Poor Relations Read online

  CHAPTER III

  The selection of presents for children is never easy, because in orderto extract real pleasure from the purchase it is necessary to findsomething that excites the donor as much as it is likely to excite therecipient. In John's case this difficulty was quadrupled by having tofind toys with an American air about them, and on top of that by thenarrowly restricted choice in the Galton shops. He felt that it would beridiculous, even insulting, to produce for Frida as typical of NewYork's luxurious catering for the young that doll, the roses of whosecheeks had withered in the sunlight of five Hampshire summers, and whosesmile had failed to allure as little girls those who were nowmarriageable young women. Nor did he think that Harold would accept asworthy of American enterprise those more conspicuous portions of adiminutive Uhlan's uniform fastened to a dog's-eared sheet of cardboard,the sword belonging to which was rusting in the scabbard and the giltlancehead of which no longer gave the least illusion of being metal.Finally, however, just as the clock was striking five he unearthed froma remote corner of the large ironmonger's shop, to which he had turnedin despair from the toys offered him by the two stationers, a toboggan,and not merely a toboggan but a Canadian toboggan stamped with the imageof a Red Indian.

  "It was ordered for a customer in 1895," the ironmonger explained."There was heavy snow that year, you may remember."

  If it had been ordered by Methuselah when he was still in his 'teensJohn would not have hesitated.

  "Well, would you--er--wrap it up," he said, putting down the money.

  "Hadn't the carrier better bring it, sir?" suggested the ironmonger."He'll be going Wrottesford way to-morrow morning."

  Obviously John could not carry the toboggan five miles, but just asobviously he must get the toboggan back to Ambles that night: so hedeclined the carrier, and asked the ironmonger to order him a fly whilehe made a last desperate search for Frida's present. In the end, withtwilight falling fast, he bought for his niece twenty-nine small chinaanimals, which the stationer assured him would enchant any child betweennine and eleven, though perhaps less likely to appeal to ages outsidethat period. A younger child, for instance, might be tempted to put themin its mouth, even to swallow them if not carefully watched, while anolder child might tread on them. Another advantage was that when theyoung lady for whom they were intended grew out of them, they could beput away and revived to adorn her mantelpiece when she had reached anage to appreciate the possibilities of a mantelpiece. John did not feelas happy about these animals as he did about the toboggan: there was nota single buffalo among them, and not one looked in the leastdistinctively American, but the stationer was so reassuring and time wasgoing by so rapidly that he decided to risk the purchase. And reallywhen they were deposited in a cardboard box among cotton-wool they didnot look so dull, and perhaps Frida would enjoy guessing how many therewere before she unpacked them.

  "Better than a Noah's Ark," said John, hopefully.

  "Oh yes, much better, sir. A much more suitable present for a younglady. In fact Noah's Arks are considered all right for village treats,but they're in very little demand among the gentry nowadays."

  When John was within a quarter of a mile from Ambles he told the driverof the fly to stop. Somehow he must creep into the house and up to hisroom with the toboggan and the china animals; it was after six, and thechildren would have been looking out for his return since five. Perhapsthe cows would have gone home by now and he should not excite theirnocturnal apprehensions by dragging the toboggan across the twenty-acrefield. Meanwhile, he should tell the fly to wait five minutes beforedriving slowly up to the house, which would draw the scent and enablehim with Emily's help to reach his room unperceived by the backstairs. Aheavy mist hung upon the meadow, and the paper wrapped round thetoboggan, which was just too wide to be carried under his arm like aportfolio, began to peel off in the dew with a swishing sound that wouldinevitably attract the curiosity of the cows were they still at large;moreover, several of the china animals were now chinking together and,John could not help feeling with some anxiety, probably chipping offtheir noses.

  "I must look like a broken-down Santa Claus with this vehicle," he saidto himself. "Where's the path got to now? I wonder why people wiggle sowhen they make a path? Hullo! What's that?"

