Those unlucky few words that I had overheard created a great breach
between me and my tenants, and, moreover, brought on in the would-be
philosopher a fit of misanthropical melancholy. I could not get over
the poor little woman's cynical hypocrisy for some days, during which
I never went near the cottage; and if I met either mother or daughter
in my walks or rides, I contented myself with raising my hat
ceremoniously, and giving them as brief a glimpse of my 'wicked
hideous face' as possible. Ha! ha! I would show them whether or not I
was dependent on their society, and how much of selfish libertinism
there had been in my wish to house them comfortably for the winter; a
pair of idiots!
But this noble pride wore itself out in a fortnight, at the end of
which time I began to think it was I who was the idiot, to nourish
resentment against a pair of helpless creatures who, too poor to
refuse an offer which saved them from brutality and starvation, had
seen enough of the dark side of human nature to put small faith in
disinterested motives, and had no weapon but their own wits wherewith
to fight their natural enemy--man. Besides, my solitude had grown ten
times more solitary now that, sitting alone in my study at night, with
To-to languidly stretching himself on the kennel in front of me,
paying no attention to me whatever, and Ta-ta, who really had
capacities for sympathy, lying asleep on the rug at my feet, I knew
that, not a hundred yards away, there were slender women's forms
flitting about, and girlish prattle going on, by a little modest
fireside that was a home.
So I suddenly remembered that I ought to call and ask them if they
found their new home to their liking. Anxious, for the first time for
five years, to make the best of a bad business, so far as my person
was concerned, I exchanged the coarse tweed Norfolk suit I usually
wore for a black coat and gray trousers I used to wear in town, which,
though doubtless a little old-fashioned in cut, might reasonably be
supposed to pass muster in the wilds, and even to give me a rather
dashing appearance. But, alas! It did not. It showed me, on the
contrary, how far I had slipped away from civilisation. My hair was
too long, what complexion I had left too weather-beaten, while the
seamed and scarred right side of my face looked more hideous than
ever. I changed back quickly to my usual coat, scarcely acknowledging
to myself that some sort of vague wish to live once more the life of
other men was disappointed.
I found Mrs. Ellmer and her daughter in their outdoor dress; they had
been driven in by a snow shower, one of the first of the season. The
sitting-room looked now cosy and habitable, if a little untidy, the
habits of the touring actress being still manifest in a collection of
unframed cabinet photographs--not all uncalculated to bring a blush to
the Presbyterian cheek--which stood in a row on the mantelpiece. It
occurred to me that old Janet might have let out the fact that I
turned back with her to the cottage and, perhaps, overheard something
to my disadvantage, for Babiole looked frightened and shy, and Mrs.
Ellmer's manner was almost apologetically humble. There was constraint
enough upon us all for me to make my visit very short, but as I left
I formally invited them to dine with me on the following evening.
With what shamefaced _nonchalance_ I told Ferguson that day to have
the drawing-room opened and cleaned on the following morning! With
what stolid lowering resignation he extracted my reason for this
unparalleled order! However, he made no protest. But next morning,
while I was at breakfast, he entered the room in his usual clockwork
manner, but with a glow of pleasurable feeling in his cold eyes.
'If you please, sir, Janet would be obliged if you would step into the
drawing-room and see if you would still wish to have it prepared for
the party this evening.'
Party! I could have broken his neck. But I only followed him in an
easy manner into the hall. It was full of blinding smoke, which was
pouring forth from the open door of the drawing-room. I dashed
heroically into the apartment, only to be met with a denser cloud,
which rushed into my mouth and made my eyes smart and burn. Some
winged thing, either a bird or a bat, flapped against the walls and
ceiling in the gloom. Janet was choking at the fireplace, in great
danger of being smothered.
'What is all this?' I choked angrily, getting back into the hall.
'Nothing, sir,' answered Ferguson, with grim delight. 'Nothing but
that Janet lit the fire to air the room in obedience to your orders,
and that the chimney smokes a little. Would you still wish to have the
room got ready, sir?'
But he had gone too far; he had roused the lion.
'Come in here,' I said, in a tone which subdued his happiness; and he
followed me back into the room. 'Now t-t-take the tongs,' I
continued, as haughtily as coughing would permit, 'and r-ram it up the
chimney.'
Cowed, but exceedingly reluctant, he obeyed, and I would not let him
relax his efforts until, smothered with soot and dust, dry twigs and
blackened snow, he pulled down upon himself a sack, a couple of
birds'-nests, and other obstacles which, some from above and some from
below, had been deposited in the unused chimney.
