_A man may win; the woman keeps the winnings._
So far Elsie had won—so she thought. She had got Shan’t back, but
Shan’t, with the glamour of London upon her, was restless, longing to
talk, aching to tell all she had seen and heard in London—“darlin’ old
London.” But Aunt Elsie was obdurate. She did not want to hear anything
about Uncle Marcus, and London was Uncle Marcus just as Uncle Marcus
was London. She wanted to know what Shan’t had remembered of her Bible
lesson? What she had remembered about Zacharias? She had learnt all
about him just before she had gone to London!
“_Did_ I?” asked Shan’t, doubting, but open to conviction.
Before Aunt Elsie, as a prisoner before the judge, she stood. She made
one or two manœuvres, the first to make Aunt Elsie smile; the next
to distract her attention. But Aunt Elsie neither smiled nor allowed
her attention to be distracted. “Tell me what you remember about
Zacharias,” she said.
Shan’t sighed. It was no good. “Zacha-ri-as?” she pondered. She
stood first on one leg, then on the other. What _did_ she remember?
Raising pellucid eyes to Aunt Elsie, and higher still to Heaven, she
began, “Zacharias was—a just man and he stood before the altar of the
Lord—and—an angel came to him and said, ‘Zacharias, you are goin’ to
have a baby,’ and Zacharias said, ‘I am not,’ and the angel said, ‘I
beg your pardon, you are, and what’s more you’ll be dumb till you get
it—’ That’s all,” said Shan’t.
“You know that wasn’t what you learnt, Shan’t.”
“Wasn’t it?” she said surprised; then added, “It’s a pity, isn’t it?”
She looked at her Aunt Elsie, and Aunt Elsie saw with relief Mrs.
Sloane coming towards her. She had never loved her neighbour better,
and she had always loved her well.
As she walked along Mrs. Sloane bowed to those flowers she knew by
sight, recognized and spoke to those she personally knew, and exclaimed
she had never met another. A garden-lover was she in another woman’s
garden. A generous visitor! There was nothing that grew in her garden
better than in Elsie’s. She never said: “Ah, yes, of course, the same
thing exactly, but mine are deeper—richer in colour; a matter of soil,
of course. That only three inches high! Why, mine grew that in one
night—a much better night, of course. It’s only a question of—”
Mrs. Sloane never said the wrong thing in the gardens of others.
She was dearly loved in consequence, and every gardener felt in her
presence a better gardener than he really was—just as every man felt
a better man. And that, after all, is a good woman’s work in life, to
make men feel better than they are—for by the time they grow accustomed
to the feeling and get over the shyness it entails, they find it has
become a habit and they are better.
It could be truthfully said of Mrs. Sloane, as was said of somebody by
somebody—that whatever her age she didn’t look it. The tribute savours
of the wit and understanding of Sidney Smith, whose judgment on the
matter of babies is almost as well known as Solomon’s. Mrs. Sloane was
triumphantly young, although to Shan’t she was a very, very old lady;
but Shan’t was too young to recognize youth when she met it in the
guise of old age.
Across the lawn, to the rescue of Aunt Elsie, came Mrs. Sloane.
She wore a mushroom hat and gardening gloves and used a spud as
walking-stick. “How goes the war?” she asked.
“You may go, Shan’t,” said Aunt Elsie.
“You got her back, then? With or without difficulty?”
“You may go, Shan’t.”
“I came back with Mrs. Oven,” said Shan’t, swinging her leg, reluctant
to go.
“Shan’t, you may go.”
At that moment Shan’t would rather have turned head over heels. She
would have found it easier.
“Run along, darling.”
“Must I?”
“Must she?” asked Mrs. Sloane.
Shan’t edged nearer, leant up against Mrs. Sloane, who slipped an arm
round her. “Did you have a nice time?” she whispered.
“Diana’s got b-blue silk curtains on her bed.”
“Has she? Is she very happy?”
Shan’t nodded. “I watched her dress. Then I went downstairs—and Uncle
Marcus didn’t know I was comin’—he _was_ surprised—”
“Run along, Shan’t; you must do what I tell you, whatever you did with
your uncle—”
Shan’t walked away backwards, stopped to seize Marcus, clutched at
every excuse to linger—every daisy became a valid excuse—
“This is what comes of going to London,” said Aunt Elsie; “I knew what
it would be.”
Shan’t walked away trailing her feet as she went, stubbing the toes
of her shoes into the ground—disgusted with life. No one ran after
her—made much of her and begged her to be good when she was good all
the time. She had liked Pillar! He had “amoozed” her. She had liked
Mrs. Oven! London! everything! Moreover, Diana was there—Diana, whom
she adored; life without her was dull. Shan’t wished it was tea-time.
“Now tell me,” said Mrs. Sloane to Elsie.
