ABOUT AUTUMN IN FAIRYLAND
The devil had passed through Tavy woods late that year, and in his path
blackberries were blasted, the bracken was scorched, and all the foliage
smouldered. He had trampled upon, and burnt, everything; the next time
he passed through he would breathe on them and they would rot away. At
last he would come with his big bellows; clear the wood out, and scatter
a lot of dusty frost about the place to make it look tidy. Directly he
was out of the way a busy little body in green would bustle into the
woods with a big basket of buds on her arm, and she would stick these
buds about upon the honeysuckles and the primroses, and then run away in
a snowstorm laughing. Nobody would notice her; she is too small and
shadowy, and yet observant folk would know she had been because the
plants which had received the buds would smarten up at once. Every one
loves the little green fairy, although she is often quite a plain
creature, and usually is afflicted with a dreadful cold. She beats the
devil and restores all that he has trampled and blown upon. She may
often be seen in April, sweeping up the remains of the hoar-frost and
attending to her buds, sneezing all the time. People call her Spring in
those days. Her cold is quite incurable, but fortunately it does not
kill her.
Even in fairyland it is not always pretty. Were it so the pleasant place
would lose its charm, for it is the dull time which makes the gay time
glorious. There is no winter for the little people, just as there is no
winter for the flowers; and flowers and fairies are one and the same
thing. They go to sleep until the sun comes to wake them up, and tell
them it is time to dance and blossom as they did last year. There is a
winter, only they know nothing of it. That is why the little people are
so much happier than the big ones. When sorrow comes they simply go to
sleep. Bigger people are not allowed to do that.
"You are going away, Aubrey," said Boodles. "You are going away."
She was always saying it, and thinking it when she was not saying it,
and dreaming about it when she was not thinking of it. She was playing
with a toy upon her finger, a hoop of gold, a little ring which he had
given her, whose posy was the usual motto: "Love me and leave me not,"
and its symbol the pale-blue forget-me-not. Lovers are fond of adding
poetry to poetry and piling sentiment upon sentiment.
It was not exactly an engagement-ring, but a present, and a promise of
the full-flowered ring; just as the crown-buds upon the primroses were a
promise of the spring. Boodles was eighteen at last. How slowly the
years passed at that age! And the ring with the blue forget-me-nots was
a birthday gift, although it was given and received as something more,
and put upon a finger which meant much, and worn and fondled as if it
meant everything. The girl's radiant hair was up relentlessly, and her
frocks trailed for evermore. She was a baby no longer.
It was not a happy walk because it was to be their last for a long time,
and they could not ramble there without treading upon and bruising some
poor little memory; just as the devil had trodden on the blackberries,
although the memories were not spoilt; they were the kisses of those
first days of first love, and they were immortal memories, birth-marks
upon their souls. They had grown up; their bodies were formed, although
their minds were not matured; but whatever happened those memories were
planted in Tavy woods perennially, and nothing could kill them. Tears
would only water them and make them grow more strongly. Their sweet wild
fragrance would cling eternally, because the odour was that of deep
first love; the one gift, the only gift, which passes direct from the
hands of the gods and has no dirt upon it.
Somehow Aubrey had never appeared as a perfectly distinct personality to
Boodles. Her love was in a mist. He seemed to have come into her life in
a god-like sort of way, to have dropped upon her as a child like rain
from the clouds, saying: "You thought of me, and I have come." While she
went on thinking of him he would remain, but directly she ceased to
think he would vanish again. They had simply come together as children
and walked about; and now they were grown up children still walking
about; and they felt they would like to grow up a little more, then stop
growing, but still go on walking about. First love is a marvellous dose
of fern-seed. They were content to look at one another, and while two
young people remain in that state the gods can give them nothing. But
Boodles was going on with her song: "You are going away, Aubrey. You are
going away." There was a gate at the end of the wood, and it was
something more than the gate of the wood. It opened only one way.
