II

Other Kingdom Copse is just like any other beech copse, and I am

therefore spared the fatigue of describing it. And the stream in front

of it, like many other streams, is not crossed by a bridge in the right

place, and you must either walk round a mile or else you must paddle.

Miss Beaumont suggested that we should paddle.

Mr. Worters accepted the suggestion tumultuously. It only became evident

gradually that he was not going to adopt it.

"What fun! what fun! We will paddle to your kingdom. If only--if only it

wasn't for the tea-things."

"But you can carry the tea-things on your back."

"Why, yes! so I can. Or the servants could."

"Harcourt--no servants. This is my picnic, and my wood. I'm going to

settle everything. I didn't tell you: I've got all the food. I've been

in the village with Mr. Ford."

"In the village----?"

"Yes, We got biscuits and oranges and half a pound of tea. That's all

you'll have. He carried them up. And he'll carry them over the stream. I

want you just to lend me some tea-things--not the best ones. I'll take

care of them. That's all."

"Dear creature...."

"Evelyn," said Mrs. Worters, "how much did you and Jack pay for that

tea?"

"For the half-pound, tenpence."

Mrs. Worters received the announcement in gloomy silence.

"Mother!" cried Mr. Worters. "Why, I forgot! How could we go paddling

with mother?"

"Oh, but, Mrs. Worters, we could carry you over."

"Thank you, dearest child. I am sure you could."

"Alas! alas! Evelyn. Mother is laughing at us. She would sooner die than

be carried. And alas! there are my sisters, and Mrs. Osgood: she has a

cold, tiresome woman. No: we shall have to go round by the bridge."

"But some of us----" began Ford. His guardian cut him short with a quick

look.

So we went round--a procession of eight. Miss Beaumont led us. She was

full of fun--at least so I thought at the time, but when I reviewed her

speeches afterwards I could not find in them anything amusing. It was

all this kind of thing: "Single file! Pretend you're in church and don't

talk. Mr. Ford, turn out your toes. Harcourt--at the bridge throw to the

Naiad a pinch of tea. She has a headache. She has had a headache for

nineteen hundred years." All that she said was quite stupid. I cannot

think why I liked it at the time.

As we approached the copse she said, "Mr. Inskip, sing, and we'll sing

after you: Áh yoù silly àss góds lìve in woóds." I cleared my throat and

gave out the abominable phrase, and we all chanted it as if it were a

litany. There was something attractive about Miss Beaumont. I was not

surprised that Harcourt had picked her out of "Ireland" and had brought

her home, without money, without connections, almost without

antecedents, to be his bride. It was daring of him, but he knew himself

to be a daring fellow. She brought him nothing; but that he could

afford, he had so vast a surplus of spiritual and commercial goods. "In

time," I heard him tell his mother, "in time Evelyn will repay me a

thousandfold." Meanwhile there was something attractive about her. If it

were my place to like people, I could have liked her very much.

"Stop singing!" she cried. We had entered the wood. "Welcome, all of

you." We bowed. Ford, who had not been laughing, bowed down to the

ground. "And now be seated. Mrs. Worters--will you sit there--against

that tree with a green trunk? It will show up your beautiful dress."

"Very well, dear, I will," said Mrs. Worters.

"Anna--there. Mr. Inskip next to her. Then Ruth and Mrs. Osgood. Oh,

Harcourt--do sit a little forward, so that you'll hide the house. I

don't want to see the house at all."

"I won't!" laughed her lover, "I want my back against a tree, too."

"Miss Beaumont," asked Ford, "where shall I sit?" He was standing at

attention, like a soldier.

"Oh, look at all these Worters!" she cried, "and one little Ford in the

middle of them!" For she was at that state of civilization which

appreciates a pun.

"Shall I stand, Miss Beaumont? Shall I hide the house from you if I

stand?"

"Sit down, Jack, you baby!" cried his guardian, breaking in with

needless asperity. "Sit down!"

"He may just as well stand if he will," said she. "Just pull back your

soft hat, Mr. Ford. Like a halo. Now you hide even the smoke from the

chimneys. And it makes you look beautiful."

"Evelyn! Evelyn! You are too hard on the boy. You'll tire him. He's one

of those bookworms. He's not strong. Let him sit down."

"Aren't you strong?" she asked.

"I am strong!" he cried. It is quite true. Ford has no right to be

strong, but he is. He never did his dumb-bells or played in his school

fifteen. But the muscles came. He thinks they came while he was reading

Pindar.

"Then you may just as well stand, if you will."

"Evelyn! Evelyn! childish, selfish maiden! If poor Jack gets tired I

will take his place. Why don't you want to see the house? Eh?"

Mrs. Worters and the Miss Worters moved uneasily. They saw that their

Harcourt was not quite pleased. Theirs not to question why. It was for

Evelyn to remove his displeasure, and they glanced at her.

"Well, why don't you want to see your future home? I must say--though I

practically planned the house myself--that it looks very well from here.

