ROBINA’S letter was dated Monday evening, and reached us Tuesday morning.
* * * * *
“I hope you caught your train,” she wrote. “Veronica did not get back
till half-past six. She informed me that you and she had found a good
deal to talk about, and that ‘one thing had led to another.’ She is a
quaint young imp, but I think your lecture must have done her good. Her
present attitude is that of gentle forbearance to all around her—not
without its dignity. She has not snorted once, and at times is really
helpful. I have given her an empty scribbling diary we found in your
desk, and most of her spare time she remains shut up with it in the
bedroom. She tells me you and she are writing a book together. I asked
her what about. She waved me aside with the assurance that I would know
‘all in good time,’ and that it was going to do good. I caught sight of
just the title-page last night. It was lying open on the dressing-table:
‘Why the Man in the Moon looks sat upon.’ It sounds like a title of
yours. But I would not look further, though tempted. She has drawn a
picture underneath. It is really not bad. The old gentleman really does
look sat upon, and intensely disgusted.
“‘Sir Robert’—his name being Theodore, which doesn’t seem to suit
him—turns out to be the only son of a widow, a Mrs. Foy, our next-door
neighbour to the south. We met her coming out of church on Sunday
morning. She was still crying. Dick took Veronica on ahead, and I
walked part of the way home with them. Her grandfather, it appears, was
killed many years ago by the bursting of a boiler; and she is haunted,
poor lady, by the conviction that Theodore is the inheritor of an
hereditary tendency to getting himself blown up. She attaches no blame
to us, seeing in Saturday’s catastrophe only the hand of the Family
Curse. I tried to comfort her with the idea that the Curse having spent
itself upon a futile effort, nothing further need now be feared from it;
but she persists in taking the gloomier view that in wrecking our
kitchen, Theodore’s ‘Doom,’ as she calls it, was merely indulging in a
sort of dress rehearsal; the finishing performance may be relied upon to
follow. It sounds ridiculous, but the poor woman was so desperately in
earnest that when an unlucky urchin, coming out of a cottage we were
passing, tripped on the doorstep and let fall a jug, we both screamed at
the same time, and were equally surprised to find ‘Sir Robert’ still
between us and all in one piece. I thought it foolish to discuss all
this before the child himself; but did not like to stop her. As a
result, he regards himself evidently as the chosen foe of Heaven, and is
not, unnaturally, proud of himself. She called here this (Monday)
afternoon to leave cards; and, at her request, I showed her the kitchen
and the mat over which he had stumbled. She seemed surprised that the
‘Doom’ had let slip so favourable a chance of accomplishing its business,
and gathered from the fact added cause for anxiety. Evidently something
much more thorough is in store for Master Theodore. It was only half a
pound of gunpowder, she told me. Doctor Smallboy’s gardener had bought
it for the purpose of raising the stump of an old elm-tree, and had left
it for a moment on the grass while he had returned to the house for more
brown paper. She seemed pleased with the gardener, who, as she said,
might, if dishonestly inclined, have charged her for a pound. I wanted
to pay for—at all events—our share, but she would not take a penny. Her
late lamented grandfather she regards as the person responsible for the
entire incident, and perhaps it may be as well not to disturb her view.
Had I suggested it, I feel sure she would have seen the justice of her
providing us with a new kitchen range.
“Wildly exaggerated accounts of the affair are flying round the
neighbourhood; and my chief fear is that Veronica may discover she is a
local celebrity. Your sudden disappearance is supposed to have been
heavenward. An old farm labourer who saw you pass on your way to the
station speaks of you as ‘the ghost of the poor gentleman himself;’ and
fragments of clothing found anywhere within a radius of two miles are
being preserved, I am told, as specimens of your remains. Boots would
appear to have been your chief apparel. Seven pairs have already been
collected from the surrounding ditches. Among the more public-spirited
there is talk of using you to start a local museum.”
* * * * *
These first three paragraphs I did not read to Ethelbertha. Fortunately
they just filled the first sheet, which I took an opportunity of slipping
into my pocket unobserved.