Aubrey loved the little girl. He was steadier than most young men and
less fickle than most. Even when he was away from Boodles he did not
forget her, and when they were together she absorbed him. She was so
fresh. He had never met any girl with a tithe of her wonderful
spring-like freshness, which suggested the sweet earth covered with
flowers and steaming after a shower of warm rain. Boodles seemed to him
to be composed of this warm earth, sunshine and rain, with the beauty
and sweetness of the flowers added. She had taken him when young, and
planted him in her warm little heart, and tended him so carefully that
he could not help growing there; and he could not be torn up, for that
would have lacerated the heart; the roots were down so deep; and he
might not bear transplanting. First love thinks such things, and it is
good for the lovers. Life gives them nothing else to equal it.
Still Aubrey had his troubles. It was the last walk for some time. He
was disobeying his parents, and deceiving them. He had promised not to
walk with Boodles again. No boy could have been blessed with kinder
parents; but Mr. Bellamie, after his strange visit to old Weevil, and
subsequent discussion with his wife, conceived that it was his duty to
pull the reins. Aubrey had been allowed a free head long enough, and the
old gentleman was afraid he might get the bit between his teeth and run.
Boodles was a most delightful child in every way, but she knew nothing
about art, and what was far more serious she knew nothing of her
parents. Mr. Bellamie spoke plainly to his son; reminded him of the duty
he owed his family; told him he had been to see Weevil and that the
interview had not been satisfactory; mentioned that the old man either
knew nothing of the girl's origin, or had certain reasons for
withholding his knowledge; explained that to interfere with his son's
happiness was his last wish, and that to interfere with the happiness of
others was equally distasteful; and concluded by impressing upon Aubrey,
what was true enough, namely, that it was not kind to encourage a young
girl to fall in love with him when he could not possibly marry her. The
boy had been then sufficiently impressed to give the promise which he
was now breaking. He felt he could not help himself; he must see Boodles
again, and at least tell her that he would never dream of giving her up,
but that his parents were inclined to be nasty about it. Besides, it was
the little girl's birthday; or rather what Weevil was pleased to style
her birthday, as he could not possibly know the exact day of her birth.
Aubrey eased his conscience by reminding himself that he had forgotten
to urge the point with his father, and if he had done so the old
gentleman would certainly have consented to one more meeting. So he
bought the pretty ring for Boodles, met her, and the mischief was done
again.
When the first stage of their walk was over, and they were getting
reasonable, and Boodles had ceased singing her plaintive: "You are going
away," Aubrey began to suggest that his father was not in alliance with
them; and poor Boodles sighed and wanted to know what evil she had done.
"Nothing, darling. But he wants to know something about your parents."
"I told him. I don't know anything."
"But Weevil must know."
Somehow that had not occurred to Boodles. Perhaps Weevil did know, and
for reasons of his own had kept the information from her.
"I'll ask him," she promised. "But Mr. Bellamie has been to see daddy.
Why didn't he ask him?"
"Weevil told him he is your grandfather."
"You mean my old daddy-man is my grandfather?" cried Boodles, very much
astonished. "Why hasn't he told me then?"
"Hasn't he?"
"Never."
Aubrey was too young to care; but he certainly felt suspicions about
Weevil, and thoughtlessly expressed them by saying: "I suppose he was
telling the truth."
"Of course he was," said Boodles. "Old daddy couldn't tell a lie however
much he wanted to. It would hurt him so badly he would groan and grunt
for a week. What else did he tell your father?"
"He didn't say. But, darling, you'll find out."
"Oh, Aubrey," she said pathetically. "Do you care?"
"Lovely little thing, of course I don't. Your parents must have been the
best and nicest people that ever lived, or you wouldn't have been so
sweet. But you see, darling, my people worry no end about name and
family and all that sort of rubbish, and if they think any one is not
what they call well-born they kick up no end of a smother."
"Well-born," murmured Boodles. She was beginning to comprehend at last,
to recognise the existence of that grim thing called convention, and to
feel a sort of misty shadow creeping up the wood. She felt something on
one of her fingers, and it seemed to her that the pretty ring, which she
loved so much, was trying to work itself off. "Well-born," the child
murmured to herself. "Whatever does it mean?"
This was what being eighteen meant. Boodles was learning things.
"I must have had a father and mother," she said, though in a somewhat
dubious manner.
Aubrey only hummed something unintelligible, and wished the cloud out of
her eyes.