'Now,' said I, purple in the face but content, 'you can relight the
fire.'
And, satisfied with this moral victory and the prestige it gave me in
the eyes of the whole household--for Tim and the outdoor genius who
gardened twelve acres and looked after four horses had both enjoyed
this domestic scandal from the doorway--I marched back to my cold
coffee and congealed bacon.
There were no more difficulties, though, at least none worth
mentioning. It is true that on returning from my morning's ride I
found the hall so stuffed up with furniture that I had to enter my
residence through one of the study windows, five feet from the ground;
and that I had to picnic on a sandwich in the study instead of
lunching decorously in the dining-room; but these discomforts might be
necessary to a thorough cleaning, and could be borne with fortitude.
At six o'clock my guests arrived, and, having left their cloaks in a
spare-room opened for the occasion, they were led to shiver in the
drawing-room, which still smelt of smoke and soap and water. Mrs.
Ellmer, with chattering teeth, admired the painted ceiling, the white
satin chairs bright with embossed roses, the pale screen, and all the
fanciful glories of the room, the magnificence of which evidently
impressed and delighted her. Babiole seemed unable to take her eyes
off two oil-paintings, both portraits of the same lady, which, in
massive gilt oval frames, occupied a prominent position at the end of
the room opposite the fireplace.
'Babiole is fascinated, you see, Mr. Maude,' said her mother, with the
little affected laugh which gave less the idea of pleasure than that
of a wish to please. 'If she dared she would ask who those ladies
are.'
'They are both the same, mother,' said Babiole, so softly, so shyly,
that one could think she guessed there was some story about the
portraits.
Mrs. Ellmer's eyes began to beam with a less artless curiosity.
'Would it be indiscreet to ask her name?'
'Her name was Helen.'
'Ah, poor lady! She is dead, then?'
'No, I believe she is alive.'
Babiole glanced quickly from the pictures to my face and pressed her
mother's hand, as that lady was about to burst forth into more
questions. I don't know that my countenance expressed much, for my
feelings on the subject of the original of the portrait had long
ceased to be keen; but I think the little one, being very young, liked
to make as much as possible out of any suggestion of a romance. I took
the girl by the arm and led her to the end of the room, where the
portraits hung.
'Now,' said I, 'which of these two pictures do you like best?'
Babiole instantly assumed the enormous seriousness of a child who is
honoured with a genuine appeal to its taste. After a few moments'
grave comparison of the pictures, she turned to me, with the face of a
fairy judge, and asked solemnly--
'Do you mean which should I love best, or which do I admire most as a
work of art?'
This altogether unexpected question, which came so quaintly from the
childish lips, made me laugh. Babiole turned from me to the pictures,
rather disconcerted, and Mrs. Ellmer broke in with her sharp high
voice--
'Babiole understands pictures; she has had a thorough art education
from her father, Mr. Maude.'
'Oh yes,' said I, wondering vaguely why mothers always show up so
badly beside their daughters. Then I turned again to the girl. 'I
didn't know how clever you were, Miss Babiole. Supposing I had two
friends, one who had known this lady and loved her, and the other who
was a great art collector. Which portrait would each like best?'
Babiole decided without hesitation. 'The art collector would like this
one, and the one who had loved her would like that,' she said,
indicating each with the glance of her eyes.
'But the art collector's is the prettier face of the two,' I objected.
'Yes; but it isn't so good.'
I was astonished and fascinated by the quickness of the girl's
perception.
'You ought to grow into an artist,' I said, smiling. 'The pretty one
was in the Academy this year, painted by a famous artist. I heard it
was a wonderful portrait, and I commissioned a man to buy it for me.
The other is an enlargement, by an unknown artist, from half a dozen
old photographs and sketches, of the same lady five years ago.'
'And is it exactly like her--like what she was, I mean?'
'No; she was prettier, but not so--good.'
I used the word 'good' because she had used it, though it was not the
word I should have chosen. I wanted her to say something more, for she
was still looking at the pictures in a very thoughtful way; but at
that moment Mrs. Ellmer, skipping lightly along the polished floor in
a way that made me tremble for her balance, thrust her head between
us, and laid her pointed chin on her daughter's shoulder.
'And what are you two so deeply interested about?' she asked
playfully.
Babiole put her tender little cheek lovingly against her mother's thin
face, and I began talking about art in a vague and ignorant manner,
which incautiously showed that I disliked the interruption. Ferguson
came to my rescue with the solemn announcement of dinner.
