A QUESTION OF IMPORTANCE
THAT which is frequently termed coincidence is, as everyone knows,
seldom an isolated event; it is the fact that two or more events,
neither of them, perhaps, of any precise and definite importance, occur
simultaneously, each event having some particular bearing on the other.
If the events should chance to be more than two, the coincidence is
termed extraordinary; and if they should chance to be several, and,
also, individually of some importance--well, then I pity the man who
narrates them to an unsympathetic audience. If he isn’t branded a
liar out and out, he will, at least, be thought to be possessed of an
imagination which is first cousin to one. If he isn’t despised, he will
be pitied,--pitied, too, with a patronizing commiseration which will
make his blood boil. Asseveration of the truth of his statement will
be worse than useless. It will merely call forth a smile, a kindly
condescending smile, which says plainer than spoken words:
“Oh, yes, we know you _believe_ it to be true. But these things _don’t_
happen.”
And if, in the face of that exasperating smile he should venture on
protest, he will at once receive the gently amazed reply:
“My dear fellow, I never said I doubted your word.”
A reply which will leave him helpless, though fuming.
Of course it is foolish to care. Truth is truth, and there’s the end
on’t. But he does care. He knows his statement has been marvellous,
incredulous; he knows, too, that he has probably been a fool to mention
it. But having done so, he wants belief. The man who will remark with
inner conviction, “Truth is stranger than fiction,” would be a godsend
to him at the moment. But the man who will say that of another’s
narrative is a _rara avis_. He reserves it as the Amen to his own.
Yet, in spite of knowing all this, it is my lot to narrate certain
extraordinary coincidences in the forthcoming pages. Therefore I can
only trust that my audience will be a trifle less incredulous than the
majority of audiences. Perhaps if it weren’t for one of the events,
which certainly smacks of the miraculous, I might have more hope.
However, to proceed.
You have been given one event in the preceding chapter.
The second concerns Antony.
It was the nursemaid who did the mischief, since, in one sense, it must
certainly be termed mischief. It all arose from an ill-advised remark.
Possibly exasperation caused it. We’ll give her the benefit of the
doubt. It is true that Biddy being, at the moment, a victim to severe
toothache, extra work had been laid on Louisa’s shoulders. Had Biddy
been present, you may be very sure that the remark had not been made.
Antony had taken the loss of his title calmly. This was hardly
surprising. After all, it made extraordinarily little difference. It
was seldom that he heard it, and then only from the lips of comparative
strangers. “The little master,” was infinitely more familiar to him,
and there was still no earthly reason for changing that mode of
address. The prospect of a new home was also taken philosophically;
there was, indeed, a certain amount of excitement about it.
But one Friday morning--to be accurate, it was the very morning of the
somewhat momentous conversation recently referred to--further enquiry
entered his mind.
“If I aren’t Sir Antony, what are I?” he demanded of a busy nursemaid.
“Nobody particular,” replied Louisa, who, hunting for some mislaid
article, had no mind to give to problems.
Antony demurred.
“I must be somebody,” he argued.
“Everybody is somebody,” retorted Louisa, “but it don’t mean they’re
anybody of importance.”
Antony pricked up his ears.
“What’s importance?” he demanded.
“Bless the child!” cried Louisa, “why, you was important when you was
Sir Antony. Now you’re of no more account than a beggar boy.”
Antony flushed. Resentment rose hot within his soul.
“I aren’t a beggar boy,” he announced with dignity.
“Precious like one,” muttered Louisa, rummaging in a drawer.
Antony planted himself squarely in front of her.
“Louisa, I aren’t a beggar boy. Say I aren’t a beggar boy.”
Now at that precise moment Louisa ran a pin into her finger. It must be
confessed that it was a painful prick.
“You are a beggar boy,” she retorted, her finger to her mouth. “Nothing
but a beggar boy.” The tone of the concluding words verged on the
malicious. Then she bounced out of the room to seek elsewhere for what
she had lost.
Antony walked over to the window.
His face was flushed, and his eyes were troubled; indeed there was a
suspicion of moisture about them. He felt a distinct uneasiness at the
statement. The only modicum of comfort lay in the fact that it had
certainly been prompted by ill-temper. Yet even that fact brought but
small assurance with it. Two or three experiences had shown him that
crossness occasionally urged truth to the fore, when kindness would
shield you from its unpleasantness.
Memory, stirring uneasily, awoke.
There was the time when Buffey died. Buffey was the Irish terrier. At
first he had been merely told that Buffey had gone away. Continual, and
perhaps over-persistent questioning, had elicited the fact of Buffey’s
demise. Biddy had been cross when she told him, and she was sorry
afterwards. But, still, it had been the truth. No subsequent regret
could alter that fact. Possibly this was the truth now.
From possibility, the thing became a certainty. He remembered glances
at him, whispers--unnoticed at the time--of “poor little Antony”;
conversations checked at his approach. They came back to him now, not
fully, but vaguely, holding significance. Probably Granny couldn’t
prevent this any more than she could prevent Buffey dying. And she had
told him she couldn’t help that.
He began to experience a strange terror.
There is no dread as terrible as the dread a child suffers at the
hint of some unknown calamity. He feels it must strike, but does not
know at which moment, nor from which quarter the blow will fall. In
most childish sufferings there is always a certain consolation in the
knowledge of protection by some older person. But when there is reason
to suppose that these natural protectors are powerless to aid, terror
indeed presses hard.
It pressed hard on Antony now.
The room seemed too small to hold it. Blindly he turned from the
window, ran stumbling from the nursery, down the stairs, and out into
the garden. He ran past the flower beds, and the sun-dial, and the
close-clipped yew hedges, till he found himself in a small paddock.
There he sat down under the hedge and began to review the situation.
A beggar boy!
He had no precise understanding of what the words meant, nevertheless
he fancied they were closely akin to the description of Hans Anderson’s
little match girl, who warmed her blue fingers at the matches till she
died. The story was at once fascinating and terrifying. Aunt Rosamund
had read it to him only once. After the one reading she had suggested
the Little Tin Soldier, Thumbelina, or the Ugly Duckling. Nevertheless
the story had remained with him.
Rags, cold, and burnt matches, and finally dying! His lips quivered,
and tears came into his eyes.