"Now I must find out all about them?"
"I expect my people would like to know, dear," he said.
"If I can't find out, Aubrey?" she went on, in a moist kind of way.
"Then you will have to take mine," he said as lightly as he could.
Boodles stopped, turned away, began to play with a golden frond of
bracken almost as bright as her hair, and began to cry as gently as an
April shower. She had been on the point of it all the afternoon; and she
persuaded herself it was all because Aubrey was going away, although she
knew that wasn't true. It was because she was finding out things.
"Don't," she sobbed. "It's doing me good,"
However, Aubrey took her in his arms and tried to pet her, and that did
her as much good as anything, although she went on crying.
"Can't give me yours--you silly! They won't be given. They don't want me
to love you, they hate me, and your mother kissed me--she did--on my
mouth."
"Mother is very fond of you, darling. She is really," Aubrey whispered
as quickly as he could. "She said you were perfect, and father agreed
with her, and said you would be all that a girl could be, if--if--"
"Go on," murmured Boodles. "It won't hurt. I've got hold of you. I'm
taking all the starch out of your collar."
"Never mind what he said."
"We don't say good-bye until you have told me. I'll hang on to you. Stop
you, perhaps. Oh, Aubrey, you are going away--that's why I'm crying.
Your father said I should be a nice little girl, if--go on."
"If you had a name," said Aubrey, with an effort.
Boodles let him go and stepped back. She looked rather nice, with her
eyes in the rain, and her head in the sunshine.
"What does that mean, Aubrey?" she said, almost fiercely.
"Nothing whatever to me, darling. Don't be silly," he said tenderly.
"It's only father's nonsense. He thinks so much of his name because it's
a fossilised old concern which has been in the county since Noah. He
doesn't want me to marry you, only because he's afraid your people may
not have lived about here since Noah. If you went and told him you're a
Raleigh or a Cruwys he would lay his pedigree at your feet and ask you
to roll on it."
"Not well-born. No name," said Boodles, aloud this time. "I think we
have been silly babies. I seem to have grown up all at once. Oh, Aubrey,
was it you and I who used to walk here--years ago?"
He bent and took her face between his hands and kissed the pretty head.
"We never bothered about names," sobbed Boodles.
"We are not bothering now--at least I'm not. It's all the same to me,
darling."
"It's not. It can't be. How silly I was not to see it before. If your
parents say I'm not--not your equal, you mustn't love me any more. You
must go away and forget me. But what am I to do? I can't forget you,"
she said. "It's not like living in a town, where you see people always
passing--living as I do, on the moor, alone with a poor old man who
imagines horrors."
"Listen, darling." Aubrey was only a boy, and he was nearly crying too.
"I'm not going to give you up. I'll tell you the whole truth. My people
wanted me not to see you again, but I shall tell them that things have
gone too far with us. They won't like it at first, but they must get to
like it. I shall write to you every week while I am away, and when I
come back I shall tell father we must be married."
"I wouldn't, not without his consent. I shall go on loving you because I
cannot help it, but I won't marry you unless he tells me I may."
"Well, I will make him," said Aubrey. "I know how to appeal to him. I
shall tell him I have loved you ever since you were a child, and we were
promised to each other then, and we have renewed the promise nearly
every year since."
"Then he will say you were wicked to make love to the first little
red-headed girl you could find, and he will call me names for
encouraging you, and then the whole world will explode, and there will
be nothing left but lumps of rock and little bits of me," said Boodles,
mopping her eyes with his handkerchief. She was getting more cheerful.
She knew that Aubrey loved her, and as for her name perhaps it was not
such a bad one after all. At all events it was not yet time for the big
explosion. "I'm only crying because you are going away," she declared,
and this time she decided she meant it. "What a joke it would be if I
turned out something great. I would go to Mr. Bellamie and ask him for
his pedigree, and turn up my nose when I saw it, and say I was very
sorry, but I must really look for something better than his son, though
he has got a girl's face and is much prettier than I am. Oh, Aubrey,"
she cried, with a sudden new passion. "You have always meant it? You
will be true to your little maid of the radiant head? I don't doubt you,
but love is another of the queer puzzles, all flaming one time, all dead
another, and only a little white dust to show for all the flame. The
dust may mean a burnt-out heart, and I think that is what would happen
if you gave me up."