From Mrs. Ellmer's rather critical attitude towards the different
dishes, I gathered that she prided herself on her own cookery, and
Babiole ingenuously let out that mamma had once superintended a very
grand dinner of some friends of theirs--'Oh, such rich people!'--and
it had been a great success. Mamma seemed a little uneasy at this
indiscretion, but hastened to add that they were such dear friends of
hers that when they were left in a difficulty by the sudden illness of
their man-cook--a man who had been in the first families, and had come
to them from Lord Stonehaven's--she had overwhelmed them by the offer
of her services.
'I think all ladies should learn cooking, Mr. Maude; and, indeed, many
do now. The lessons are very expensive, certainly; but one never
regrets either the time or the money when it is once learned,' said
she. 'Servants never understand how things ought to be done unless
there is some one able to give them a little guidance.'
To all this conversation Ferguson listened with the amiability of an
enraged bear restrained by iron bars from making a meal of his
tormentors.
Babiole had little attention to spare for any one but Ta-ta, with
whom she had struck up a rapidly ripening friendship.
'Ta-ta has taken a fancy to you,' I said, smiling. 'She always likes
the people I like,' I added, with the common fatuity of owners of pet
animals.
Upon this Mrs. Ellmer piped out 'Ta-ta, Ta-ta, Ta-ta!' until, to stop
her, I beckoned the dog to her side of the table. But the collie,
seeing that she had nothing better than a raisin to offer, merely
sniffed at it, avoided the threatened caress, and slunk back to her
old place by Babiole, in whose lap she rested her head contentedly.
While her mother was still laughing shrilly at this misadventure, the
child asked if they might see my monkey.
'Shall I take you to my study now,' said I, 'and show you how an old
bachelor passes his evenings?'
'Is the monkey fond of you too, Mr. Maude?' asked Babiole, as I
opened the door for them.
'I flatter myself that he is. At least I can boast that he flies at
any one whom he suspects of doing me harm. Two months ago a doctor was
attending me for a swelling on my neck. He came day after day, and
To-to treated him with all the courtesy due to an honoured guest,
until he decided one day that the swelling ought to be lanced, and
took from his pocket a case of instruments. He had scarcely opened it
when To-to, chattering and grimacing, sprang across the hearthrug with
such violence that he broke his chain, and fastened his teeth in the
doctor's hand.'
'What a savage brute!' exclaimed Mrs. Ellmer.
Babiole thought it out as we crossed the hall, and then spoke
gravely--
'But the monkey was wrong, for the doctor never meant to hurt you,'
she said, in her deliberate way.
'I suppose you gave him a good beating,' said Mrs. Ellmer.
'No, I didn't. I scolded him till we were alone together, for the sake
of the doctor's feelings. But when he was gone I sneaked up to To-to's
kennel and stroked him and gave him a beautiful bone. The scolding was
for the mistake, you know, and the bone for the devotion.'
We entered the study, Mrs. Ellmer first, I last. The alarmed lady, on
coming round the screen, was close to the monkey before she saw him.
To-to only blinked up at her composedly, with no demonstration of
hostility; but to my horror and amazement, no sooner did he catch
sight of Babiole, who came up to him bravely by my side, with her
little hand cordially outstretched towards him, than he made a savage
spring at her, his teeth and eyes gleaming with malice. I was just in
time to draw her back in my arms, so that he fell to the ground
instead of fastening on her poor little wrist. Mrs. Ellmer screamed,
Ta-ta began to bark and make judiciously-distanced rushes at the
monkey; while Babiole recovered herself, very pale, but quite quiet,
and I, strangely excited, gave To-to a sharp blow.
'Oh, don't!' cried the child; but then, smiling archly, though the
colour driven away by the little fright had not yet come back to her
cheek, she added, 'but you will give him a bone as a reward when we
are gone.'
'Do you think so?' said I, in a rather constrained voice. Then, seeing
that Mrs. Ellmer's eyes were fixed curiously upon me, I added, 'The
first mistake, you see, was excusable; there was a reason for it. But
this attack was unprovoked.'
'Yes,' said Babiole naively; 'for how could I do you any harm?'
'Yes, how indeed?' said I.
But even as I said this, and looked at her blue-eyed face, I thought
that perhaps the monkey might prove to be wiser than either of us,
unless I grew wiser as she grew older.
