THE GOLDEN SCARECROW
BY
HUGH WALPOLE
AUTHOR OF
"THE DUCHESS OF WREXE," "FORTITUDE," "THE PRELUDE TO
ADVENTURE," "THE WOODEN HORSE." ETC.
NEW YORK
1915
GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
PROLOGUE--HUGH SEYMOUR 11
I. HENRY FITZGEORGE STRETHER 43
II. ERNEST HENRY 65
III. ANGELINA 94
IV. BIM ROCHESTER 121
V. NANCY ROSS 146
VI. 'ENERY 172
VII. BARBARA FLINT 198
VIII. SARAH TREFUSIS 226
IX. YOUNG JOHN SCARLET 256
EPILOGUE 274
PROLOGUE
HUGH SEYMOUR
I
When Hugh Seymour was nine years of age he was sent from Ceylon, where
his parents lived, to be educated in England. His relations having, for
the most part, settled in foreign countries, he spent his holidays as a
very minute and pale-faced "paying guest" in various houses where other
children were of more importance than he, or where children as a race
were of no importance at all. It was in this way that he became during
certain months of 1889 and 1890 and '91 a resident in the family of the
Rev. William Lasher, Vicar of Clinton St. Mary, that large rambling
village on the edge of Roche St. Mary Moor in South Glebeshire.
He spent there the two Christmases of 1890 and 1891 (when he was ten
and eleven years of age), and it is with the second of these that the
following incident, and indeed the whole of this book, has to do. Hugh
Seymour could not, at the period of which I write, be called an
attractive child; he was not even "interesting" or "unusual." He was
very minutely made, with bones so brittle that it seemed that, at any
moment, he might crack and splinter into sharp little pieces; and I am
afraid that no one would have minded very greatly had this occurred. But
although, he was so thin his face had a white and overhanging
appearance, his cheeks being pale and puffy and his under-lip jutted
forward in front of projecting teeth--he was known as the "White Rabbit"
by his schoolfellows. He was not, however, so ugly as this appearance
would apparently convey, for his large, grey eyes, soft and even, at
times agreeably humorous, were pleasant and cheerful.
During these years when he knew Mr. Lasher he was undoubtedly
unfortunate. He was shortsighted, but no one had, as yet, discovered
this, and he was, therefore, blamed for much clumsiness that he could
not prevent and for a good deal of sensitiveness that came quite simply
from his eagerness to do what he was told and his inability to see his
way to do it. He was not, at this time, easy with strangers and seemed
to them both conceited and awkward. Conceit was far from him--he was, in
fact, amazed at so feeble a creature as himself!--but awkward he was,
and very often greedy, selfish, impetuous, untruthful and even cruel: he
was nearly always dirty, and attributed this to the evil wishes of some
malign fairy who flung mud upon him, dropped him into puddles and
covered him with ink simply for the fun of the thing!
He did not, at this time, care very greatly for reading; he told himself
stories--long stories with enormous families in them, trains of
elephants, ropes and ropes of pearls, towers of ivory, peacocks, and
strange meals of saffron buns, roast chicken, and gingerbread. His
active, everyday concern, however, was to become a sportsman; he wished
to be the best cricketer, the best footballer, the fastest runner of his
school, and he had not--even then faintly he knew it--the remotest
chance of doing any of these things even moderately well. He was bullied
at school until his appointment as his dormitory's story-teller gave
him a certain status, but his efforts at cricket and football were
mocked with jeers and insults. He could not throw a cricket-ball, he
could not see to catch one after it was thrown to him, did he try to
kick a football he missed it, and when he had run for five minutes he
saw purple skies and silver stars and has cramp in his legs. He had,
however, during these years at Mr. Lasher's, this great over mastering
ambition.
In his sleep, at any rate, he was a hero; in the wide-awake world he
was, in the opinion of almost every one, a fool. He was exactly the type
of boy whom the Rev. William Lasher could least easily understand. Mr.
Lasher was tall and thin (his knees often cracked with a terrifying
noise), blue-black about the cheeks hooked as to the nose, bald and
shining as to the head, genial as to the manner, and practical to the
shining tips of his fingers. He has not, at Cambridge, obtained a rowing
blue, but "had it not been for a most unfortunate attack of scarlet
fever-----" He was President of the Clinton St. Mary Cricket Club, 1890
(matches played, six; lost, five; drawn, one) knew how to slash the ball
across the net at a tennis garden party, always read the prayers in
church as though he were imploring God to keep a straighter bat and
improve His cut to leg, and had a passion for knocking nails into walls,
screwing locks into doors, and making chicken runs. He was, he often
thanked his stars, a practical Realist, and his wife, who was fat,
stupid, and in a state of perpetual wonder, used to say of him, "If Will
hadn't been a clergyman he would have made _such_ an engineer. If God
had blessed us with a boy, I'm sure he would have been something
scientific. Will's no dreamer." Mr. Lasher was kindly of heart so long
as you allowed him to maintain that the world was made for one type of
humanity only. He was as breezy as a west wind, loved to bathe in the
garden pond on Christmas Day ("had to break the ice that morning"), and
at penny readings at the village schoolroom would read extracts from
"Pickwick," and would laugh so heartily himself that he would have to
stop and wipe his eyes. "If you must read novels," he would say, "read
Dickens. Nothing to offend the youngest among us--fine breezy stuff with
an optimism that does you good and people you get to know and be fond
of. By Jove, I can still cry over Little Nell and am not ashamed of
it."
He had the heartiest contempt for "wasters" and "failures," and he was
afraid there were a great many in the world. "Give me a man who is a
man," he would say, "a man who can hit a ball for six, run ten miles
before breakfast and take his knocks with the best of them. Wasn't it
Browning who said,
"'God's in His heaven,
All's right with the world.'
Browning was a great teacher--after Tennyson, one of our greatest. Where
are such men to-day!"
He was, therefore, in spite of his love for outdoor pursuits, a cultured
man.
It was natural, perhaps, that he should find Hugh Seymour "a pity."
Nearly everything that he said about Hugh Seymour began with the words----
"It's a pity that----"
"It's a pity that you can't get some red into your cheeks, my boy."
"It's a pity you don't care about porridge. You must learn to like it."
"It's a pity you can't even make a little progress with your
mathematics."
"It's a pity you told me a lie because----"
"It's a pity you were rude to Mrs. Lasher. No gentleman----"
"It's a pity you weren't attending when----"
Mr. Lasher was, very earnestly, determined to do his best for the boy,
and, as he said, "You see, Hugh, if we do our best for you, you must do
your best for us. Now I can't, I'm afraid, call this your best."
