The Split Infinitive
Guests at the Leightons' were divided into two classes. There were those
who were friends of Mr. Leighton, and who therefore were interested in
art, or literature, or science, or public enterprise, but were not
expected to go further; and there were those who came in a general way
and who might be expected to be interested in anything from a game of
tennis to a tea party. Of the first might be reckoned the like of Mr.
Sturgis, who painted pictures in a magnificent manner, and who, at the
end of a large cigar, would breathe the heresies on the teaching of art
which for ever paralyzed the artistic abilities of Elma. Mr. Sturgis
was quite young enough for an Aunt Katharine public to quote his
eligibility on all occasions.
"You don't understand, Aunt Katharine," Mabel told her once. "Nobody
seems to understand that a man, even a young man, may adore papa without
having to adore us at the same time. Mr. Sturgis is quite different
from your kind of young man."
"Different from Robin, I suppose," sighed Aunt Katharine.
"Yes, quite different from Robin," said Mabel sedately. Robin had
certainly from the first put Mr. Leighton into the position of being his
daughter's father. Mr. Sturgis, on the other hand, found his first
friend in Mr. Leighton because he had such a nice discriminating and
most sympathetic enthusiasm for Art. Besides which Mr. Leighton had the
attributes of an exceptional man in various respects.
The girls put Mr. Sturgis on the same high plane as their father and
admired him openly accordingly. But there were others whom they put on
this plane by reason of their accomplishments and yet did not admire at
all.
Amongst these was the "Split Infinitive."
The first call on the part of Professor Theo. Clutterbuck was one never
to be forgotten. He found a roomful of people who, so far as his own
attitude to them was concerned, might have been so many pieces of
furniture. Mr. Sturgis had at least the artist's discrimination which
made him observe one's appearance, and he also allowed one to converse
occasionally; but Dr. Clutterbuck rushed his one subject at Mr. Leighton
from the moment of his entrance, and after that no one else existed.
"What more or less could you expect from the father of the Serpent?"
asked Betty.
Lance was responsible for the nickname.
The Serpent, the elf-like daughter of the Professor, staying next to the
Turbervilles, had introduced herself in a violent manner long ago to
Betty and Elma. Sitting one day, hidden high in the maple tree, she
cajoled her cat silently over the Turberville wall and from a wide
branch sent him sprawling on a tea table. From the moment that the black
cat drew a white paw from the cream jug, and a withering giggle from the
maple tree disclosed the wicked little visage of the Serpent, war had
been declared between the Clutterbucks and the Turbervilles. Lance
occasionally removed the barrier and met the Professor in company with
his own father.
"An awful crew," his verdict ran. "The Past Participle (Mrs.
Clutterbuck) can't open her poor little timid mouth but the Split
Infinitive is roaring at her. Consequently she keeps as silent as the
grave."
"Will you kindly explain?" said Mrs. Leighton patiently. "It's a long
time since I studied grammar in that intimate way. What is the Split
Infinitive and why the Past Participle?"
"It's like this, Mrs. Leighton, simple when you know--or when you are
married to a brute like Clutterbuck," said Lance mischievously. "I beg
your pardon. I know I ought to say that he is a genius and all that sort
of thing. But 'brute' seems more explicit."
"Go on with your story," said Mrs. Leighton.
"Well--Clutterbuck married Mrs. Clutterbuck."
"That's generally the end of a story, isn't it?" asked Jean.
Lance was not to be interrupted.
"Trust a boy for gossip," exclaimed Betty. "Fire away, Lance."
"My aunt knew them," said Lance. "She, Mrs. C., was a little dear,
awfully pink and pretty you know, and Clutterbuck, a big raw thin thing
with wild sort of hair and dreamy manners. Well, they were awfully
proud and pleased with themselves, and started off for their honeymoon
like two happy babies."
"Will you kindly tell me how you knew this?" asked Mrs. Leighton
helplessly.
"I heard my aunt telling my mother," said Lance.
"There's a gleam in your eye which I don't quite trust," Elma remarked
sedately. "Go on."
"Everything went well," exclaimed Lance, "until one morning when Mrs.
C., all rosy and chiffony you know, said 'My dear Theo, I don't remember
to ever have been so happy.' Clutterbuck rose from the table, as pale
as death. She cried, 'Theo, Theo, tell me, what is wrong?' 'Wrong,'
cried Professor Clutterbuck, 'you have used the Split Infinitive!'
Gospel, Mrs. Leighton," said Lance as a wind-up. "She's been the Past
Participle ever since."
There was this amount of truth in Lance's story: that Dr. Clutterbuck
was distinguished in his own career as Professor of Geology, that his
English was irreproachable; and that Mrs. Clutterbuck had practically no
English, since she was hardly ever known to speak at all. She shunned
society; and the same introspective gaze of the Professor, which had
skimmed the Leighton drawing-room and found there only the striking
personality of Mr. Leighton, skimmed his own home in a like abstracted
manner, and took no notice of the most striking personality in
Ridgetown--Elsie, his daughter.
