Mrs. George Touchwood--or as she was known on the stage, Miss Eleanor
Cartright--was big-boned, handsome, and hawklike, with the hungry look
of the ambitious actress who is drawing near to forty--she was in fact
thirty-seven--and realizes that the disappointed adventuresses of what
are called strong plays are as near as she will ever get to the tragedy
queens of youthful aspiration. Such an one accustomed to flash her dark
eyes in defiance of a morally but not esthetically hostile gallery and
to have the whole of a stage for the display of what well-disposed
critics hailed as vitality and cavaliers condemned as lack of repose,
such an one in John's tranquil library was, as Mrs. Worfolk put it,
"rather too much of a good thing and no mistake"; and when Eleanor was
there, John experienced as much malaise as he would have experienced
from being shut up in a housemaid's closet with a large gramophone and
the housemaid. This claustrophobia, however, was the smallest strain
that his sister-in-law inflicted upon him; she affected his heart and
his conscience more acutely, because he could never meet her without a
sensation of guilt on account of his not yet having found a part for her
in any of his plays, to which was added the fear he always felt in her
presence that soon or late he should from sheer inability to hold out
longer award her the leading part in his play. George had often
seriously annoyed him by his unwillingness to help himself; but at the
thought of being married for thirteen years to Eleanor he had always
excused his brother's flaccid dependence.
"George is a bit of a sponge," James had once said, "but Eleanor!
Eleanor is the roughest and toughest loofah that was ever known. She is
irritant and absorbent at the same time, and by gad, she has the
appearance of a loofah."
The prospect of Eleanor's company at lunch on the morning after his
return to town gave John a sensation of having escaped the devil to fall
into the deep sea, of having jumped from the frying-pan into the fire,
in fact of illustrating every known proverbial attempt to express the
distinction without the difference.
"It's a great pity that Eleanor didn't marry Laurence," he thought.
"Each would have kept the other well under, and she could have played
Mary Magdalene in that insane play of his. And, by Jove, if they _had_
married, neither of them would have been a relation! Moreover, if
Laurence had been caught by Eleanor, Edith might never have married at
all and could have kept house for me. And if Edith hadn't married, Hilda
mightn't have married, and then Harold would never have been born."
John's hard pruning of his family-tree was interrupted by a sense of the
house's having been attacked by an angry mob--an illusion that he had
learnt to connect with his sister-in-law's arrival. To make sure,
however, he went out on the landing and called down to know if anything
was the matter.
"Mrs. George is having some trouble with the taxi-man, sir," explained
Maud, who was holding the front-door open and looking apprehensively at
the pictures that were clattering on the walls in the wind.
"Why does she take taxis?" John muttered, irritably. "She can't afford
them, and there's no excuse for such extravagance when the tube is so
handy."
At this moment Eleanor reached the door, on the threshold of which she
turned like Medea upon Jason to have the last word with the taxi-driver
before the curtain fell.
"Did Mr. Touchwood get my message?" she was asking.
"Yes, yes," John called down. "I'm expecting you to lunch."
When he watched Eleanor all befurred coming upstairs, he felt not much
less nervous than a hunter of big game face to face with his first
tiger; the landing seemed to wobble like a howdah; now he had fired and
missed, and she was embracing him as usual. How many times at how many
meetings with Eleanor had he tried unsuccessfully to dodge that
kiss--which always seemed improper whether because her lips were too
red, or too full, he could never decide, though he always felt when he
was released that he ought to beg her husband's pardon.
"You were an old beast not to come and see us when you got back from
America; but never mind, I'm awfully glad to see you, all the same."
"Thank you very much, Eleanor. Why are you glad?"
"Oh, you sarcastic old bear!"
This perpetual suggestion of his senility was another trick of Eleanor's
that he deplored; dash it, he was two years younger than George, whom
she called Georgieboy.
"No, seriously," Eleanor went on. "I was just going to wire and ask if I
could send the kiddies down to the country. Lambton wants me for a six
weeks' tour before Xmas, and I can't leave them with Georgie. You see,
if this piece catches on, it means a good shop for me in the new year."
"Yes, I quite understand your point of view," John said. "But what I
don't understand is why Bertram and Viola can't stay with their father."
"But George is ill. Surely you got my letter?"
"I didn't realize that the presence of his children might prove fatal.
However, send them down to Ambles by all means."
"Oh, but I'd much rather not after the way Hilda wrote to me, and now
that you've come back there's no need."
"I don't quite understand."
"Well, you won't mind having them here for a short visit? Then they can
go down to Ambles for the Christmas holidays."
"But the Christmas holidays won't begin for at least six weeks."
"I know."
"But you don't propose that Bertram and Viola should spend six weeks
here?"