Hugh would have liked to say that it _was_ the best that he could do in
that particular direction (very probably Euclid), but if only he might
be allowed to try his hand in quite _another_ direction, he might do
something very fine indeed. He never, of course, had a chance of saying
this, nor would such a declaration have greatly benefited him, because,
for Mr. Lasher, there was only one way for every one and the sooner (if
you were a small boy) you followed it the better.
"Don't dream, Hugh," said Mr. Lasher, "remember that no man ever did
good-work by dreaming. The goal is to the strong. Remember that."
Hugh, did remember it and would have liked very much to be as strong as
possible, but whenever he tried feats of strength he failed and looked
foolish.
"My dear boy, _that's_ not the way to do it," said Mr. Lasher; "it's a
pity that you don't listen to what I tell you."
II
A very remarkable fact about Mr. Lasher was this--that he paid no
attention whatever to the county in which he lived. Now there are
certain counties in England where it is possible to say, "I am in
England," and to leave it at that; their quality is simply English with
no more individual personality. But Glebeshire has such an
individuality, whether for good or evil, that it forces comment from the
most sluggish and inattentive of human beings. Mr. Lasher was perhaps
the only soul, living or dead, who succeeded in living in it during
forty years (he is still there, he is a Canon now in Polchester) and
never saying anything about it. When on his visits to London people
inquired his opinion of Glebeshire, he would say: "Ah well!... I'm
afraid Methodism and intemperance are very strong ... all the same,
we're fighting 'em, fighting 'em!"
This was the more remarkable in that Mr. Lasher lived upon the very edge
of Roche St. Mary Moor, a stretch of moor and sand. Roche St. Mary Moor,
that runs to the sea, contains the ruins of St. Arthe Church (buried
until lately in the sand, but recently excavated through the kind
generosity of Sir John Porthcullis, of Borhaze, and shown to visitors,
6d. a head, Wednesday and Saturday afternoons free), and in one of the
most romantic, mist-laden, moon-silvered, tempest-driven spots in the
whole of Great Britain.
The road that ran from Clinton St. Mary to Borhaze across the moor was
certainly a wild, rambling, beautiful affair, and when the sea-mists
swept across it and the wind carried the cry of the Bell of Trezent Rock
in and out above and below, you had a strange and moving experience. Mr.
Lasher was certainly compelled to ride on his bicycle from Clinton St.
Mary to Borhaze and back again, and never thought it either strange or
moving. "Only ten at the Bible meeting to-night. Borhaze wants waking
up. We'll see what open-air services can do." What the moor thought
about Mr. Lasher it is impossible to know!
Hugh Seymour thought about the moor continually, but he was afraid to
mention his ideas of it in public. There was a legend in the village
that several hundred years ago some pirates, driven by storm into
Borhaze, found their way on to the moor and, caught by the mist,
perished there; they are to be seen, says the village, in powdered wigs,
red coats, gold lace, and swords, haunting the sand-dunes. God help the
poor soul who may fall into their hands! This was a very pleasant story,
and Hugh Seymour's thoughts often crept around and about it. He would
like to find a pirate, to bring him to the vicarage, and present him to
Mr. Lasher. He knew that Mrs. Lasher would say, "Fancy, a pirate. Well!
now, fancy! Well, here's a pirate!" And that Mr. Lasher would say, "It's
a pity, Hugh, that you don't choose your company more carefully. Look at
the man's nose!"
Hugh, although he was only eleven, knew this. Hugh did on one occasion
mention the pirates. "Dreaming again, Hugh! Pity they fill your head
with such nonsense! If they read their Bibles more!"
Nevertheless, Hugh continued his dreaming. He dreamt of the moor, of
the pirates, of the cobbled street in Borhaze, of the cry of the Trezent
Bell, of the deep lanes and the smell of the flowers in them, of making
five hundred not out at cricket, of doing a problem in Euclid to Mr.
Lasher's satisfaction, of having a collar at the end of the week as
clean as it had been at the beginning, of discovering the way to make a
straight parting in the hair, of not wriggling in bed when Mrs. Lasher
kissed him at night, of many, many other things.
He was at this time a very lonely boy. Until Mr. Pidgen paid his visit
he was most remarkably lonely. After that visit he was never lonely
again.
III
Mr. Pidgen came on a visit to the vicarage three days before Christmas.
Hugh Seymour saw him first from the garden. Mr. Pidgen was standing at
the window of Mr. Lasher's study; he was staring in front of him at the
sheets of light that flashed and darkened and flashed again across the
lawn, at the green cluster of holly-berries by the drive-gate, at the
few flakes of snow that fell, lazily, carelessly, as though they were
trying to decide whether they would make a grand affair of it or not,
and perhaps at the small, grubby boy who was looking at him with one eye
and trying to learn the Collect for the day (it was Sunday) with the
other. Hugh had never before seen any one in the least like Mr. Pidgen.
He was short and round, and his head was covered with tight little
curls. His cheeks were chubby and red and his nose small, his mouth also
very small. He had no chin. He was wearing a bright blue velvet
waistcoat with brass buttons, and over his black shoes there shone white
spats.
Hugh had never seen white spats before. Mr. Pidgen shone with
cleanliness, and he had supremely the air of having been exactly as he
was, all in one piece, years ago. He was like one of the china ornaments
in Mrs. Lasher's drawing-room that the housemaid is told to be so
careful about, and concerning whose destruction Hugh heard her on at
least one occasion declaring, in a voice half tears, half defiance,
"Please, ma'am, it wasn't me. It just slipped of itself!" Mr. Pidgen
would break very completely were he dropped.
The first thing about him that struck Hugh was his amazing difference
from Mr. Lasher. It seemed strange that any two people so different
could be in the same house. Mr. Lasher never gleamed or shone, he would
not break with however violent an action you dropped him, he would
certainly never wear white spats.
Hugh liked Mr. Pidgen at once. They spoke for the first time at the
mid-day meal, when Mr. Lasher said, "More Yorkshire pudding, Pidgen?"
and Mr. Pidgen said, "I adore it."
Now Yorkshire pudding happened to be one of Hugh's special passions just
then, particularly when it was very brown and crinkly, so he said quite
spontaneously and without taking thought, as he was always told to do,
"So do I!"
"My _dear_ Hugh!" said Mrs. Lasher; "how very greedy! Fancy! After all
you've been told! Well, well! Manners, manners!"