He satisfied her in the usual way, declaring that if they ever were
separated it would be by her action, not by his. She would have to
unfasten the lover's knot. Then they went on. It was getting late, and
the short day was already in the dimsies. They stood beside the gate,
saying good-bye, not in two words, but in the old method which never
grows musty. They passed on, the gate slammed, and they were outside;
only just outside, but already they were lost and could not have found
their way back; for the wand of the magician had been waved over "our
walk," and fairyland had gone away like smoke to the place where babies
come from.
Weevil was sitting in the dark, mumbling and moaning, when Boodles came
in. He was in the seventh Hell of misery, as he had been for a walk and
discovered beneath a hedge a rusty iron trap with its jaws fastened upon
the leg of a rabbit. The creature had been caught days before, as
decomposition had set in, and as it was only just held by one leg it
must have suffered considerably. Such a sight is quite one of the common
objects of the country, therefore Weevil ought not to have been
perturbed; only in his case familiarity failed to breed indifference. He
sat down in the dark, and as soon as the child entered began to quaver
his usual grievance: "What right have they to make me suffer? Why may I
not go a walk without being tortured? What right have the brutes to
torment me so?"
"Groaning and grunting again, poor old man," said Boodles cheerfully,
rather glad there was no light, as she did not want him to see she had
been crying. "You must laugh and be funny now, please, for I've come
home dreadful tired, and if you go on worrying I shall begin to groan
and grunt too. I'm ready to have my boots taken off."
"Don't talk like that. Your throat sounds all lumpy," the old man
complained, getting up and groping towards her in the dark. "What have
you been doing--quarrelling?"
Boodles made noises which were intended to express ridicule, and then
said miserably: "Saying good-bye."
Weevil knelt upon the carpet and began to unlace the first boot he could
find, groaning and grunting again like a professional mourner.
"Did it hurt, Boodle-oodle?" he asked tenderly.
"Horrid," she sighed.
"It made you cry?"
"Ees."
"That was the Brute, darling. I've warned you of him so often. He
doesn't let any of us escape. He shows me rabbits in traps, and he makes
you cry. I believe you are crying now."
"Not much, daddy. Only a few little tears that were late for the big
weep," said Boodles, burrowing her face into a cool cushion.
"I want you to laugh. You don't laugh so much now," he complained,
drawing the boot off carefully, and then feeling inside to make sure
that the foot had not come away too.
"One day you said I laughed too much, and I wasn't to do it any more,"
said a doleful voice.
"Ah, but there was a reason for that," said the old man cunningly. "I
thought the Brute would be angry if he saw you laughing so much. That
was before I took him by the throat and flung him out of the house. He
hasn't been here since--not to worry you anyhow," he chuckled.
"You must explain that, please, and a lot of other things besides," she
said hurriedly, sitting up and trying to locate the exact position of
his head.
Old Weevil laughed in a silly sort of way. "It's a little personal
matter between the Brute and me," he chuckled.
"But I come in. I'm the respondent, or whatever you call it. Now I must
hear all about it," she said.
"You're not old enough. I shan't tell you anything until you are
twenty-one."
"Yes, you will. I'm not a baby now. I am eighteen, and I feel
more--nearly eighty-one to-night. I've got one boot on still, and if you
won't answer I'll kick."
The old man jumped playfully upon the threatening foot like a kitten
upon a ball of wool.
"Daddy-man, I'm serious. I'm not laughing a bit. I believe there is
another cry coming on, and that will make you groan and grunt dreadful.
Is it true you are my grandfather?"
The question was out with a rush, and murmuring: "There, I've done it,"
Boodles put her face back into the cushion, breathing as quickly as any
agitated maid who has just received an unexpected offer of marriage.
Whatever Weevil was doing she could not think. He appeared to be
scrabbling about the floor, playing with her foot. Both of them were
glad it was so dark.
"Who told you that?" he said.
"Aubrey. You told his father. Why haven't you ever told me?"
"Boodle-oodle," he quavered, "let me take your other boot off."