  The munching of cattle was audible close at hand, a munching that wassometimes interrupted by awful snorts.

  "Perhaps it's only the mist that makes them do that," John tried toassure himself. "It seems very imprudent to leave valuable cows out ofdoors on a damp night like this."

  There was a sound of heavy bodies moving suddenly in unison.

  "They've heard me," thought John, hopelessly. "I wish to goodness I knewsomething about cows. I really must get the subject up. Of course, they_may_ be frightened of _me_. Good heavens, they're all snorting now.Probably the best thing to do is to keep on calmly walking; most animalsare susceptible to human indifference. What a little fool that nephew ofmine was to shoot at them this afternoon. I'm hanged if he deserves histoboggan."

  The lights of Ambles stained the mist in front; John ran the last fiftyyards, threw himself over the iron railings, and stood panting upon hisown lawn. In the distance could be heard the confused thudding of hoofsdying away toward the far end of the twenty-acre meadow.

  "I evidently frightened them," John thought.

  A few minutes later he was calling down from the landing outside hisbedroom that it was time for presents. In the first brief moment ofintoxication that had succeeded his defeat of the cattle John hadseriously contemplated tobogganing downstairs himself in order to"surprise the kids" as he put it. But from his landing the staircaselooked all wrong for such an experiment and he walked the toboggan down,which lamplight appeared to him a typical product of the bear-hauntedmountains of Canada.

  Everybody was waiting for him in the drawing-room; everybody wasflatteringly enthusiastic about the toboggan and seemed anxious to makeit at home in such strange surroundings; nobody failed to point out tothe lucky boy the extreme kindness of his uncle in bringing back such awonderful present all the way from America--indeed one almost had theimpression that John must often have had to wake up and feed it in thenight.

  "The trouble you must have taken," Hilda exclaimed.

  "Yes, I did take a good deal of trouble," John admitted. After all, sohe had--a damned sight more trouble than any one there suspected.

  "When will it snow?" Harold asked. "To-morrow?"

  "I hope not--I mean, it might," said John. He must keep up Harold'sspirits, if only to balance Frida's depression, about whose present hewas beginning to feel very doubtful when he saw her eyes glittering withfeverish anticipation while he was undoing the string. He hoped shewould not faint or scream with disappointment when it was opened, and hetook off the lid of the box with the kind of flourish to which waitersoften treat dish-covers when they wish to promote an appetite among theguests.

  "How sweet," Edith murmured.

  John looked gratefully at his sister; if he had made his will that nightshe would have inherited Ambles.

  "Ah, a collection of small china animals," said Laurence, choosing a catto set delicately upon the table for general admiration. John wished hehad not chosen the cat that seemed to suffer with a tumor in the regionof the tail and disinclined in consequence to sit still.

  "Yes, I was anxious to get her a Noah's Ark," John volunteered, seemingto suggest by his tone how appropriate such a gift would have been tothe atmosphere of a vicarage. "But they've practically given up makingNoah's Arks in America, and you see, these china animals will serve astoys now, and later on, when Frida is grown-up, they'll look jolly onthe mantelpiece. Those that are not broken, of course."

  The animals had all been taken out of their box by now, but a few pawsand ears were still adhering to the cotton-wool.

  "Frida is always very light on her toys," said Edith, proudly.

  "Not likely to put them in her mouth," said John, heartily. "That wasthe only thing that made me hesitate when
I first saw them in FifthAvenue. But they don't look quite so edible here."

  "Frida never puts anything in her mouth," Edith generalized, primly."And she's given up biting her nails since Uncle John came home, haven'tyou, dear?"

  "That's a good girl," John applauded; he did not believe in Frida'ssudden conquest of autophagy, but he was anxious to encourage her inevery way at the moment.