"I don't know," said Mr. Pidgen (his mouth was full). "I said it first,
and I'm older than he is. I should know better.... I like boys to be
greedy, it's a good sign--a good sign. Besides. Sunday--after a
sermon--one naturally feels a bit peckish. Good enough sermon, Lasher,
but a bit long."
Mr. Lasher of course did not like this, and, indeed, it was evident to
any one (even to a small boy) that the two gentlemen would have
different opinions upon every possible subject. However, Hugh loved Mr.
Pidgen there and then, and decided that he would put him into the story
then running (appearing in nightly numbers from the moment of his
departure to bed to the instant of slumber--say ten minutes); he would
also, in the imaginary cricket matches that he worked out on paper, give
Mr. Pidgen an innings of two hundred not out and make him captain of
Kent. He now observed the vision very carefully and discovered several
strange items in his general behaviour. Mr. Pidgen was fond of whistling
and humming to himself; he was restless and would walk up and down a
room with his head in the air and his hands behind his broad back,
humming (out of tune) "Sally in our Alley," or "Drink to me only." Of
course this amazed Mr. Lasher.
He would quite suddenly stop, stand like a top spinning, balanced on his
toes, and cry, "Ah! Now I've got it! No, I haven't! Yes, I have. By God,
it's gone again!"
To this also Mr. Lasher strongly objected, and Hugh heard him say,
"Really, Pidgen, think of the boy! Think of the boy!" and Mr. Pidgen
exclaimed, "By God, so I should!... Beg pardon, Lasher! Won't do it
again! Lord save me, I'm a careless old drunkard!" He had any number of
strange phrases that were new and brilliant and exciting to the boy, who
listened to him. He would say, "by the martyrs of Ephesus!" or "Sunshine
and thunder!" or "God stir your slumbers!" when he thought any one very
stupid. He said this last one day to Mrs. Lasher, and of course she was
very much astonished. She did not from the first like him at all. Mr.
Pidgen and Mr. Lasher had been friends at Cambridge and had not met one
another since, and every one knows that that is a dangerous basis for
the renewal of friendship. They had a little dispute on the very
afternoon of Mr. Pidgen's arrival, when Mr. Lasher asked his guest
whether he played golf.
"God preserve my soul! No!" said Mr. Pidgen. Mr. Lasher then explained
that playing golf made one thin, hungry and self-restrained. Mr. Pidgen
said that he did not wish to be the first or last of these, and that he
was always the second, and that golf was turning the fair places of
England into troughs for the moneyed pigs of the Stock Exchange to swill
in.
"My dear Pidgen!" cried Mr. Lasher, "I'm afraid no one could call me a
moneyed pig with any justice--more's the pity--and a game of golf to me
is----"
"Ah! you're a parson, Lasher," said his guest.
In fact, by the evening of the second day of the visit it was obvious
that Clinton St. Mary Vicarage might, very possibly, witness a disturbed
Christmas. It was all very tiresome for poor Mrs. Lasher. On the late
afternoon of Christmas Eve, Hugh heard the stormy conversation that
follows--a conversation that altered the colour and texture of his
after-life as such things may, when one is still a child.
IV
Christmas Eve was always, to Hugh, a day with glamour. He did not any
longer hang up his stocking (although he would greatly have liked to do
so), but, all day, his heart beat thickly at the thought of the morrow,
at the thought of something more than the giving and receiving of
presents, something more than the eating of food, something more than
singing hymns that were delightfully familiar, something more than
putting holly over the pictures and hanging mistletoe on to the lamp in
the hall. Something there was in the day like going home, like meeting
people again whom one had loved once, and not seen for many years,
something as warm and romantic and lightly coloured _and_ as comforting
as the most inspired and impossible story that one could ever, lying in
bed and waiting for sleep, invent.
To-day there was no snow but a frost, and there was a long bar of
saffron below the cold sky and a round red ball of a sun. Hugh was
sitting in a corner of Mr. Lasher's study, looking at Doré's "Don
Quixote," when the two gentlemen came in. He was sitting in a dark
corner and they, because they were angry with one another, did not
recognise any one except themselves. Mr. Lasher pulled furiously at his
pipe and Mr. Pidgen stood up by the fire with his short fat legs spread
wide and his mouth smiling, but his eyes vexed and rather indignant.
"My dear Pidgen," said Mr. Lasher, "you misunderstand me, you do indeed!
It may be (I would be the first to admit that, like most men, I have my
weakness) that I lay too much stress upon the healthy, physical, normal
life, upon seeing things as they are and not as one would like to see
them to be. I don't believe that dreaming ever did any good to any man!"
"It's only produced some of the finest literature the world has ever
known," said Mr. Pidgen.
"Ah! Genius! If you or I were geniuses, Pidgen, that would be another
affair. But we're not; we're plain, common-place humdrum human beings
with souls to be saved and work to do--work to do!"
There was a little pause after that, and Hugh, looking at Mr. Pidgen,
saw the hurt look in his eyes deepen.
"Come now, Lasher," he said at last. "Let's be honest one with another;
that's your line, and you say it ought to be mine. Come now, as man to
man, you think me a damnable failure now--beg pardon--complete
failure--don't you? Don't be afraid of hurting me. I want to know!"
Mr. Lasher was really a kindly man, and when his eyes beheld
things--there were of course many things that they never beheld--he
would do his best to help anybody. He wanted to help Mr. Pidgen now;
but he was also a truthful man.
"My dear Pidgen! Ha, ha! What a question! I'm sure many, many people
enjoy your books immensely. I'm sure they do, oh, yes!"
"Come, now, Lasher, the truth. You won't hurt my feelings. If you were
discussing me with a third person you'd say, wouldn't you? 'Ah, poor
Pidgen might have done something if he hadn't let his fancy run away
with him. I was with him at Cambridge. He promised well, but I'm afraid
one must admit that he's failed--he would never stick to anything.'"
Now this was so exactly what Mr. Lasher had, on several occasions, said
about his friend that he was really for the moment at a loss. He pulled
at his pipe, looked very grave, and then said:
"My dear Pidgen, you must remember our lives have followed such
different courses. I can only give you my point of view. I don't myself
care greatly for romances--fairy tales and so on. It seems to me that
for a grown-up man.... However, I don't pretend to be a literary fellow;
I have other work, other duties, picturesque, but nevertheless
necessary."
"Ah!" exclaimed Mr. Pidgen, who, considering that he had invited his
host's honest opinion, should not have become irritated because he had
obtained it; "that's just it. You people all think only _you_ know what
is necessary. Why shouldn't a fairy story be as necessary as a sermon? A
lot more necessary, I dare say. You think you're the only people who can
know anything about it. You people never use your imaginations."
