DEATH OF A MERE FACT
There was a man named Jinks. In him was neither fancy, imagination, nor
a sign of wonder, and so he--died.
But, though he appears in this chapter, he disappears again so quickly
that his being mentioned in a sentence all by himself should not lead
any one astray. Jinks made a false entry, as it were. The children
crossed him out at once. He became illegible. For the trio had their
likes and dislikes; they resented liberties being taken with them.
Also, when there was no one to tell them stories, they were quite able
to amuse themselves. It was the inactive yet omnipotent Maria who
brought about indirectly the obliteration of Mr. Jinks.
And it came about as follows:
Maria was a podgy child of marked individuality. It was said that she
was seven years old, but _she_ declared that eight was the figure,
because some uncle or other had explained, "you're in your eighth
year." Wandering uncles are troublesome in this kind of way. Every time
her age was mentioned she corrected the informant. She had a trick of
moving her eyes without moving her head, as though the round face was
difficult to turn; but her big blue eyes slipped round without the
least trouble, as though oiled. The performance gave her the sly and
knowing aspect of a goblin, but she had no objection to that, for it
saved her trouble, and to save herself trouble--according to nurses,
Authorities, and the like--was her sole object in existence.
Yet this seemed a mistaken view of the child. It was not so much that
she did not move unnecessarily as that it was not necessary for her to
move at all, since she invariably found herself in the middle of
whatever was going on. While life bustled anxiously about her, hurrying
to accomplish various ends, she remained calm and contented at the
centre, completely satisfied, mistress of it all. And her face was
symbolic of her entire being; whereas so many faces seem unfinished,
hers was complete--globular like the heavenly bodies, circular like the
sun, arms and legs unnecessary. The best of everything came to her
_because_ she did not run after it. There was no hurry. Time did not
worry her. Circular and self-sustaining, she already seemed to dwell in
Eternity.
"And this little person," one of these inquisitive, interfering
visitors would ask, smiling fatuously; "how old is she, I wonder?"
"Seven," was the answer of the Authority in charge.
Maria's eyes rolled sideways, and a little upwards. She looked at the
foolish questioner; the Authority who had answered was not worth a
glance.
"No," she said flatly, with sublime defiance, "I'm more. I'm in my
eighth year, you see."
And the visitor, smiling that pleasant smile that makes children
distrust, even dislike them, and probably venturing to pinch her cheek
or pat her on the shoulder into the bargain, accepted the situation
with another type of smile--the Smile-that-children-expect. As a matter
of fact, children hate it. They see through its artificial humbug
easily. They prefer a solemn and unsmiling face invariably. It's the
latter that produces chocolates and sudden presents; it's the
stern-faced sort that play hide-and-seek or stand on their heads. The
Smilers are bored at heart. They mean to escape at the first
opportunity. And the children never catch their sleeves or coattails to
prevent them going.
"So you're in your eighth year, are you?" this Smiler chuckled with a
foolish grin. He patted her cheek kindly. "Why, you're almost a
grown-up person. You'll be going to dinner-parties soon." And he smiled
again. Maria stood motionless and patient. Her eyes gazed straight
before her. Her podgy face remained expressionless as dough.
"Answer the kind gentleman," said the Authority reprovingly.
Maria did not budge. A finger and thumb, both dirty, rolled a portion
of her pinafore into a pointed thing like a string, distinctly black.
She waited for the visitor to withdraw. But this particular visitor did
not withdraw.
"_I_ knew a little girl--" he began, with a condescending grin that
meant that her rejection of his advances had offended him, "a little
girl of about your age, who--"
But the remainder of the rebuke-concealed-in-a-story was heard only by
the Authority. For Maria, relentless and unhumbugged, merely walked
away. In the hall she discovered Tim, discreetly hiding. "What's _he_
come for?" the brother inquired promptly, jerking his thumb towards the
hall.
Maria's eyes just looked at him.
"To see Mother, I suppose," he answered himself, accustomed to his
sister's goblin manners, "and talk about missions and subshkiptions,
and all that. Did he give you anything?"
"No, nothing."
"Did he call us bonny little ones?" His face mentioned that he could
kill if necessary, or if his sister's honour required it.
"He didn't _say_ it."
"Lucky for him," exclaimed Tim gallantly, rubbing his nose with the
palm of his hand and snorting loudly. "What _did_ he say, then--the old
Smiler?"
"He said," replied Maria, moving her head as well as her eyes, "that I
wasn't really old, and that he knew another little girl who was nicer
than me, and always told the truth, and--"
"Oh, come on," cried Tim, impatiently interrupting. "My trains are
going in the schoolroom, and I want a driver for an accident. We'll put
the Smiler in the luggage van, and he'll get smashed in the collision,
and _all_ the wheels will go over his head. Then he'll find out how old
you really are. We'll fairly smash him."
They disappeared. Judy, who was reading a book on the Apocalypse, in a
corner of the room, looked up a moment as they entered.
"What's up?" she asked, her mind a little dazed by the change of focus
from stars, scarlet women, white horses, and mysterious "Voices," to
dull practical details of everyday existence. "What's on?" she repeated.
"Trains," replied Tim. "We're going to have an accident and kill a man
dead."
"What's he done?" she inquired.
"Humbugged Maria with a lot of stuff--and gave her nothing--and didn't
believe a single word she told him."
Judy glanced without much interest at the railway laid out upon the
floor, murmured "Oh, I see," and resumed her reading of the wonderful
book she had purloined from the top shelf of a neglected bookcase
outside the gun-room. It absorbed her. She loved the tremendous words,
the atmosphere of marvel and disaster, and especially the constant
suggestion that the end of the world was near. Antichrist she simply
adored. No other hero in any book she knew came near him.
"Come and help," urged Tim, picking up an engine that lay upon its
side. "Come on."
"No, thanks. I've got an Apocalypse. It's simply frightfully exciting."
"Shall we break _both_ legs?" asked Maria blandly, "or just his neck?"
"Neck," said Tim briefly. "Only they must find the heart beneath the
rubbish of the luggage van."
Judy looked up in spite of herself. "Who is it?" she inquired, with an
air of weighing conflicting interests.
"Mr. Jinks." It was Maria who supplied the information.
"But he's Daddy's offiss-partner man," Judy objected, though without
much vim or heat.
Maria did not answer. Her eyes were glued upon the other engine.
"All black and burnt and--full of the very horridest diseases," put in
Tim, referring to the heart of the destroyed Mr. Jinks beneath the
engine.
He glanced up enticingly at his elder sister, whom he longed to draw
into the vindictive holocaust.
"He said things to Maria," he explained persuasively, "and it's not the
first time either. Last Sunday he called me 'his little man,' and he's
never given me a single thing since ever I can remember, years and
years ago."
Then Judy remembered that he invariably kissed her on both cheeks as
though she was a silly little child.
"Oh, _that_ man!" she exclaimed, realising fully now the enormities he
had committed. She appeared to hesitate a moment. Then she flung down
her Apocalypse suddenly. "Put him on a scarlet horse," she cried,
"pretend he's the Beast, and I'll come."
Maria's blue eyes wheeled half a circle towards Tim. She did not move
her head. It signified agreement. Tim knew. Only her consent, as the
insulted party, was necessary before he could approve.
"All right," he cried to Judy. "We'll put him in a special carriage
with his horse, and I'll make out a label for the window, so that every
one will know." He went over to the table and wrote "BEAST" in capital
letters on a half-sheet of paper. The cumbersome quill pen made two
spongy blots.
"It's the end of the world _really_ at the same time," decided Judy, to
a chorus of general approval, "not only the end of Mr. Jinks." She
liked her horrors on a proper scale.
And the railway line was quickly laid across the room from the window
to the wall. The lamps of oil on both engines were lit. The trains
faced one another. Mr. Jinks and his scarlet horse thought themselves
quite safe in their special carriage, unaware that it was labelled
"Beast" with a label that overlapped the roof and hid all view of the
landscape through the windows on one side. Apparently they slept in
opposite corners, with full consciousness of complete security. Mr.
Jinks was tucked up with woolly rugs, and a newspaper lay across his
knee. The scarlet horse had its head in a bag of oats, and its bridle
was fastened to the luggage rack above. Both were supplied with iron
foot-warmers. There was a _fearful_ fog; and the train was going at a
_TREMENDOUS_ pace.
So was the other train. They approached, they banged, they smashed to
atoms. It was the most appalling collision that had ever been heard of,
and the Guard and Engine-Driver, as well as the Ticket-Collectors and
Directors of the Company, were all executed by the Government the very
next day from gallows that an angry London built in half an hour on the
top of St. Paul's Cathedral dome.
It took place between the footstool and the fireplace in the thickest
fog that England had ever known. And the horrid black heart of Mr.
Jinks was discovered beneath the wreckage of a special carriage next to
the luggage van. It was simply black as coal and very nasty indeed. The
little boy who found it was a porter's son, whose mother was so poor
that she took in washing for members of Parliament, who paid their
bills irregularly because they were very busy governing Ireland. He
knew it was a cinder, but did not discover it was a heart until he
showed it to his mother, and his mother said it was far too black to
wash.
The accident to Mr. Jinks, therefore, was a complete success. The
butler helped with the mending of the engine, and Maria informed at
least one Authority, "We do not know Mr. Jinks. We have other friends."
"But, remember," said Judy, "we mustn't mention it to Daddy, because
Mr. Jinks is his partner-in-the-offiss."
"_Was_," said Tim. The remains they decided to send to what they called
the "Hospital for Parilysed Ineebrits with Incurable Afflictions of the
Heart."