ARDORS AND ENDURANCES
I
“THERE,” cried Mary upon a note of triumph.
An excited wave of that delightful journal, the _Morning Post_,
accompanied the pæan. And then it was hurled across the breakfast-table
with deft precision into the lap of Milly.
“A marriage has been arranged,” said the courier of Hymen, “and will
shortly take place between Charles, only son of the late Simeon
Cheesewright and Mrs. Cheesewright, of Streatham Hill, and Mildred
Ulrica, younger daughter of the late H. Blandish Wren and Mrs. Wren, 5,
Victoria Mansions, Broad Place, Knightsbridge, W.”
Again arose the triumphant cry.
But Mrs. Wren, excavating the interior of a boiled egg, felt it to be
her duty to check this unbridled enthusiasm. For some days past, with
rather mournful iteration, she had let it be known that the impending
announcement could not hope to receive her unqualified approval.
In the first place, as she frankly admitted, the Marquis had spoiled
her. She had to confess that he had proved sadly lacking in backbone
when brought to the test, but his sternest critics could not deny that
“before everything he was a gentleman.”
Mrs. Wren ascribed her own pure taste in manhood to the fact that she
had begun her career in the legitimate drama under the ægis of Mr.
Painswick at the Theater Royal, Edinburgh. He, too, had been before
everything a gentleman. Mr. Painswick had shaped Lydia Mifflin, as she
was then, in his own inimitable mold. Upon a day she was to play Grace
to his Digby Grant in “The Two Roses.” Then it was, as she had always
felt, that she had touched her high-water mark; and the signal occasion
was ever afterwards a beacon in her life. From that bright hour the Mr.
Painswick standard had regulated the fair Lydia’s survey of the human
male. Even the late lamented Mr. H. Blandish Wren, who was without a
peer in “straight” comedy, whose Steggles in “London Assurance” had
never been surpassed, even that paladin----. Still it isn’t quite fair
to give away State secrets!
Mrs. Wren had once said of Charles Cheesewright “that he was not out
of the top drawer.” However, if he was not of the caste of Vere de
Vere she had to own that “he had points.” He was one of those young
men who mean more than they say, who do better than they promise, who
clothe their thoughts with actions rather than words. Also, he had two
motors--a Daimler and a Rolls-Royce, he had rooms in the Albany, and
though perhaps just a little inclined to overdress, he had such a sure
taste in jewelry that he took his fiancée once a week to Cartier’s. And
beyond everything else, he had the supreme advantage over my lord that
he knew his own mind pretty clearly.
In the opinion of Princess Bedalia, Milly was an extremely lucky girl.
Her young man was a simple, good fellow, honest as the day, he was
incapable of any kind of meanness, he was very rich, and, what was
hardly less important, he was very much in love. Milly, however, who
had her mother’s knack of seeing men and events objectively, did not
yield a final graceful assent until she extorted a promise from Mr.
Charles that he would suffer the rape of his mustache, at the best a
mere scrub of an affair, and that he would solemnly eschew yellow plush
hats which made him look like a piano-tuner.
Still, on this heroic morning, in the middle of July, Mrs. Wren seemed
less pleased with the world than she had reason to be. She did some
sort of justice to her egg, but she wouldn’t look at the marmalade.
If the truth must be told, a rather histrionic mind was still haunted
by the shade of the noble Marquis. As Milly, in one of her moments
of engaging candor, had told Mary already, as far as her mother was
concerned Wrexham had simply queered the pitch for everybody.
Certainly that lady felt it to be her duty to rebuke Mary’s enthusiasm.
There was nothing to make a song about. Milly was simply throwing
herself away. If everyone had had their rights, she would have been
Lady W., with a coronet on her notepaper. As it was, there was
really nothing so very wonderful in being the wife of an overdressed
tobacconist.
Mary cried “Shame,” and for her pains was sternly admonished. One who
has made such hay of her own dazzling matrimonial chances must not
venture to say a word. She who might have queened it among the highest
in the land merely by substituting the big word “Yes” for the small
word “No” must forever hold her peace on this vexed subject. But Mary
was in such wild spirits at the announcement in the _Morning Post_ that
she refused to be browbeaten. She continued to sing the praises of
“Charley” in spite of the clear annoyance of Mrs. Wren. The good lady
was unable to realize that the girl was trying with might and main to
stifle an ache that was almost intolerable.
“What ho!” Milly suddenly exclaimed, withdrawing a slightly _retroussé_
but decidedly charming nose from Page 5 of the _Morning Post_, “so
they’ve actually made Uncle Jacob a Bart.”