"Nevertheless," said Mr. Lasher, very bitterly (for he had always said,
"If one does not bring one's imagination into one's work one's work is
of no value"), "writers of idle tales are not the only people who use
their imaginations. And, if you will allow me, without offence, to say
so, Pidgen, your books, even amongst other things of the same sort, have
not been the most successful."
This remark seemed to pour water upon all the anger in Mr. Pidgen's
heart. His eyes expressed scorn, but not now for Mr. Lasher--for
himself. His whole figure drooped and was bowed like a robin in a
thunderstorm.
"That's true enough. Bless my soul, Lasher, that's true enough. They
hardly sell at all. I've written a dozen of them now, 'The Blue Pouncet
Box,' 'The Three-tailed Griffin,' 'The Tree without any Branches,' but
you won't want to be bothered with the names of them. 'The Griffin' went
into two editions, but it was only because the pictures were rather
sentimental. I've often said to myself, 'If a thing doesn't sell in
these days it must be good,' but I've not really convinced myself. I'd
like them to have sold. Always, until now, I've had hopes of the next
one, and thought that it would turn out better, like a woman with her
babies. I seem to have given up expecting that now. It isn't, you know,
being always hard-up that I mind so much, although that, mind you, isn't
pleasant, no, by Jehoshaphat, it isn't. But we would like now and again
to find that other people have enjoyed what one hoped they _would_
enjoy. But I don't know, they always seem too old for children and too
young for grown-ups--my stories, I mean."
It was one of the hardest traits in Mr. Lasher's character, as Hugh well
realised, "to rub it in" over a fallen foe. He considered this his duty;
it was also, I am afraid, a pleasure. "It's a pity," he said, "that
things should not have gone better; but there are so many writers to-day
that I wonder any one writes at all. We live in a practical, realistic
age. The leaders amongst us have decided that every man must gird his
loins and go out to fight his battles with real weapons in a real cause,
not sit dreaming at his windows looking down upon the busy
market-place." (Mr. Lasher loved what he called "images." There were
many in his sermons.) "But, my dear Pidgen, it is in no way too late.
Give up your fairy stories now that they have been proved a failure."
Here Mr. Pidgen, in the most astonishing way, was suddenly in a terrible
temper. "They're not!" he almost screamed. "Not at all. Failures, from
the worldly point of view, yes; but there are some who understand. I
would not have done anything else if I could. You, Lasher, with your
soup-tickets and your choir-treats, think there's no room for me and my
fairy stories. I tell you, you may find yourself jolly well mistaken one
of these days. Yes, by Cæsar, you may. How do you know what's best worth
doing? If you'd listened a little more to the things you were told when
you were a baby, you'd be a more intelligent man now."
"When I was a baby," said Mr. Lasher, incredulously, as though that were
a thing that he never possibly could have been, "my _dear_ Pidgen!"
"Ah, you think it absurd," said the other, a little cooler again. "But
how do you know who watched over your early years and wanted you to be a
dreamy, fairy tale kind of person instead of the cayenne pepper sort of
man you are. There's always some one there, I tell you, and you can have
your choice, whether you'll believe more than you see all your life or
less than you see. Every baby knows about it; then, as they grow older,
it fades and, with many people, goes altogether. He's never left _me_,
St. Christopher, you know, and that's one thing. Of course, the ideal
thing is somewhere between the two; recognise St. Christopher and see
the real world as well. I'm afraid neither you nor I is the ideal man,
Lasher. Why, I tell you, any baby of three knows more than you do!
You're proud of never seeing beyond your nose. I'm proud of never seeing
my nose at all: we're both wrong. But I _am_ ready to admit _your_ uses.
You _never_ will admit mine; and it isn't any use your denying my
Friend. He stayed with you a bit when you just arrived, but I expect he
soon left you. You're jolly glad he did."
"My _dear_ Pidgen," said Mr. Lasher, "I haven't understood a word."
Pidgen shook his head. "You're right. That's just what's the matter with
me. I can't even put what I see plainly." He sighed deeply. "I've
failed. There's no doubt about it. But, although I know that, I've had a
happy life. That's the funny part of it. I've enjoyed it more than you
ever will, Lasher. At least, I'm never lonely. I like my food, too, and
one's head's always full of jolly ideas, if only they seemed jolly to
other people."
"Upon my word, Pidgen," said Mr. Lasher. At this moment Mrs. Lasher
opened the door.
"Well, well. Fancy! Sitting over the fire talking! Oh, you men! Tea!
tea! Tea, Will! Fancy talking all the afternoon! Well!"
No one had noticed Hugh. He, however, had understood Mr. Pidgen better
than Mr. Lasher did.
V
This conversation aroused in Hugh, for various reasons, the greatest
possible excitement. He would have liked to have asked Mr. Pidgen many
questions. Christmas Day came, and a beautiful day enthroned it: a pale
blue sky, faint and clear, was a background to misty little clouds that
hovered, then fled and disappeared, and from these flakes of snow fell
now and then across the shining sunlight. Early in the winter afternoon
a moon like an orange feather sailed into the sky as the lower stretches
of blue changed into saffron and gold. Trees and hills and woods were
crystal-clear, and shone with an intensity of outline as though their
shapes had been cut by some giant knife against the background. Although
there was no wind the air was so expectant that the ringing of church
bells and the echo of voices came as though across still water. The
colour of the sunlight was caught in the cups and runnels of the stiff
frozen roads and a horse's hoofs echoed, sharp and ringing, over fields
and hedges. The ponds were silvered into a sheet of ice, so thin that
the water showed dark beneath it. All the trees were rimmed with
hoar-frost.
On Christmas afternoon, when three o'clock had just struck from the
church tower, Hugh and Mr. Pidgen met, as though by some conspirator's
agreement, by the garden gate. They had said nothing to one another and
yet there they were; they both glanced anxiously back at the house and
then Mr. Pidgen said:
"Suppose we take a walk."
"Thank you very much," said Hugh. "Tea isn't till half-past four."
"Very well, then, suppose you lead the way." They walked a little, and
then Hugh said: "I was there yesterday, in the study, when you talked
all that about your books, and everything." The words came from him in
little breathless gusts because he was excited.
Mr. Pidgen stopped and looked upon him. "Thunder and sunshine! You don't
say so! What under heaven were you doing?"
"I was reading, and you came in and then I was interested."
"Well?"