It was the black cat episode which precipitated the nickname of "The
Serpent." Lance had always declared that this girl had an understanding
with animals which was nothing short of uncanny. He happened to read
_Elsie Venner_, and the names being alike, and temperament on similar
lines, he immediately christened her the Serpent. He caught her out at
numberless pranks which were never reported to the diligent ears of
Betty and May. One was that she had climbed to his bedroom and
purloined a suit of clothes.
There was no end to what might be expected of this lonely little person.
Years ago, Betty and May had turned their backs on her in the cruel
haphazard manner of two friends who might easily dispose of an outsider.
Betty and May despised the Serpent because she "had a cheap governess,"
"couldn't afford to go to school," and "wore her hair in one plait."
The lonely little Serpent never properly forgave these insults.
Mrs. Leighton did not wholly encourage Lance in his tale.
"I do not think I approve of your being so down on these people," she
said: "and if there is any truth in what you say, it is very tragic
about poor Mrs. Clutterbuck, though she does not strike me as being a
very capable person."
"Capable," asked Lance. "Who could remain capable, Mrs. Leighton, with
a cold tap continually running freezing remarks down one's back. Don't
you think it's a miracle she's alive?"
Mrs. Leighton preferred to remain on her smooth course of counsel.
"It never does to judge people like that," she exclaimed. "You do not
know. To put it in a selfish manner, one day you may find the
Clutterbucks being of more service to you than any one on earth."
She pulled at her knitting ball.
"You girls talk a great deal of romance and nonsense about people like
the Dudgeons. Why don't you think something nice about that poor little
Serpent for a change?"
The girls remembered not very long afterwards the prophetic nature of
these remarks. That they should cultivate the Clutterbucks for any
reason at all, however, seemed at that moment impossible.
Dr. Merryweather called the same afternoon.
It was one of the coincidences of life that he should immediately talk
of the Clutterbucks.
"Know them?" he asked. "I think your husband does, doesn't he? Do you
call on the wife at all?"
"No," answered Mrs. Leighton. "I never feel that I could get on with
her very well either. Mr. Leighton meets the Professor and they talk a
lot together, but it's quite away from domestic matters."
"It would be a bit of a kindness, I think," said the old Doctor, "your
calling, I mean. There's too little public spirit amongst women, don't
you think?"
"Oh, wouldn't it be a little impertinent perhaps to call, in that
spirit?" asked Mrs. Leighton.
"Well, I don't know. The child is running wild. The parents are a pair
of babies where healthy education is concerned. Result, the child has
no friends, and expends her affection, she has stores of it, on her
animals. A dog gets run over and dies. What do you get then? She
never squeaks. Not a moan, you observe. But she sits up in that tree
of hers with a cat to do any comforting she may want--and her hair
begins to come out in patches."
Mrs. Leighton's knitting fell to her lap.
"Her hair is coming out in patches?" she asked in a horrified voice.
"Yes. What else would you have when a child is allowed to mope.
Something is bound to happen. Clergymen are of use when a child's
naughty. But when it mopes itself ill, we are called in. Yet it's a
clergyman's task after all. This child, on the way to being a woman,
has never had one friend. Her mother is too timid to be really friendly
with any one, and the husband is wrapped in his dry-as-dust
philosophy--and where are you with a tender child like that?"
"But if Mrs. Clutterbuck can't be friendly with any one, why should I
call?" asked Mrs. Leighton hopelessly.
"Your girls might become friendly with the child," said he. "I'm afraid
I don't make a very good clergyman."
"They call her the Serpent, you know," said Mrs. Leighton, "very naughty
of them. I shall do my best, Doctor. I didn't know her hair was coming
out in patches."
Dr. Merryweather might be complimented on his new profession after all.
It had been a master stroke to refer to the patches. Mrs. Leighton had
known of its happening after illness or great worry. That a child
should suffer in this quiet moping manner seemed pathetic.
"Yet, I don't think I'm the person to do a thing of this sort," Mrs.
Leighton said hopelessly to Miss Meredith later in the day. "I do so
object to intrude on people. I should imagine it indelicate of any one
else to do the same to myself, you know."
"Very awkward, certainly," replied Miss Meredith primly.
"Oh, mummy," said Elma, "you know how kind Miss Grace is or Miss Annie.
They say 'Isn't Betty a little pale at present?' and you get her a
tonic. You think nothing of that. It's just the same with the
Clutterbucks. Betty ought to behave herself and go and call with you,
and get the Serpent to come. I think she looks a jolly little thing."
Elma was quite alone in that opinion.
"Jolly!" said Jean, "you might as well talk of a toadstool's being
jolly. Still, Betty isn't a child. She shouldn't be squabbling. Betty
ought to call."
"You know Dr. Clutterbuck, wouldn't you call on his wife?" asked Mrs.
Leighton of Miss Meredith.
"Oh, I'm afraid I don't know him well enough. Robin rather dislikes
him--and, well, we have no young people, you see."
Miss Meredith was lame but definite.
"Then the sooner the better. Betty and I call to-morrow," said Mrs.
Leighton.
