BEKE
Professor Septimus Puckle must have been considerably over sixty
years of age, a burly, slouching figure, moving with a ponderous and
pompous gait; he had a grey beard, two shallow little brown eyes, and
a dome-shaped head covered by a soft cap--he also wore a roomy suit
of creased black-and-white flannel, and elastic-side boots. In these
days, Lizzie, his niece, seemed elderly to me--possibly she may have
been about forty. Her figure was remarkably pretty, and her sharp,
clever face was illuminated by a pair of bright eyes which shone
steadily behind a pince-nez. Perhaps her manner was somewhat abrupt and
authoritative, but Lizzie was a capable and cultivated woman, with a
level head and warm heart.
“So here you are!” began the professor; “we have come out to look for
you.”
“Thanks awfully,” replied my brother, “but there’s not much fear of
being lost in these parts, as apparently there is only one road.”
“Oh, we have others--several others,” protested Lizzie. “Where is
Kipper?” now looking about. “We must be getting back to tea, as I have
a choir practice at half-past five,” and she screamed “Kipper! Kipper!
Kipper!”
After a momentary delay, Kipper emerged from under the bridge a
deplorable object, dripping with muddy water, and immediately proceeded
to shake himself in our vicinity.
“Get away! get away!” shouted the professor, making a drive at him with
his stick.
“Oh, poor boy!” I interposed, “he has been hunting rats, and having
such a happy time.”
“Yes, that’s all he thinks of, the horrid brute. I hate the sight of
him,” declared his master.
“Uncle Sep loved him till you came, Eva, and cut him out in Kipper’s
affections.”
We had now turned homewards, that is to say, in the direction from
where the dagger-like spire of Beke church rose from the plain, and
were walking four abreast, adapting our pace to the professor’s
self-conscious waddle, with the humbled Kipper skulking in our wake.
“Yes,” continued Uncle Sep in his deep, scholastic voice, “I don’t mind
telling you, when the fellow was a pup I tolerated him, took him round
the garden, suffered him to lie at my fire, and even gave him milk;
and for thanks, he tore up my new slippers and several most important
papers. I even forgave him that!” emphasising such generosity with
a large, fat hand. “But when Eva arrived he simply turned me down,
ignored my existence, never answered when I called him, no, no more
than if I was a piece of furniture; to be dropped by a dog makes one
rather small!”
“I am sure you could never feel that!” protested Ronnie with dangerous
frivolity.
“Well, but, Uncle Sep,” hastily interposed Lizzie, “you know Eva takes
Kip for long runs over the marshes, she brushes him, makes up his
dinner--_your_ friendship was merely passive.”
“He was glad enough of it once,” rejoined the injured patron; “but two
can play at that game. Now I never open a door for him--on principle.”
“So you have your innings!” exclaimed my irrepressible brother, “and
I am sure you have something else to do than wait on a cold-hearted
terrier. By the way, how do you put in your time? Do you play golf?”
“Golf? No--do I look like golf?” The professor halted, and leaning both
hands on his stick, challenged an opinion.
“Well, no,” admitted Ronnie. “You look more like fishing--lots of
sitting--eh?”
“I sit at my desk, my good sir, I fish for ideas. I write poetry,
articles, reviews. ‘My mind to me a kingdom is’--_I_ require no outside
interests.”
“No; but what about outside exercise?”
“Exercise!” repeated the professor; “the world is crazy on that
subject. I was brought up to a sedentary life; even at school I never
went in for games, but was always keen on brain work. For years I was
Lecturer and Professor of Classics and English Literature. Now I have
retired my time is my own. I am enjoying the luxury of leisure, and I
don’t mind telling you that in my lighter mood I write plays.”
“Plays!” echoed Ronnie, staring at the professor with blank
incredulity. “By George, do you?”
“Yes, I have one now, a four-act comedy, under consideration at the
Metropolitan Theatre. Just at present I am hard at work on the history
of Slacklands and our local folk-lore.”
The mere mention of the subject loosened the professor’s tongue, and
all the way home--and almost without drawing breath--he held forth on
this topic in a full, monotonous voice, and with a fierce determination
that would brook no interruption. Ronnie, poor victim, was helpless,
so to speak, benumbed, by such an unusual experience; and I could not
help smiling to myself as I glanced at his face of furious boredom. Our
arrival at the village of Beke put an end to the lecture. The professor
could not well continue declaiming and ranting in public--as was his
custom in his own garden--and the sight of the first cottage was the
signal for our release. Beke, a dreary old village, which had seen
better days, consisted of one long, clean street, lined with irregular
red-roofed houses, some of a great age. Half-way up the thoroughfare
stood the church, a notable edifice, with flying buttresses, surrounded
by the tombstones of its dead parishioners. Facing the church was
the “Beetle Inn,” a crooked black-and-white hostelry, which kept the
only fly in the country; farther on, the Parsonage and “The Roost”
confronted one another; the latter, a trim, red, Georgian residence,
was approached by a brick path across a small enclosure, at present gay
with a multitude of pink and lilac phlox.