* * * * *
“The new boy arrived on Sunday morning,” she continued. “His name—if I
have got it right—is William. Anyhow, that is the nearest I can get to
it. His other name, if any, I must leave you to extract from him
yourself. It may be Berkshire that he talks, but it sounds more like
barking. Please excuse the pun; but I have just been talking to him for
half an hour, trying to make him understand that I want him to go home,
and maybe, as a result, I am feeling a little hysterical. Anything more
rural I cannot imagine. But he is anxious to learn, and a fairly wide
field is in front of him. I caught him after our breakfast on Sunday
calmly throwing everything left over onto the dust-heap. I pointed out
to him the wickedness of wasting nourishing food, and impressed upon him
that the proper place for victuals was inside us. He never answers. He
stands stock still, with his mouth as wide open as it will go—which is
saying a good deal—and one trusts that one’s words are entering into him.
All Sunday afternoon he was struggling valiantly against an almost
supernatural sleepiness. After tea he got worse, and I began to think he
would be no use to me. We none of us ate much supper; and Dick, who
appears able to understand him, helped him to carry the things out. I
heard them talking, and then Dick came back and closed the door behind
him. ‘He wants to know,’ said Dick, ‘if he can leave the corned beef
over till to-morrow. Because, if he eats it all to-night, he doesn’t
think he will be able to walk home.’
“Veronica takes great interest in him. She has evidently a motherly side
to her character, for which we none of us have given her credit. She
says she is sure there is good in him. She sits beside him while he
chops wood, and tells him carefully selected stories, calculated, she
argues, to develop his intelligence. She is careful, moreover, not to
hurt his feelings by any display of superiority. ‘Of course, anyone
leading a useful life, such as yours,’ I overheard her saying to him this
morning, ‘don’t naturally get much time for reading. I’ve nothing else
to do, you see, ’cept to improve myself.’
“The donkey arrived this afternoon while I was out—galloping, I am given
to understand, with ’Opkins on his back. There seems to be some secret
between those two. We have tried him with hay, and we have tried him
with thistles; but he seems to prefer bread-and-butter. I have not been
able as yet to find out whether he takes tea or coffee in the morning.
But he is an animal that evidently knows his own mind, and fortunately
both are in the house. We are putting him up for to-night with the cow,
who greeted him at first with enthusiasm and wanted to adopt him, but has
grown cold to him since on discovering that he is not a calf. I have
been trying to make friends with her, but she is so very unresponsive.
She doesn’t seem to want anything but grass, and prefers to get that for
herself. She doesn’t seem to want to be happy ever again.
“A funny thing happened in church. I was forgetting to tell you. The
St. Leonards occupy two pews at the opposite end from the door. They
were all there when we arrived, with the exception of the old gentleman
himself. He came in just before the ‘Dearly Beloved,’ when everybody was
standing up. A running fire of suppressed titters followed him up the
aisle, and some of the people laughed outright. I could see no reason
why. He looked a dignified old gentleman in his grey hair and tightly
buttoned frock coat, which gives him a somewhat military appearance. But
when he came level with our pew I understood. Hurrying back from his
morning round, and with no one there to superintend him, the dear old
absent-minded thing had forgotten to change his breeches. From a little
above the knee upward he was a perfect Christian; but his legs were just
those of a disreputable sinner.
“‘What’s the joke?’ he whispered to me as he passed—I was in the corner
seat. ‘Have I missed it?’
“We called round on them after lunch, and at once I was appealed to for
my decision.
“‘Now, here’s a plain sensible girl,’ exclaimed the old gentleman the
moment I entered the room.’ (You will notice I put no comma after
‘plain.’ I am taking it he did not intend one. You can employ one
adjective to qualify another, can’t you?) ‘And I will put it to her,
What difference can it make to the Almighty whether I go to church in
trousers or in breeches?’
“‘I do not see,’ retorted Mrs. St. Leonard somewhat coldly, ‘that Miss
Robina is in any better position than myself to speak with authority on
the views of the Almighty’—which I felt was true. ‘If it makes no
difference to the Almighty, then why not, for my sake, trousers?’
“‘The essential thing,’ he persisted, ‘is a contrite heart.’ He was
getting very cross.
“‘It may just as well be dressed respectably,’ was his wife’s opinion.
He left the room, slamming the door.
“I do like Janie the more and more I see of her. I do hope she will let
me get real chums with her. She does me so much good. (I read that bit
twice over to Ethelbertha, pretending I had lost the place.) I suppose
it is having rather a silly mother and an unpractical father that has
made her so capable. If you and Little Mother had been proper sort of
parents I might have been quite a decent sort of girl. But it’s too late
finding fault with you now. I suppose I must put up with you. She works
so hard, and is so unselfish. But she is not like some good people, who
make you feel it is hopeless your trying to be good. She gets cross and
impatient; and then she laughs at herself, and gets right again that way.