  Yes, the gift-horses had shown off their paces better than he hadexpected, he decided. To be sure, Frida did not appear beside herselfwith joy, but at any rate she had not burst into tears--she had notthrust the present from her sight with loathing and begged to be takenhome. And then Harold, who had been staring at the animals through hisglasses, like the horrid little naturalist that he was, said:

  "I've seen some animals like them in Mr. Goodman's shop."

  John hoped a blizzard would blow to-morrow, that Harold would tobogganrecklessly down the steepest slope of the downs behind Ambles, and thathe would hit an oak tree at the bottom and break his glasses. However,none of these dark thoughts obscured the remote brightness with which heanswered:

  "Really, Harold. Very likely. There is a considerable exportation ofchina animals from America nowadays. In fact I was very lucky to findany left in America."

  "Let's go into Gallon to-morrow and look at Mr. Goodman's animals,"Harold suggested.

  John had never suspected that one day he should feel grateful to hisbrother-in-law; but when the dinner-bell went at half-past six insteadof half-past seven solely on his account, John felt inclined to shakehim by the hand. Nor would he have ever supposed that he should one daywelcome the prospect of one of Laurence's long confidential talks. Yetwhen the ladies departed after dessert and Laurence took the chair nextto himself as solemnly as if it were a fald-stool, he encouraged himwith a smile.

  "We might have our little talk now," and when Laurence cleared histhroat John felt that the conversation had been opened as successfullyas a local bazaar. Not merely did John smile encouragingly, but heactually went so far as to invite him to go ahead.

  Laurence sighed, and poured himself out a second glass of port.

  "I find myself in a position of considerable difficulty," he announced,"and should like your advice."

  John's mind went rapidly to the balance in his passbook instead of tothe treasure of worldly experience from which he might have drawn.

  "Perhaps before we begin our little talk," said Laurence, "it would beas well if I were to remind you of some of the outstanding events andinfluences in my life. You will then be in a better position to give methe advice and help--ah--the moral help, of which I stand inneed--ah--in sore need."

  "He keeps calling it a little talk," John thought, "but by Jove, it'slucky we did have dinner early. At this rate he won't get back to hisvicarage before cock-crow."

  John was not deceived by his brother-in-law's minification of theirtalk, and he exchanged the trim Henry Clay he had already clipped for avery large Upman that would smoke for a good hour.

  "Won't you light up before you begin?" he asked, pushing a box ofcommonplace Murillos toward his brother-in-law, whose habit of bitingoff the end of a cigar, of letting it go out, of continually knockingoff the ash, of forgetting to remove the band till it was smoldering,and of playing miserable little tunes with it on the rim of acoffee-cup, in fact of doing everything with it except smoke itappreciatively, made it impossible for John, so far as Laurence wasconcerned, to be generous with his cigars.

  "I think you'll find these not bad."

  This was true; the Murillos were not actually bad.

  "Thanks, I will avail myself of your offer. But to come back to what Iwas saying," Laurence went on, lighting his cigar with as littleexpression of anticipated pleasure as might be discovered in thecountenance of a lodging-house servant lighting a fire. "I do notpropose to occupy your time by an account of my spiritual struggles atthe University."

  "You ought to write a novel," said John, cheerfully.

  Laurence looked puzzled.

  "I am now occupied with the writing of a play, but I shall come to thatpresently. Novels, however...."

  "I was only joking," said John. "It would take too long to explain thejoke. Sorry I interrupted you. Cigar gone out? Don't take another. Itdoesn't really matter how often those Murillos go out."

  "Where am I?" Laurence asked in a bewildered voice.

  "You'd just left Oxford," John answered, quickly.

  "Ah, yes, I was at Oxford. Well, as I was saying, I shall not detain youwith an account of my spiritual struggles there.... I think I mayalmost without presumption refer to them as my spiritual progress ...let it suffice that I found myself on the vigil of my ordination after ayear at Cuddesdon Theological College a convinced High Churchman. Thismust not be taken to mean that I belonged to the more advanced or what Ishould prefer to call the Italian party in the Church of England. I didnot."