I like the gables. Miss! Answer me!"

I felt for Miss Beaumont. A home-made gable is an awful thing, and

Harcourt's mansion looked like a cottage with the dropsy. But what would

she say?

She said nothing.

"Well?"

It was as if he had never spoken. She was as merry, as smiling, as

pretty as ever, and she said nothing. She had not realized that a

question requires an answer.

For us the situation was intolerable. I had to save it by making a

tactful reference to the view, which, I said, reminded me a little of

the country near Veii. It did not--indeed it could not, for I have never

been near Veii. But it is part of my system to make classical allusions.

And at all events I saved the situation.

Miss Beaumont was serious and rational at once. She asked me the date of

Veii. I made a suitable answer.

"I do like the classics," she informed us. "They are so natural. Just

writing down things."

"Ye--es," said I. "But the classics have their poetry as well as their

prose. They're more than a record of facts."

"Just writing down things," said Miss Beaumont, and smiled as if the

silly definition pleased her.

Harcourt had recovered himself. "A very just criticism," said he. "It is

what I always feel about the ancient world. It takes us but a very

little way. It only writes things down."

"What do you mean?" asked Evelyn.

"I mean this--though it is presumptuous to speak in the presence of Mr.

Inskip. This is what I mean. The classics are not everything. We owe

them an enormous debt; I am the last to undervalue it; I, too, went

through them at school. They are full of elegance and beauty. But they

are not everything. They were written before men began to really feel."

He coloured crimson. "Hence, the chilliness of classical art--its lack

of--of a something. Whereas later things--Dante--a Madonna of

Raphael--some bars of Mendelssohn----" His voice tailed reverently away.

We sat with our eyes on the ground, not liking to look at Miss Beaumont.

It is a fairly open secret that she also lacks a something. She has not

yet developed her soul.

The silence was broken by the still small voice of Mrs. Worters saying

that she was faint with hunger.

The young hostess sprang up. She would let none of us help her: it was

her party. She undid the basket and emptied out the biscuits and oranges

from their bags, and boiled the kettle and poured out the tea, which was

horrible. But we laughed and talked with the frivolity that suits the

open air, and even Mrs. Worters expectorated her flies with a smile.

Over us all there stood the silent, chivalrous figure of Ford, drinking

tea carefully lest it should disturb his outline. His guardian, who is a

wag, chaffed him and tickled his ankles and calves.

"Well, this is nice!" said Miss Beaumont. "I am happy."

"Your wood, Evelyn!" said the ladies.

"Her wood for ever!" cried Mr. Worters. "It is an unsatisfactory

arrangement, a ninety-nine years' lease. There is no feeling of

permanency. I reopened negotiations. I have bought her the wood for

ever--all right, dear, all right: don't make a fuss."

"But I must!" she cried. "For everything's perfect! Every one so

kind--and I didn't know most of you a year ago. Oh, it is so

wonderful--and now a wood--a wood of my own--a wood for ever. All of you

coming to tea with me here! Dear Harcourt--dear people--and just where

the house would come and spoil things, there is Mr. Ford!"

"Ha! ha!" laughed Mr. Worters, and slipped his hand up round the boy's

ankle. What happened I do not know, but Ford collapsed on to the ground

with a sharp cry. To an outsider it might have sounded like a cry of

anger or pain. We, who knew better, laughed uproariously.

"Down he goes! Down he goes!" And they struggled playfully, kicking up

the mould and the dry leaves.

"Don't hurt my wood!" cried Miss Beaumont.

Ford gave another sharp cry. Mr. Worters withdrew his hand. "Victory!"

he exclaimed. "Evelyn! behold the family seat!" But Miss Beaumont, in

her butterfly fashion, had left us, and was strolling away into her

wood.

We packed up the tea-things and then split into groups. Ford went with

the ladies. Mr. Worters did me the honour to stop by me.

"Well!" he said, in accordance with his usual formula, "and how go the

classics?"

"Fairly well."

"Does Miss Beaumont show any ability?"

"I should say that she does. At all events she has enthusiasm."

"You do not think it is the enthusiasm of a child? I will be frank with

you, Mr. Inskip. In many ways Miss Beaumont's practically a child. She

has everything to learn: she acknowledges as much herself. Her new life

is so different--so strange. Our habits--our thoughts--she has to be

initiated into them all."

I saw what he was driving at, but I am not a fool, and I replied: "And

how can she be initiated better than through the classics?"

"Exactly, exactly," said Mr. Worters. In the distance we heard her

voice. She was counting the beech-trees. "The only question is--this

Latin and Greek--what will she do with it? Can she make anything of it?

Can she--well, it's not as if she will ever have to teach it to

others."

"That is true." And my features might have been observed to become

undecided.

"Whether, since she knows so little--I grant you she has enthusiasm. But

ought one not to divert her enthusiasm--say to English literature? She

scarcely knows her Tennyson at all. Last night in the conservatory I

read her that wonderful scene between Arthur and Guinevere. Greek and

Latin are all very well, but I sometimes feel we ought to begin at the

beginning."