Poor Mrs. St. Leonard! I cannot help feeling sorry for her. She would
have been so happy as the wife of a really respectable City man, who
would have gone off every morning with a flower in his buttonhole and
have worn a white waistcoat on Sundays. I don’t believe what they say:
that husbands and wives should be the opposite of one another. Mr. St.
Leonard ought to have married a brainy woman, who would have discussed
philosophy with him, and have been just as happy drinking beer out of a
tea-cup: you know the sort I mean. If ever I marry it will be a
short-tempered man who loves music and is a good dancer; and if I find
out too late that he’s clever I’ll run away from him.
“Dick has not yet come home—nearly eight o’clock. Veronica is supposed
to be in bed, but I can hear things falling. Poor boy! I expect he’ll
be tired; but to-day is an exception. Three hundred sheep have had to be
brought all the way from Ilsley, and must be ‘herded’—I fancy it is
called—before anybody can think of supper. I saw to it that he had a
good dinner.
“And now to come to business. Young Bute has been here all day, and has
only just left. He is coming down again on Friday—which, by the way,
don’t forget is Mrs. St. Leonard’s ‘At Home’ day. She hopes she may then
have the pleasure of making your acquaintance, and thinks that possibly
there may be present one or two people we may like to know. From which I
gather that half the neighbourhood has been specially invited to meet
you. So mind you bring a frock-coat; and if Little Mother can put her
hand easily on my pink muslin with the spots—it is either in my wardrobe
or else in the bottom drawer in Veronica’s room, if it isn’t in the
cardboard box underneath mother’s bed—you might slip it into your bag.
But whatever you do don’t crush it. The sash I feel sure mother put away
somewhere herself. He sees no reason—I’m talking now about young
Bute,—if you approve his plans, why work should not be commenced
immediately. Shall I write old Slee to meet you at the house on Friday?
From all accounts I don’t think you’ll do better. He is on the spot, and
they say he is most reasonable. But you have to get estimates, don’t
you? He suggests—Mr. Bute, I mean—throwing what used to be the dairy
into the passage, which will make a hall big enough for anything. We
might even give a dance in it, he thinks. But all this you will be able
to discuss with him on Friday. He has evidently taken a great deal of
pains, and some of his suggestions sound sensible. But of course he must
fully understand that it is what we want, not what he thinks, that is
important. I told him you said I could have my room exactly as I liked
it myself; and I have explained to him my ideas. He seemed at first to
be under the impression that I didn’t know what I was talking about, so I
made it quite clear to him that I did, with the result that he has
consented to carry out my instructions, on condition that I put them down
in black and white—which I think just as well, as then there can be no
excuse afterwards for argument. I like him better than I did the first
time. About everything else he can be fairly amiable. It is when he
talks about ‘frontal elevations’ and ‘ground plans’ that he irritates me.
Tell Little Mother that I’ll write her to-morrow. Couldn’t she come down
with you on Friday? Everything will be ship-shape by then; and—”
The remainder was of a nature more private. She concluded with a
postscript, which also I did not read to Ethelbertha.
“Thought I had finished telling you everything, when quite a stylish
rat-tat sounded on the door. I placed an old straw hat of Dick’s in a
prominent position, called loudly to an imaginary ‘John’ not to go
without the letters, and then opened it. He turned out to be the local
reporter. I need not have been alarmed. He was much the more nervous of
the two, and was so full of excuses that had I not come to his rescue I
believe he would have gone away forgetting what he’d come for. Nothing
save an overwhelming sense of duty to the Public (with a capital P) could
have induced him to inflict himself upon me. Could I give him a few
details which would enable him to set rumour right? I immediately saw
visions of headlines: ‘Domestic Tragedy!’ ‘Eminent Author blown up by
his own Daughter!’ ‘Once Happy Home now a Mere Wreck!’ It seemed to me
our only plan was to enlist this amiable young man upon our side; I hope
I did not overdo it. My idea was to convey the impression that one
glance at him had convinced me he was the best and noblest of mankind;
that I felt I could rely upon his wit and courage to save us from a
notoriety that, so far as I was concerned, would sadden my whole life;
and that if he did so eternal gratitude and admiration would be the least
I could lay at his feet. I can be nice when I try. People have said so.