"They'll be no bother, you old crosspatch. Bertram will be at school all
day, and I suppose that Maud or Elsa will always be available to take
Viola to her dancing-lessons. You remember the dancing-lessons you
arranged for?"
"I remember that I accepted the arrangement," said John.
"Well, she's getting on divinely, and it would be a shame to interrupt
them just now, especially as she's in the middle of a Spanish series.
Her _cachucha_ is ..." Eleanor could only blow a kiss to express what
Viola's _cachucha_ was. "But then, of course, I had a Spanish
grandmother."
When John regarded her barbaric personality he could have credited her
with being the granddaughter of a cannibal queen.
"So I thought that her governess could come here every morning just as
easily as to Earl's Court. In fact, it will be more convenient, or at
any rate, equally convenient for her, because she lives at Kilburn."
"I dare say it will be equally convenient for the governess," said John,
sardonically.
"And I thought," Eleanor continued, "that it would be a good opportunity
for Viola to have French lessons every afternoon. You won't want to have
her all the time with you, and the French governess can give the
children their tea. That will be good for Bertram's accent."
"I don't doubt that it will be superb for Bertram's accent, but I
absolutely decline to have a French governess bobbing in and out of my
house. It's bound to make trouble with the servants who always think
that French governesses are designing and licentious, and I don't want
to create a false impression."
"Well, aren't you an old prude? Who would ever think that you had any
sort of connection with the stage? By the way, you haven't told me if
there'll be anything for me in your next."
"Well, at present the subject of my next play is a secret ... and as for
the cast...."
John was so nearly on the verge of offering Eleanor the part of Mary of
Anjou, for which she would be as suitable as a giraffe, that in order to
effect an immediate diversion he asked her when the children were to
arrive.
"Let me see, to-day's Saturday. To-morrow I go down to Bristol, where we
open. They'd better come to-night, because to-morrow being Sunday
they'll have no lessons, which will give them time to settle down.
Georgie will be glad to know they're with you."
"I've no doubt he'll be enchanted," John agreed.
The bell sounded for lunch, and they went downstairs.
"I've got to be back at the theater by two," Eleanor announced, looking
at the horridly distorted watch upon her wrist. "I wonder if we mightn't
ask Maud to open half-a-bottle of champagne? I'm dreadfully tired."
John ordered a bottle to be opened; he felt rather tired himself.
"Let us be quite clear about this arrangement," he began, when after
three glasses of wine he felt less appalled by the prospect, and had
concluded that after all Bertram and Viola would not together be as bad
as Laurence with his play, not to mention Harold with his spectacles and
entomology, his interrogativeness and his greed. "The English governess
will arrive every morning for Viola. What is her name?"
"Miss Coldwell."
"Miss Coldwell then will be responsible for Viola all the morning. The
French governess is canceled, and I shall come to an arrangement with
Miss Coldwell by which she will add to her salary by undertaking all
responsibility for Viola until Viola is in bed. Bertram will go to
school, and I shall rely upon Miss Coldwell to keep an eye on his
behavior at home."
"And don't forget the dancing-lessons."
"No, I had Madame What's-her-name's account last week."
"I mean, don't forget to arrange for Viola to go."
"That pilgrimage will, I hope, form a part of what Miss Coldwell would
probably call 'extras.' And after all perhaps George will soon be fit."
"The poor old boy has been awfully seedy all the summer."
"What's he suffering from? Infantile paralysis?"
"It's all very well for you to joke about it, but you don't live in a
wretched boarding-house in Earl's Court. You mustn't let success spoil
you, John. It's so easy when everything comes your way to forget the
less fortunate people. Look at me. I'm thirty-four, you know."
"Are you really? I should never have thought it."
"I don't mind your laughing at me, you old crab. But I don't like you to
laugh at Georgie."
"I never do," John said. "I don't suppose that there's anybody alive who
takes George as seriously as I do."
Eleanor brushed away a tear and said she must get back to the rehearsal.
When she was gone John felt that he had been unkind, and he reproached
himself for letting Laurence make him cynical.
"The fact is," he told himself, "that ever since I heard Doris Hamilton
make that remark in the saloon of the _Murmania_, I've become suspicious
of my family. She began it, and then by ill luck I was thrown too much
with Laurence, who clinched it. Eleanor is right: I _am_ letting myself
be spoilt by success. After all, there's no reason why those two
children shouldn't come here. _They_ won't be writing plays about
apostles. I'll send George a box of cigars to show that I didn't mean to
sneer at him. And why didn't I offer to pay for Eleanor's taxi? Yes, I
am getting spoilt. I must watch myself. And I ought not to have joked
about Eleanor's age."
