FACT--EDGED WITH FANCY
But the children were not always so vindictive and blood-thirsty. All
three could be very tender sometimes. Even Maria was not wholly
implacable and merciless, she had a pretty side as well. Their
neighbour at the Manor House, Colonel William Stumper, C.B.,
experienced this gentler quality in the trio. He was Mother's cousin,
too.
They were inclined to like this Colonel Stumper, C.B. For one thing he
limped, and that meant, they decided, that he had a wooden leg. They
never called it such, of course, but indicated obliquely that the
injured limb was made of oak or walnut, by referring to the other as
"his living leg," "his good leg," and so forth. For another thing, he
did not smile at them; and for a third, he did not ask foolish
questions in an up-and-down voice (assumed for the moment), as though
they were invalids, idiots, or tailless puppies who could not answer.
He frowned at them. He said furiously, "How are you, creatures?"
And--he gave usually at least a shilling to each.
"That makes three shillings altogether," as Tim cleverly explained.
"But not three shillings for each of us," Maria qualified the praise.
"_I_ only got one." She took it out of her mouth and showed it by way
of proof.
"You'll swallow it," warned Judy, "and then you won't have none at all."
If received early in the week, they reported their good fortune to the
Authorities; but if Sunday was too near, they waited. Daddy had a queer
idea of teasing sometimes. "Just in time for to-morrow's collection,"
he would be apt to say; and though he did not really mean it perhaps,
there was a hint of threat in the suggestion that quenched high spirits
at the moment.
"You see, he takes the plate round," Judy told them, "and so feels
ashamed." She did not explain the feeling ashamed. It was just that her
father, who always did things thoroughly, had to say something, and so
picked on that. "Monday or Tuesday's safest," was her judgment.
Maria rolled her eyes round like a gigantic German doll.
"Never's best," she gave as her opinion.
But that was sly. The others reproved her quickly.
"Daddy likes to know," they told her. "Monday or Tuesday's all right."
They agreed just to mention the matter only. There was no need to "say
a lot."
So they liked this Colonel Stumper, C.B. They liked his "title,"
declaring that the letters stood for "Come Back," and referring to
their owner as "Come Back Stumper." Some day, when he was gone for
good, he was to be promoted to K.C.B., meaning "Kan't-Come-Back." But
they preferred him as he was, plain C.B., because they did not want to
lose him. They declared that "Companion to the Bath" was just nonsense
invented by a Radical Government. For in politics, of course, they
followed their father's lead, and their father had _distinctly_ stated
more than once that "the policy of a Radical Government was
some-funny-word-or-other nonsense," which statement helped them
enormously in forming their own opinions on several other topics as
well. In personal disagreements, for instance--they never
"squabbled"--the final insult was to say, "My dear, you're as silly as
a something-or-other Radical Govunment," for there was no answer to
this anywhere in the world.
Come-Back Stumper, therefore, though casual outsiders might never have
guessed it, was a valuable ally. He was what Mother called "a
character" as well, and if the children used this statement in praise
of him, while adopting in their carelessness a revised version, "he has
no character," this was not Come-Back Stumper's fault. He was also an
"extinguished soldger," and had seen much service in foreign parts.
India with its tigers, elephants, and jungles, was in his heated
atmosphere deliciously, and his yellow tint, as of an unripe orange,
was due to something they had learned from hearsay to describe as
"curried liver trouble." All this, and especially his dead or wooden
leg, was distinctly in his favour. Come-Back Stumper was real. Also, he
was hard and angular in appearance, short, brisk in manner,
square-shouldered, and talked like a General who was bothered about
something in a battle. His opinions were most decided. His conversation
consisted of negatives, refusals and blank denials. If Come-Back
Stumper agreed with what was said, it meant that he was feeling unwell
with an attack of curried-liver-trouble. The children understood him.
He understood the children, too.
"It's a jolly morning, William," from Daddy would be met with "Might be
worse" and a snort like the sneeze of the nursery cat, but a direct
invitation of any sort was simply declined point blank. "Care to see
The Times, William?" ensured the answer, "Oh, _no_, thanks; there's
never anything worth reading in it." This was as regular as breakfast
when Cousin William was staying in the house. It was, in fact, Daddy's
formula when he settled into his armchair for a quiet half-hour's read.
Daddy's question was the mere politeness of a host. It was sham, but
Cousin William's answer was as real as breakfast. The formula was a
mechanical certainty, as certain as that pressing a button in the wall
produced Thompson in the room.
Accordingly, when Mother said, "Now, don't bother your Cousin William,
children; he doesn't want you," this individual would instantly
shoulder arms and state the exact contrary with fiery emphasis.
"If you've no objection," came the testy answer, "and if it's all the
same to you, Cecilia"--a shade sarcastically, this--"it's precisely
what I _do_ want."
And he would look at the children in a way that suggested the most
intimate of secret understanding between himself and them. More, he
would rise and leave the room with the impetus of a soldier going out
to fight, and would play with Judy, Tim, and Maria in a fashion that
upset the household routine and made the trio unmanageable for the
Authorities for hours afterwards.
"He's an honourable gentleman like the gentlemen in Parliament,"
declared Judy, "and that's my opinion of why I think him nice."
"And when I'm grown-up," was Tim's verdict, "I'll be a soldger just
exactly the same, only not yellow, and taller, and not so thick in the
middle, and much, much richer, and with C.B. in front of my name as
well as at the end."
Maria, not being present at the time, said nothing audible. But she
liked him, too, unquestionably. Otherwise she would have announced the
fact without delay. "He _is_ a lump rather," she had been heard to
remark, referring to his actual bulk and slowness of movement when in
play. But it was nicely, very nicely meant.
"I am sure your Cousin William would rather be left alone to read
quietly," said Mother, seeing the trio approach that individual
stealthily after tea in the library one evening. He was deep in a big
armchair, and deep in a book as well. The children were allowed
downstairs after their schoolroom tea for an hour when nothing
particular was on. "Wouldn't you, William?" she added. She went on
knitting a sort of muffler thing she held up close to the lamp. She
expected no reply, apparently.
Cousin William made none. But he raised the level of his book so that
it hid his face. A moment before, the eyes had been looking over the
top at the advancing trio, watching their movements narrowly.
The children did not answer either. They separated. They scouted. They
executed a flank attack in open order. Three minutes later Colonel
Stumper was surrounded. And no word was spoken; the scouts just perched
and watched him. He was not actually reading, for he had not turned a
page for about ten minutes, and it was _not_ a picture book. The
difficulty was, however, to get him started. If only Mother would help
them! Then Mother, unwittingly, did so. For she dropped her ball of
wool, and finding no one at hand to recover it, she looked vaguely
round the room--and saw them. And she shook her head at them.
"Don't bother him just now," she whispered again, "he's got a cold.
Here, Maria, pick up my wool, darling, will you?" But while Tim (for
Maria only moved her eyes) picked up the wool obediently, Cousin
William picked up himself with difficulty, tossed his book into the
deep arm-chair, and stalked without a single word towards the door.
Mother watched him with one eye, but the children did not stir a muscle.
"William, you're not going to bed, are you?" she asked kindly, "or
would you like to, perhaps? And have your dinner in your room, and a
warm drink just before going to sleep? That's the best thing for a
cold, I always think."
He turned at the door and faced her. "Thank you very much," he said
with savage emphasis, "but I am _not_ ill, and I am _not_ going to
bed." The negatives sounded like pistol shots. "My cold is nothing to
speak of." And he was gone, leaving a trail of fire in the air.
The children, cunning in their generation, did not move. There were
moments in life, and this was one of them, when "stir a finger and
you're a dead man" was really true. No finger stirred, no muscle
twitched; one pair of eyelids fluttered, nothing more. And Mother,
happy with her recovered ball of wool, was presently lost in the
muffler thing she knitted, forgetful of their presence, if not of their
very existence. Signals meanwhile were made and answered by means of
some secret code that birds and animals understand. The plan was
matured in silence.
"Good-night, Mother," said Judy innocently, a few moments later,
stepping up and kissing her.
"Good-night," said Tim gravely, doing likewise.
Maria kissed, but said no word at all. They did not linger, as their
custom was, to cuddle in or hear a fairy story. To-night they were good
and businesslike.
"Good-night, duckies," said Mother, glancing at the clock on the
mantelpiece. "It's not _quite_ bed-time yet, but it's been a long day,
and you're tired out. I shall be up presently to hear your prayers and
tuck you up. And, Judy, you might tell Jackman--"
But the room was empty, the children vanished. The door banged softly,
cutting off the sentence in its middle, and Mother resumed her
knitting, smiling quietly to herself. And in the hall outside Come-Back
Stumper was discovered, warming his Army back before the open fire of
blazing logs. He looked like a cart-horse, the shadows made him spread
so. Maria pushed him to one side. She pushed, at least, but he did not
move exactly. Yet somehow, by a kind of sidling process, he took up a
new position in regard to the fire and themselves, the result of which
was that they occupied the best places, while he stood at one corner in
an attitude which resisted attack and yet invited it.
"Good-evening," remarked Maria; "are you warm?"
"Oh, no," exclaimed Tim, "that's not it at all. The thing is, shall we
play hide-and-seek, or would you really rather go to bed, as Mother
said, and have dinner and hot drinks?"
"Nonsense," cried Judy with authority. "He's got an awful cold, and
he's got to go to bed at once. He's shivering all over. It's Nindian
fever."
"No, really, really--" began Stumper, but was not allowed to finish.
"Thin captain biscuits soaked in hot milk with ginger, nutmeg, lemon,
and whisky," announced Judy, "would be best." And she shot towards the
door, her hair untied and flying.
"But, my dear, I assure you--"
"Or Bath Olivers," she interrupted, "because they soak better. _You_
know nothing," she added motheringly; "no man ever does." There was
contempt in her voice as well as pity.
"_Why_ do you know nothing?" inquired Maria, with a blaze of staring
eyes, as the door slammed upon her vanishing sister.
"_I_ think you know everything," said Tim with pride, decidedly, "only
you've forgotten it in India. I think it's silly."
"The milk and stuff?" agreed the soldier. "Yes, so do I. And I hate
biscuits, and ginger makes me hot and ill--"
"Iller than you are already?" asked Maria, "because that means bed."
"Maria," he snapped angrily, "I'm not ill at all. If you go on saying
I'm ill, of course I shall get ill. I never felt better in my life."
Tim turned round like a top. "Then let's play hide-and-seek," he cried.
"Let's hide before Judy gets back, and she can come and never find us!"
Cousin William suggested they were not enough to play that game, and
was of opinion that Aunt Emily might be invited too.
"Oh, no," Tim gave his decided verdict, "not women. They can't hide
properly. They bulge."
And at that moment Judy appeared in the doorway across the hall.
"It's coming," she cried. "I've ordered everything--hot milk and Bath
Olivers and preserved ginger and--"
Cousin William took the matter into his own hands then, for the
situation was growing desperate. "Look here," he suggested gravely, yet
without enthusiasm, "I'll take the milk and stuff upstairs when I've
got into bed, and meanwhile we'll do something else. I'm--that is, my
cold is too bad to play a game, but I'll tell you a story
about--er--about a tiger--if you like?" The last three words were added
as a question. An answer, however, was not immediately forthcoming. For
the moment was a grave one. It was admitted that Come-Back Stumper
could play a game with credit and success, even an active game like
hide-and-seek; but it was not known yet that he could tell a story. The
fate of the evening, therefore, hung upon the decision.
"A tiger!" said Tim, doubtfully, weighing probabilities. "A tiger you
shot, was it, or just--a tiger?" A sign, half shadow and half pout, was
in his face. Maria and Judy waited upon their brother's decision with
absolute confidence, meanwhile.
Colonel Stumper moved artfully backwards towards a big horsehair sofa,
beneath the deer heads and assegais from Zululand. He did it on tiptoe,
aware that this mysterious and suggestive way of walking has a marked
effect on children in the dark. "I did not shoot it," he said, "because
I lived with it. It was the most extraordinary tiger that was ever
known--"
"In India?"
"In the world. And I ought to know, because, as I say, I lived with it
for days--"
"Inside it?"
"Nearly, but not quite. I lived in its cave with the cubs and other
things, half-eaten deer and cows and the bones of Hindus--"
"Were the bones black? However did you escape? Why didn't the tiger eat
you?"
He drew the children closely round him on the sofa. "I'll tell you," he
said, "for this is an inaugural occasion, and I've never told the story
before to any one in the world. The experience was incredible, and no
one would believe it. But the proof that it really happened is that the
tiger has left its mark upon me till I die--"
"But you haven't died--yet, I mean," Maria observed.
"He means teeth, silly," Tim squelched her.
"Died in another sense than the one you mean," the great soldier and
former administrator of a province continued, "dyed yellow--"
"Oh-h-h! Is that why--?"
"That is why," he replied pathetically. "For living with that tiger
family so long, I almost turned into one myself. The tiger nature got
into me. I snarl and growl, I use my teeth ferociously when hungry, I
walk stealthily on tiptoe, I let my whiskers grow, and my colour has
the tint of Indian tigers' skins."
"Have you got a tail, too?"
He glared into the blue eyes of Maria, sternly. "It's growing," he
whispered horribly, "it's growing."
There was a pause in which credulity shook hands with faith. Belief was
in the air. If doubt did whisper, "Let me see, please," it was too low
to be quite audible. Come-Back Stumper was surrounded by an atmosphere
of black-edged glory suddenly; he wore a halo; his feet were dipped in
mystery.
"Then what's an orgully occasion?" somebody asked.
"This!" replied Stumper. But he uttered it so savagely that no one
cared to press for further details. Clearly it was a secret and
confidential moment, and "inaugural occasion" had something to do with
the glory of wearing an incipient tail. Glory and mystery clothed
Stumper from that moment with Indian splendour. At least, _he_ thought
so....
"And the tiger?" came the whispering question.
"Ugh-h-h-h!" he shuddered; "I'll tell you. But I must think a moment
quietly first."
"His tail hurts," Maria told Tim beneath her breath, while they waited
for the story to begin.
"So would yours," was the answer, "if you had a cold at the same time,
too. A girl would simply cry." And he looked contempt at her, but
unutterable respect at his soldier friend.
"This tiger," began the traveller, in a heavy voice, "was a--a very
unusual tiger. I met it, that is to say, most unexpectedly. It was in a
tropical jungle, where the foliage was so thick that the sunlight
hardly penetrated at all. It was dark as night even in the daytime.
There were monkeys overhead and snakes beneath, and bananas were so
plentiful that every time my elephant knocked against a tree a shower
of fruit fell down like hail and tickled its skin."
"You were on an elephant, then?"
"We were all on elephants. On my particular elephant there was a man to
load for me and a man to guide the beast. We moved slowly and
cautiously. It was dark, as I said, but the showers of falling bananas
made yellow streaks against the black that the elephant constantly
mistook for tigers flying through the air as they leaped in silent fury
against the howdah in which we crouched upon his back. The howdah, you
know, is the saddle."
"Was the elephant friendly?"
"_Very_ friendly indeed; but he found it difficult to see, and all of a
sudden he would give a hop and a jump that nearly flung me off his
shoulders. For a long time--"
"That was the bananas tickling him, I suppose?"
"This continued without anything dangerous happening, but all at once
he gave a tremendous leap into the air, lifted his trunk, trumpeted
like an Army bugle, and then set off at full speed through the tangled
jungle. He had stupidly stepped upon a cobra! And the cobra, before it
was squashed to pulp, had stung him between the big and little toe."
"On purpose?" Judy asked.
"In an Indian jungle everything's done on purpose. My elephant raced
away, trumpeting in agony, at twenty miles an hour. The driver lost his
balance and fell off; the other man, scrambling along to take his place
and steer the monster, fell off after him, taking both my guns with him
as he went; and I myself, crouching in the swaying howdah, and holding
on for grim death, continued to tear through the jungle on top of my
terrified and angry elephant. Then, suddenly, the branch of a tree
caught the howdah in the middle and swept it clear. The elephant rushed
on. The howdah, with myself inside it, swung in mid-air like a caught
balloon. But I saw it could not hold on long. There was just time to
scramble out of it into safety upon the branch when there came a sound
of ripping, and the thing fell smash upon the ground some twenty feet
below, leaving me alone in an Indian jungle--up a tree."
And he paused a moment to produce the right effect and reap the
inevitable glory of applause.
Out of the breathless silence sprang a voice at once: "Was the elephant
badly hurt?" And then another: "I thought elephants were too big to
feel a bite like that." Followed by a third--Maria's: "It wasn't fair
to step on it and expect it to do nothing."
But no single word about his own predicament--its horror, danger,
loneliness, and risk. No single syllable. Even the Hindus, the driver,
and the man who carried the guns, were left unmentioned. Bananas were
equally ignored. The tiger itself had passed into oblivion.
"Thanks most awfully," said Tim, politely, after an interval. "It must
have been awful for you." It was said as spokesman for the other
listeners. All were kind and grateful, but actual interest there was
none. They took the pause to mean that the story was at an end; but
they had not cared about it because they--did not believe it.
"Simply awful," the boy added, as though, perhaps, he had not made it
quite clear that he wished to thank yet could not honestly praise.
"Wasn't it, Judy?" And he jerked his head round towards his elder
sister.
"Oh, _awful_--yes," agreed that lady.
But neither of them risked inviting the opinion of Maria. Her
uncompromising nature was too well known for that. Nevertheless,
unasked, she offered her criticism too: "Awful," she said, her podgy
face unmoved, her blue eyes fixed upon the ceiling. And the whole room
seemed to give a long, deep sigh.
Now, for the hero, this was decidedly an awkward moment; he had done
his best and miserably failed. He was no story-teller, and they had
found him out. None the less, however, he was a real hero. He faced the
situation as a brave man should:
For his tale was mediocre,
And his face of yellow ochre
Took a tinge of saffron sorrow in his fright;
Yet he rose to the occasion,
Without anger or evasion,
And did his best to put the matter right.