Hugh dropped his voice.
"I understood all that you meant. I'd like to read your books if I may.
We haven't any in the house."
"Bless my soul! Here's some one wants to read my books!" Mr. Pidgen was
undoubtedly pleased. "I'll send you some. I'll send you them all!"
Hugh gasped with pleasure. "I'll read them all, however many there
are!" he said excitedly. "Every word."
"Well," said Mr. Pidgen, "that's more than any one else has ever done."
"I'd rather be with you," said the boy very confidently, "than Mr. Lasher.
I'd rather write stories than preach sermons that no one wants to listen
to." Then more timidly he continued: "I know what you meant about the man
who comes when you're a baby. I remember him quite well, but I never can
say anything because they'd say I was silly. Sometimes I think he's still
hanging round only he doesn't come to the vicarage much. He doesn't like
Mr. Lasher much, I expect. But I _do_ remember him. He had a beard and I
used to think it funny the nurse didn't see him. That was before we went
to Ceylon, you know, we used to live in Polchester then. When it was
nearly dark and not quite he'd be there. I forgot about him in Ceylon, but
since I've been here I've wondered ... it's sometimes like some one
whispering to you and you know if you turn round he won't be there, but he
_is_ there all the same. I made twenty-five last summer against
Porthington Grammar; they're not much good _really_, and it was our
second eleven, and I was nearly out second ball; anyway I made
twenty-five, and afterwards as I was ragging about I suddenly thought of
him. I _know_ he was pleased. If it had been a little darker I believe I'd
have seen him. And then last night, after I was in bed and was thinking
about what you'd said I _know_ he was near the window, only I didn't look
lest he should go away. But of course Mr. Lasher would say that's all rot,
like the pirates, only I _know_ it isn't." Hugh broke off for lack of
breath, nothing else would have stopped him. When he was encouraged he was
a terrible talker. He suddenly added in a sharp little voice like the
report from a pistol: "So one can't be lonely or anything, can one, if
there's always some one about?"
Mr. Pidgen was greatly touched. He put his hand upon Hugh's shoulder.
"My dear boy," he said, "my dear boy--dear me, dear me. I'm afraid
you're going to have a dreadful time when you grow up. I really mustn't
encourage you. And yet, who can help himself?"
"But you said yourself that you'd seen him, that you knew him quite
well?"
"And so I do--and so I do. But you'll find, as you grow older, there are
many people who won't believe you. And there's this, too. The more you
live in your head, dreaming and seeing things that aren't there, the
less you'll see the things that _are_ there. You'll always be tumbling
over things. You'll never get on. You'll never be a success."
"Never mind," said Hugh, "it doesn't matter much what you say now,
you're only talking 'for my good' like Mr. Lasher. I don't care, I heard
what you said yesterday, and it's made all the difference. I'll come and
stay with you."
"Well, so you shall," said Mr. Pidgen. "I can't help it. You shall come
as often as you like. Upon my soul, I'm younger to-day than I've felt
for a long time. We'll go to the pantomime together if you aren't too
old for it. I'll manage to ruin you all right. What's that shining?" He
pointed in front of him.
They had come to a rise in the Polwint Road. To their right, running to
the very foot of their path, was the moor. It stretched away, like a
cloud, vague and indeterminate to the horizon. To their left a dark
brown field rose in an ascending wave to a ridge that cut the sky, now
crocus-coloured. The field was lit with the soft light of the setting
sun. On the ridge of the field something, suspended, it seemed, in
midair, was shining like a golden fire.
"What's that?" said Mr. Pidgen again. "It's hanging. What the devil!"
They stopped for a moment, then started across the field. When they had
gone a little way Mr. Pidgen paused again.
"It's like a man with a golden helmet. He's got legs, he's coming to
us."
They walked on again. Then Hugh cried, "Why, it's only an old Scarecrow.
We might have guessed."
The sun, at that instant, sank behind the hills and the world was grey.
The Scarecrow, perched on the high ridge, waved its tattered sleeves in
the air. It was an old tin can that had caught the light; the can
hanging over the stake that supported it in drunken fashion seemed to
wink at them. The shadows came streaming up from the sea and the dark
woods below in the hollow drew closer to them.
The Scarecrow seemed to lament the departure of the light. "Here, mind,"
he said to the two of them, "you saw me in my glory just now and don't
you forget it. I may be a knight in shining armour after all. It only
depends upon the point of view."
"So it does," said Mr. Pidgen, taking his hat off, "you were very fine,
I shan't forget."
VI
They stood there in silence for a time....
VII
At last they turned back and walked slowly home, the intimacy of their
new friendship growing with their silence. Hugh was happier than he had
ever been before. Behind the quiet evening light he saw wonderful
prospects, a new life in which he might dream as he pleased, a new
friend to whom he might tell these dreams, a new confidence in his own
power....
But it was not to be.
That very night Mr. Pidgen died, very peacefully, in his sleep, from
heart failure. He had had, as he had himself said, a happy life.
VIII
Years passed and Hugh Seymour grew up. I do not wish here to say much
more about him. It happened that when he was twenty-four his work
compelled him to live in that Square in London known as March Square (it
will be very carefully described in a minute). Here he lived for five
years, and, during that time, he was happy enough to gain the intimacy
and confidence of some of the children who played in the Gardens there.
They trusted him and told him more than they told many people. He had
never forgotten Mr. Pidgen; that walk, that vision of the Scarecrow,
stood, as such childish things will, for a landmark in his history. He
came to believe that those experiences that he knew, in his own life, to
be true, were true also for some others. That's as it may be. I can only
say that Barbara and Angelina, Bim and even Sarah Trefusis were his
friends. I daresay his theory is all wrong.
I can only say that I _know_ that they were his friends; perhaps, after
all, the Scarecrow _is_ shining somewhere in golden armour. Perhaps,
after all, one need not be so lonely as one often fancies that one is.
CHAPTER I
HENRY FITZGEORGE STRETHER
I
March Square is not very far from Hyde Park Corner in London Town.
Behind the whir and rattle of the traffic it stands, spacious and cool
and very old, muffled by the little streets that guard it, happily
unconscious, you would suppose, that there were any in all the world so
unfortunate as to have less than five thousand a year for their support.
Perhaps a hundred years ago March Square might boast of such superior
ignorance, but fashions change, to prevent, it may be, our own too
easily irritated monotonies, and, for some time now, the Square has been
compelled, here, there, in one corner and another, to admit the invader.