We parted with only a pressure of the hand, and I hope he won’t get into
trouble, but I see _The Berkshire Courier_ is going to be deprived of its
prey. Dick has just come in. He promises to talk when he has finished
eating.”
* * * * *
Dick’s letter, for which Ethelbertha seemed to be strangely impatient,
reached us on Wednesday morning.
“If ever you want to find out, Dad, what hard work really means, you try
farming,” wrote Dick; “and yet I believe you would like it. Hasn’t some
old Johnny somewhere described it as the poetry of the ploughshare? Why
did we ever take to bothering about anything else—shutting ourselves up
in stuffy offices, worrying ourselves to death about a lot of rubbish
that isn’t any good to anybody? I wish I could put it properly, Dad; you
would see just what I mean. Why don’t we live in simply-built houses and
get most everything we want out of the land: which we easily could? You
take a dozen poor devils away from walking behind the plough and put them
down into coal-mines, and set them running about half-naked among a lot
of roaring furnaces, and between them they turn out a machine that does
the ploughing for them. What is the sense of it? Of course some things
are useful. I would like a motor-car, and railways and steamboats are
all right; but it seems to me that half the fiddle-faddles we fancy we
want we’d be just as well, if not better, without, and there would be all
that time and energy to spare for the sort of things that everybody ought
to have. It’s everywhere just like it was at school. They kept us so
hard at it, studying Greek roots, we hadn’t time to learn English
grammar. Look at young Dennis Yewbury. He’s got two thousand acres up
in Scotland. He could lead a jolly life turning the place into some real
use. Instead of which he lets it all run to waste for nothing but to
breed a few hundred birds that wouldn’t keep a single family alive; while
he works from morning till night at humbugging people in a beastly hole
in the City, just to fill his house with a host of silly gim-cracks and
dress up himself and his women-folk like peacocks. Of course we would
always want clever chaps like you to tell us stories; and doctors we
couldn’t do without, though I guess if we were leading sensible lives
we’d be able to get along with about half of them. It seems to me that
what we want is a comfortable home, enough to eat and drink, and a few
fal-lal sort of things to make the girls look pretty; and that all the
rest is rot. We would all of us have time then to think and play a bit,
and if we were all working fairly at something really useful and were
contented with our own share, there’d be enough for everybody.
“I suppose this is all nonsense, but I wish it wasn’t. Anyway, it’s what
I mean to do myself; and I’m awfully much obliged to you, Dad, for giving
me this chance. You’ve hit the right nail on the head this time.
Farming was what I was meant for; I feel it. I would have hated being a
barrister, setting people by the ears and making my living out of other
people’s troubles. Being a farmer you feel that in doing good to
yourself you are doing good all round. Miss Janie agrees with all I say.
I think she is one of the most sensible girls I have ever come across,
and Robin likes her awfully. So is the old man: he’s a brick. I think
he has taken a liking to me, and I know I have to him. He’s the dearest
old fellow imaginable. The very turnips he seems to think of as though
they were so many rows of little children. And he makes you see the
inside of things. Take fields now, for instance. I used to think a
field was just a field. You scraped it about and planted it with seeds,
and everything else depended on the weather. Why, Dad, it’s alive!
There are good fields that want to get on—that are grateful for
everything you do for them, and take a pride in themselves. And there
are brutes of fields that you feel you want to kick. You can waste a
hundred pounds’ worth of manure on them, and it only makes them more
stupid than they were before. One of our fields—a wizened-looking
eleven-acre strip bordering the Fyfield road—he has christened Mrs.
Gummidge: it seems to feel everything more than any other field. From
whatever point of the compass the wind blows that field gets the most
harm from it. You would think to look at it after a storm that there
hadn’t been any rain in any other field—that that particular field must
have got it all; while two days’ sunshine has the effect upon it that a
six weeks’ drought would on any other field. His theory (he must have a
theory to account for everything; it comforts him. He has just hit upon
a theory that explains why twins are born with twice as much original sin
as other children, and doesn’t seem to mind now what they do) is that
each odd corner of the earth has gained a character of its own from the
spirits of the countless dead men buried in its bosom. ‘Robbers and
thieves,’ he will say, kicking the sod of some field all stones and
thistles; ‘silly fighting men who thought God built the world merely to
give them the fun of knocking it about. Look at them, the fools! stones
and thistles—thistles and stones: that is their notion of a field.’ Or,
leaning over the gate of some field of rich-smelling soil, he will
stretch out his arms as though to caress it: ‘Brave lads!’ he will say;
‘kindly honest fellows who loved the poor peasant folk.’ I fancy he has
not got much sense of humour; or if he has, it is a humour he leaves you
to find out for yourself. One does not feel one wants to laugh,
listening even to his most whimsical ideas; and anyhow it is a fact that
of two fields quite close to one another, one will be worth ten pounds an
acre and the other dear at half a crown, and there seems to be nothing to
explain it. We have a seven-acre patch just halfway up the hill. He
says he never passes it without taking off his hat to it. Whatever you
put in it does well; while other fields, try them with what you will, it
is always the very thing they did not want. You might fancy them
fractious children, always crying for the other child’s bun. There is
really no reason for its being such a good field, except its own pluck.