"Tell me how you knew," he asked at length, facing the situation. "What
made you guess?"
"Because, in the first place, you're not an atom _like_ a tiger,
anyhow," explained Judy.
"And you made the jungle so very dark," said Tim, "that you simply
couldn't have seen the bananas falling."
"And we _know_ you haven't got a tail at all," Maria added, clinchingly.
"Of course," he agreed; "your discernment does you credit, very great
credit indeed. Few of the officials under me in India had as much."
Judy looked soothingly at him and stroked his sleeve. Somehow or other
she divined, it seemed, he felt mortified and ashamed. He was a dear
old thing, whatever happened.
"Never mind," she whispered, "it really doesn't matter. It was very
nice to hear about your tiger. Besides--it must hurt awfully, having a
cold like this."
"I knew," put in Tim sympathetically, "the moment you began about the
bananas falling. But I didn't say anything, because I knew it couldn't
last--anything that began like that."
"But it got wonderful towards the end," insisted Judy.
"Till he was in the tree," objected her brother. "He never could really
have got along a branch like that."
"No," agreed Judy, thoughtfully, "that _was_ rather silly."
They continued discussing the story for some time as though its creator
was elsewhere. He kept very still. Maria already slept in a soft and
podgy ball on his lap....
"I am a lonely old thing," he said suddenly, with a long sigh, for in
reality he was deeply disappointed at his failure, and had aspired to
be their story-teller as well as playmate. Ordinary life bored him
dreadfully. He had melancholy yearnings after youth and laughter.
"Let's do something else now. What do you say to a turn of
hide-and-seek? Eh?"
The miraculous Maria woke at this, yawned like a cat, and nearly rolled
off on to the floor. "I dreamed of a real tiger," she informed every
one. But no one was listening. Judy and Tim were prancing wildly.
"If your cold isn't _too_ bad," cried Judy, "it would be lovely." No
grown-up could have been more thoughtful of his welfare than she was.
"I'll hide," he said, "and in five minutes you come and find me." He
went towards the door into the passage.
"Choose a warm place, and keep out of draughts," she cried after him.
And he was gone. He nearly collided with a servant carrying a tray, but
the servant, hearing his secret instructions, vanished again instantly
in the direction of the kitchen. Five minutes later--an alleged five
minutes--the children began their search. But they never found him.
They hunted high and low, from attic to cellar, in gun-room, scullery,
and pantry, even climbing up the ladder from the box-room to the roof,
but without result. Colonel Stumper had disappeared. He was K.C.B.
"D'you think he's offended?" suggested Judy, as they met at length in
the hall to consider the situation.
"Of course not," said Tim emphatically, "a man like that! He's written
a book on Scouting!"
"I've finished," Maria mentioned briefly, and sat down.
On Judy's puzzled face there appeared an anxious expression then. His
cold, she remembered, was very heavy. "I looked under every sofa and
into every cupboard," she said, as though she feared he might have
choked or suffocated. They stood in front of the fireplace and began to
talk about other things. Their interest in the game was gone, they were
tired of looking; but at the back of their minds was a secret
annoyance, though at the same time a sense of great respect for the man
who could conceal himself so utterly from sight. A touch of the
marvellous was in it somehow.
"There's no good hiding like _that_," they felt indignantly. Still it
was rather wonderful, after all. A man "like that" could do anything.
He might even be up a chimney somewhere. He might be anywhere! They
felt a little creepy....
"P'raps he _is_ a sort of tiger thing," whispered some one ... and they
were rather relieved when the drawing-room door opened and Mother
appeared, knitting her scarlet muffler as she walked. The scene of
scolding, explanation, and excuses that followed--for it was half an
hour after bed-time--was cut short by Maria informing the company that
she was "awfully tired," with a sigh that meant she would like to be
carried up to bed. She was carried. The procession moved slowly, Tim
and Judy bringing up the rear. But while Tim talked about a water-rat
he meant to kill next day with an air-gun, Judy used her eyes
assiduously, still hoping to discover Cousin William crumpled up in
some incredible hiding-place. They told their mother nothing. The
matter was private. It was between themselves and him. It would have to
be cleared up on the morrow--if they remembered. On the upper landing,
however, there was a curious sound. Maria, half asleep in the maternal
arms, did not hear it, apparently, but the other two children exchanged
sudden, recriminating glances. A door stood ajar, and light came
through it from the room within. This curious sound came with it. It
was a sneeze--a regular Nindian sneeze.
"We never thought of looking _there_," they said reproachfully.
Come-Back Stumper had simply gone to bed.