Luckily his sister-in-law had finished the champagne, for if John had
drunk another glass he might have offered her the part of the Maid
herself.
The actual arrival of Bertram and Viola passed off more successfully.
They were both presentable, and John was almost flattered when Mrs.
Worfolk commented on their likeness to him, remembering what a nightmare
it had always seemed when Hilda used to excavate points of resemblance
between him and Harold. Mrs. Worfolk herself was so much pleased to have
him back from Ambles that she was in the best of good humours, and even
the statuesque Maud flushed with life like some Galatea.
"I think Maud's a darling, don't you, Uncle John?" exclaimed Viola.
"We all appreciate Maud's--er--capabilities," John hemmed.
He felt that it was a silly answer, but inasmuch as Maud was present at
the time he could not, either for his sake or for hers give an
unconditional affirmative.
"I swopped four blood-allys for an Indian in the break," Bertram
announced.
"With an Indian, my boy, I suppose you mean."
"No, I don't. I mean for an Indian--an Indian marble. And I swopped four
Guatemalas for two Nicaraguas."
"You ought to be at the Foreign Office."
"But the ripping thing is, Uncle John, that two of the Guatemalas are
fudges."
"Such a doubtful coup would not debar you from a diplomatic career."
"And I say, what is the Foreign Office? We've got a French chap in my
class."
"You ask for an explanation of the Foreign Office. That, my boy, might
puzzle the omniscience of the Creator."
"I say, I don't twig very well what you're talking about."
"The attributes of the Foreign Office, my boy, are rigidity where there
should be suppleness, weakness where there should be firmness, and for
intelligence the substitution of hair brushed back from the forehead."
"I say, you're ragging me, aren't you? No, really, what is the Foreign
Office?"
"It is the ultimate preserve of a privileged imbecility."
Bertram surrendered, and John congratulated himself upon the possession
of a nephew whose perseverance and curiosity had been sapped by a
scholastic education.
"Harold would have tackled me word by word during one of our walks. I
shall enter into negotiations with Hilda at Christmas to provide for his
mental training on condition that I choose the school. Perhaps I shall
hear of a good one in the Shetland Islands."
When Mrs. Worfolk visited John as usual at ten o'clock to wish him
good-night, she was enthusiastic about Bertram and Viola.
"Well, really, sir, if yaul pardon the liberty, I must say I wouldn't
never of believed that Mrs. George's children _could_ be so quiet and
nice-behaved. They haven't given a bit of trouble, and I've never heard
Maud speak so highly of anyone as of Miss Viola. 'That child's a regular
little angel, Mrs. Worfolk,' she said to me. Well, sir, I'm bound to say
that children does brighten up a house. I'm sure I've done my best what
with putting flowers in all the vawses and one thing and another, but
really, well I'm quite taken with your little nephew and niece, and I've
had some experience of them, I mean to say, what with my poor sister's
Herbert and all. I _have_ put the tantalus ready. Good-night, sir."
"The fact of the matter is," John assured himself, "that when I'm alone
with them I can manage children perfectly. I only hope that Miss
Coldwell will fall in with my ideas. If she does, I see no reason why we
shouldn't spend an extremely pleasant time all together."
Unfortunately for John's hope of a satisfactory coalition with the
governess he received a hurried note by messenger from his sister-in-law
next morning to say that Miss Coldwell was laid up: the precise disease
was illegible in Eleanor's communication, but it was serious enough to
keep Miss Coldwell at home for three weeks. "_Meanwhile_," Eleanor
wrote, "_she is trying to get her sister to come down from_"--the abode
of the sister was equally illegible. "_But the most important thing
is," Eleanor went on, "that little V. shouldn't miss her
dancing-lessons. So will you arrange for Maud to take her every Tuesday
and Friday? And, of course, if there's anything you want to know,
there's always George._"
Of George's eternal being John had no doubts; of his knowledge he was
less sanguine: the only thing that George had ever known really well was
the moment to lead trumps.
"However," said John, in consultation with his housekeeper, "I dare say
we shall get along."
"Oh, certainly we shall, sir," Mrs. Worfolk confidently proclaimed,
"well, I mean to say, I've been married myself."
John bowed his appreciation of this fact.
"And though I never had the happiness to have any little toddlers of my
own, anyone being married gets used to the idea of having children.
There's always the chance, as you might say. It isn't like as if I was
an old maid, though, of course, my husband died in Jubilee year."
"Did he, Mrs. Worfolk, did he?"
"Yes, sir, he planed off his thumb when he was working on one of the
benches for the stands through him looking round at a black fellow in a
turban covered in jewelry who was driving to Buckingham Palace. One of
the new arrivals, it was; and his arm got blood poisoning. That's how I
remember it was Jubilee year, though usually I'm a terror for knowing
when anything did occur. He wouldn't of minded so much, he said, only he
was told it was the Char of Persia and that made him mad."
"Why? What had he got against the Shah?"
"He hadn't got nothing against the Char. But it wasn't the Char; and if
he'd of known it wasn't the Char he never wouldn't of turned round so
quick, and there's no saying he wouldn't of been alive to this day. No,
sir, don't you worry about this governess. I dare say if she'd of come
she'd only of caused a bit of unpleasantness all round."
At the same time, John thought, when he sent for the children in order
to make the announcement of Miss Coldwell's desertion, notwithstanding
Mrs. Worfolk's optimism it was a pity that the first day of their visit
should be a Sunday.
"I'm sorry to say, Viola, and, of course, Bertram, this applies equally
to you, that poor Miss Coldwell has been taken very ill."
That strange expression upon the children's faces might be an awkward
attempt to express their youthful sympathy, but it more ominously
resembled a kind of gloating ecstacy, as they stood like two cherubs
outside the gates of paradise, or two children outside a bunshop.
"Very ill," John went on, "so ill indeed that it is feared she will not
be able to come for a few days, and so...."
Whatever more John would have said was lost in the riotous acclamations
with which Bertram and Viola greeted the sad news. After the first cries
and leaps of joy had subsided to a chanted duet, which ran somehow like
this:
"Oh, oh, Miss Coldwell,
She can't come to Hampstead,
Hurrah, hurrah, hurrah,
Miss Coldwell's not coming:"
John ventured to rebuke the singers for their insensibility to human
suffering.
"For she may be dangerously ill," he protested.
"How _fizzing_," Bertram shouted.
"She might die."
The prospect that this opened before Bertram was apparently too
beautiful for any verbal utterance, and he remained open-mouthed in a
mute and exquisite anticipation of liberty.
"What and never come to us ever again?" Viola breathed, her blue eyes
aglow with visions of a larger life.
John shook his head, gravely.
"Oh, Uncle John," she cried, "wouldn't that be glorious?"
Bertram's heart was too full for words: he simply turned head over
heels.
"But you hard-hearted little beasts," their uncle expostulated.
"She's most frightfully strict," Viola explained.
"Yes, we shouldn't have been able to do anything decent if she'd come,"
Bertram added.
A poignant regret for that unknown governess suffering from her
illegible complaint pierced John's mind. But perhaps she would recover,
in which case she should spend her convalescence at Ambles with Harold;
for if when in good health she was strict, after a severe illness she
might be ferocious.
"Well, I'm not at all pleased with your attitude," John declared. "And
you'll find me twice as strict as Miss Coldwell."
"Oh, no, we shan't," said Bertram with a smile of jovial incredulity.
John let this contradiction pass: it seemed an imprudent subject for
debate. "And now, to-day being Sunday, you'd better get ready for
church."
"Oh, but we always dress up on Sunday," Viola said.
"So does everybody," John replied. "Go and get ready."
The children left the room, and he rang for Mrs. Worfolk.
"Master Bertram and Miss Viola will shortly be going to church, and I
want you to arrange for somebody to take them."
Mrs. Worfolk hesitated.
"Who was you thinking of, sir?"
"I wasn't thinking of anybody in particular, but I suppose Maud could
go."
"Maud has her rooms to do."
"Well, Elsa."
"Elsa has her dinner to get."
"Well, then, perhaps you would ..."
"Yaul pardon the liberty, sir, but I never go to church except of an
evening _some_times; I never could abide being stared at."
"Oh, very well," said John, fretfully, as Mrs. Worfolk retired. "Though
I'm hanged if _I'm_ going to take them," he added to himself, "at any
rate without a rehearsal."
The two children soon came back in a condition of complete preparation
and insisted so loudly upon their uncle's company that he yielded;
though when he found himself with a child on either side of him in the
sabbath calm of the Hampstead streets footfall-haunted, he was appalled
at his rashness. There was a church close to his own house, but with an
instinct to avoid anything like a domestic scandal he had told his
nephew and niece that it was not a suitable church for children, and had
led them further afield through the ghostly November sunlight.
"But look here," Bertram objected, "we can't go through any slums, you
know, because the cads will bung things at my topper."
"Not if you're with me," John argued. "I am wearing a top-hat myself."
"Well, they did when I went for a walk with Father once on Sunday."
"The slums round Earl's Court are probably much fiercer than the slums
round Hampstead," John suggested. "And anyway here we are."
He had caught a glimpse of an ecclesiastical building, which
unfortunately turned out to be a Jewish tabernacle and not open: a few
minutes later, however, an indubitably Anglican place of worship invited
their attendance, and John trying not to look as bewildered as he felt
let himself be conducted by a sidesman to the very front pew.
"I wonder if he thinks I'm a member of parliament. But I wish to
goodness he'd put us in the second row. I shall be absolutely lost where
I am."
John looked round to catch the sidesman's eye and plead for a less
conspicuous position, but even as he turned his head a terrific crash
from the organ proclaimed that it was too late and that the service had
begun.
By relying upon the memories of youthful worship John might have been
able to cope successfully with Morning Prayer, even with that florid
variation of it which is generally known as Mattins. Unluckily the
church he had chosen for the spiritual encouragement of his nephew and
niece was to the church of his recollections as Mount Everest to a
molehill. As a simple spectator without encumbrances he might have
enjoyed the service and derived considerable inspiration from it for the
decorative ecclesiasticism of his new play; as an uncle it alarmed and
confused him. The lace-hung acolytes, the candles, the chrysanthemums,
the purple vestments and the ticking of the thurible affected him
neither with Protestant disgust nor with Catholic devoutness, but much
more deeply as nothing but incentives to the unanswerable inquiries of
Bertram and Viola.
"What are they doing?" whispered his nephew.
"Hush!" he whispered back in what he tried to feel was the right
intonation of pious reproof.
"What's that little boy doing with a spoon?" whispered his niece.
"Hush!" John blew forth again. "Attend to the service."
"But it isn't a real service, is it?" she persisted.
Luckily the congregation knelt at this point, and John plunged down with
a delighted sense of taking cover. Presently he began to be afraid that
his attitude of devotional self-abasement might be seeming a little
ostentatious, and he peered cautiously round over the top of the pew; to
his dismay he perceived that Bertram and Viola were still standing up.
"Kneel down at once," he commanded in what he hoped would be an
authoritative whisper, but which was in the result an agonized croak.
"I want to see what they're doing," both children protested.
Bertram's Etons appeared too much attentuated for a sharp tug, nor did
John feel courageous enough in the front row to jerk Viola down upon her
knees by pulling her petticoats, which might come off. He therefore
covered his face with his hands in what was intended to look like a
spasm of acute reverence and growled at them both to kneel down, unless
they wanted to be sent back instantly to Earl's Court. Evidently
impressed by this threat the children knelt down; but they were no
sooner upon their knees than the perverse congregation rose to its feet,
the concerted movement taking John so completely unawares that he was
left below and felt when he did rise like a naughty boy who has been
discovered hiding under a table. He was not put at ease by Viola's
asking him to find her place in the prayer-book; it seemed to him
terrible to discern the signs of a vindictive spirit in one so young.
"Hush," he whispered. "You must remember that we're in the front row and
must be careful not to disturb the--" he hesitated at the word
"performers" and decided to envelop whatever they were in a cough.
There were no more questions for a while, nothing indeed but tiptoe
fidgetings until two acolytes advanced with lighted candles to a
position on each side of the deacon who was preparing to read the
gospel.
"Why can't he see to read?" Bertram asked. "It's not dark."
"Hush," John whispered. "This is the gospel"
He knew he was safe in affirming so much, because the announcement that
he was about to read the gospel had been audibly given out by the
deacon. At this point the congregation crossed its innumerable features
three times, and Bertram began to giggle; immediately afterward fumes
poured from the swung censer, and Viola began to choke. John felt that
it was impossible to interrupt what was presumably considered the _piece
de resistance_ of the service by leading the two children out along the
whole length of the church; yet he was convinced that if he did not lead
them out their gigglings and snortings would have a disastrous effect
upon the soloist. Then he had a brilliant idea: Viola was obviously much
upset by the incense and he would escort her out into fresh air with
the solicitude that one gives to a sick person: Bertram he should leave
behind to giggle alone. He watched his nephew bending lower and lower to
contain his mirth; then with a quick propulsive gesture he hurried Viola
into the aisle. Unfortunately when with a sigh of relief he stood upon
the steps outside and put on his hat he found that in his confusion he
had brought out Bertram's hat, which on his intellectual head felt like
a precariously balanced inkpot; and though he longed to abandon Bertram
to his well merited fate he could not bring himself to walk up
Fitzjohn's Avenue in Bertram's hat, nor could he even contemplate with
equanimity the notion of Bertram's walking up under his. Had it been a
week-day either of them might have passed for an eccentric
advertisement, but on a Sunday....
"And if I stand on the steps of a church holding this minute hat in my
hand," he thought, "people will think I'm collecting for some charity.
Confound that boy! And I can't pretend that I'm feeling too hot in the
middle of November. Dash that boy! And I certainly can't wear it. A
Japanese juggler wouldn't be able to wear it. Damn that boy!"
Yet John would rather have gone home in a baby's bonnet than enter the
church again, and the best that could be hoped was that Bertram dismayed
at finding himself alone would soon emerge. Bertram, however, did not
emerge, and John had a sudden fear lest in his embarrassment he might
have escaped by another door and was even now rushing blindly home.
Blindly was the right adverb indeed, for he would certainly be unable to
see anything from under his uncle's hat. Viola, having recovered from
her choking fit, began to cry at this point, and an old lady who must
have noted with tender approval John's exit came out with a bottle of
smelling-salts, which she begged him to make use of. Before he could
decline she had gone back inside the church leaving him with the bottle.
If he could have forced the contents down Viola's throat without
attracting more attention he would have done so, but by this time one
or two passers-by had stopped to stare at the scene, and he heard one of
them tell his companion that it was a street conjurer just going to
perform.
"Will anything make you stop crying?" he asked his niece in despair.
"I want Bertram," she wailed.
And at that moment Bertram appeared, led out by two sidesmen.
"Your little boy doesn't know how to behave himself in church," one of
them informed John, severely.
"I was only looking for my hat," Bertram explained. "I thought it had
rolled into the next pew. Let go of my arm. I slipped off the hassock. I
couldn't help making a little noise, Uncle John."
John was grateful to Bertram for thus exonerating him publicly from the
responsibility of having begotten him, and he inquired almost kindly
what had happened.
"The hassock slipped, and I fell into the next pew."
"I'm sorry my nephew made a noise," said John to the sidesman. "My niece
was taken ill, and he was left behind by accident. Thank you for showing
him the way out, yes. Come along, Bertram, I've got your hat. Where's
mine?" Bertram looked blankly at his uncle.
"Do you mean to say--" John began, and then he saw a passing taxi to
which he shouted.
"Those smelling-salts belong to an old lady," he explained hurriedly and
quite inadequately to the bewildered sidesman into whose hands he had
thrust the bottle. "Come along," he urged the children, and when they
were scrambling into the taxi he called back to the sidesmen, "You can
give to the jumble sale any hat that is swept up after the service."
Inside the taxi John turned to the children.
"One would think you'd never been inside a church before," he said,
reproachfully.
"Bertram," said Viola, in bland oblivion of all that her uncle had
endured, "when we dress up to-day shall we act going to church, or
finish Robinson Crusoe?"
"Wait till we see what we can find for dressing up," Bertram advised.
John displayed a little anxiety.
"Dressing up?" he repeated.
"We always dress up every Sunday," the children burst forth in unison.
"Oh, I see--it's a kind of habit. Well, I dare say Mrs. Worfolk will be
able to find you an old duster or something."
"Duster," echoed Viola, scornfully. "That's not enough for dressing up."
"I didn't suggest a duster as anything but a supplement to your ordinary
costume. I didn't anticipate that you were going to rely entirely upon
the duster."
"I say, V, can you twig what Uncle John says?"
Viola shook her head.
"Nor more can I," said Bertram, sympathetically.
Before the taxi reached Church Row, John found himself adopting a
positively deferential manner towards his nephew and his niece, and when
they were once again back in the quiet house, the hall of which was
faintly savoury with the maturing lunch he asked them if they would mind
amusing themselves for an hour while he wrote some letters.
"For I take it you won't want to dress up immediately," he added as an
excuse for attending to his own business.
The children confirmed his supposition, but went on to inform him that
the domenical regime at Earl's Court prescribed a walk after church.
"Owing to the accident to my hat I'm afraid I must ask you to let me off
this morning."
"Right-o," Bertram agreed, cheerfully. "But I vote we come up and sit
with you while you write your letters. I think letters are a beastly
fag, don't you?"
John felt that the boy was proffering his own and his sister's company
in a spirit of altruism, and he could not muster enough gracelessness
to decline the proposal. So upstairs they all went.
"I think this is rather a ripping room, don't you, V?"
"The carpet's very old," said Viola.
"Have you got any decent books?" Bertram inquired, looking round at the
shelves. "Any Henty's, I mean, or anything?"
"No, I'm afraid I haven't," said John, apologetically.
"Or bound up Boys Own Papers?"
John shook his head.
"But I'll tell you what I have got," he added with a sudden inspiration.
"Kingsley's _Heroes_."
"Is that a pi book?" asked Bertram, suspiciously.
"Not at all. It's about Greek gods and goddesses, essentially
broad-minded divinities."
"Right-o. I'll have a squint at it, if you like," Bertram volunteered.
"Come on, V, don't start showing off your rotten dancing. Come and look
at this book. It's got some spiffing pictures."
"Lunch won't be very long," John announced in order to propitiate any
impatience at what they might consider the boring entertainment he was
offering.
Presently the two children left their uncle alone, and he observed with
pride that they took with them the book. He little thought that so mild
a dose of romance as could be extracted from Kingsley's _Heroes_ would
before the twilight of that November day run through 36 Church Row like
fire. But then John did not know that there was a calf's head for dinner
that night; he had not realized the scenic capacity of the cistern
cupboard at the top of the house; and most of all he had not associated
with dressing up on Sunday afternoon the histrionic force that Bertram
and Viola inherited from their mother.
"Is it Androm[e]da or Andr[o]meda?" Bertram asked at lunch.
"Andr[o]meda, my boy," John answered. "Perseus and Andromeda."
"I think it would make a jolly good play, don't you?" Bertram went on.
Really, thought John, this nephew was a great improvement upon that
spectacled inquisitor at Ambles.
"A capital play," he agreed, heartily. "Are you thinking of writing it?"
"V and I thought we'd do it instead of finishing Robinson Crusoe. Well,
you see, you haven't got any decent fur rugs, and V's awfully stupid
about having her face blacked."
"It's my turn not to be a savage," Viola pleaded in defense of her
squeamishness.
"I said you could be Will Atkins as well. I know I'd jolly well like to
be Will Atkins myself."
"All right," Viola offered. "You can, and I'll be Robinson."
"You can't change like that in the middle of a play," her brother
argued.
John, who appreciated both Viola's dislike of burnt-cork and Bertram's
esthetic objection to changing parts in the middle of a piece, strongly
recommended Perseus and Andromeda.
"Of course, you got the idea from Kingsley? Bravo, Bertram," he said,
beaming with cordial patronage.
"And I suppose," his nephew went on, "that you'd rather we played at the
top of the house. I expect it would be quieter, if you're writing
letters. Mother said you often liked to be quiet." He alluded to this
desire rather shamefully, as if it were a secret vice of his uncle, who
hurriedly approved the choice of the top landing for the scene of the
classic drama.
"Then would you please tell Mrs. Worfolk that we can have the calf's
head?"
"The what?"
"V found a calf's head in the larder, and it would make a fizzing
Gorgon's head, but Mrs. Worfolk wouldn't let us have it."
John was so much delighted with the trend of Bertram's ingenuity that
he sent for Mrs. Worfolk and told her that the calf's head might be
borrowed for the play.
"I'll take no responsibility for your dinner," said his housekeeper,
warningly.
"That's all right, Mrs. Worfolk. If anything happens to the head I
shan't grumble. There'll always be the cold beef, won't there?"
Mrs. Worfolk turned up her eyes to heaven and left the room.
"Well, I think I've arranged that for you successfully."
"Thank you, Uncle John," said Bertram.
"Thank you, Uncle John," said Viola.
What nice quiet well-mannered children they were, after all; and he by
no means ought to blame them for the fiasco of the churchgoing; the
setting had of course been utterly unfamiliar; these ritualistic places
of worship were a mistake in an unexcitable country like England. John
retired to his library and lit a Corona with a sense that he thoroughly
deserved a good cigar.
"Children are not difficult," he said to himself, "if one tries to put
oneself in their place. That request for the calf's head undoubtedly
showed a rare combination of adaptiveness with for a schoolboy what was
almost a poetic fancy. Harold would have wanted to know how much the
head weighed, and whether in life it preferred to browse on buttercups
or daisies; but when finally it was cooked he would have eaten twice as
much as anybody else. I prefer Bertram's attitude; though naturally I
can appreciate a housekeeper's feelings. These cigars are in capital
condition. Really, Bertram's example is infectious, and by gad, I feel
quite like a couple of hours with Joan. Yes, it's a pity Laurence hasn't
got Bertram's dramatic sense. A great pity."
The sabbath afternoon wore on, and though John did not accumulate enough
energy to seat himself at his table, he dreamed a good deal of wonderful
situations in the fourth act, puffing away at his cigar and hearing from
time to time distant shouts and scamperings; these, however, did not
keep him from falling into a gentle doze, from which he was abruptly
wakened by the opening of the library door.
"Ah, is that tea?" he asked cheerfully in that tone with which the
roused sleeper always implies his uninterrupted attention to time and
space.
"No, sir, it's me," a grim voice replied. "And if you don't want us all
to be drowned where we stand, it being a Sunday afternoon, and not a
plumber to be got, and Maud in the hysterics, and those two young
Tartars screaming like Bedlamites, and your dinner ruined and done for,
and the feathers gone from Elsa's new hat, per-raps you could come
upstairs, Mr. Touchwood. Gordon's head indeed, and the boy as naked as a
stitch!"