It faces the east, and the wood for half the day hides it from the sun;
but it makes the best of everything, and even on the greyest day it seems
to be smiling at you. ‘Some happy-hearted Mother Thing—a singer of love
songs the while she toiled,’ he will have it, must lie sleeping there.
By-the-bye, what a jolly field Janie would make! Don’t you think so,
Dad?
“What the dickens, Dad, have you done to Veronica? She wanders about
everywhere with an exercise book in her hand, and when you say anything
to her, instead of answering you back, she sits plump down wherever she
is and writes for all she’s worth. She won’t say what she’s up to. She
says it’s a private matter between you and her, and that later on things
are going to be seen in their true light. I told her this morning what I
thought of her for forgetting to feed the donkey. I was prepared, of
course, for a hundred explanations: First, that she had meant to feed the
donkey; secondly, that it wasn’t her place to feed the donkey; thirdly,
that the donkey would have been fed if circumstances over which she had
no control had not arisen rendering it impossible for her to feed the
donkey; fourthly, that the morning wasn’t the proper time to feed the
donkey, and so on. Instead of which, out she whips this ridiculous book
and asks me if I would mind saying it over again.
“I keep forgetting to ask Janie what it is he has been accustomed to. We
have tried him with thistles, and we’ve tried him with hay. The thistles
he scratches himself against; but for the hay he appears to have no use
whatever. Robin thinks his idea is to save us trouble. We are not to
get in anything especially for him—whatever we may happen to be having
ourselves he will put up with. Bread-and-butter cut thick, or a slice of
cake with an apple seems to be his notion of a light lunch; and for drink
he fancies tea out of a slop-basin, with two knobs of sugar and plenty of
milk. Robin says it’s waste of time taking his meals out to him. She
says she is going to train him to come in when he hears the gong. We use
the alarm clock at present for a gong. I don’t know what I shall do when
the cow goes away. She wakes me every morning punctually at half-past
four, but I’m in a blue funk that one of these days she will oversleep
herself. It is one of those clocks you read about. You wrote something
rather funny about one once yourself, but I always thought you had
invented it. I bought it because they said it was an extra loud one, and
so it is. The thing that’s wrong about it is that, do what you will, you
can’t get it to go off before six o’clock in the morning. I set it on
Sunday evening for half-past four—we farmers do have to work, I can tell
you. But it’s worth it. I had no idea that the world was so beautiful.
There is a light you never see at any other time, and the whole air seems
to be full of fluttering song. You feel—but you must get up and come out
with me, Dad. I can’t describe it. If it hadn’t been for the good old
cow, Lord knows what time I’d have been up. The clock went off at
half-past four in the afternoon, just as they were sitting down to tea,
and frightened them all out of their skins. We have fiddled about with
it all we know, but there’s no getting it to do anything between six p.m.
and six am. Anything you want of it in the daytime it is quite agreeable
to. But it seems to have fixed its own working hours, and isn’t going to
be bustled out of its proper rest. I got so mad with it myself I wanted
to pitch it out of the window, but Robin thought we ought to keep it till
you came, that perhaps you might be able to do something with it—writing
something about it, she means. I said I thought alarm clocks were pretty
well played out by this time; but, as she says, there is always a new
generation coming along to whom almost everything must be fresh. Anyhow,
the confounded thing cost seven and six, and seems to be no good for
anything else.