It is true that the solemn, respectable grey house, No. 3, can boast
that it is the town residence of His Grace the Duke of Crole and his
beautiful young Duchess, née Miss Jane Tunster of New York City, but it
is also true that No. ---- is in the possession of Mr. Munty Ross of
Potted Shrimp fame, and there are Dr. Cruthen, the Misses Dent, Herbert
Hoskins and his wife, whose incomes are certainly nearer to £500 than
£5,000. Yes, rents and blue blood have come down in March Square; it is,
certainly, not the less interesting for that, but----
Some of the houses can boast the days of good Queen Anne for their
period. There is one, at the very corner where Somers Street turns off
towards the Park, that was built only yesterday, and has about it some
air of shame, a furtive embarrassment that it will lose very speedily.
There is no house that can claim beauty, and yet the Square, as a whole,
has a fine charm, something that age and colour, haphazard adventure,
space and quiet have all helped towards.
There is, perhaps, no square in London that clings so tenaciously to any
sign or symbol of old London that motor-cars and the increase of speed
have not utterly destroyed. All the oldest London mendicants find their
way, at different hours of the week, up and down the Square. There is,
I believe, no other square in London where musicians are permitted. On
Monday morning there is the blind man with the black patch over one eye;
he has an organ (a very old one, with a painted picture of the Battle of
Trafalgar on the front of it) and he wears an old black skull-cap. He
wheezes out his old tunes (they are older than other tunes that March
Square hears, and so, perhaps, March Square loves them). He goes
despondently, and the tap of his stick sounds all the way round the
Square. A small and dirty boy--his grandson, maybe--pushes the organ for
him. On Tuesday there comes the remnants of a German band--remnants
because now there are only the cornet, the flute and the trumpet. Sadly
wind-blown, drunken and diseased they are, and the Square can remember
when there were a number of them, hale and hearty young fellows, but
drink and competition have been too strong for them. On Wednesdays there
is sometimes a lady who sings ballads in a voice that can only be
described as that contradiction in terms "a shrill contralto." Her notes
are very piercing and can be heard from one end of the Square to the
other. She sings "Annie Laurie" and "Robin Adair," and wears a battered
hat of black straw. On Thursday there is a handsome Italian with a
barrel organ that bears in its belly the very latest and most popular
tunes. It is on Thursday that the Square learns the music of the moment;
thus from one end of the year to the other does it keep pace with the
movement.
On Fridays there is a lean and ragged man wearing large and, to the
children of the Square, terrifying spectacles. He is a very gloomy
fellow and sings hymn-tunes, "Rock of Ages," "There is a Happy Land,"
and "Jerusalem the Golden." On Saturdays there is a stout, happy little
man with a harp. He has white hair and looks like a retired colonel. He
cannot play the harp very much, but he is quite the most popular visitor
of the week, and must be very rich indeed does he receive in other
squares so handsome a reward for his melody as this one bestows; he is
known as "Colonel Harry." In and out of these regular visitors there
are, of course, many others. There is a dark, sinister man with a
harmonium and a shivering monkey on a chain; there is an Italian woman,
wearing bright wraps round her head, and she has a cage of birds who
tell fortunes; there is a horsey, stable-bred, ferret-like man with,
two performing dogs, and there is quite an old lady in a black bonnet
and shawl who sings duets with her grand-daughter, a young thing of some
fifty summers.
There can be nothing in the world more charming than the way the Square
receives its friends. Let it number amongst its guests a Duchess, that
is no reason why it should scorn "Colonel Harry" or "Mouldy Jim," the
singer of hymns. Scorn, indeed, cannot be found within its grey walls,
soft grey, soft green, soft white and blue--in these colours is the
Square's body clothed, no anger in its mild eyes, nor contempt anywhere
at its heart.
The Square is proud, and is proud with reason, of its garden. It is not
a large garden as London gardens go. It has in its centre a fountain.
Neptune, with a fine wreath of seaweed about his middle, blowing water
through, his conch. There are two statues, the one of a general who
fought in the Indian Mutiny and afterwards lived and died in the Square,
the other of a mid-Victorian philanthropist whose stout figure and
urbane self-satisfaction (as portrayed by the sculptor) bear witness to
an easy conscience and an unimaginative mind. There is, round and about
the fountain, a lovely green lawn, and there are many overhanging trees
and shady corners. An air of peace the garden breathes, and that
although children are for ever racing up and down it, shattering the
stillness of the air with their cries, rivalling the bells of St.
Matthew's round the corner with their piercing notes.
But it is the quality of the Square that nothing can take from it its
peace, nothing temper its tranquillity. In the heat of the days
motor-cars will rattle through, bells will ring, all the bustle of a
frantic world invade its security; for a moment it submits, but in the
evening hour, when the colours are being washed from the sky, and the
moon, apricot-tinted, is rising slowly through the smoke, March Square
sinks, with a little sigh, back into her peace again. The modern world
has not yet touched her, nor ever shall.
II
The Duchess of Crole had three months ago a son, Henry Fitzgeorge,
Marquis of Strether. Very fortunate that the first-born should be a son,
very fortunate also that the first-born should be one of the healthiest,
liveliest, merriest babies that it has ever been any one's good fortune
to encounter. All smiles, chuckles and amiability is Henry Fitzgeorge;
he is determined that all shall be well.
His birth was for a little time the sensation of the Square. Every one
knew the beautiful Duchess; they had seen her drive, they had seen her
walk, they had seen her in the picture-papers, at race-meetings and
coming away from fashionable weddings. The word went round day by day as
to his health; he was watched when he came out in his perambulator, and
there was gossip as to his appearance and behaviour.
"A jolly little fellow."
"Just like his father."
"Rather early to say that, isn't it?"
"Well, I don't know, got the same smile. His mother's rather languid."
"Beautiful woman, though."
"Oh, lovely!"
Upon a certain afternoon in March about four o'clock, there was quite a
gathering of persons in Henry Fitzgeorge's nursery. There was his
mother, with those two great friends of hers, Lady Emily Blanchard and
the Hon. Mrs. Vavasour; there was Her Grace's mother, Mrs. P. Tunster
(an enormously stout lady); there was Miss Helen Crasper, who was
staying in the house. These people were gathered at the end of the cot,
and they looked down upon Henry Fitzgeorge, and he lay upon his back,
gazed at them thoughtfully, and clenched and unclenched his fat hands.
