No doubt you will have guessed that Henry is a better and sounder
writer than I. He has helped me a lot with his criticism and advice,
for he is fastidious regarding style. There used to be a time, before
he came along, when I walked in darkness, often beginning sentences
with conjunctions and ending them with adverbs; I have even split
infinitives and gone on my way rejoicing. I am now greatly improved,
though one of the incurable things I shall never eradicate from my
system is a weakness for beginning sentences with 'but.' But if you
observe it, I hope you will kindly pass it over without remark.
Henry often talks to me about construction. 'If you are writing a
book,' he says, 'don't introduce all your characters in the first
chapter. Let them develop gradually.'
Now that is sound advice. It was not, however, for the sake of
construction that I refrained from telling you about The Kid at the
very beginning. I was impelled to silence by the same reason which
kept me from mentioning The Kid to Elizabeth until her box had arrived
and she had settled down. I feel sure you do not want to hear about
The Kid any more than Elizabeth did. It is annoying to read about
children. If they are good they cloy, and if bad they irritate. The
Kid is neither. In any case, it is time she came home now, so she will
have to drop in here. During my servantless period she stayed with
friends--which was a good thing for her digestion and my nervous
system. Now there was no longer any excuse--I mean, it was now time
for her to return.
[Illustration: The Kid.]
She is what you would call a boisterous child, overflowing with
ebullition of spirits, _joie de vivre_, bonhomie, and all those
attributes which cause people possessing them to make a noise. When
she enters a room you always think of those lines, 'the mountains
skipped like rams, and the little hills like young sheep.'
She descended on Henry and me just a year after our marriage. As we
have now been married ten years you will be able to calculate her age
if you are good at arithmetic.
Elizabeth did not disapprove of The Kid. It might have been awkward if
she had. As a matter of fact, they became close companions at sight.
There were certain affinities between them. Elizabeth, for example,
although perhaps not so habitually sticky as The Kid, like her didn't
seem able to remain clean or tidy for longer than half an hour at a
time. Also, Elizabeth believing in Signs, The Kid revered her for her
mysticism--about the only person who ever did. She used to beg to be
allowed to study her Dream Book, and every evening before bedtime would
go into the kitchen and--sitting amid that wild disorder that is
necessary to Elizabeth before she can really feel at home--'look up'
her dream of the previous night.
Try as she would, the poor child never seemed to have the sort of
vision that, in the words of the book, had 'excellent portent.' 'I
don't get the nice things,' I once heard her remark, 'like white
horses, you know, which, it says, portend honours, riches and rare
gifts. Did you ever dream of white horses, Elizabeth?'
'That I did--wunst.'
'And did you get the honours, and all those things, Elizabeth?'
'Well, I got the rare gifts in a manner o' speaking. My gran'mother
died a month later an' left me a pair o' jet earrings and a jet
bracelet to match--one o' them stretchin' ones, on elastic, you know.'
That incident established Elizabeth in The Kid's estimation as a
prophet. Old Moore himself couldn't have done better.
I did not pay much attention to these things; and it was not until
Elizabeth had been with me for some time that I discovered her intense
fatalism. She ordered her life by Signs, in fact. You or I might drop
a tablespoon on the floor and think nothing of it, but she would tell
you at once it was a Sign that a tall dark lady was coming to the
house. If a knife fell you would hear her mutter '_That's_ a man.'
According to Elizabeth, success in life is in no wise due to personal
effort--it all depends on whether you are 'born lucky.'
Unfortunately Elizabeth was 'born unlucky'--unfortunately for me as
well as her. Destiny, having now woven my life with hers, it made me
unlucky, too. For example, she would come to me and announce, 'I've
been unlucky an' broke the teapot this mornin'. That means I'll break
another two things afore the week's out. It always goes in threes.'
'Then hadn't you better smash something that is of no value at once,'
was my obvious suggestion, 'and get it over?'
But Elizabeth, entrenched in her convictions, would shake her head.
'That's no good. I've tried that afore an' it didn't work. You see,
it 'as to be done unexpected to break the spell.' So the spell had to
be broken also. Clearly, human intervention was no good at all. Fate
was against both of us.
There is something positively uncanny in the way misfortune lies in
wait for that girl. You would think that after causing her to break
two full breakfast services it would leave her alone for a while. But
no; she was half-way through the third before her luck showed any signs
of changing.
Spilling the salt accounted for three burnt saucepans and the collapse
of the plate rack (at the moment fully charged); while seeing the new
moon through glass caused her to overlook the fact that she had left a
can in the middle of the staircase. Afterwards (during the week that I
waited on her on account of her sprained ankle) she said she would
never go near a window again until the moon was at full and quite safe.
Of course, I do my best to parry these mysterious blows of Fate. I
remember when she first undertook to clean the drawing-room I took away
everything that a mysterious agency might cause to 'come in two' in her
hands. I left her alone with the grand piano and scrubbing materials,
and went out to spend the afternoon with cheerful countenance. I
returned rather late, and directly Elizabeth opened the door to me I
saw that something was wrong.
'I've been unlucky,' she began.
'Unlucky!' I faltered. 'But what with? Don't say the piano came in
two in your hands?'
'It wasn't my 'ands, it was my feet. The floor gave way an' I went
through.'
'You went through the floor!' I marvelled. Then my face cleared. The
house was not mine, and, after all, the landlord has no right to escape
these unusual machinations of Fate.
'I knew somethink would 'appen when I put the boots on the table by
accident this mornin',' she explained, 'It's always a Bad Sign.'
You must not think, however, that Elizabeth ever allows her fatalism to
interfere with her judgment. I recall the occasion when she came to me
looking actually concerned and remarked: 'I'm sorry, 'm, but them two
varses that was on the mantelpiece in the pink bedroom----'
I started up. 'Don't dare to say you've been unlucky with them!'
'No'm, I wasn't unlucky. I was just careless when I broke those.'
A low moan escaped my lips. They were the Sèvres vases that I loved
dearest of my possessions, and which, in the words of those who keep
shops, 'cannot be repeated.' I regarded Elizabeth angrily, no longer
able to control my wrath. I am at times (says Henry) a hasty woman. I
ought to have paused and put my love of Sèvres vases in the balance
with the diet of scrambled eggs and the prospect of unlimited
washing-up, and I know which side would have tipped up at once.
However, I did not pause, caring not that the bitter recriminations I
intended to hurl at her would bring forth the inevitable month's
notice; that, at the first hint of her leaving me, at least a dozen of
my neighbours would stretch out eager hands to snatch Elizabeth, a
dozen different vacant sinks were ready for her selection. I did not
care, I say; I had loved my vases and in that moment I hated Elizabeth.
But she began to speak before I did. 'It isn't as if I'd been
unlucky--I couldn't ha' 'elped _that_. But I know when I'm in the
wrong'--she unfolded a parcel she had in her hand as she spoke--'so I
went out larst night and bought these to replace what I broke. Right's
right, I always say'; and she laid down before me a pair of vases on
which were emblazoned gigantic and strangely-hued flowers that could
belong to no earthly flora.
'They're bigger'n the varses I broke,' she murmured, regarding her
purchase with satisfaction.
Then I noted that she wore an expression of lofty pride, that she
glowed with the calm satisfaction of one who has made ample reparation.
Looking at Elizabeth just then you might almost have thought that she
had a soul. Really, it gave one an odd feeling.
I picked up her offering and regarded it a moment in silence, while my
aesthetic nature shook to its foundations. Stifling the moan of horror
that had risen to my lips, I faced her with a smile. Balaclava heroes
could have done no more.
'Thank you, Elizabeth,' I said humbly.