“Whatever was it that you really did say to Robin about her room? Young
Bute came round to me on Monday quite upset about it. He says it is
going to be all windows, and will look, when finished, like an incorrect
copy of the Eddystone lighthouse. He says there will be no place for the
bed, and if there is to be a fireplace at all it will have to be in the
cupboard, and that the only way, so far as he can see, of her getting in
and out of it will be by a door through the bathroom. She said that you
said she could have it entirely to her own idea, and that he was just to
carry out her instructions; but, as he points out, you can’t have a room
in a house as if the rest of the house wasn’t there, even if it is your
own room. Nobody, it seems, will be able to have a bath without first
talking it over with her, and arranging a time mutually convenient. I
told him I was sure you never meant him to do anything absurd; and that
his best plan would be to go straight back to her, explain to her that
she’d been talking like a silly goat—he could have put it politely, of
course—and that he wasn’t going to pay any attention to her. You might
have thought I had suggested his walking into a den of lions and pulling
all their tails. I don’t know what Robin has done to him, but he seems
quite frightened of her. I had to promise that I would talk to her.
He’d better have done it himself. I only told her just what he said, and
off she went in one of her tantrums. You know her style: If she liked to
live in a room where she could see to do her hair that was no business of
his, and if he couldn’t design a plain, simple bedroom that wasn’t going
to look ridiculous and make her the laughing-stock of all the
neighbourhood, then the Royal Institute of British Architects must have
strange notions of the sort of person entitled to go about the country
building houses; that if he thought the proper place for a fire was in a
cupboard, she didn’t; that his duty was to carry out the instructions of
his employers, and if he imagined for a moment she was going to consent
to remain shut up in her room till everybody in the house had finished
bathing it would be better for us to secure the services of somebody
possessed of a little commonsense; that next time she met him she would
certainly tell him what she thought of him, also that she should
certainly decline to hold any further communication with him again; that
she doesn’t want a bedroom now of any sort—perhaps she may be permitted a
shakedown in the pantry, or perhaps Veronica will allow her an occasional
night’s rest with her, and if not it doesn’t matter. You’ll have to talk
to her yourself. I’m not going to say any more.
“Don’t forget that Friday is the St. Leonards’ ‘At Home’ day. I’ve
promised Janie that you shall be there in all your best clothes. (Don’t
tell her I’m calling her Janie. It might offend her. But nobody calls
her Miss St. Leonard.) Everybody is coming, and all the children are
having their hair washed. You will have it all your own way down here.
There’s no other celebrity till you get to Boss Croker, the Tammany man,
the other side of Ilsley Downs. Artists they don’t count. The rumour
was all round the place last week that you were here incognito in the
person of a dismal-looking Johnny, staying at the ‘Fisherman’s Retreat,’
who used to sit all day in a punt up the backwater drinking whisky. It
made me rather mad when I saw him. I suppose it was the whisky that
suggested the idea to them. They have got the notion in these parts that
a literary man is a sort of inspired tramp. A Mrs. Jaggerswade—or some
such name—whom I met here on Sunday and who is coming on Friday, took me
aside and asked me ‘what sort of things’ you said when you talked? She
said she felt sure it would be so clever, and, herself, she was looking
forward to it; but would I—‘quite between ourselves’—advise her to bring
the children.
“I say, you will have to talk seriously to Veronica. Country life seems
to agree with her. She’s taken to poaching already—she and the twins.
It was the one sin that hitherto they had never committed, and I fancy
the old man was feeling proud of this. Luckily I caught them coming
home—with ten dead rabbits strung on a pole, the twins carrying it
between them on their shoulders, suggesting the picture of the spies
returning from the promised land with that bunch of grapes—Veronica
scouting on ahead with, every ten yards, her ear to the ground, listening
for hostile footsteps. The thing that troubled her most was that she
hadn’t heard me coming; she seemed to fear that something had gone wrong
with the laws of Nature. They had found the whole collection hanging
from a tree, and had persuaded themselves that Providence must have been
expecting them. I insisted on their going back with me and showing me
the tree, much to their disgust. And fortunately the keeper wasn’t
about—they are men that love making a row. I talked some fine moral
sentiment to her. But she says you have told her that it doesn’t matter
whether you are good or bad, things happen to you just the same; and this
being so she feels she may as well enjoy herself. I asked her why she
never seemed able to enjoy herself being good—I believe if I’d always had
a kid to bring up I’d have been a model chap myself by this time. Her
answer was that she supposed she was born bad. I pointed out to her that
was a reflection on you and Little Mother; and she answered she guessed
she must be a ‘throw-back.’ Old Slee’s got a dog that ought to have been
a fox-terrier, but isn’t, and he seems to have been explaining things to
her.