They did, and to their astonishment found Mrs. Clutterbuck dimly but
surely pleased. Nobody remained timid very long in Mrs. Leighton's kind
presence, and the mutual subject of days long ago when it was no crime
to talk of babies, broke the ice of years of reserve in Ridgetown with
Mrs. Clutterbuck. The Serpent, after many pilgrimages on the part of
the one maid to the garden, finally appeared. Mrs. Clutterbuck's
restraint returned with the evident unwillingness of Elsie's attitude.
Both retreated to the dumb condition so trying to onlookers.
The Serpent indeed paid Betty out for many months of torture. Her calm,
disconcerting gaze never wavered, as she watched every movement of that
ready enemy. Mrs. Leighton made her only mistake in showing definitely
that she wanted to be kind to Elsie. That little lady's pale visage
looked fiercely out at her and chilled the words that were intended to
come.
It was as Betty described it a most "terrifying interview."
In the midst of it came a telegram to Mrs. Clutterbuck.
"Oh, you will excuse me," said she nervously. "We are expecting a
friend."
During the interval of opening the envelope Elsie disappeared. It had
the effect of warming Mrs. Clutterbuck to confidences once more.
"It is a great pleasure to me," said she. "My young cousin is coming.
He is quite a distinguished, man. All Dr. Clutterbuck's people are
distinguished, but my family are different. Except Arthur, whom Dr.
Clutterbuck is quite pleased to meet. He is coming to-night."
She called the maid.
"Tell Miss Elsie it is the 5.40 train. Mr. Symington comes then."
She had a halting, staccato way of picking her small sentences, as
though insecure of their effect.
"People enjoy coming to Ridgetown," said Mrs. Leighton lamely, in the
endeavour to keep the wheels of conversation oiled more securely.
"Do they," asked the Professor's wife. Then she stammered a trifle.
"A--a--that is--I have never had a visitor in Ridgetown till now. Dr.
Clutterbuck does not care for visitors. Arthur is different from what
others have been, I hope."
She seemed full of anxiety.
"Oh, I gave up long ago trying to please Mr. Leighton with my visitors,"
said Mrs. Leighton heartily and quite untruthfully. "Husbands must take
their chance of that, you know." She rose to go.
"Please tell Dr. Clutterbuck he is never again to come to see us without
you," she said, "and won't Elsie come to tea one day?"
On their departure Mrs. Clutterbuck turned to find a blazing little fury
in the doorway.
"Mother," cried Elsie, "Mother! How could you! I shall never go to tea
with Betty Leighton."
Her mother turned two eyes full of light on her. The light slowly died
to dull patience again.
"We shall go down together to meet cousin Arthur," she said quietly. It
seemed as though her bright thoughts must turn to drab colour
automatically where either her husband or child was concerned.
It was characteristic of Elsie that, although blazing with wild anger
and wicked little intentions, she should be unable to give voice to them
at that moment. The inevitable obstinacy of her mother where the
routine of the house was concerned, the drab colour of the one day which
was invariably like the other, the cruel, cruel sameness of it all! It
was impossible that Cousin Arthur should not be drab colour also.
"I'd rather remain here," she said at last. There was even some
pleading in her tone.
"Your father said we had better meet Cousin Arthur," said her mother.
That was the remorseless end and beginning to everything. "Your father
said" meant days and weeks and years of drab colour.
"Oh, let us go then," said Elsie. There was a drowning hopelessness in
her voice, so great an emptiness that it was hard to believe she had
merely used the words--"Let us go then."
Her mother accepted the answer without the sigh which burned in her
heart because it had no outlet.
They proceeded to get ready to go out.
Mrs. Leighton and Betty by this time were chatting easily enough at the
Merediths'. Mrs. Leighton had the feeling of an inexperienced general
after a very indefinite victory.
"I do not possess the talent of inflicting myself gracefully on people,"
she said, "and the child is quite extraordinary. However, I liked the
mother; she is a dear little woman."
Miss Meredith was only partially interested.
She arranged to walk home with them, and they set out in rather a slow
manner.
"I can quite believe the child would be different in other
surroundings," said Mrs. Leighton. "What a fine-looking man!" The one
remark ran into the other automatically. In later days it seemed
prophetic that the two people should be mentioned in one breath.
Mrs. Leighton was passing the station where arrivals from the train
occurred. A cab was drawn up, and into this a sunburned,
athletic-looking young man put some traps. Then he handed in Mrs.
Clutterbuck and Elsie.
Betty was greatly impressed.
"It must be Mr. Symington," said she.
"Well, for a timid lady, she has a very man-like cousin," exclaimed Mrs.
Leighton. "I don't wonder she was allowed that one visitor at least."
Miss Meredith turned her head carefully to a more slanting angle, when
she clearly saw the carriage drive past.
"Do you know, Mrs. Leighton," she said quite nimbly and happily, "it
seems very hard that she should not have all the visitors she wants.
Dr. Merryweather is quite right. None of us have any public spirit. I
think I shall call on her to-morrow."
So Miss Meredith also called on Mrs. Clutterbuck.