“My dear, you mean a baronet. Who?--made who a baronet?” Mrs. Wren laid
down an imperious egg-spoon.
“Jacob Cheesewright, Esquire, M.P. for Bradbury, a rich manufacturer
and prominent philanthropist. He’s in the honor list just issued by the
King’s government.”
“Hooray!” Mary indulged in an enthusiastic wave of the tea-pot which
happily was rather less than half full. “Which means, my dear Miss
Wren, that one of these days there’s just a chance of your being my
lady.”
“As though that could possibly matter!” cried Milly upon a note of the
finest scorn imaginable.
“As though that could possibly matter!” Mary’s reproduction of the note
in question was so humorously exact that it sent her victim into a fit
of laughter.
But Mrs. Wren had her word to say on the subject. In her opinion,
which was that of all sensible people, it mattered immensely.
“As though it could!” persisted Milly.
“My dear,” said Mrs. Wren, “that is shallow and ignorant. A baronetcy
is a baronetcy. All people of breeding think so, anyway.”
The prospect of Uncle Jacob’s elevation had already been canvassed
in Broad Place by Charles, his nephew. There was evidently something
in the wind Whitehall way. Uncle Jacob had professed such a heroic
indifference to Aunt Priscilla’s intelligent anticipations, that even
Charles, his nephew, the simplest of simple souls, and a singularly
unworldly young man, had been constrained to take an interest in the
matter. As for Aunt Priscilla, she had been in such a state of flutter
for the past two months, that the upper servants at Thole Park,
Maidstone, even had visions of an earldom. Still, as Mr. Bryant, the
butler, who in his distinguished youth had graduated at Bridport House,
Mayfair, remarked to Mrs. Jennings the housekeeper in his statesmanlike
way, “The Limit for baby’s underclothing is a baronetcy.”
II
Breakfast was just at an end when the trim parlormaid came into the
room with a portentous-looking milliner’s box. It had that moment
arrived, and on examination was found to contain a long coat of
sable. This enchanting garment was with Mary’s best wishes for future
happiness.
The donor was scolded roundly for her lavishness, but Milly was
delighted by the gift, and Mrs. Wren, who had professed a stern
determination to be no longer friends with Mary was rather touched. She
well knew that she was a person “to bank on.” Besides, Mrs. Wren had an
honest admiration for a fine talent and the unassumingness with which
it was worn. She was incapable of making an enemy, for her one idea
was to bring pleasure to other people. If ever human creature had been
designed for happiness it must have been this girl, yet none could have
been more fully bent on casting it willfully away.
As a fact, both Milly and her mother had been much troubled by the
course of recent events. The previous afternoon Jack had taken a sad
farewell of his friends in Broad Place. His passage was already booked
in the _Arcadia_, which that very Saturday was to sail from Liverpool
to New York. All his hopes had proved futile, all his arguments vain.
Mary could not be induced to change her mind, which even at the
eleventh hour he had ventured to think was just possible. In those
last desperate moments, strength of will had enabled her to stick to
her resolve. And in the absence of any intimation from Bridport House
the Tenderfoot had been driven to carry out his threat. Yet up till
the very last he had tried his utmost to persuade the girl he loved to
merge her own life in his and accompany him to that new world where a
career awaited him.
Perhaps these efforts had not been wholly reasonable. She had a real
vocation for the theater if ever girl had, even if he had a real
vocation for jobbing land. But allowance has to be made for a strong
man in love. He was in sorry case, poor fellow, but her sense of duty
to others was so strong, that even if it meant tragic unhappiness for
both, as it surely must, she still sought the courage not to yield.
Such a decision was going to cost a very great deal. The previous
afternoon, at the moment of parting, she had been fully aware of that,
and hour by hour since she had realized it with a growing intensity.
A stern effort of the will had been needed for Princess Bedalia to
achieve her five hundred-and-sixty-second appearance that evening; she
had spent a miserable night and now, in spite of the whole-heartedness
with which she threw herself into Milly’s affairs, her laugh was
pitched a little too high.
Since the visit to Bridport House she had come to know her own mind
quite definitely. She was deeply in love with Jack, but unless the
powers that were gave consent, she was now resolved never to marry him.
In vain her friends continued to assure her that such an attitude was
wrong. In vain the Tenderfoot declared it to be simply preposterous.