  Laurence here paused and looked at John earnestly; since John had notthe remotest idea what the Italian party meant and was anxious to avoidbeing told, he said in accents that sought to convey relief at hearinghis brother-in-law's personal contradiction of a charge that had forlong been whispered against him:

  "Oh, you didn't?"

  "No, I did not. I was not prepared to go one jot or one tittle beyondthe Five Points."

  "Of the compass, you mean," said John, wisely. "Quite so."

  Then seeing that Laurence seemed rather indignant, he added quickly,"Did I say the compass? How idiotic! Of course, I meant the law."

  "The Five Points are the Eastward Position...."

  "It was the compass after all," John thought. "What a fool I was tohedge."

  "The Mixed Chalice, Lights, Wafer Bread, and Vestments, but _not_ theceremonial use of Incense."

  "And those are the Five Points?"

  Laurence inclined his head.

  "Which you were not prepared to go beyond, I think you said?" Johngravely continued, flattering himself that he was re-established as anintelligent listener.

  "In adhering to these Five Points," Laurence proceeded, "I found that Iwas able to claim the support of a number of authoritative Englishdivines. I need only mention Bishop Ken and Bishop Andrews for you toappreciate my position."

  "Eastward, I think you said," John put in; for his brother-in-law hadpaused again, and he was evidently intended to say something.

  "I perceive that you are not acquainted with the divergences of opinionthat unhappily exist in our national Church."

  "Well, to tell you the truth--and I know you'll excuse my frankness--Ihaven't been to church since I was a boy," John admitted. "But I know Iused to dislike the litany very much, and of course I had my favoritehymns--we most of us have--and really I think that's as far as I got.However, I have to get up the subject of religion very shortly. My nextplay will deal with Joan of Arc, and, as you may imagine, religion playsan important part in such a theme--a very important part. In addition tothe vision that Joan will have of St. Michael in the first act, one ofmy chief unsympathetic characters is a bishop. I hope I'm not hurtingyour feelings in telling you this, my dear fellow. Have another cigar,won't you? I think you've dipped the end of that one in thecoffee-lees."

  Laurence assured John bitterly that he had no reason to be particularlyfond of bishops. "In fact," he went on, "I'm having a very painfuldiscussion with the Bishop of Silchester at this moment, but I shallcome to that presently. What I am anxious, however, to impress upon youat this stage in our little talk is the fact that on the vigil of myordination I had arrived at a definite theory of what I could and couldnot accept. Well, I was ordained deacon by the Bishop of St. Albans andlicensed to a curacy in Plaistow--one of the poorest districts in theEast End of London. Here I worked for three years, and it was here thatfourteen years ago I first met Edith."

  "Yes, I seem to remember. Wasn't she working at a girls' club orsomething? I know I always thought that there must be a secondaryattraction."

  "At that time my financial position was not
such as to warrant myembarking upon matrimony. Moreover, I had in a moment of what I shouldnow call boyish exaltation registered a vow of perpetual celibacy.Edith, however, with that devotion which neither then nor at any crisissince has failed me expressed her willingness to consent to anindefinite engagement, and I remember with gratitude that it was justthis consent of hers which was the means of widening the narrow--ah--theall too narrow path which at that time I was treading in religion. Myvicar and I had a painful dispute upon some insignificant doctrinalpoint; I felt bound to resign my curacy, and take another under a manwho could appreciate and allow for my speculative temperament. I becamecurate to St. Thomas's, Kensington, and had hopes of ultimately beingpreferred to a living. I realized in fact that the East End was acul-de-sac for a young and--if I may so describe myself without beingmisunderstood--ambitious curate. For three years I remained at St.Thomas's and obtained a considerable reputation as a preacher. You mayor may not remember that some Advent Addresses of mine were reprinted inone of the more tolerant religious weeklies and obtained what I do nothesitate to call the honor of being singled out for malicious abuse bythe _Church Times_. Eleven years ago my dear father died and by leavingme an independence of L417 a year enabled me not merely to marry Edith,but very soon afterwards to accept the living of Newton Candover. I willnot detain you with the history of my financial losses, which I hope Ihave always welcomed in the true spirit of resignation. Let it sufficethat within a few years owing to my own misplaced charity and some badadvice from a relative of mine on the Stock Exchange my private incomedwindled to L152, while at the same time the gross income of NewtonCandover from L298 sank to the abominably low nett income of L102--aserious reflection, I think you will agree, upon the shocking financialsystem of our national Church. It may surprise you, my dear John, tolearn that such blows from fate not only did not cast me down into astate of spiritual despair and intellectual atrophy, but that theyactually had the effect of inciting me to still greater efforts."