“There is nothing to tell. Shan’t went with Diana. It was very wrong
of Diana. The child, of course, wasn’t to blame. I wired for her and
he sent her back at once, in the care of a most excellent woman. She
looked a good cook—you can tell, can’t you?”
“At a glance, just as easily as you can tell a good coachman—or, for
the matter of that, a good clergyman—”
“Talking of clergymen—” And Elsie unburdened her heart about Shan’t and
Zacharias.
“Dear Zacharias!” said Mrs. Sloane; “I wonder if he had a sense of
humour.” This was beside the point, so Elsie brought her back to the
odious uncle, who obviously had none. What should she do? It was
evident he had designs upon the children, he might even kidnap them.
She didn’t trust him a yard. Mrs. Sloane suggested counter-attractions.
Sparks lit in the eyes of the harassed aunt. What distraction could the
country offer that could compare with the attraction of London?
“There is no reason a dance should not be given when you want Diana
back—a dance in the country is very delightful, so long as it be
sufficiently well done, and the right people come, and the right band
plays, and the bright moon shines.”
“Who would give one?—you wouldn’t?” This was a bow at a venture.
“And why not in so good a cause?”
“You are an angel.”
“It is not the first time I have been told so when I have but done my
most obvious duty against my neighbour’s enemy.”
“There is no one like you.”
“There is much to be thankful for. By the way, does Mr. Watkins come
and doze these days in your garden?”
Mr. Watkins, the literary recluse, of whom Lady Carston was afraid,
had taken to sitting in Miss Carston’s garden. He found he could write
better, read better, and dream better there than anywhere. The peace of
it all he found wonderfully soothing. The clatter of the milk-pails at
the farm distracted him: the lowing of the cows depressed him (it made
him feel the bitterness of his loneliness): the squealings of the pigs
were too suggestive: the cackling of hens reminded him of women he had
known and would fain forget.
“He must enjoy these lovely days,” said Mrs. Sloane slyly.
Elsie said he had not been for some time. She supposed he was busy.
“And Mr. Pease, the curate? His rooms were so stuffy, he said; didn’t
he? Does he come? I suppose so?”
No, Elsie was bound to admit that the curate had not been for some
time. She supposed he, too, was busy.
And Mrs. Sloane went on her way smiling. “Diana! Diana!” she said
to herself, “oh, to be young again! How you must enjoy it all!” She
stopped. “Well, well, my dear! I never expected to see you rioting like
this. Why are you so shy in some gardens? What’s this about not growing
unless you are put in a draughty place?” And she lifted a trail of
Tropæolum and put it on its right way.
Just outside Elsie’s gate Mrs. Sloane met Mr. Watkins. “You are coming
in?”—and she held the gate open.
“Not to-day, I think,” said the weary Mr. Watkins, adding something
about his soul’s solitude,—“not to-day!”
“You should not keep all your beautiful thoughts to yourself,” said
Mrs. Sloane. It was perhaps an unfortunate remark, because Mr. Watkins
hastened to inform her that for two and sixpence, postage paid, she
could read his latest and best—whatever the critics might choose to
say.
“Yes, yes, of course,” said Mrs. Sloane, “but I am sure you have
thoughts that are too beautiful to be put into words, on paper! They
may pass from true friend to true friend—in the quiet of a friend’s
garden. Among the flowers words may be spoken that printer’s ink would
blur.”
Now Mr. Watkins felt that this dear old lady was trying to encroach
upon his garden of thought, to wander down the paths of beautiful
thoughts which were for his feet alone to travel. If any one
in Bestways said beautiful things he surely was the one to do
it, so he thought a moment, waved his hand, and smiling sadly
murmured: “They come and go—lighter than air, finer than gossamer,
ephemeral—butterflies—butterflies of thought, transparent—nebulous—”
“Moonshine!” said Mrs. Sloane, delighted to have found a word. If she
had had less than ten thousand a year Watkins would have been very
deeply pained. But as she was said to have rather more than that he was
amused.
“You may want to sit in the garden—Miss Carston’s garden—again some
day. Don’t let the briars grow over the path, or you may not find it
again.”
“What does she mean?” thought Mr. Watkins, as he went on his way
thinking sadly of Diana, who alone in Bestways had had the power to
inspire him.
A little further on Mrs. Sloane met the curate. “Going to Miss
Carston’s garden?” she asked.
“No, I wasn’t.” He stopped. “Do you think I ought? Would it be
politic?” he asked.
And Mrs. Sloane told him he would be a bishop one day.
“That’s what you meant?” he asked.
“You are brighter than Mr. Watkins.”
“I might be that without setting the Thames on fire, mightn’t I?”
Mrs. Sloane went on her way, and Mr. Pease on his, both thinking of
Diana. What a ripping old lady Mrs. Sloane was! Of course, if he
didn’t go and sit in Miss Carston’s garden when Miss Diana was away—it
would look as if he only went there to see Miss Diana!—and he felt the
ghost-like grip of gaiters on his legs.