Cost what it might, it had become a point of honor not to yield. To one
of such clear vision, with, as it seemed, a rather uncanny insight into
the workings of worlds beyond her own, it was of vital importance to
study the interests of Bridport House.
Milly, even if very angry with her friend, could not help admiring this
devotion to a quixotic sense of right, and the force of character which
faced the issue so unflinchingly. She could not begin to understand
the point of view, but she well knew what it was going to cost. And
this morning, in spite of the pleasant and piquant drama of her own
affairs, she could not rid herself of a feeling of distress on Mary’s
account. Now it had come “to footing the bill,” a heavy price would
have to be paid. And to Milly’s shrewd, engagingly material mind, the
whole situation was exasperating.
So much for the thoughts uppermost in a loyal heart, while the
misguided cause of them danced a _pas seul_ in honor of the morning’s
news. Milly, indeed, as she gazed in the glass over the chimney-piece
to see what sort of a figure she made in the coat of sable, was much
nearer tears than was either seemly or desirable. Still, in spite of
that, she was able to muster a healthy curiosity upon the subject of
her appearance. Fur has a trick of making common people look more
common, and uncommon people look more uncommon, a trite fact of which
Milly, the astute, was well aware. It was pleasant to find at any
rate that a moment’s fleeting survey set all her doubts at rest upon
that important point. The coat, a dream of beauty, became her quite
miraculously. What a virtue there was in that deep, rich gloss! It gave
new values to the eyes, the hair, the rounded chin, even the piquant
nose of the wearer.
“You’re a dear!” Milly burst out, as she turned aside from the glass.
But the person to whom the tribute was offered was quite absorbed
in looking through the open window. Indeed, at that very moment a
succession of royal toots from a motor horn ascended from the precincts
of Broad Place, and Mary ran out on to the veranda with a view halloa.
Then, her face full of humor and eloquence, she turned to look back
into the room with the thrilling announcement: “Charley’s here!”
III
In two minutes, or rather less as time is measured in Elysium, Mr.
Charles Cheesewright had entered that pleasant room with all the gay
assurance of an accepted suitor.
“How awfully well it reads, doesn’t it?” he said, taking up the
_Morning Post_ with the fingers of a lover.
“Uncle Jacob’s baronetcy?” said Mary, with an eye of bold mischief.
“Oh, no! That’s a bit of a bore,” said Mr. Charles with a polite
grimace.
“Why a bore?”
“Uncle Jacob has no heir and he’s trying to arrange for me to be the
second bart.”
Princess Bedalia looked with a royal air at her favorite. “The truth
is, dear Charles, you are shamelessly pleased about the whole matter.”
“Well, ye-es, I am.” Charles was hopelessly cornered, but like any
other self-respecting Briton he was quite determined to put as good
a face as possible upon a most damaging admission. “I am so awfully
pleased for Milly. And, of course, for Uncle Jacob.”
“Not to mention Aunt Priscilla,” interposed Milly. It was her proud
boast that she had already tried a fall with Aunt Priscilla, had tried
it, moreover, pretty successfully. That lady, within her own orbit, was
a great light, but Miss Wren had proved very well able for her so far.
The Aunt Priscillas of the world were not going to harry Miss Wren, and
it was by no means clear that this simple fact did not count as much
to her honor in the sight of Uncle Jacob as it undoubtedly did in the
sight of Charles, his nephew.
At any rate, Mr. Charles had come that morning to Broad Place on a
diplomatic mission. It seemed that Uncle Jacob had made the sporting
suggestion that the happy pair should motor down to Thole Park,
Maidstone, for luncheon, that Charles, whose only merit in the sight of
heaven was that he was “plus one” at North Berwick, should afterwards
give careful consideration to the new nine-hole course which had been
laid out in front of the house by the renowned Alec Thomson of Cupar,
while Milly had a little heart-to-heart talk with Aunt Priscilla.
In a word, it began to look like being quite a good world for Charles
and Milly. And even Mrs. Wren was constrained to admit it. Sheer human
merit was becoming a little too much for the higher criticism. And
daily these twain were discovering new beauties in each other. For one
thing, Charles’s upper lip was now as smooth as a baby’s, and a mouth
so firm and manly was thereby disclosed that it really seemed a pity
to hide it. Moreover, for a fortnight past, in subtle, unsuspected
ways he had been bursting forth into fine qualities. This morning, for
instance, he seemed to have added a cubit to his stature. He was in the
habit of saying in regard to himself that “he was not a flyer,” but
really if you saw him at the angle Milly did, and you came to think
about him in her rational manner, it began to seem after all he might
turn out a bit of one. If only he could be persuaded to give up his
piano-tuner’s hat there would be hope for him anyway.