"The boot can wait. Don't be unkind, daddy," she pleaded. "I've been
worried dreadful to-day. Why did you tell Mr. Bellamie you are my
grandfather, if you're not?"
"I am," cried old Weevil. "Of course I am. I have been your grandfather
for a long time, ever since you were born, but I wasn't going to tell
you until you were twenty-one."
"Why not? Why ever shouldn't I know? Are you ashamed of me?"
At that the old man began to throw himself about and make horrible faces
in the dark.
"I expect you are," Boodles went on. "Mr. Bellamie is ashamed of me. He
says I'm not well-born, and I have no name. Aubrey told me this
afternoon."
"The liar," cried old Weevil. Then he began to cackle in his own
grotesque way. He couldn't help being amused at the idea that he should
be calling Mr. Bellamie a liar. "How did he know? How did he find that
out?" he muttered. "Nobody could have told him. He must have guessed
it."
"You are my grandfather," Boodles murmured. "Now you must tell me all
about my father and mother. I've got to let Mr. Bellamie know," she went
on innocently.
"I told him. I told him the whole story," cried Weevil. "He sat in this
room for an hour, and I gave him the whole history. What a forgetful man
he must be. I will write it out and send it him."
"Tell me," said Boodles. "How could you say that you picked me up on
your doorstep, and never knew where I had come from?"
"It's a long story, my darling. I don't fancy I can remember it now."
The old man wondered where he had put that precious piece of paper.
"Don't squeeze my foot so. Who was my mother? Do you really know who my
mother was?"
"Tita, we called her that for short, Katherine, Mary--no, that's you.
I've got it all written down somewhere. I must tell her the same story.
Shall I light the lamp and find it?"
"You must remember. Are you my mother's father?" she asked impatiently.
"Wait a moment, Boodle-oodle. These sudden questions confuse me so. Mr.
Bellamie would know. I told him. Yes, it was your mother. Miss Lascelles
was her name, and I married her in Switzerland. We stayed at that hotel
where Gubbings wrote his history of the world, and we fell out of a boat
on Lake Geneva, and she was never heard of again."
"Where was I?" cried Boodles, knowing that impatience would only perplex
him more.
"You were not born, darling. It was a long time after that when you were
born, and your father was Canon Lascelles of Hendon."
"Dear old man, don't be so agitated," she said, putting out a hand to
stroke his whiskers. "You are so puzzled you don't know what you are
saying. How could my mother be drowned before I was born?"
"No, no, darling, you misunderstand me. It was my wife who disappeared
mysteriously, not your mother."
"My mother was your daughter. That's one thing I want to know," said
perplexed Boodles.
"Tita, we called her Tita for short," he said, glad of one fact of which
he was certain.
"And my father, Canon Lascelles--really? A real canon, a man with a sort
of title?" she cried, with a little joyous gasp.
"He's in British Honduras. I think that was the place--"
"Alive! My father alive!" cried Boodles. "And you never told me before!
Why haven't I seen him? Why doesn't he write to me? Oh, I think you have
been cruel to me, telling me those wild stories of how I came to you,
keeping the truth from me all these years."
Old Weevil sat at her feet, not knowing whether to laugh or cry. He was
protecting Boodles, giving her happiness, he thought; but when he heard
that cry it suggested to him that his false story might bring her in the
end more sorrow than the truth. He could not go back now that he had
gone so far. A lie is a rapid breeder of lies; and old Weevil, with his
lack of memory, and natural instinct for the truth, was a man singularly
ill-fitted for fictions. He had overlooked a great many things in his
wild desire to make the child happy. It had never occurred to him that
she would feel a natural love for her parents.
"I wanted to be kind to you, Boodles," he quavered. "I kept the truth
from you because there were good reasons."
"What were they?"
"I can't tell you, darling," he answered truly. "You must not ask me,"
he said firmly, because she had touched upon a mystery which his
inventive faculties were quite incapable of solving.
"And my mother--where is she?"
"Oh, she is dead," said Weevil cheerfully. He was not going to have any
trouble with the mother, and he was sorry he had not killed the father
too. "I told you she was drowned mysteriously."
