"Yes!" I said with a nod of enlightenment.
The girls giggled, and Annie had to bite her lip to keep from laughing.
"Where have you been, sir?"
"Oh, no!" I cried, "at least I don't think so!"
Annie had to sit down and laugh.
"That's no fair," she said, "there shud be nae funnin' in the schule."
I sat down on the fender and pulled a face that Alfred Lester might have
envied. Annie went into fits of laughter.
"Tell ye what, Annie," said Ellen, "we'll put the Mester oot, and we'll
play oorsells," and I was dismissed the school. After deliberation they
agreed to allow me to be an inspector provided I did not say anything.
When bairns play school they always put on the fine English. The
teacher's main duty is to call erring pupils out and punish them.
"Now, Ellen Smith, what is two and two?"
"Four."
"Very good. Now we'll have an object lesson. What animal do we get milk
from, Janet?"
"The cow."
"Very good. Now we'll have some geography. Where is the town of--?"
"Give us spellin' instead," cried Gladys.
"Come out, girl!" and Gladys was punished severely. Then Jean was
punished for laughing.
"It's my chance o' bein' teacher noo," cried Ellen and Janet at the same
time, and a treble scuffle for the strap followed. Janet got it.
"Now," she began, "I'll be Mister Macdonald. Put yer hands behind yer
backs, and the first one that moves will hear about it!" They sat up
like statues.
"Now, Jean Broon, you stand up and recite the _Elegy Written in a
Country Churchyard_!" And Jean stood up and recited the first verse
dramatically.
"That'll do. Sit down. Ellen Smith, I want you to say the first verse of
Wordsworth's _Ode to the Imitations of Immorality_."
"P-Please, sir," tittered Gladys, "the inspector's laughin' like
onything!"
I laughed immoderately, but it wasn't at Janet's malapropism that I
laughed so much. I thought of Mrs. Wilks, the charwoman, who looked
after the flat another man and I shared in Croydon. One morning she did
not arrive to make the breakfast, and I went out to look for her. I
found the old woman--she was sixty-three--standing at the foot of the
stairs weeping.
"Great Scot!" I cried, "what's the matter?"
"My 'usband ain't goin' to allow me to char for you young gentlemen
again."
"What for?" I asked in amazement.
"He ... he accuses me of 'avin' immortal relations wiv you," she sobbed.
I hasten to add that her relations with us were not immortal: we sacked
her a week later for pinching the cream.
"Sorry, Janet," I said at length, "proceed with your Imitations of
Immorality, although personally I don't see the need for them; the real
thing's good enough for me."
"Now," she said, "I'll be Mister Neill now."
Annie at once began to sing "Tipperary"; Ellen began to pull Gladys's
hair; Jean pretended that she was biting a huge apple ... and the
teacher Janet took a cigarette from the box on the table and lit it.
"You gross libellers!" I cried, and I chased them out of the bothy.
* * *
To-night I had a long walk with Margaret. I tried to make her talk, for
I want so much to know her views on things.
"You talk," she said; "I like to listen."
"But," I protested, "I'm always talking to you, and you listen all the
time. I want to know what is in that wee head of yours ... although I
suppose that I ought to be satisfied with its exterior."
"You see," she said slowly and somewhat sadly, "I am not clever; I am
only an ordinary farmer's daughter working in the dairy and the fields.
If I told you what I was thinking you would not be interested."
We walked many yards in silence.
"It is all a mistake!" she suddenly burst out passionately. "I am not
good enough for you, and when my bonny face is gone you will hate me. We
have nothing in common, and if you met me in London you wouldn't be
interested in me at all. You will bring clever women to the house and
I--I will sit in a corner and say nothing, for I won't understand the
things that you talk about. I am afraid to go to London with you."
"We'll stay here then," I said quietly.
"No!" she cried, "not that! I will stay here, but you must go to your
work and your clever friends. O! it's all been a mistake!" She sat down
on a fallen tree and wept silently. I sat down beside her and placed my
arm round her shoulders.
"Margaret," I said softly, "we'll have a soul to soul talk about it.
I'll tell you very very frankly what I think about the whole matter, and
I'll try to deceive neither you nor myself.
"Intellectually you are not a soul-mate to me. That can't be possible
seeing that you have never had the chance to develop your intellect. I
know girls whose intellect is brilliant and whose sense of humour is
delicious ... but I don't love them. I like them; I love a witty
conversation with them, but ... I don't want to touch them. The touch of
your hand sends a thrill through me, and there is no other hand in the
world that can do that. I want to caress you, to hug you, to kiss your
lips, to kiss your lovely neck. Margaret, I want you ... and you are not
my soul-mate. Margaret, I must have you.
"You see, dear, love is a thing that cannot be reasoned with. I once
wrote down on paper a list of the qualities I wanted in the woman who
should be my wife. She was to have blue eyes, a Grecian nose, auburn
hair; she was to be tall and imperious; she was to be a fine pianist.
Dear, your eyes are grey; your nose isn't Grecian; you aren't tall, and
your limit as a pianist is _I'm a Little Pilgrim_ played with one
finger. You're hopeless, madam, but, dash it all!... I'll buy an
auto-piano!
"According to all the rules I oughtn't to find any interest in you at
all. Do you know that popular song _You Made Me Love You_? That's the
only popular song I ever struck that has any philosophy in it. It has
more real pathos in it than _The Rosary_ and Tosti's _Goodbye_ rolled
into one.
"'You made me love you; I didn't want to do it,' ... Margaret, that's
the true story of love. Love is blind they say, but the truth is that
love is mad. I didn't want to love you; my mind kept telling me that you
were not the right woman ... and here I sit in paradise because your
head is on my shoulder. The whole thing's absurd and irrational. I
almost believe that there is a real Cupid who fires his arrows
broadcast; of course the little fellow is blind and he hits the wrong
people."