Outwardly “The Roost” was insignificant, within both roomy and
comfortable. The walls were wainscoted, the fireplaces of generous
space. The doors of the principal rooms were of rich South American
mahogany, and most of the furniture was quaint and old-fashioned: in
former days “The Roost” had been the abode of taste and leisure. Now,
alas! times were sadly changed.
The professor had ample leisure but no taste; his niece had a
cultivated taste but no leisure--all her spare hours were dedicated to
the parson and the parish.
Undoubtedly these changes had been anticipated, for a deeply cut
carving on a panel in the passage said:
“All terrene things by turns we see
Become another’s property.
Mine now must be another’s soon,
I know not whose, when I am gone;
An earthly house is bound to none.”
A glass door at the back of the hall opened upon an unexpectedly large
garden, gently sloping to the sluggish river; here there were long
gravel walks--worn bare by the professor’s pacing--bordered with box
and old standard roses. Here was also a notable mulberry tree, several
rustic seats, and a sundial on which was inscribed, “Time will tell.”
That evening a full white moon illuminated the land, and after dinner
Ronnie and I effected our escape, and strolled to and fro arm in arm
along the professor’s pet walk; this would be our last hour together.
“I cannot stand that slovenly old bore,” said Ronnie. “Did you notice
the ink on his fingers and the crumbs in his beard? I don’t know which
is the worst--his drivelling talk or his appearance. I wonder he hasn’t
driven you mad long ago. I’ve only been here two days, and already my
reason is tottering. Does he _never_ stop talking?”
“Sometimes,” I replied, “when he is not pleased and sulks.”
“Is it really true that he writes plays?”
“Yes, for his own entertainment. They are never accepted. He spends
lots of money on dramatic agents, typewriting, and so on, and, as a
great favour, he generally reads the plays to me.”
“You long-suffering martyr! I should certainly kick at that.”
“They are not so bad; it is his poetry that I cannot endure--so
sickeningly sweet, it makes me feel positively squeamish! Sometimes he
brings it to meals and reads it between the courses, and says, ‘Lizzie
and Eva, you must really hear this, it is _delicious_.’”
“What lunacy!” cried Ronnie. “It seems to me you would be just as well
off in an asylum for idiots.”
“By no means,” I objected; “the professor is as dull as a wet Sunday,
but Lizzie is immensely clever, a thorough musician, speaks French like
a native, and has no end of certificates. She was governess in the
family of a Russian Grand Duke before she went to Torrington. Besides,
I am really fond of her; I think she finds Uncle Sep trying at times,
and after he has read me a play she will say, ‘Now don’t pretend you
liked it, Eva--speak the truth. Tell him it is just wordy _rubbish_!
I implore you not to encourage him; as long as he writes letters and
poetry for the _Slacklands Post_ it is all right, but the plays burn a
hole in his pocket.’ He is really not a bad old boy--rather simple and
weak, in spite of his fierce eyebrows--anyone, even a child, can lead
him by flattery.”
“I wish I saw my way to leading you out of this hole,” said Ronnie;
“my visit has been a shocker; if they would only have you at
Torrington--but I suppose that as long as those girls are unmarried you
will be what I may call ‘reserved.’”
“I have no wish to go to Torrington,” I replied. “Beke may be dull, but
here I don’t live in fear and trembling of anyone. I wonder why Aunt
Mina, who detests me, is so friendly to you?”
“I think I can answer that,” rejoined Ronnie. “I am a Lingard--quite
the family type--ears and all. I am self-supporting, I have four
hundred a year, I have done pretty well for myself so far, and I am in
a crack regiment. Also I can shoot and dance, make myself useful in a
house party, and do not--like my pretty sister--extinguish the girls or
fascinate Bev--quite the contrary, so far as he is concerned; moreover,
should anything happen to that long-necked young pup, I am the next
heir. When I told Aunt Mina I was coming here she was inclined to be
apologetic, and said she was so sorry that Torrington did not agree
with you, and that she had settled you at Beke solely on account of
your health and education, as they had found you extraordinarily young
and unformed for your age. Tell me, Sis, how do you put in your time
when you are not doing lessons?”