  John had been fumbling with his check book when Laurence began to talkabout his income; but the unexpected turn of the narrative quietenedhim, and the Upman was going well.

  "You may or may not come across a little series of devotionalmeditations for the Man in the Street entitled Lamp-posts. They have acertain vogue, and I may tell you in confidence that under the pseudonymof The Lamplighter I wrote them. The actual financial return theybrought me was slight. Barabbas, you know, was a publisher. Ha-ha! No,although I made nothing, or rather practically nothing out of them formy own purse, by leading me to browse among many modern works oftheology and philosophy I began to realize that there was a great dealof reason for modern indifference and skepticism. In other words, Idiscovered that, in order to keep the man in the street a Christian,Christianity must adapt itself to his needs. Filled with a reverententhusiasm and perhaps half-consciously led along such a path by yourconspicuous example of success, I have sought to embody my theories in aplay, the protagonist of which is the apostle Thomas, whom when you readthe play you will easily recognize as the prototype of the man in thestreet. And this brings me to the reason for which I have asked you forthis little talk. The fact of the matter is that in pursuing my studiesof the apostle Thomas I have actually gone beyond his simple ruggedagnosticism, and I now at forty-two years of age after eighteen years asa minister of religion find myself unable longer to accept in anyliteral sense of the term whatever the Virgin Birth."

  Laurence poured himself out a third glass of port and waited for John torecover from his stupefaction.

  "But I don't think I'm a very good person to talk to about theseabstruse divine obstetrics," John protested. "I really haven'tconsidered the question. I know of course to what you refer, but I thinkthis is essentially an occasion for professional advice."

  "I do not ask for advice upon my beliefs," Laurence explained. "Irecognize that nobody is able to do anything for them except myself.What I want you to do is to let Edith, myself, and little Frida staywith you at Ambles--of course we should be paying guests and you coulduse our pony and trap and any of the vicarage furniture that you thoughtsuitable--until it has been decided whether I am likely or not to haveany success as a dramatist. I do not ask you to undertake the Quixotictask of trying to obtain a public representation of my play about theapostle Thomas. I know that Biblical subjects are forbidden by the LordChamberlain, surely a monstrous piece of flunkeyism. But I have manyother ideas for plays, and I'm convinced that you will sympathize withmy anxiety to be able to work undisturbed and, if I may say so, in closepropinquity to another playwright who is already famous."

  "But why do you want to leave your own vicarage?" John gasped.

  "My dear fellow, owing to what I can only call the poisonous behavior ofMrs. Paxton, my patron, to whom while still a curate at St. Thomas's,Kensington, I gave an abundance of spiritual consolation when shesuffered the loss of her husband, owing as I say to her poisonousbehavior following upon a trifling quarrel about some alterations I madein the fabric of _my_ church without consulting her, I have been subjectto ceaseless inquisition and persecution. There has been an outcry inthe more bigoted religious press about my doctrine, and in short I havethought it best and most dignified to resign my living. I am therefore,to use a colloquialism,--ah--at a loose end."

  "And Edith?" John asked.