"You feel," said I, "that for Miss Beaumont the classics are something

of a luxury."

"A luxury. That is the exact word, Mr. Inskip. A luxury. A whim. It is

all very well for Jack Ford. And here we come to another point. Surely

she keeps Jack back? Her knowledge must be elementary."

"Well, her knowledge _is_ elementary: and I must say that it's

difficult to teach them together. Jack has read a good deal, one way and

another, whereas Miss Beaumont, though diligent and enthusiastic----"

"So I have been feeling. The arrangement is scarcely fair on Jack?"

"Well, I must admit----"

"Quite so. I ought never to have suggested it. It must come to an end.

Of course, Mr. Inskip, it shall make no difference to you, this

withdrawal of a pupil."

"The lessons shall cease at once, Mr. Worters."

Here she came up to us. "Harcourt, there are seventy-eight trees. I have

had such a count."

He smiled down at her. Let me remember to say that he is tall and

handsome, with a strong chin and liquid brown eyes, and a high forehead

and hair not at all gray. Few things are more striking than a photograph

of Mr. Harcourt Worters.

"Seventy-eight trees?"

"Seventy-eight."

"Are you pleased?"

"Oh, Harcourt----!"

I began to pack up the tea-things. They both saw and heard me. It was

their own fault if they did not go further.

"I'm looking forward to the bridge," said he. "A rustic bridge at the

bottom, and then, perhaps, an asphalt path from the house over the

meadow, so that in all weathers we can walk here dry-shod. The boys come

into the wood--look at all these initials--and I thought of putting a

simple fence, to prevent any one but ourselves----"

"Harcourt!"

"A simple fence," he continued, "just like what I have put round my

garden and the fields. Then at the other side of the copse, away from

the house, I would put a gate, and have keys--two keys, I think--one for

me and one for you--not more; and I would bring the asphalt path----"

"But Harcourt-----"

"But Evelyn!"

"I--I--I----"

"You--you--you----?"

"I--I don't want an asphalt path."

"No? Perhaps you are right. Cinders perhaps. Yes. Or even gravel."

"But Harcourt--I don't want a path at all. I--I--can't afford a path."

He gave a roar of triumphant laughter. "Dearest! As if you were going to

be bothered? The path's part of my present."

"The wood is your present," said Miss Beaumont. "Do you know--I don't

care for the path. I'd rather always come as we came to-day. And I don't

want a bridge. No--nor a fence either. I don't mind the boys and their

initials. They and the girls have always come up to Other Kingdom and

cut their names together in the bark. It's called the Fourth Time of

Asking. I don't want it to stop."

"Ugh!" He pointed to a large heart transfixed by an arrow. "Ugh! Ugh!" I

suspect that he was gaining time.

"They cut their names and go away, and when the first child is born they

come again and deepen the cuts. So for each child. That's how you know:

the initials that go right through to the wood are the fathers and

mothers of large families, and the scratches in the bark that soon close

up are boys and girls who were never married at all."

"You wonderful person! I've lived here all my life and never heard a

word of this. Fancy folk-lore in Hertfordshire! I must tell the

Archdeacon: he will be delighted----"

"And Harcourt, I don't want this to stop."

"My dear girl, the villagers will find other trees! There's nothing

particular in Other Kingdom."

"But----"

"Other Kingdom shall be for us. You and I alone. Our initials only." His

voice sank to a whisper.

"I don't want it fenced in." Her face was turned to me; I saw that it

was puzzled and frightened. "I hate fences. And bridges. And all paths.

It is my wood. Please: you gave me the wood."

"Why, yes!" he replied, soothing her. But I could see that he was angry.

"Of course. But aha! Evelyn, the meadow's mine; I have a right to fence

there--between my domain and yours!"

"Oh, fence me out if you like! Fence me out as much as you like! But

never in. Oh Harcourt, never in. I must be on the outside, I must be

where any one can reach me. Year by year--while the initials deepen--the

only thing worth feeling--and at last they close up--but one has felt

them."

"Our initials!" he murmured, seizing upon the one word which he had

understood and which was useful to him. "Let us carve our initials now.

You and I--a heart if you like it, and an arrow and everything.

H.W.--E.B."

"H.W.," she repeated, "and E.B."

He took out his penknife and drew her away in search of an unsullied

tree. "E.B., Eternal Blessing. Mine! Mine! My haven from the world! My

temple of purity. Oh the spiritual exaltation--you cannot understand it,

but you will! Oh, the seclusion of Paradise. Year after year alone

together, all in all to each other--year after year, soul to soul, E.B.,

Everlasting Bliss!"

He stretched out his hand to cut the initials. As he did so she seemed

to awake from a dream. "Harcourt!" she cried, "Harcourt! What's that?

What's that red stuff on your finger and thumb?"