Mary's poor pretentious babe screamed continually, with a note of
exultation in his din, as if he thought he was devoting himself to a
life of pleasure, and often the last sound I heard as I got me out of
the street was his haw-haw-haw, delivered triumphantly as if it were
some entirely new thing, though he must have learned it like a parrot. I
had not one tear for the woman, but Poor father, thought I; to know that
every time your son is happy you are betrayed. Phew, a nauseous draught.
I have the acquaintance of a deliciously pretty girl, who is always
sulky, and the thoughtless beseech her to be bright, not witting wherein
lies her heroism. She was born the merriest of maids, but, being a
student of her face, learned anon that sulkiness best becomes it, and so
she has struggled and prevailed. A woman's history. Brave Margaret, when
night falls and thy hair is down, dost thou return, I wonder, to thy
natural state, or, dreading the shadow of indulgence, sleepest thou even
sulkily?
But will a male child do as much for his father? This remains to be
seen, and so, after waiting several months, I decided to buy David a
rocking-horse. My St. Bernard dog accompanied me, though I have always
been diffident of taking him to toy-shops, which over-excite him.
Hitherto the toys I had bought had always been for him, and as we durst
not admit this to the saleswoman we were both horribly self-conscious
when in the shop. A score of times I have told him that he had much
better not come, I have announced fiercely that he is not to come. He
then lets go of his legs, which is how a St. Bernard sits down, making
the noise of a sack of coals suddenly deposited, and, laying his head
between his front paws, stares at me through the red haws that make his
eyes so mournful. He will do this for an hour without blinking, for he
knows that in time it will unman me. My dog knows very little, but what
little he does know he knows extraordinarily well. One can get out of my
chambers by a back way, and I sometimes steal softly--but I can't
help looking back, and there he is, and there are those haws asking
sorrowfully, “Is this worthy of you?”
“Curse you,” I say, “get your hat,” or words to that effect.
He has even been to the club, where he waddles up the stairs so exactly
like some respected member that he makes everybody most uncomfortable.
I forget how I became possessor of him. I think I cut him out of an old
number of Punch. He costs me as much as an eight-roomed cottage in the
country.
He was a full-grown dog when I first, most foolishly, introduced him
to toys. I had bought a toy in the street for my own amusement. It
represented a woman, a young mother, flinging her little son over her
head with one hand and catching him in the other, and I was entertaining
myself on the hearth-rug with this pretty domestic scene when I heard
an unwonted sound from Porthos, and, looking up, I saw that noble and
melancholic countenance on the broad grin. I shuddered and was for
putting the toy away at once, but he sternly struck down my arm with
his, and signed that I was to continue. The unmanly chuckle always
came, I found, when the poor lady dropped her babe, but the whole thing
entranced him; he tried to keep his excitement down by taking huge
draughts of water; he forgot all his niceties of conduct; he sat in holy
rapture with the toy between his paws, took it to bed with him, ate it
in the night, and searched for it so longingly next day that I had to go
out and buy him the man with the scythe. After that we had everything of
note, the bootblack boy, the toper with bottle, the woolly rabbit
that squeaks when you hold it in your mouth; they all vanished as
inexplicably as the lady, but I dared not tell him my suspicions, for he
suspected also and his gentle heart would have mourned had I confirmed
his fears.
The dame in the temple of toys which we frequent thinks I want them
for a little boy and calls him “the precious” and “the lamb,” the while
Porthos is standing gravely by my side. She is a motherly soul, but
over-talkative.
“And how is the dear lamb to-day?” she begins, beaming.
“Well, ma'am, well,” I say, keeping tight grip of his collar.
“This blighty weather is not affecting his darling appetite?”
“No, ma'am, not at all.” (She would be considerably surprised if
informed that he dined to-day on a sheepshead, a loaf, and three
cabbages, and is suspected of a leg of mutton.)
“I hope he loves his toys?”
“He carries them about with him everywhere, ma'am.” (Has the one we
bought yesterday with him now, though you might not think it to look at
him.)
“What do you say to a box of tools this time?”
“I think not, ma'am.”
“Is the deary fond of digging?”
“Very partial to digging.” (We shall find the leg of mutton some day.)
“Then perhaps a weeny spade and a pail?”
She got me to buy a model of Canterbury Cathedral once, she was so
insistent, and Porthos gave me his mind about it when we got home. He
detests the kindergarten system, and as she is absurdly prejudiced in
its favour we have had to try other shops. We went to the Lowther Arcade
for the rocking-horse. Dear Lowther Arcade! Ofttimes have we wandered
agape among thy enchanted palaces, Porthos and I, David and I, David and
Porthos and I. I have heard that thou art vulgar, but I cannot see how,
unless it be that tattered children haunt thy portals, those awful yet
smiling entrances to so much joy. To the Arcade there are two entrances,
and with much to be sung in laudation of that which opens from the
Strand I yet on the whole prefer the other as the more truly romantic,
because it is there the tattered ones congregate, waiting to see the
Davids emerge with the magic lamp. We have always a penny for them,
and I have known them, before entering the Arcade with it, retire (but
whither?) to wash; surely the prettiest of all the compliments that are
paid to the home of toys.
And now, O Arcade, so much fairer than thy West End brother, we are told
that thou art doomed, anon to be turned into an eating-house or a hive
for usurers, something rankly useful. All thy delights are under notice
to quit. The Noah's arks are packed one within another, with clockwork
horses harnessed to them; the soldiers, knapsack on back, are kissing
their hands to the dear foolish girls, who, however, will not be left
behind them; all the four-footed things gather around the elephant, who
is overful of drawing-room furniture; the birds flutter their wings; the
man with the scythe mows his way through the crowd; the balloons tug
at their strings; the ships rock under a swell of sail, everything is
getting ready for the mighty exodus into the Strand. Tears will be shed.
So we bought the horse in the Lowther Arcade, Porthos, who thought it
was for him, looking proud but uneasy, and it was sent to the bandbox
house anonymously. About a week afterward I had the ill-luck to meet
Mary's husband in Kensington, so I asked him what he had called his
little girl.
“It is a boy,” he replied, with intolerable good-humour, “we call him
David.”
And then with a singular lack of taste he wanted the name of my boy.