  "My poor wife still clings with feminine loyalty to those accretions tofaith from which I have cut myself free. In most things she is at onewith me, but I have steadily resisted the temptation to intrude upon thesanctity of her intimate beliefs. She sees my point of view. Of hersympathy I can only speak with gratitude. But she is still anold-fashioned believer. And indeed I am glad, for I should not like tothink of her tossed upon the stormy seas of doubt and exposed tothe--ah--hurricanes of speculation that surge through my own brains."

  "And when do you want to move in to Ambles?"

  "Well, if it would be convenient, we should like to begin graduallyto-morrow. I have informed the Bishop that I will--ah--be out in afortnight."

  "But what about Hilda?" John asked, doubtfully. "She is really lookingafter Ambles for me, you know."

  "While we have been having our little talk in the dining-room Edith hasbeen having her little talk with Hilda in the drawing-room, and I thinkI hear them coming now."

  John looked up quickly to see the effect of that other little talk, anddetermined to avoid for that night at least anything in the nature oflittle talks with anybody.

  "Laurence dear," said Edith mildly, "isn't it time we were going?"

  John knew that not Hilda herself could have phrased more aptly what shewas feeling; he was sure that in her opinion it was indeed high timethat Edith and Laurence were going.

  Laurence went over to the window and pulled aside the curtains toexamine the moon.

  "Yes, my dear, I think we might have Primrose harnessed. Where isFrida?"

  "She is watching Harold arrange the animals that John gave her. They areplaying at visiting the Natural History Museum."

  John was aware that he had not yet expressed his own willingness for theArmitage family to move into Ambles; he was equally aware that Hilda wastrying to catch his eye with a questioning and indignant glance and thathe had already referred the decision to her. At the same time he couldnot bring himself to exalt Hilda above Edith who was the younger and hewas bound to admit the favorite of his two sisters; moreover, Hilda wasthe mother of Harold, and if Harold was to be considered tolerable inthe same house as himself, he could not deny as much of his forbearanceto Laurence.

  "Well, I suppose you two girls have settled it between you?" he said.

  Hilda, who did not seem either surprised or elated at being called agirl, observed coldly that naturally it was for John to decide, but thatif the vicarage family was going to occupy Ambles extra furniture wouldbe required immediately.

  "My dear," said Laurence. "Didn't you make it clear to Hilda that asmuch of the vicarage furniture as is required can be sent hereimmediately? John and
I had supposed that you were settling all theselittle domestic details during your little talk together."

  "No, dear," Edith said, "we settled nothing. Hilda felt, and of course Ican't help agreeing with her, that it is really asking too much of John.She reminded me that he has come down here to work."

  The last icicle of opposition melted from John's heart; he could notbear to think of Edith's being lectured all the way home by her husbandunder the light of a setting moon. "I dare say we can manage," he said,"and really, you know Hilda, it will do the rooms good to be lived in. Inoticed this afternoon a slight smell of damp coming from theunfurnished part of the house."

  "Apples, not damp," Hilda snapped. "I had the apples stored in one ofthe disused rooms."

  "All these problems will solve themselves," said Laurence, grandly. "AndI'm sure that John cannot wish to attempt them to-night. Let us allremember that he may be tired. Come along, Edith. We have a long daybefore us to-morrow. Let us say good-night to Mama."

  Edith started: it was the first time in eleven years of married lifethat her husband had adopted the Touchwood style of addressing orreferring to their mother, and it seemed to set a seal upon his moreintimate association with her family in the future. If any doubts stilllingered about the forthcoming immigration of the vicarage party toAmbles they were presently disposed of once and for all by Laurence.

  "What are you carrying?" he asked Frida, when they were gathered in thehall before starting.

  "Uncle John's present," she replied.

  "Do not bother. Uncle John has invited us to stay here, and you do notwant to expose your little animals to the risk of being chipped. Nodoubt Harold will look after them for you in the interim--the shortinterim. Come, Edith, the moon is not going to wait for us, you know. Ihave the reins. Gee-up, Primrose!"