"That was your wife, my grandmother. You are not playing with me? You
are not deceiving me?" said Boodles pitifully.
"I'm trying to tell you, only it is all mixed up. It happened so long
ago, and the Brute has worried me so much since that I don't seem able
to remember anything very clearly. Your mother went out of the hotel one
day, and never came back."
"Where?"
"Lausanne, the hotel where--"
"But she may be alive still," interrupted the child.
"Oh no, darling. Quite impossible. She was never heard of again, and it
was nearly thirty years ago."
"Don't ramble. You are wandering off again. How could it be thirty years
ago, when I'm only just eighteen?"
Weevil admitted the difficulty, and replied that he had been thinking
just then of his wife. She would keep mixing herself up with the girl's
mother.
"Now I'm getting at it," said Boodles, with a kind of fierce
seriousness. "My mother is supposed to be dead. My father is in British
Honduras--"
"British Guiana," corrected Weevil.
"Are you sure?"
"Almost certain. I looked it up on the map. I wish I had that piece of
paper," the poor old man muttered.
"Well, it does not matter much for the present. You say my mother was
Miss Lascelles, and my father was Canon Lascelles; but if my mother was
your daughter her name would have been Weevil."
"So it was, my dear," he cried, with a new inspiration, "at least it
would have been if--if--I mean, darling, my name is really Lascelles,
only I changed it to Weevil when I lost my fortune."
"Why ever couldn't you have told me all this before? How is it that
Canon Lascelles had the same name as you? Was he a relation?"
"Yes, darling, first cousin," he faltered, wondering if the story
resembled that which he had told to Mr. Bellamie.
"So my name is really Lascelles?"
"Titania Lascelles. But there are a lot of others. I was nearly
forgetting them. You have a whole string of names, but I can't remember
them now, except Katherine and Mary--ah, yes, and there was Fitzalan. I
never could understand why they called you Fitzalan. I've got them all
written down somewhere, and I'll read them to you presently. We called
you Tita after your mother, but I got into the way of calling you
Boodles, which means beautiful, and have never got out of it."
"You told all this to Mr. Bellamie?" asked Boodles excitedly.
"I think so. I tried to," said Weevil hopefully.
"Then what does he mean by saying I am of low birth and have no name?"
she cried indignantly.
"Perhaps he did not understand. Perhaps he hadn't grasped it. I tell a
story very badly, dear."
That point could not be disputed, and the child seized upon it eagerly.
There was no telling what wild rambling statements her grandfather might
have poured into the ears of Aubrey's father. But she could tell him now
she was quite a well-born little dame, and had a splendid name which was
all her own, and she was really good enough for Aubrey after all. She
put her head back upon the cushion and began to laugh because she was
happy, the day was ending nicely, and she believed the story would end
nicely too. She had cried because Aubrey was going away and for no other
reason; at one time that afternoon she had not been sure of it, she had
almost been afraid that the tears had been brought on by Mr. Bellamie's
evil suggestions about her birth; but now she knew that she could hold
up her nose with the best of them. She was accustomed to Weevil's
eccentric language, his contradictions gave her no suspicions; she
swallowed the rambling story whole and wanted more. There were so many
questions to be asked and answered. She thought she would write to
Aubrey and sign herself Titania Lascelles with great flourishes.
"I am glad to hear you laughing, Boodles," said Weevil tenderly.
The poor old man was far from the laughing mood. He was indeed getting
frightened at what he had done, and was wondering how he could carry it
on, and how the story would end. Left to himself he would not have told
the child anything; but she had caught him in an unguarded moment with a
direct question, and he had been forced to answer without time to
prepare himself by another rehearsal in private. He had hardly expected
her to take things so seriously, forgetting how much the story meant to
her, so utterly obsessed was his mind with the one great idea, which was
her preservation from the Brute. Love blinds every one. The young it
dazzles, like the sun low down on the horizon, so that they see no
faults. Into the eyes of the old it flings dust to prevent them from
seeing the end of the road.
"Now we must light the lamp and have supper," he said drearily, gently
removing the child's other boot and pressing her warm little foot in his
cold loving hand.
"I don't want lamps or suppers," she sighed. "What is that light, over
in the corner?"