The rest of the evening passed pleasantly enough in the ransacking of
my cabinets of curiosities; Mrs. Ellmer, who proved to be a
connoisseur of more things than china, took delight in the value of
the treasures themselves, while Babiole pleased herself with such as
she thought beautiful, and enjoyed particularly the stories I told
about the places I had found them in, and the ways in which I had
picked them up. She grew radiant over the present of a Venetian bead
necklace, such as can be bought in the Burlington Arcade for a few
shillings; but when I told her it was a souvenir from a woman whose
child I had saved from drowning, her joy in her new treasure was
suddenly turned to reverence. How did I do it? It was a very simple
story; a little boy of four or five had slipped into one of the
canals, and I, passing in a gondola, had caught his clothes, or rather
his rags, and handed the choking squalling manikin back into the
custody of a black-eyed, brown-skinned woman, who had insisted, with
impulsive but coquettish gratitude, on presenting me with the beads
she wore round her own neck.
'Wasn't she in rags, too, then?' asked Babiole.
'Oh no, she was rather picturesquely got up.'
'Then, I should think, she was not his mother at all.'
'Perhaps not. But all mothers are not like yours.'
'I _know_ that,' cooed the girl, tucking her hand lovingly under the
maternal arm. Then, after a pause, she said, 'What a lot of nice
places and people you must have seen in all the years you have
travelled about, Mr. Maude.'
'How old do you think I am, then?' I asked, struck by something in her
tone.
She hesitated, looking shyly from me to her mother.
'No, no,' said I. 'Tell me what you think yourself.'
She glanced at me again, then suggested in a small voice, 'sixty?'
Both Mrs. Ellmer and I began to laugh; and the child, blushing, rubbed
her cheek against her mother's sleeve.
'How much would you take off from that, Mrs. Ellmer?'
'Why, I'm sure you can't be a day more than forty-five.'
She evidently thought I should be pleased by this, the good lady
flattering herself that she had taken off at least five years. My
first impulse was to set them right rather indignantly, but the next
moment I remembered that I should gain nothing but a character for
mendacity by telling them that I should not be thirty till next year.
So I only laughed again, and then Babiole's voice broke in
apologetically.
'I only guessed what I did, Mr. Maude, because you are so very kind;
you seem always trying to do good to some one.'
'Here's a subtle and cynical little observer for you,' said I,
glancing over the child's head at the mother. 'She knows, you see,
that benevolence is the last of the emotions, and is only tried as a
last resource when we have used up all the others.'
Babiole looked much astonished at this interpretation, which she
understood very imperfectly, and Mrs. Ellmer shook her head in arch
rebuke as she rose to go. They went upstairs together to put on their
cloaks, but Babiole came flying down before her mother to have a last
peep at the portraits which had fascinated her. I followed her into
the drawing-room, where lamp and fire were still burning, and she
started and turned as she saw my reflection in the long glass which
hung between the pictures.
'Well, are you as happy at the cottage as you thought you would be?' I
asked.
'Oh, happier, a thousand times. It is too good to last,' with a
frightened sigh.
'Don't you miss the constant change of your travelling life, and the
excitement of acting?'
She seemed scarcely to understand me at first, as she repeated, in a
bewildered manner, 'excitement!' Then she said simply, 'It's very
exciting when you miss the train and the company go on without you;
but it's dreadful, too, because the manager might telegraph to say
you needn't come on at all'.
'But the acting; isn't that exciting?'
'It's nice, sometimes, when one has a part one likes; but, of course,
I only got small parts, and it's dreadful to have to go on with
nothing to say, or for an executioner, or an old woman, with just a
line.'
'And don't you like travelling?'
'I like it sometimes in the summer; but in the winter it's so cold,
and the places all seem alike; and then the pantomime season comes,
and you have nothing to do.'
'What do you do then? What did you do last winter, for instance?'
'We went back to London.'
'Well?'
But Babiole had grown suddenly shy.
'Won't you tell me? Would you rather not?'
'I would rather not.'
At that moment Mrs. Ellmer's voice was heard calling, in sharp tones,
for 'Babiole!'
'Here we are, Mrs. Ellmer, taking a last look at the pictures,' I
called back, and I led the child out into the hall, where her mother
gave a sharp glance from her to me, and wished me good-night rather
curtly. I stood at the door to watch them on their way to the cottage,
as they would not accept my escort; and through the keen air I
distinctly heard this question and answer--
'You want to get us turned out, to spend another winter like the last,
I suppose. What did you tell him about your father?'
'Nothing, mother, nothing, indeed!----'
The rest of the child's passionate answer I could not catch, as they
went farther away. But I wondered what the secret was that I had been
so near learning.