IV
Milly had scarcely left the room to put on her things before she was
back in it. And she returned in such a state of excitement that she
could hardly speak. The cause of it, moreover, following hard upon her
heels, was a wholly unexpected visitor.
“He was just coming in at the front door,” Milly explained, as soon as
the state of her emotions would allow her to do so. “I was never so
taken aback in my life. Why, a feather would have downed me.”
In that moment of drama it was not too much to say that a feather
would have had an equal effect upon Mary. If human resolve stood for
anything, and it stood for a good deal in the case of Jack Dinneford,
he should have been on his way to Liverpool. At six o’clock the
previous evening they had parted heroically, not expecting to see each
other again. For seventeen hours or so, they had been steeling their
wills miserably. About 2 a.m., the hour when ghosts walk and pixies
dance the foxtrot, both had felt that, after all, they would not be
strong enough to bear the self-inflicted blow. But daylight had found
them true to the faith that was in them. She had just enough fortitude
not to telephone a change of mind, he was just man enough to decide not
to miss the 10.5 from Euston.
Still, when the best has been said for it, the human will is but a
trivial affair. Man is not much when the Fates begin to weave their
magic web. A taxi was actually at the door of Jack’s chambers, nay,
his luggage had even been strapped into the front of the vehicle, when
there came an urgent message by telephone from Bridport House to say
that his Grace most particularly desired that Mr. Dinneford and Miss
Lawrence would come to luncheon at half-past one.
What was a man to do? To obey the command was, of course, to forgo all
hope of sailing by the _Arcadia_. To ignore it was to forgo all hope of
entering Elysium. In justice to Mr. Dinneford it took him rather less
than one minute to decide. His servant was promptly ordered to unship
his gear and dismiss the taxi.
It was the nearest possible shave. His Grace had run matters so
fine, that had he delayed his communication another two minutes, the
Tenderfoot would have been on his way to New York. Some miraculous
change of plan had occurred at the fifty-ninth minute of the eleventh
hour. Exactly what it was must now be the business of a distracted
lover to find out.
Jack’s totally unexpected return to Broad Place was in itself an epic.
And his unheralded appearance had such an effect upon Mary, upon Milly,
upon Mrs. Wren, that he regretted not having had the forethought
to telephone his change of plans. He came as a bolt from the blue,
bringing with him an immensely difficult moment; and the presence
of Mr. Charles Cheesewright, of whom Jack only knew by hearsay,
undoubtedly added to its embarrassments.
Before anything could be done, even before the excited Milly could
interpose a “Tell me, is it all right?” it was necessary for these
paladins to be made known to each other. There was wariness on the part
of both in the process. Neither was quite able to accept the other on
trust. But a brief taking of the moral temperature by two members of
the sex which inclines to reserve convinced the one that Wrexham’s
successor had the air and the look of a good chap, and what was quite
as important, convinced the other that the heir to the dukedom was not
the least of a swankpot. All of which was so far excellent.
A desire to ask a thousand questions was simply burning holes in Milly.
But she had to endure the torments of martyrdom. Questions could not
be asked in the presence of Charles. It called for a great effort to
behave as if the bottom had not fallen out of the universe. In the most
heroic way she kept the conversation at a diplomatic level, remarking
among other things that it was an ideal day for motoring, which finally
reminded her that she must really go and put on her hat.
“And don’t forget a thick veil,” Mary called after her, in a voice of
superhuman detachment.
The business of not letting the innocent Charles into the secret was a
superb piece of comedy. There is really no need to write novels or to
go to the play. They are the stuff our daily lives are made of. The way
in which these four people set themselves to hoodwink a Simple Simon
of a fifth was quite a rich bit of humor. Little recked Mr. Charles
Cheesewright that the heavens had just opened in Broad Place.
At last Milly returned _cap-à-pie_, and then by the mercy of Divine
Providence Mr. Charles suddenly remembered that it was a long way to
Maidstone and that it was now a quarter past eleven.
“I’m quite ready when you are,” said Milly to her cavalier, with all
the guile of a young female serpent. Mr. Charles shook hands gravely
and Britishly all round, and Mary wished them a pleasant journey, and
Mrs. Wren “hoped they would wrap up well,” and then Milly stepped
deftly back three paces from the door, saying, “You know the way down,
Charley,” as clear an intimation as any young man could desire that it
was up to him to lead it.