  "Fond as I am of Edith," Hilda said, when the vicarage family was out ofhearing. "Fond as I am of Edith," she repeated without any trace ofaffection in accent or expression, "I do think this invasion is animposition upon your kindness. But clergymen are all alike; they allbecome dictatorial and obtuse; they're too fond of the sound of theirown voices."

  "Laurence is perhaps a little heavy," John agreed, "a little suave andheavy like a cornflour shape, but we ought to do what we can for Edith."

  He tactfully offered Hilda a share in his own benevolence, in which sheensconced herself without hesitation.

  "Well, I suppose we shall have to make the best of it. Indeed the onlything that _really_ worries me is what we are to do with the apples."

  "Oh, Harold will soon eat them up," said John; though he had not theslightest intention of being sarcastic, Hilda was so much annoyed bythis that she abandoned all discussion of the vicarage and talked solong about Harold's inside and with such a passionate insistence uponwhat he required of sweet and sour to prevent him from dropping beforeher very eyes, that John was able fairly soon to plead that the hour waslate and that he must go to bed.

  In his bedroom, which was sharp-scented with autumnal airs and made himdisinclined for sleep, John became sentimental over Edith and began toweave out of her troubles a fine robe for his own good-nature in whichhis sentimentality was able to show itself off. He assured himself ofEdith's luck in having Ambles as a refuge in the difficult time throughwhich she was passing and began to visualize her past life as nothingbut a stormy prelude to a more tranquil present in which he should beher pilot. That Laurence would be included in his beneficence wascertainly a flaw in the emerald of his bounty, a fly in the amber of hisself-satisfaction; but, after all, so long as Edith was secure and happysuch blemishes were hardly perceptible. He ought to think himself luckythat he was in a position to help his relations; the power of doing kindactions was surely the greatest privilege accorded to the successfulman. And what right had Hilda to object? Good gracious, as if sheherself were not dependent enough upon him! But there had always beenvisible in Hilda this wretched spirit of competition. It had been injust the same spirit that she had married Daniel Curtis; she had notbeen able to endure her younger sister's engagement to the tall handsomecurate and had snatched at the middle-aged explorer in order to bemarried simultaneously and secure the best wedding presents for herself.But what had Daniel Curtis seen in Hilda? What had that myopic andtaciturn man found in Hilda to gladden a short visit to England betweenhis life on the Orinoco and his intended life at the back of theuncharted Amazons? And had his short experience of her made him soreckless that nothing but his spectacles were found by the rescuers?What mad impulse to perpetuate his name beyond the numerous beetles,flowers, monkeys, and butterflies to which it was already attached bymany learned societies had led him to bequeath Harold to humanity? Wasnot his collection of humming birds enough?

  "I'm really very glad that Edith is coming to Ambles," John murmured."Very glad indeed. It will serve Hilda right." He began to wonder if heactually disliked Hilda and to realize that he had never really forgivenher for refusing to be interested in his first published story. How wellhe remembered that occasion--twenty years ago almost to a day. It hadbeen a dreary November in the time when London really did have fogs,and when the sense of his father's approaching death had added to thegeneral gloom. James had been acting as his father's partner for morethan a year and had already nearly ruined the practice by hisinexperience and want of affability. George and himself were both in thecity offices--George in wool, himself in dog-biscuits. George did notseem to mind the soul-destroying existence and was full of financialambition; but himself had loathed it and cared for nothing butliterature. How he had pleaded with that dry old father, whose cynicaltormented face on its pillow smeared with cigar ash even now vividlyhaunted his memory; but the fierce old man had refused him the leasttemporary help and had actually chuckled with delight amidst all hispain at the thought of how his family would have to work for a livingwhen he should mercifully be dead. Was it surprising, when that morninghe had found at the office a communication from a syndicate ofprovincial papers to inform him of his story's being accepted, that heshould have arrived home in the fog, full of hope and enthusiasm? