The Golden Quoribus
Edith had been very pretty at twenty, but at twenty-eight her
prettiness had immensely increased; she had really become a beauty of a
particularly troubling type. She had long, deep blue eyes, clearly-cut
features, hair of that soft, fine light brown just tinged with red
called by the French châtain clair; and a flower-like complexion. She
was slim, but not angular, and had a reposeful grace and a decided
attraction for both men and women. They generally tried to express this
fascination by discovering resemblances in her to various well-known
pictures of celebrated artists. She had been compared to almost every
type of all the great painters: Botticelli, Sir Peter Lely,
Gainsborough, Burne-Jones. Some people said she was like a Sargent,
others called her a post-impressionist type; there was no end to the
old and new masters of whom she seemed to remind people; and she
certainly had the rather insidious charm of somehow recalling the past
while suggesting something undiscovered in the future. There was a good
deal that was enigmatic about her. It was natural, not assumed as a
pose of mysteriousness. She was not all on the surface: not obvious.
One wondered. Was she capable of any depth of feeling? Was she always
just sweet and tactful and clever, or could there be another side to
her character? Had she (for instance) a temperament? This question was
considered one of interest,--so Edith had a great many admirers. Some
were new and fickle, others were old and faithful. She had never yet
shown more than a conversational interest in any of them, but always
seemed to be laughing with a soft mockery at her own success.
Edith was not a vain woman, not even much interested in dress, though
she had a quick eye and a sure impressionistic gift for it. She was
always an immense favourite with women, who felt subconsciously
grateful to her for her wonderful forbearance. To have the power and
not to use it! To be so pretty, yet never _to take_ _anyone away_!--not
even coldly display her conquests. But this liking she did not, as a
rule, return in any decided fashion. She had dreadfully little to say
to the average woman, except to a few intimate friends, and frankly
preferred the society of the average man, although she had not as yet
developed a taste for coquetry, for which she had, however, many
natural gifts. She was much taken up by Bruce, by Archie and Dilly, and
was fond of losing herself in ideas and in books, and in various
artistic movements and fads in which her interest was cultivated and
perhaps inspired by Vincy. Vincy was her greatest friend and confidant.
He was really a great safety-valve, and she told him nearly every
thought.
Still, Archie was, so far, her greatest interest. He was a particularly
pretty boy, and she was justified in thinking him rather unusual. At
this period he spent a considerable amount of his leisure time not only
in longing to see real animals, but in inventing and drawing pictures
of non-existent ones--horrible creatures, or quaint creatures, for
which he found the strangest names. He told Dilly about them, but Dilly
was not his audience--she was rather his confidante and literary
adviser; or even sometimes his collaborator. His public consisted
principally of his mother. It was a convention that Edith should be
frightened, shocked and horrified at the creatures of his imagination,
while Dilly privately revelled in their success. Miss Townsend, the
governess, was rather coldly ignored in this matter. She had a way of
speaking of the animals with a smile, as a nice occupation to keep the
children quiet. She did not understand.
'Please, Madam, would you kindly go into the nursery; Master Archie
wishes you to come and hear about the golden--something he's just made
up like,' said Dilly's nurse with an expression of resignation.
Edith jumped up at once.
'Oh dear! Tell Master Archie I'm coming.'
She ran into the nursery and found Archie and Dilly both looking rather
excited; Archie, fairly self-controlled, with a paper in his hand on
which was a rough sketch which he would not let her see, and hid behind
him.
'Mother,' Archie began in a low, solemn voice, rather slowly, 'the
golden quoribus is the most horrible animal, the most awful-looking
animal, you ever heard of in _your_ life!'
'Oh-h-h! How awful!' said Edith, beginning to shiver. 'Wait a
moment--let me sit down quietly and hear about it.'
She sat down by the fire and clasped her hands, looking at him with a
terrified expression which was part of the ritual.
Dilly giggled, and put her thumb in her mouth, watching the effect with
widely opened eyes.
'Much more awful than the gazeka, of course, I suppose?' Edith said
rather rashly.
'Much,' said Dilly.
'(Be quiet, Dilly!) Mother!' he was reproachful, 'what do you mean? The
gazeka? Why--the gazeka's nothing at all--it's a rotten little animal.
It doesn't count. Besides, it isn't real--it never was real. Gazeka,
indeed!'
'Oh, I beg your pardon,' said Edith repentantly; 'do go on.'
'No... the golden quoribus is far-ar-r-r-r more frightening even than
the jilbery. Do you remember how awful _that_ was? And much larger.'
'What! Worse than the jilbery! Oh, good gracious! How dreadful! What's
it like?'
'First of all--it's as long as from here to Brighton,' said Archie.
'A little longer,' said Dilly.
'(Shut up, miss!) As long. It's called the golden quoribus because it's
bright gold, except the bumps; and the bumps are green.'
'Bright green,' said Dilly.
'(Oh, will you hold your tongue, Dilly?) Green.'
'How terrible!... And what shape is it?'
'All pointed and sharp, and three-cornered.'
'Does it breathe fire?' asked Edith.
Archie smiled contemptuously.
'Breathe fire! Oh, Mother! Do you think it's a silly dragon in a fairy
story? Of course it doesn't. How can it breathe fire?'
'Sorry,' said Edith apologetically. 'Go on.'
'_But_, the peculiar thing about it, besides that it lives entirely on
muffins and mutton and the frightening part, I'm coming to now.' He
became emphatic, and spoke slowly. 'The golden quoribus has more claws
than any... other... animal... in the whole world!'
'Oh-h-h,' she shuddered.
'Yes,' said Archie solemnly. 'It has large claws coming out of its
head.'
'Its head! Good gracious!'
'It has claws here and claws there; claws coming out of the eyes; and
claws coming out of the ears; and claws coming out of its shoulders;
and claws coming out of the forehead!'
Edith shivered with fright and held up her hands in front of her eyes
to ward off the picture.
'And claws coming out of the mouth,' said Archie, coming a step nearer
to her and raising his voice.
Edith jumped.
'And claws coming out of the hands, and claws coming out of the feet!'
'Yes,' said Dilly, wildly and recklessly and jumping up and down, 'and
claws on the ceiling, and claws on the floor, and claws all over the
world!'
With one violent slap she was sent sprawling.
Shrieks, sobs and tears filled the quiet nursery.
'I know,' said Archie, when he had been persuaded to apologise, 'of
course I know a gentleman oughtn't to hit a lady, not even--I mean,
especially not if she's his little sister. But oh, Mother, ought a lady
to interrupt a story?'
When Edith told Vincy he entirely took Archie's side.
Suppose Sargent were painting a beautiful picture, and one of his
pupils, snatching the paint-brush from him, insisted on finishing it,
and spoiling it--how would he like it? Imagine a poet who had just
written a great poem, and been interrupted in reciting it by someone
who quickly finished it off all wrong! The author might be forgiven
under such circumstances if in his irritation he took a strong line. In
Vincy's opinion it served Dilly jolly well right. Young? Of course she
was young, but four (he said) was not a day too soon to begin to learn
to respect the work of the artist. Edith owned that Archie was not
easily exasperated and was as a rule very patient with the child. Bruce
took an entirely different view. He was quite gloomy about it and
feared that Archie showed every sign of growing up to be an Apache.