Charles led the way accordingly, and then came Milly’s chance.
“What _has_ happened?”
“Uncle Albert has sent for us.”
“For both?”
“For both!”
Just for a moment Mary’s feelings nearly proved too much for her.
Having come to despair of Bridport House, there had been no reason to
hope for this sudden change of front. She simply couldn’t fathom it.
That was also true of Milly. And as the significance of the whole thing
rushed upon that imperious creature, she turned to Mary in the manner
of Helen, the Spartan Queen. “A last word to you, Miss Lawrence!” Her
voice trembled with excitement. “If you do anything idiotic, I’ll never
speak to you again. And that’s official!”
V
As the crow flies, it is just nine minutes from Broad Place to Bridport
House. Therefore they had time to burn. And as it was such a perfect
day for motoring, it was a day equally well adapted for sitting under
the trees in the Park.
_Force majeure_ was applied so vigorously by Mrs. Wren, with timely aid
from the Tenderfoot, that Mary was not given half a chance to jib at
this new and amazing turn of fortune’s shuttle. She must wear her new
hat with the roses--Mrs. Wren. She must wear Raquin’s biscuit-colored
masterpiece--Mr. Dinneford. Her diamond earrings thought Mrs. Wren. Mr.
Dinneford thought her old-fashioned seed pearl. There was never really
any question of her going to luncheon at Bridport House at 1.30. Her
friends and counselors did not even allow it to arise. The only thing
that need trouble her was how she looked when she got there.
En route she made a picture of immense distinction beyond a doubt.
Whether it was the hat with the roses, or the sunshine of July, or the
dress of simple muslin, which on second thoughts seemed more in keeping
with the occasion than the Raquin masterpiece, and in the opinion of
Mrs. Wren had the further merit “that it gave her eyes a chance,” or
her favorite earrings which Aunt Harriet had given her as a little
girl; or the fact that Jack walked beside her, and that Happiness
is still the greatest of Court painters, who shall say?--but in the
course of a pilgrimage from Albert Gate to the Marble Arch and half way
back again, she certainly attracted more than her share of the public
notice. In fact, with her fine height and her lithe grace she actually
provoked a hook-nosed, hard-featured dame in a sort of high-hung
barouche to turn in the most deliberate manner and look at her. Or it
may have been because the Tenderfoot in passing had raised a reluctant,
semi-ironical hat.
“Aunt Charlotte,” said he.
“I hope Aunt Charlotte is not as disagreeable as she looks,” was Mary’s
thought, but doubtless remembering in the nick of time Talleyrand’s
famous maxim, she merely said, “What a _clever_ face!”
“Is it?” said Jack, unconcernedly. But his mind was on other things,
perhaps.
As a matter of fact, it _was_ on other things.
“Let’s sit here five minutes,” he said, as they came to a couple of
vacant chairs. “Then I’ll tell you a bit of news.”
They sat accordingly. And the bit of news was the following:
“Muriel’s hooked it.”
Respect for her mother tongue caused Mary to demand a repetition of
this cryptic statement.
“Hooked it with her Radical,” Jack amplified. “They were married
yesterday morning, quite quietly, ‘owing to the indisposition of
his Grace,’ the papers say. And they are now in Scotland on their
honeymoon.”
“Let us hope they’ll be happy,” said Mary. “She has a very brilliant
husband, at any rate.”
“Not a doubt of that. If brains breed happiness, they’ll be all right.”
But do brains breed happiness? that was the question in their minds at
the moment. Aunt Charlotte had brains undoubtedly, but as she passed
them three minutes since no one could have said that she looked happy.
The Duke had brains, but few would have said that he was happy. Mary
herself had brains, and they had brought her within an ace of wrecking
her one chance of real happiness.
They were in the midst of this philosophical inquiry, when Chance, that
prince of magicians, gave the kaleidoscope a little loving shake, and
hey! presto! the other side of the picture was laughingly presented to
them.
A rather lop-sided young man in a brown bowler hat was marching head
in air along the gravel in front of them. One shoulder was a little
higher than its neighbor, his clothes looked shabby in the sun of July,
his gait was slightly grotesque, yet upon his face was a smile of rare
complacency. In one hand he held a small girl of five, and in the other
a small boy to match her; and that may have been why at this precise
moment he looked as if he had just acquired a controlling interest in
the planet. And yet there must have been some deeper, subtler reason
for this young man’s air of power mingled with beatitude.
