then he didn't know what to think. Then he
said quietly: "I will sit down if I may. That long hill from the station
was rather an ordeal. As you have mentioned your--your grand-daughter, I
believe you said, you will, I hope, forgive me if I express a little
surprise, as the girl--and a very pretty and charming girl she is--came
to see us one day, and on that occasion she distinctly mentioned that
she knew nothing of her parents."
Mr. Bellamie would have murmured on in his gentle brook-like way, but
Weevil could not suppress himself. While the visitor was speaking he
made noises like a soda-water bottle which is about to eject its cork;
and at the first opportunity he exploded, and his lying words and broken
bits of story flew all about the room.
"Quite true, Mr. Bellamie. Boodles--I mean Tita--was telling you the
truth. I have never known her to do the contrary. She has been told
nothing whatever of her parents, does not know that her daughter was my
mother--"
"You mean that her mother was your daughter," interposed the gentle
guest.
"Yes, Mr. Bellamie, that is what I did mean, but I am rather confused.
She does not know that her father is living, nor that her rightful name
is Lascelles, nor that her paternal grandfather was the rector of St.
Michael's, Cornhill, and prebendary of St. Paul's Cathedral--"
"I understood you to say honorary canon," murmured the visitor.
"I am not certain," cried the excited old man, who was by no means sure
what a prebendary might be. "It is a long time ago, and some of the
facts are not very clear in my mind. You can easily find out," he went
on recklessly. "The Reverend Canon Lascelles was a very well-known man.
He wrote a number of learned books. I believe he refused a bishopric.
Let me see. I was telling you about my little maid. I have kept
everything from her because I feared she might be upset if she knew the
truth and found out who she was. She mightn't be satisfied to go on
living in this little cottage with a poor shabby old man like me, if she
knew how well born she was. I am going to tell her everything when she
is twenty-one, and then she can choose for herself, whether to remain
with me, or to join her father if he wants her in British Guiana."
"There must be some reason," suggested Mr. Bellamie gently, with another
wondering glance at Weevil's surprising aspect. "I am not seeking to
intrude into any family secret, but you have introduced this subject,
and you must permit me to say that I feel interested in the little girl
on account of my son's--er--friendship with her."
"I was just coming to it," cried Weevil, exploding again. He was warmed
up by this time. He had lost his nervousness, felt he was playing a
winning game, and believed he had the story pat. The lies had stuck in
his throat at first, as he was a naturally truthful man, but they were
coming along glibly now. "You have a right to be told. There is a little
mystery about Tita's mother. They were living in Lausanne--Tita was born
in the hotel where Gibbings wrote his history--and one day her mother
went out and disappeared. She has never been heard of since that day. It
is supposed she went for a walk in the mountains. Perhaps she fell down
a glacier," he added, brilliantly inspired.
"A crevasse," corrected Mr. Bellamie mildly. "It is hardly likely.
Lausanne is not quite among the mountains."
Weevil had not known that. Hurriedly he suggested a fatal boating trip
upon the lake of Geneva, and was relieved when the visitor admitted in a
slightly incredulous manner that was more probable.
"You have interested me very much," he went on, "and surprised me. You
are the girl's grandfather on the mother's side?"
"Yes; and now I must tell you something about myself," said Weevil, with
a hurried glance at his notes which the visitor could not help
observing. "I am not your social equal, Mr. Bellamie, and I cannot
pretend to be. I have not enjoyed the advantages of a public-school and
university education, but I was left with a fortune from my father, who
was a manufacturer of pianos, at an early age, and I then contracted a
marriage with a lady who was slightly older than myself, and very much
my superior socially, mentally--possibly physically," he added, with
another inspiration, as he caught sight of his comic face in the
mantel-glass. "Her name was Miss Fitzalan, and we were married at St.
George's, Hanover Square."
The visitor inclined his head, and did so just in time to conceal a
smile. Weevil was overacting the part. He was placing an emphasis on
every word. In his excitement he dropped the manuscript, without which
he was helpless. It fluttered to Mr. Bellamie's feet, and before Weevil
could recover it the visitor had a distinct recollection of having read:
"Your wife was buried in Hendon churchyard." It was strange, he thought,
that a man should require to make a note of his wife's burying-place.
"Titania was our only child," Weevil went on, after refreshing his
memory, like a public speaker, with his notes. "She was something like
Boodles, only her hair was flaxen, and she was taller and more slim. I
am sorry I have not a photograph of her, but after her tragic
disappearance I burnt them all. I could not bear to look at them. There
was one of her in court dress which you would have liked. Some time
after my wife's death I lost my money in gold-mines. It was my own
fault. I was foolish, and I listened to the advice of knaves. I came
here with what little I could reclaim from the wreck of my shattered
fortunes," he said, pausing to notice the effect of that tremendous
sentence, and then repeating it with added emphasis. "I settled here,
and Father Lascelles, as he was by then, sent me my grandchild and asked
me to bring her up as my own. At first I shrank from the responsibility,
as I had not the means to educate her as her birth and name require, but
I have been given cause every day of my life since to be thankful that I
did accept, for she has been the light of my eyes, Mr. Bellamie, the
light and the apple of my eyes."
Weevil sank into a chair and wiped his face. His task was done, he had
told his story; and he fully believed that Boodles was safe and that the
Brute was conquered. The visitor was looking into the interior of his
hat. He seemed to have found something artistic there. He coughed, and
in his gentle well-bred way observed: "Thank you, Mr. Weevil. You have
told me a piece of very interesting family history."
Weevil detected nothing of a suspicious or ironical nature in that
admission. He nursed his knee, and wagged his head, and grinned
triumphantly as he replied in a naive fashion: "I took the name of
Fitzalan-Weevil after my marriage, because I thought it sounded better,
but after I lost my wife and fortune I went back to my own."
Mr. Bellamie took another glance round the room, just to make sure he
had missed nothing. There might be some little gem of a picture in a
dark corner, or a cracked bit of Wedgwood ware, which he had overlooked
in the former survey. There might be some redeeming thing, he thought,
in the environment which would fit in with the amazing story. The same
inartistic features met his eyes: Weevil pictures, Weevil furniture,
Weevil carpet and wall-paper. There was nothing to represent the family
of Fitzalan or the family of Lascelles. The simple old liar did not know
what a powerful advocate was fighting against him, and how his poor
little home was giving verdict and judgment against him. The visitor
completed his survey, turned his attention to the old man, regarding him
partly with contempt and pity, chiefly in admiration. Then he took out
his trap and set it cleverly where Weevil could hardly fail to blunder
into it.
"I think I knew Canon Lascelles a good many years ago," he said in his
gentle non-combative voice. "He was a curious-looking man, if I remember
rightly. Tall, stooping very much, with a red face which contrasted
strangely with his white hair, and he had a trick of snapping his
fingers loudly when excited. Do you recognise the portrait?"
Old Weevil gasped, said he did, declared it was life-like, and then
fumbled for his manuscript. Hadn't he made any notes on that subject?
There was nothing to help him in the inky scrawl. He was being examined
upon unprepared subjects. So there had been a Canon Lascelles in real
life, and Mr. Bellamie had known him. Well, there was nothing for it but
to agree to all that was said. His imagination would not work upon the
spur of the moment, and if he tried to force it he would be sure to
contradict himself or become confused. He replied that he distinctly
remembered the Canon's trick of snapping his fingers loudly when
excited.
"Your daughter married the second son Harold. Of course you knew Philip
the eldest. I think his name was Philip?"
"Quite right, Mr. Bellamie, quite right. Philip it was. He went into the
Army," gasped Weevil.
"Surely not," said Mr. Bellamie. "Excuse me for contradicting you, but I
know he went into the Navy, and I think he is now a captain. Aubrey will
tell me. Very possibly my son has met Captain Lascelles, and may indeed
have served under him."
Weevil was trying to look contemplative, but succeeding badly. He was
digging new ground and striking roots everywhere. There was nothing for
it but to admit his mistake. He was old and forgetful. He had probably
been thinking of some one else. Of course Philip Lascelles went into the
Navy. He had heard nothing of him for years, and was very glad to hear
he had risen to the rank of captain.
"Then there was a daughter. Only one, I think?" Mr. Bellamie continued,
in his pleasant conversational way.
"That's right," agreed Weevil, longing to add something descriptive, but
not venturing. He was not going to be caught again.
"Edith?" suggested the visitor. "I think the name was Edith."
"No," cried Weevil determinedly--he could not resist it; "Katherine. She
was the godmother of Boodles--Tita, I mean--and the child was named
after her."
"Yes, it is my mistake this time. Katherine of course," agreed Mr.
Bellamie. "But I am certain she was the eldest child, and she married
young and went to India. She must have been in India when your
grandchild was born."
"She came over for the ceremony. Harold was her favourite brother, and
when she heard of Tita's birth she came to London as fast as she could,"
cried Weevil, not realising what a wild thing he was saying.
"To London!" murmured Mr. Bellamie. "The child was baptised at St.
Michael's, Cornhill?" he added swiftly.
"No, in Hendon church."
"I thought you said she was born in Lausanne at the Hotel Gibbon?"
"So she was," gasped Weevil, perspiring and distraught. "I mean she was
buried in Hendon churchyard."
"What! the little girl--Boodles!" said Mr. Bellamie, laughing gently.
"No, my wife. We were married there." Weevil did not know what he was
saying. The pictures and ornaments, which had been his undoing, were
dancing about before his eyes.
"You are getting confused," said the gentle visitor. "I understood you
to say you were married at St. George's, Hanover Square."
"Ah, but I used to go to Hendon," said Weevil eagerly, nodding, and
grinning, and speaking the truth at last. "I used to walk out there on
Sundays and holidays, and have bread and cheese in a tea-garden at
Edgware, and then go on by Mill Hill and Arkley and round to Barnet, and
back across Hampstead Heath to my lodgings in Kentish Town. I was very
fond of that walk, but I couldn't do it now, sir. It would be much too
far for an old man like me."
Weevil was happy again. He thought he had succeeded in changing the
subject, and getting away from the fictitious family of Lascelles. Mr.
Bellamie was satisfied too. Canon Lascelles was a fiction with him also.
The pictures and furniture had given truthful evidence. Weevil was a
fraud, but such a well-meaning pitiable old humbug that the visitor
could not feel angry. They had fenced at each other with fictions, and
in such delicate play Weevil had not much chance; and his latest and
only truthful admission had done for him entirely. Gentlemen of means do
not walk up the Edgware Road on Sundays and holidays, and partake of
bread and cheese in suburban tea-gardens, and then return to lodgings in
Kentish Town.
"Thank you for what you have told me," said Mr. Bellamie, rising and
looking into his hat; and then, succumbing to the desire to add the
final artistic touch: "I understand you to have said that you were
married to Miss Fitzalan in Hendon church, and that your daughter
married Mr. Harold Lascelles, who disappeared in an unaccountable
fashion in Lausanne?"
"No, no," cried Weevil despairingly. He was tired and had put aside his
manuscript. "I never said that. You have got it quite wrong. I was
married to Miss Fitzalan in St. Michael's, Brentor, and our daughter
Boodles married Philip Lascelles--captain as he now is--at Hendon, and
Tita was baptised in St. George's, Hanover Square, and then went to
Lausanne to that hotel where Gubbings wrote his history, and there she
disappeared--no, not Boodles, but her mother Tita. But she may be alive
still. She may turn up some day."
"Then how about Father Lascelles?" suggested Mr. Bellamie.
"Why, he married my daughter Tita," said Weevil rather crossly. "And now
he is in British Columbia at his mission. He won't come back to England
again. Boodles doesn't know of his existence, but I shall tell her when
she is twenty-one."
The visitor smiled rather sadly, and after a moment's hesitation put out
his hand. Old Weevil had been turned inside out, and there was nothing
in him but a foolish loving heart. Mr. Bellamie understood the position
exactly. There was a mystery about the little girl's birth, and it was
probably a shameful one, and on that account the old man had concocted
his lying story, not for his own sake, but for hers. Mr. Bellamie could
not feel angry at the queer shaking figure, with tragedy inside and
comedy on its face. Boodles was his all, the only thing he had to love,
and he was prepared to do anything which he thought might ensure her
happiness. There was something splendid about his lies, which the
visitor had to admire although they had been prepared to dupe him. It
was not a highly moral proceeding, but it was an artistic one; and Mr.
Bellamie was able to forgive anything that was artistic.
"Good-bye," he said, in a perfectly friendly way. "I hope you will come
and see me at Tavistock, and look at your tors from my windows."
Weevil returned thanks effusively, happy in the belief that he had
played his part well; but it was characteristic of him that his thoughts
should be for Boodles rather than for himself. "If you would let her
come and see you sometimes it would make her happy. It's a dull life for
the little maid here, and she is so bright and full of laughter. I think
she laughs too much, and to-day I told her so. There is a lot of cruelty
in this world, Mr. Bellamie, and I want to keep her from it. The man who
makes a little maid miserable deserves all the cruelty that there is,
but it shan't touch Boodles if I can put myself before her and keep it
off. I could not see her suffer, I couldn't hear her laugh ring false. I
would rather see her dead."
Mr. Bellamie walked away slowly. He had prepared a mild revenge, but he
did not execute it. He had intended to tell Weevil a story of a man who
took a dog out to sea that he might drown it; but while fastening a
stone to its neck the boat overturned, the man was drowned, while the
dog swam safely to shore. He thought Weevil might be able to interpret
the parable. But when he heard those last words, and saw the love and
tenderness on that queer grinning face, he said no more. He walked away
slowly, with his eyes upon the ground.