“A thing that will trouble you down here, Dad, is the cruelty of the
country. They catch these poor little wretches in traps, leaving them
sometimes for days suffering what must be to them nothing short of
agony—to say nothing of the terror and the hunger. I tried putting my
finger in one of the beastly things and keeping it there for just two
minutes by my watch. It seemed like twenty. The pain grows more intense
with every second, and I’m not a soft, as you know. I’ve lain half an
hour with a broken leg, and that wasn’t as bad. One hears the little
creatures screaming, but cannot find them. Of course when one draws near
they keep silent. It makes one quite dislike country people. They are
so callous. When you speak to them about it they only grin. Janie goes
nearly mad about it. Mr. St. Leonard tried to get the clergyman to say
something on the subject, but he answered that he thought it better ‘for
the Church to confine herself to the accomplishment of her own great
mission.’ Ass!
“Bring Little Mother down; we want to show her off on Friday. And make
her put on something pretty. Ask her if she’s got that lilac thing with
lace she wore at Cambridge for the May Week the year before last. Tell
her not to be silly; it wasn’t a bit too young. Nash said she looked
like something out of an old picture, and he’s going to be an artist.
Don’t let her dress herself. She doesn’t understand it. And will you
get me a gun—”
The remainder of the letter was taken up with instructions concerning the
gun. It seemed a complicated sort of gun. I wished I hadn’t read about
the gun to Ethelbertha. It made her nervous for the rest of the day.
* * * * *
Veronica’s letter followed on Thursday morning. I read it going down in
the train. In transcribing I have thought it better, as regards the
spelling, to adopt the more conventional forms.
* * * * *
“You will be pleased to hear,” Veronica wrote, “that we are all quite
well. Robin works very hard. But I think it does her good. And of
course I help her. All I can. I am glad she has got a boy. To do the
washing-up. I think that was too much for her. It used to make her
cross. One cannot blame her. It is trying work. And it makes you
mucky. He is a good boy. But has been neglected. So doesn’t know much.
I am teaching him grammar. He says ‘you was’ and ‘her be.’ But is
getting better. He says he went to school. But they couldn’t have taken
any trouble with him. Could they? The system, I suppose, was rotten.
Robina says I mustn’t overdo it. Because you want him to talk Berkshire.
So I propose confining our attention to the elementary rules. He had
never heard of Robinson Crusoe. What a life! We went to church on
Sunday. I could not find my gloves. And Robina was waxy. But Mr. St.
Leonard came without his trousers. Which was worse. We found them in
the evening. The little boy that blew up our stove was there with his
mother. But I didn’t speak to her. He’s got a doom. That’s what made
him blow it up. He couldn’t help it. So you see it wasn’t my fault.
After all. His grandfather was blown up. And he’s going to be blown up
again. Later on. But he is very brave. And is going to make a will. I
like all the St. Leonards very much. We went there to tea on Sunday.
And Mr. St. Leonard said I was bright. I think Miss Janie very
beautiful. And so does Dick. She makes me think of angels. So she does
Dick. And he says she is so kind to her little brothers and sisters. It
is a good sign. I think she ought to marry Dick. It would steady him.
He works very hard. But I think it does him good. We have breakfast at
seven. And I lay the table. It is very beautiful in the morning. When
you are once up. Mrs. St. Leonard has twins. They are a great anxiety
to her. But she would not part from them. She has had much trouble.
And is sometimes very sad. I like the girl best. Her name is Winnie.
She is more like a boy. His name is Wilfrid. But sometimes they change
clothes. Then you’re done. They are only nearly seven. But they know a
lot. They are going to teach me swimming. Is it not kind of them? The
two older boys are at home for their holidays. But they give themselves
a lot of airs. And they called me a flapper. I told him he’d be sorry.
When he was a man. Because perhaps I’d grow up beautiful. And then he’d
fall in love with me. But he said he wouldn’t. So I let him see what I
thought of him. The little girl is very nice. She is about my own age.
Her name is Sally. We are going to write a play. But we sha’n’t let
Bertie act in it. Unless he turns over a new leaf. I’m going to be a
princess that doesn’t know it. But only feels it. And she’s going to be
a wicked witch. What wants me to marry her son. What’s a sight. But I
won’t, because I’d rather die first. And am in love with a swineherd.
