As there was nothing to wait for, happy people, it was agreed by all
parties that the wedding should take place in August, which kept me
rather late in town; it was hardly worth going away, to come back again,
as back again I had to come, as Betty and Hugh were coming to stay
with me for a night on their way to Thorpshire. It is not astonishing,
perhaps, that two children, modern children in particular, and a
nursery-maid can fill to overflowing a small London house, but it is
astonishing how demoralizing a thing it is. A visiting child to people
who have children of their own means nothing, beyond the changing from
one room to another of some particular child, or the putting up of
an extra bed, or perhaps the joy supreme to some child of sleeping in
something that is not a real bed. We all remember that joy. Except for
that one child, it is an every-day thing and fraught with no particular
excitement. The servants, for instance, in a house where children are
an every-day thing, remain quite calm, if good tempered, when a visiting
child is expected, and the kitchen-maid, no doubt, cleans the doorstep
as usual, and, no doubt, takes in the milk. But this I know, that if I
had happened to possess such a thing when Betty and Hugh were coming
to stay, my doorstep would never have been cleaned. For once I was
glad that I depended on the services of a very small boy, who thinks
he cleans it. Staid and level-headed as were my maids, they answered no
bells that morning, which was perhaps natural, as I believe none ring
up to the nursery. Of course they had to be interested in Nannie's
arrangements.
It was a hot August day, I remember, and I sat at the window writing, or
pretending to write. As a matter of fact, I was listening. Among other
things to the "Austrian Anthem," played over and over again, first right
hand, then left, then both, but not together, by, I guessed, a child
about ten years old, next door.
Poor, hot child, how I pitied her.
"Never mind," I thought, "take courage, seaside time is coming. Within
a few days, no doubt, an omnibus will come to the door empty, to go away
full, filled with luggage, crowned by a perambulator and a baby's bath!"
It is only a woman who can travel with a perambulator and a bath; they
are the epitome of motherhood. A father is always too busy to go by that
particular train.
I heard the twitter of sparrows, the jingle of bells, the hooting of a
siren, or was it my neighbor singing "A rose I gave to you"? of course
it was,--the rumble of a post-office van, and the cry of children's
voices, rather peevish voices, poor mites! Never mind, seaside time is
coming.
Listening more intently, I beard in the far distance, yet distinct, the
cries of the children who ought to go to the seaside, children who have
never been to the seaside, never paddled, never built castles, never
caught crabs, never seen sea-anemones or starfish, children whose faces
are wan and whose mothers are too tired to be kind to them. It is often
that, I am sure, too tired to be kind!
Listening again, I heard faintly--it is not with the ears that one hears
these things--the unuttered complaints of those tired mothers, worn-out
women, despairing men, and the singing, in dark alleys and in hot areas,
of caged birds. There are thousands of caged creatures, other than
birds, in London in August, men, women, and children. Hats off, then,
to the little feathered Christians who sing for their fellow-prisoners
a paean of praise. It is perhaps easier to sing to the patch of blue sky
when you do not know that it will be hidden behind clouds tomorrow.
"They've come," cried Nannie.
"O Aunt Woggles!" said Hugh, "I've brought you a lovely caterpillar
wrapped up in grass."
"And I've brought you one of my very own bantam eggs," said Betty. "I've
kept it ever so long for you."
Then it will be bad, said Hugh.
"Oh, not so long as to be bad," said Betty. "You will eat it, won't you,
Aunt Woggles?"
Nannie was radiantly happy at tea that day, but I think her happiness
was supreme when she fetched me later to look at the children asleep.
We stole into Betty's room together, and Nannie shaded the candle as
she held it, for me to look at what is assuredly the loveliest thing on
God's earth--a sleeping child.
Nannie, in an eloquent silence, pointed to the chair on which lay
Betty's clean clothes, folded ready for the morning, and to her hairy
horse which she had brought for company. Her blue slippers were beside
the bed. Then we went into Hugh's room. He, too, lay peaceful and
beautiful, his clothes folded ready for the morning, and his pistol
beside him in case he was "attacked." His slippers were red, and Nannie,
at the sight of them, cried quietly. To some happy mothers a child's
slippers mean nothing more than size two or three, and serve only to
remind her how quickly children grow out of things!
But to Nannie they brought back memories of years of happiness, through
which little feet, in just the same sort of slippers, had pattered,
stumbling here, falling there, picked up, and guided by her. But she
thought most of the little feet in just that sort of slippers, that had
stopped still forever early on their life's journey. It is the voices
that are hushed that call most distinctly, the footsteps that stop that
are most carefully traced. It is the children who have gone that stand
and beckon!