Rather mean of mansion as he was, it was impossible for two shrewd
spectators of the human comedy on the Park chairs to ignore him as he
swung gayly by. In spite of his impossible hat and his weird trousers,
the mere look on his face was almost cosmic in its significance, he
was so clearly on terms with heaven. But in any case he would have
forcibly entered their scheme of existence. Just as he came level with
them he chanced to lower his gaze abruptly and by doing so caught the
fascinated eyes of Mary fixed upon his face.
“Good morning, Miss Lawrence. What a nice day!”
He was not in a position to take off his hat, but he enforced a hearty
greeting with a superb bow, and passed jauntily on.
The Tenderfoot could not help being amused. “Who’s your friend?” He
turned a quizzical eye upon a countenance glowing with mischief.
“That’s Alf.”
“In the name of all that’s wonderful, who is Alf?” The tone was
expostulation all compact, but as mirth was frankly uppermost, even
the most sensitive democrat could hardly have resented it.
“He’s a man on a newspaper.”
“I see,” said the Tenderfoot. But somehow it didn’t explain him.
“An old friend, my dear, and he’s now the Press, with a capital letter.
The other day he interviewed me for his paper.”
“How could you let him?” gasped the Tenderfoot.
“For the sake of old times.” Suddenly she loosed her famous note. “That
little man is in my stars. He dates back to my earliest flapperdom,
when my great ambition was to kill him. He was the greengrocer’s boy in
the next street, and he used to call after me:
“‘I am Mary Plantagenet;
Who would imagine it?
Eyes full of liquid fire,
Hair bright as jet;
No one knows my hist’ry,
I am wrapt in myst’ry,
I am the She-ro
Of a penny novelette.’”
“Well, I hope,” said the Tenderfoot, “you jolly well lammed into him
for such a piece of infernal cheek.”
“Yes, I did,” she confessed. “One day I turned on him and boxed his
ears, and I’m bound to say he’s been very respectful ever since. It
was very amusing to be reminded of his existence when he turned up the
other day. He paid me all sorts of extravagant compliments; he seems to
hold himself responsible for any success I may have had.”
“Nice of him.”
“He says he has written me up for the past two years; and that when
he edits a paper of his own, and he’s quite made up his mind that it
won’t be long before he does, I can have my portrait in it as often as
I want.”
“_My_ Lord!”
“All very honestly meant,” laughed Mary Plantagenet. “It is very
charming of Alf--a _nom de guerre_, by the way. His real name is
Michael Conner, but now he’s Alf of the _Millennium_. And the other day
at our interview, when he came to talk of old times, somehow I couldn’t
help loving him.”
“What, love--_that_!”
“There’s something to love in everybody, my dear. It’s really very
easy to like people if you hunt for the positive--if that’s not a high
brow way of putting it! The other day when Alf began to talk of his
ambitions, and of the wife he had married, and of the little Alfs and
the little Alfesses, I thought the more there are of you the merrier,
because after all you are rather fine, you are good for the community,
and you make this old world go round. Anyhow we began as enemies, and
now we are friends ‘for keeps,’ and both Alf and I are so much the
better for knowing it.”
“I wonder!”
“Of course we are. And when Alf is a great editor, as he means to be,
and he is able to carry out his great scheme of founding a Universal
Love and Admiration Society, for the purpose of bringing out the best
in everybody, including foreign nations--his very own idea, and to my
mind a noble one--he has promised to make me an original member.”
“A very original member!” The Tenderfoot scoffed.
But sitting there in the eye of the morning, with the gentle leaves
whispering over his head, and the finest girl in the land by his side
drawing a fanciful picture of “Alf” on the gravel with the point of her
sunshade, he was not in the mood for mockery. The world was so full of
a number of things, that it seemed but right and decent to have these
large and generous notions. Let every atom and molecule that made up
the pageant of human experience overflow in love and admiration of its
neighbor. He was a dud himself, his dwelling-place was _en parterre_,
yet as heaven was above him and She was at his elbow, there was no
denying that the little man who had just passed out of sight had laid
hold somehow of a divine idea.
Yes, the ticket for the future was Universal Love and Admiration, at
any rate for the heirs of the good God. Not a doubt that! He didn’t
pretend to be a philosopher, or a poet, but even he could see that
yonder little scug in the brown pot hat was a big proposition.
“I wonder,” he mused aloud, “how the little bounder came to think of
_that_?”
“He says it came to him in his sleep.” And the artist at his elbow
gave one final masterful curl to the amazing trousers of the latest
benefactor of the human species.