Opposite his cot were some very wide windows, and three windows were
filled with galleons of cloud--fat, bolster, swelling vessels, white,
save where, in their curving sails, they had caught a faint radiance
from the hidden sun. In fine procession, against the blue, they passed
along. Very faint and muffled there came up from the Square the
lingering notes of "Robin Adair." This is a Wednesday afternoon, and it
is the lady with the black straw hat who is singing. The nursery has
white walls--it is filled with colour; the fire blazes with a yellow-red
gleam that rises and falls across the shining floor.
"I brought him a rattle, Jane, dear," said Mrs. Tunster, shaking in the
air a thing of coral and silver. "He's got several, of course, but I
guess you'll go a long way before you find anything cuter."
"It's too pretty," said Lady Emily.
"Too lovely," said the Hon. Mrs. Vavasour.
The Duchess looked down upon her son. "Isn't he old?" she said.
"Thousands of years. You'd think he was laughing at the lot of us."
Mrs. Tunster shook her head. "Now don't you go imagining things, Jane,
my dear. I used to be just like that, and your father would say, 'Now,
Alice.'"
Her Grace raised her head. Her eyes were a little tired. She looked from
her son to the clouds, and then back again to her son. She was
remembering her own early days, the rich glowing colour of her own
American country, the freedom, the space, the honesty.
"I guess you're tired, dear," said her mother. "With the party to-night
and all. Why don't you go and rest a bit?"
"His eyes _are_ old! He _does_ despise us all."
Lady Emily, who believed in personal comfort and as little thinking as
possible, put her arm through her friend's.
"Come along and give us some tea. He's a dear. Good-bye, you little
darling. He _is_ a pet. There, did you see him smiling? You _darling_.
Tea I _must_ have, Jane, dear--_at_ once."
"You go on. I'm coming. Ring for it. Tell Hunter. I'll be with you in
two minutes, mother."
Mrs. Tunster left her rattle in the nurse's hands. Then, with the two
others, departed. Outside the nursery door she said in an American
whisper:--"Jane isn't quite right yet. Went about a bit too soon. She's
headstrong. She always has been. Doesn't do for her to think too much."
Her Grace was alone now with her son and heir and the nurse. She bent
over the cot and smiled upon Henry Fitzgeorge; he smiled back at her,
and even gave an absent-minded crow; but his gaze almost instantly swung
back again to the window, through which, deeply and with solemn
absorption, he watched the clouds.
She gave him her hand, and he closed his fingers about one of hers; but
even that grasp was abstracted, as though he were not thinking of her at
all, but was simply behaving like a gentleman.
"I don't believe he's realised me a bit, nurse," she said, turning away
from the cot.
"Well, Your Grace, they always take time. It's early days."
"But what's he thinking of all the time?"
"Oh, just nothing, Your Grace."
"I don't believe it's nothing. He's trying to settle things. This--what
it's all about--what he's got to do about it."
"It may be so, Your Grace. All babies are like that at first."
"His eyes are so old, so grave."
"He's a jolly little fellow, Your Grace."
"He's very little trouble, isn't he?"
"Less trouble than any baby I've ever had to do with. Got His Grace's
happy temperament, if I may say so."
"Yes," the mother laughed. She crossed over to the window and looked
down. "That poor woman singing down there. How awful! He'll be going
down to Crole very shortly, Roberts. Splendid air for him there. But the
Square's cheerful. He likes the garden, doesn't he?"
"Oh, yes, Your Grace; all the children and the fountain. But he's a
happy baby. I should say he'd like anything."
For a moment longer she looked down into the Square. The discordant
voice was giving "Annie Laurie" to the world.
"Good-bye, darling." She stepped forward, shook the silver and coral
rattle. "See what grannie's given you!" She left it lying near his
hand, and, with a little sigh, was gone.
III
Now, as the sun was setting, the clouds had broken into little pink
bubbles, lying idly here and there upon the sky. Higher, near the top of
the window, they were large pink cushions, three fat ones, lying
sedately against the blue. During three months now Henry Fitzgeorge
Strether had been confronted with the new scene, the new urgency on his
part to respond to it. At first he had refused absolutely to make any
response; behind him, around him, above him, below him, were still the
old conditions; but they were the old conditions viewed, for some reason
unknown to him, at a distance, and at a distance that was ever
increasing. With every day something here in this new and preposterous
world struck his attention, and with every fresh lure was he drawn more
certainly from his old consciousness. At first he had simply rebelled;
then, very slowly, his curiosity had begun to stir. It had stirred at
first through food and touch; very pleasant this, very pleasant that.
Milk, sleep, light things that he could hold very tightly with his
hands. Now, upon this March afternoon, he watched the pink clouds with a
more intent gaze than he had given to them before. Their colour and
shape bore some reference to the life that he had left. They were "like"
a little to those other things. There, too, shadowed against the wall,
was his Friend, his Friend, now the last link with everything that he
knew.
At first, during the first week, he had demanded again and again to be
taken back, and always he had been told to wait, to wait and see what
was going to happen. So long as his Friend was there, he knew that he
was not completely abandoned, and that this was only a temporary
business, with its strange limiting circumstances, the way that one was
tied and bound, the embarrassment of finding that all one's old means of
communication were here useless. How desperate, indeed, would it have
been had his Friend not been there, reassuring pervading him,
surrounding him, always subduing those sudden inexplicable alarms.
He would demand: "When are we going to leave all this?"
"Wait. I know it seems absurd to you, but it's commanded you."
"Well, but--this is ridiculous. Where are all my old powers I Where are
all the others?"
"You will understand everything one day. I'm afraid you're very
uncomfortable. You will be less so as time passes. Indeed, very soon you
will be very happy."
"Well, I'm doing my best to be cheerful. But you won't leave me?"
"Not so long as you want me."
"You'll stay until we go back again!"
"You'll never go back again."
"Never?"
"No."
Across the light the nurse advanced. She took him in her arms for a
moment, turned his pillows, then layed him down again. As he settled
down into comfort he saw his Friend, huge, a great shadow, mingling with
the coloured lights of the flaming sky. All the world was lit, the white
room glowed. A pleasant smell was in his nostrils.
"Where are all the others? They would like to share this pleasant
moment, and I would warn them about the unpleasant ones."
"They are coming, some of them. I am with them as I am with you."
Swinging across the Square were the evening bells of St. Matthew's.
Henry Fitzgeorge smiled, then chuckled, then dozed into a pleasant
sleep.
IV
Asleep, awake, it had been for the most part the same to him. He swung
easily, lazily upon the clouds; warmth and light surrounded him; a part
of him, his toes, perhaps, would be suddenly cold, then he would cry, or
he would strike his head against the side of his cot and it would hurt,
and so then he would cry again. But these tears would not be tears of
grief, but simply declarations of astonishment and wonder.
He did not, of course, realise that as, very slowly, very gradually he
began to understand the terms and conditions of his new life, so with
the same gradation, his Friend was expressed in those terms. Slowly that
great shadow filled the room, took on human shape, until at last it
would be only thus that he would appear. But Henry would not realise the
change, soon he would not know that it had ever been otherwise. Dimly,
out of chaos, the world was being made for him. There a square of
colour, here something round and hard that was cool to touch, now a
gleaming rod that ran high into the air, now a shape very soft and warm
against which it was pleasant to lean. The clouds, the sweep of dim
colour, the vast horizons of that other world yielded, day by day, to
little concrete things--a patch of carpet, the leg of a chair, the
shadow of the fire, clouds beyond the window, buttons on some one's
clothes, the rails of his cot. Then there were voices, the touch of
hands, some one's soft hair, some one who sang little songs to him.
He woke early one morning and realised the rattle that his grandmother
had given to him. He suddenly realised it. He grasped the handle of it
with his hand and found this cool and pleasant to touch. He then, by
accident, made it tinkle, and instantly the prettiest noise replied to
him. He shook it more lustily and the response was louder. He was, it
seemed, master of this charming thing and could force it to do what he
wished. He appealed to his Friend. Was not this a charming thing that he
had found? He waved it and chuckled and crowed, and then his toes,
sticking out beyond the bed-clothes, were nipped by the cold so that he
halloed loudly. Perhaps the rattle had nipped his toes. He did not know,
but he would cry because that eased his feelings.
That morning there came with his grandmother and mother a silly young
woman who had, it was supposed, a great way with babies. "I adore
babies," she said. "We understand one another in the most wonderful
way."
Henry Fitzgeorge looked at her as she leaned over the cot and made faces
at him. "Goo-goo-gum-goo," she cried.
"What is all this?" he asked his Friend. He laid down the rattle, and
felt suddenly lonely and unhappy.
"Little pet--ug--la--la--goo--losh!" Henry Fitzgeorge raised his eyes.
His Friend was a long, long way away; his eyes grew cold with contempt.
He hated this thing that made the noises and closed out the light. He
opened his eyes, he was about to burst into one of his most abandoned
roars when his stare encountered his mother. Her eyes were watching him,
and they had in them a glow and radiance that gave him a warm feeling of
companionship. "I know," they seemed to say, "what you are thinking of.
I agree with all that you are feeling about her. Only don't cry, she
really isn't worth it." His mouth slowly closed then to thank her for
her assistance, he raised the rattle and shook it at her. His eyes never
left her face.
"Little darling," said the lady friend, but nevertheless disappointed.
"Lift him up, Jane. I'd like to see him in your arms."
But she shook her head. She moved away from the cot. Something so
precious had been in that smile of her son's that she would not risk any
rebuff.
Henry Fitzgeorge gave the strange lady one last look of disgust.
"If that comes again I'll bite it," he said to his Friend.
When these visitors had departed, he lay there remembering those eyes
that had looked into his. All that day he remembered them, and it may be
that his Friend, as he watched, sighed because the time for launching
him had now come, that one more soul had passed from his sheltering arms
out into the highroad of fine adventures. How easily they forget! How
readily they forget! How eagerly they fling the pack of their old world
from off their shoulders! He had seen, perhaps, so many go, thus
lustily, upon their way, and then how many, at the end of it all,
tired, worn, beaten to their very shadows, had he received at the end!
But it was so. This day was to see Henry Fitzgeorge's assertions of his
independence. The hour when this life was to close, so definitely, so
securely, the doors upon that other, had come. The shadow that had been
so vast that it had filled the room, the Square, the world, was drawn
now into small and human size.
Henry Fitzgeorge was never again to look so old.
V
As the fine, dim afternoon was closing, he was allowed, for half an hour
before sleep, to sprawl upon the carpet in front of the fire. He had
with him his rattle and a large bear which he stroked because it was
comfortable; he had no personal feeling about it.
His mother came in.
"Let me have him for half an hour, nurse. Come back in half an hour's
time."
The nurse left them.
Henry Fitzgeorge did not look at his mother.
He had the bear in his arms and was feeling it, and in his mind the
warmth from the flickering, jumping flame and the soft, friendly
submission of the fur beneath his fingers were part of the same mystery.
His mother had been motoring; her cheeks were flushed, and her dark
clothes heightened, by their contrast, her colour. She knelt down on the
carpet and then, with her hands folded on her lap, watched her son. He
rolled the bear over and over, he poked it, he banged its head upon the
ground. Then he was tired with it and took up the rattle. Then he was
tired of that, and he looked across at his mother and chuckled.
His mind, however, was not at all concentrated upon her. He felt, on
this afternoon, a new, a fresh interest in things. The carpet before him
was a vast country and he did not propose to explore it, but sucking his
thumb, stroking the bear's coat, feeling the firelight upon his face, he
felt that now something would occur. He had realised that there was much
to explore and that, after all, perhaps there might be more in this
strange condition of things than he had only a little time ago
considered possible. It was then that he looked up and saw hanging
round his mother's neck a gold chain. This was a long chain hanging
right down to her lap; as it hung there, very slowly it swayed from side
to side, and as it swayed, the firelight caught it and it gleamed and
was splashed with light. His eyes, as he watched, grew rounder and
rounder; he had never seen anything so wonderful. He put down the
rattle, crawled, with great difficulty because of his long clothes, on
to his knees and sat staring, his thumb in his mouth. His mother stayed,
watching him. He pointed his finger, crowing. "Come and fetch it," she
said.
He tumbled forward on to his nose and then lay there, with his face
raised a little, watching it. She did not move at all, but knelt with
her hands straight out upon her knees, and the chain with its large gold
rings like flaming eyes swung from hand to hand. Then he tried to move
forward, his whole soul in his gaze. He would raise a hand towards the
treasure and then because that upset his balance he would fall, but at
once he would be up again. He moved a little and breathed little gasps
of pleasure.
She bent forward to him, his hand was outstretched. His eyes went up
and, meeting hers, instantly the chain was forgotten. That recognition
that they had given him before was there now.
With a scramble and a lurch, desperate, heedless in its risks, he was in
his mother's lap. Then he crowed. He crowed for all the world to hear
because now, at last, he had become its citizen.
Was there not then, from some one, disregarded and forgotten at that
moment, a sigh, lighter than the air itself, half-ironic, half-wistful
regret?