"I think it is the moon shining in between the curtains."
"The wind has got up. It's howling. I don't care, for I've got a name.
I'm not Boodles Blank any more. I'm tired and happy."
"I have given you a little happiness. Boodles?" he quavered.
"Heavensfull. You have always been a funny old daddy-man, and now that
you are my grand-daddy-man you are funnier than ever. Fancy keeping me
in the dark all the time! To-morrow you must tell me everything. What
was my mother like? Go on. Tell me a lot about my mother."
"I don't know, Boodles--I mean I can't think to-night."
Weevil had left her, and was tumbling about the room, knocking himself
against things and groaning. He was beginning to understand that his
efforts to destroy the Brute might only end by investing him with new
powers. But the child was happy, and that was everything; she was
singing to herself, and laughing, and thinking of her mother; not the
mother who had tied her up in fern and flung her at his door, but the
mother who existed only in his fantastic brain. Suppose Mr. Bellamie had
found it out. But that was impossible, for nobody knew except that
unknown mother and himself. He was doing what was right. His little maid
was perfectly happy then. Sufficient for that day was the happiness
thereof. There was just one trouble remaining--the problem of Mr.
Bellamie's incredulity. Why had he not accepted the story which she was
so ready to believe? Eccentric manner and contradictory statements did
not explain everything. Mr. Bellamie had no right to put the whole story
aside just because it had been badly told.
"I can tell you, Boodles. I have just found it out," he cried out of the
darkness with a miserable sort of triumph. "There has been a lot of
scandal about you, which I have never troubled to answer, and Mr.
Bellamie has heard it, and finds it easier to believe than what I told
him. There is the Brute again. He makes people prefer scandal to the
truth. Nobody knows how you came to me, and so they invented a story to
suit them. Everybody knows that story, and as I have not denied it Mr.
Bellamie believes it is true. I think I'll write to him to-morrow."
"How did I come to you?" asked Boodles.
"It's a long story," he faltered. "I can't tell you now because I am
feeling so tired. I shall have to think about it all night," he
muttered.
"Why did you make up that queer story about finding me one night at your
door?"
"That is true. Your father chose that way of sending you to me," he said
lamely. "I kept the truth from you because I was afraid you might not
want to stay with me if you knew everything. Your father wished you to
be kept in ignorance. I was going to tell you on your twenty-first
birthday."
"You needn't have told me you thought I was a poor woman's child," she
said reproachfully.
"I am very sorry, darling. I won't do it again," the poor old creature
promised.
Boodles jumped up, pattered to the window, and flung aside the curtains.
The room was flooded at once with moonlight, and she could feel the wind
coming through the chinks. Weevil looked up patiently, and she saw his
weary old eyes and wrinkled face, ghastly in that light. It struck her
he was looking very worn and ill.
"You are dreadful tired," she said very tenderly.
"Yes, Boodles, the noise of the wind makes me feel very tired."
"I am not Boodles now. That was my baby-name. I am Tita. And the
others--Katherine, Mary--what are the rest?"
"I don't know, dear. I will try and think to-morrow."
"I won't tease you, but there is so much I want to know. Poor great big
old grand-daddy-man, you look quite dead."
He shuffled towards her, put his arms round her, and began to make
noises as if he was in pain. "I am tired and weak. That is all, darling,
and the rabbit in the trap made me sick. I am weak and old and very
tired, and I know I have done no good in my life. Shut it out, my
maid--shut it out."
It was the prospect which he wanted shut out. They could see the bare
stretch of moor, upon it the moon shining, and over it the wind rushing.
There is nothing more dreary than a windy moonlit night upon the moor,
filled with its own emptiness of sound, suggestive of wild motion and
yet motionless, covered with light that is not light.
"It is like a lonely life," said Weevil bitterly.
Boodles dropped the curtains and tried to laugh. She did not like the
look on the old man's face.
"The lonely life has gone," she said. "Now we will have some light."
Weevil shuffled after her, muttering to himself: "You have done it,
Abel-Cain. You must keep it up. You must hold the Brute off her somehow,
or she may have to go out, into the windy moonlight, into the lonely
life."