“Oh, I dust the china, practise, go for long walks with Kipper, poke
round the village among my friends, and play tennis with the Soadys,
who sometimes give me a mount. On wet days I help Clarice to clean the
silver, and besides all this I read a lot. I’ve unearthed no end of old
books in a closet, some horribly musty, and printed with those long
S’s. I’ve just been devouring a fearsome tale, called ‘Sir Lancelot
Graves’--it’s all about a ghost in armour.”
“Oh, bother ghosts and books!” interrupted Ronnie impatiently. “Have
you no people of your own class around here?”
“There are one or two big places,” I answered, “but the Darlingfords
and the De Veres would not dream of visiting at ‘The Roost.’ Lizzie was
only a finishing governess, and Uncle Sep was never a real professor;
he is called that hereabouts, and he likes it, and has come to believe
in it himself.”
“And have you no variety at all?” Ronnie’s tone was despairing.
“Yes, twice a year we spend a riotous fortnight in London. We stay at a
Bayswater boarding-house that calls itself a private hotel, which the
Puckles always patronise. Lizzie and I stare into windows and compare
opinions, do a little shopping and go to concerts. Sep spends most of
his time in theatres and worries managers with his plays.”
For some moments after this announcement Ronnie sat beside me in dead
silence, then suddenly he sprang to his feet and began to walk to and
fro along the professor’s well-beaten track; at last he came to a halt
and said:
“Eva, I had no idea of all this! You always write such cheery
letters--even that time in London you were mum. It is thundering bad
luck that I’m obliged to be off so soon. However _something_ has got to
be done. Uncle Horace must find you a more suitable home. Look here, I
have just hit on an idea! I shall suggest your going out to India as a
P.G.--paying guest, you know--lots of girls do that, and Anglo-Indians
are glad enough of the coin now that everything is so expensive. Of
course the people you go to must be top hole--that is understood. Aunt
Mina is a wonderful woman for references and position, and I believe
you will get along famously; you can dance and sing and ride, and
chatter nineteen to the dozen. You and I will be on the same continent,
which will be a change. I shall offer to pay your passage, and I expect
Aunt Mina will be so glad to be rid of you that she will give you a
ripping outfit--what do you think of my idea?”
“Oh, Ronnie,” I exclaimed, “it is too splendid for words. How did it
enter your head?”
“It came into my head just now as I walked up and down and saw you
crouched here on the garden seat, and thought of you cooped up in that
gloomy old house, with the sham professor, the clerical governess, and
the great empty, ugly country that cuts you off from all the world--and
you only nineteen! Before I go to sleep this very night I shall write
Uncle Horace a letter that will make things move.”
“I doubt if your letter will move Aunt Mina or remove me! Ronnie,
wouldn’t it be lovely if I could go out and keep house for you--I am
such a clever manager?”
“My dear, crazy child, if the colonel were to hear you he would have
fits. He bars married officers and----”
“Is married himself,” I interrupted impatiently.
“Well, the fact is, _she_ married him. Away from the regiment, he fell
a prey, like Samson minus his hair. She was an old maid, a squiress,
with a long pedigree and a large fortune. She was sick of her village
and schools, and of unflinching determination to see the world; she
met ‘James’ at a dinner party, and, so to speak, nailed him! She’s a
rattling good sort I must confess, entertains a lot, mothers what she
calls ‘her boys,’ and keeps us as well as she can under her own eye.”
“And he?”
“Is wrapped up in the regiment, its past glories, its present fitness,
and its future exploits. ‘James,’ as we call him, is as hard as
flint, and as tough as boot leather; the orderly room and parade
ground are his real home; he looks black on married couples and, if
possible, hurls them to the depot. If a subaltern were to adventure on
matrimony, all I can say is, that I would be sorry for him--and if I
were to turn up with a pretty sister I expect it would be a case of a
court-martial!”
“What a narrow-minded, detestable tyrant!” I exclaimed.
“Yes, but very civil in civil life; he plays a good game of billiards,
and is prominent in square dances with ‘Burra mems.’ Apart from
soldiering he is delightfully tame, and will, so to speak, eat out of
your hand.”
“What is a Burra mem?” I inquired.
“You will know soon enough when you get east of Suez.”
“Ah, if I ever do, perhaps you will see that my presentiment will come
true, and that we shall be together always.”
“No such luck,” rejoined Ronnie. “Even if I do succeed in transplanting
you I am afraid it will be a case of ‘so near and yet so far,’ though,
of course, wherever you may be I shall fly to see you. Now I am off to
write a scorcher to Uncle Horace.”
“It is awfully good of you, Ronnie, but I am afraid you will find you
have only wasted your time and a penny stamp,” I replied as I followed
him into “The Roost.” Nevertheless, in spite of my dismal forebodings,
that night I lay awake for hours thinking over Ronnie’s plan, and when
at last I fell asleep I dreamt of India.