John jumped to his feet and hurried out on the landing; at the same
moment Bertram with nothing to cover him except a pudding-shape on his
head, a tea-tray on his arm, a Turkish scimitar at his waist, and the
pinions of a blue and green bird tied round his ankles leapt six stairs
of the flight above and alighting at his uncle's feet, thrust the calf's
head into his face.
"You're turned to stone, Phineus," he yelled. "You can't move. You've
seen the Gorgon."
"There he goes again with his Gordon and his Gladstone," said Mrs.
Worfolk. "How dare you be so daring?"
"The Gorgon's sister," cried Bertram lunging at her with the scimitar.
"Beware, I am invisible."
Whereupon he enveloped the calf's head in a napkin, held the tea-tray
before his face, and darted away upstairs.
"I'm afraid he's a little over-excited," said John, doubtfully.
At this moment a stream of water began to flow past his feet and pour
down upon him from the landing above.
"Why, the house is full of water," he gasped.
"It's what I'm trying to tell you, sir," Mrs. Worfolk fumed. "He's done
something with that there cistern and burst it. I can't stop the
water."
John followed Perseus on his wild flight up the stairs down which every
moment water was flowing more freely. When he reached the cistern
cupboard he discovered Maud bound fast to the disordered cistern, while
Viola holding in her mouth a large ivory paper-knife and wearing what
looked like Mrs. Worfolk's sealskin jacket that John had given her last
Christmas was splashing at full length in a puddle on the floor and
clawing at Maud's skirts with ferocious growls and grunts.
"You dare try to undress me again, Master Bertram," the statuesque Maud
was screaming.
"Well, Andromeda's got practically nothing on in the book, and you said
you'd rather not be the sea-monster," Bertram was arguing. "Andromeda,"
he cried seeing by the manner of his uncle's advance that the curtain
must now be rung down upon the play, "I have turned the monster to
stone. Go on, V, you can't move from now on."
Viola stiffened and without a twitch let the stream of water pour down
upon her, while Bertram planting his foot in the small of her back waved
triumphantly the Gorgon's head, both of whose ears gave way under the
strain, so that John's dinner was soon as wet as he was.
The cistern emptied itself at last; Maud was released; Bertram and Viola
were led downstairs to be dried and on Mrs. Worfolk's recommendation
sent instantly to bed.
"I told you," said Bertram, "that if Miss Coldwell had come, we couldn't
have done anything decent."
What woman, John wondered, might serve as a comparable deterrent? The
fantastic idea of appealing for aid to Doris Hamilton flashed through
his mind, but on second thoughts he felt that there would be something
undignified in asking her to come at such a moment. Then he remembered
how often he had heard his sister-in-law Beatrice lament her
childlessness. Why should he not visit James and Beatrice this very
evening? He owed them a visit, and his domestics were all obviously too
much agitated even to contemplate the preparation of dinner. Mrs.
Worfolk would perhaps be in a better temper when he got back and he
would explain to her that the seal was a marine animal, the skin of
which would not be injured by water.
"I think I'll ask Mrs. James to give us a helping hand this week," John
suggested. "I shall be rather busy myself."
"Yes, sir, and so shall I, trying to get the house straight again which
it looks more like Shooting the Chutes at Earl's Court than a
gentleman's house, I'm bound to say."
"Still it might have been worse, Mrs. Worfolk. They might have played
with another element. Fire, for instance. That would have been much more
awkward."
"And it's thanks to me the house isn't on fire as well," Mrs. Worfolk
shrilled in her indignation. "For if that young Turk didn't come
charging down into the kitchen and trying to tell me that the
kitchen-fire was a serpent and start attacking it tooth and nail. And
there was poor Elsa shut up in the coal-cellar and hollering fit to
break anyone's heart. 'She's Daniel in a tower of brass,' he says as
bold as a tower of brass himself."
"And what were you, Mrs. Worfolk?" John asked.
"Oh, his lordship had the nerve to say I was an atlas. 'Yes,' I said,
'my lord, you let me catch hold of you and I'll make your behind look
like an atlas before I've done with it.'"
"Do you think that Mrs. James could control them?" John asked.
"I wouldn't say as the Lord Mayor himself could control them, but it's
not for me to give advice when good food can be turned into Gordon's
heads. And whatever give them the idea, I don't know, for I'm sure
General Gordon was a very handsome man to look at. Yaul excuse me, sir,
but if you don't want to catch your death, you'd better change your
things."
John followed Mrs. Worfolk's advice, and an hour later he was walking
through the misty November night in the direction of St. John's Wood.