That is a genius. Only nobody suspects it. I wear a crown in the last
act. And everybody rejoices. Except her. I think it will be good. We
have nearly finished the first act. She writes very well. And has a
sense of atmosphere. And I tell her what to say. Miss Janie is going to
make me a dress with a train. And gold spangles. And Robina is going to
lend me her blue necklace. Anything will do of course for the old witch.
So it won’t be much trouble to anyone. Mr. Bute is going to paint us
some scenery. And we are going to invite everybody. He is very nice.
Robina says he thinks too much of himself. By a long chalk. But she is
very critical where men are concerned. She admits it. She says she
can’t help it. I find him very affable. And so does Dick. We think
Robina will get over it. And he has promised not to be angry with her.
Because I have told him that she does not mean it. It is only her way.
She says she feels it is unjust of her. Because really he is rather
charming. I told him that. And he said I was a dear little girl. He is
going to get me a real crown. Robina says he has nice eyes. I told him
that. And he laughed. There is a gentleman comes here that I think is
in love with Robina. But I shouldn’t say anything to her about it. If I
was you. She is very snappy about it. He is not handsome. But he looks
good. He writes for the papers. But I don’t think he is rich. And
Robina is very nice to him. Until he’s gone. Then she gets mad. It all
began with the explosion. So perhaps it was fate. He is going to keep
it out of the papers. As much as he can. But of course he owes a duty
to the public. I am going to decline to see him. I think it better.
Mr. Slee says everything will be in apple-pie order to-morrow. So you
can come down. And we are going to have Irish stew. And roly-poly
pudding. It will be a change. He is very nice. And says he was always
in trouble himself when he was a little boy. It’s all experience. We
are all going on Friday to a party at Mr. St. Leonard’s. And you have
got to come too. Robina says I can wear my new frock. But we can’t find
the sash. It is very strange. Because I remember having seen it. You
didn’t take it for anything, did you? We shall have to get a new one, I
suppose. It is very annoying. My new shoes have also not worn well.
And they ought to have. Because Robina says they were expensive. The
donkey has come. And he is sweet. He eats out of my hand. And lets me
kiss him. But he won’t go. He goes a little when you shout at him.
Very loud. Me and Robina went for a drive yesterday after tea. And Dick
ran beside. And shouted. But he got hoarse. And then he wouldn’t go no
more. And Robina did not like it. Because Dick shouted swear words. He
says they come naturally to you when you shout. And Robina said it was
horrible. And that people would hear him. So we got out. And pushed
him home. But he is very strong. And we were all very tired. And
Robina says she hates him. Dick is going to give Mr. ’Opkins half a
crown. To tell him how he makes him go. Because Mr. ’Opkins makes him
gallop. Robina says it must be hypnotism. But Dick thinks it might be
something simpler. I think Mr. ’Opkins very nice. He says you promised
to lend him a book. What would help him to talk like a real country boy.
So I have lent him a book about a window. By Mr. Bane. What came to see
us last year. It has a lot of funny words in it. And he is going to
learn them up. But he don’t know what they mean. No more do I. I have
written a lot of the book. It promises to be very interesting. It is
all a dream. He is just the ordinary grown-up father. Neither better
nor worse. And he goes up and up. It is a pleasant sensation. Till he
reaches the moon. And there everything is different. It is the children
that know everything. And are always right. And the grown-ups have to
do all what they tell them. They are kind but firm. It is very good for
him. And when he wakes up he is a better man. I put down everything
that occurs to me. Like you suggested. There is quite a lot of it. And
it makes you see how unjustly children are treated. They said I was to
feed the donkey. Because it was my donkey. And I fed him. And there
wasn’t enough supper for Dick. And Dick said I was an idiot. And Robina
said I wasn’t to feed him. And in the morning there wasn’t anything to
feed him on. Because he won’t eat anything but bread-and-butter. And
the baker hadn’t come. And he wasn’t there. Because the man that comes
to milk the cow had left the door open. And I was distracted. And Dick
asked had I fed him. And of course I hadn’t fed him. And lord how Dick
talked. Never waited to hear anything, mind you. I let him talk. But
it just shows you. We are all very happy. But shall be pleased to see
you. Once again. The peppermint creams down here are not good. And are
very dear. Compared with London prices. Isn’t this a good letter? You
said I was to always write just as I thought. So I’m doing it. I think
that’s all.”
I read selections from this letter aloud to Ethelbertha. She said she
was glad she had decided to come down with me.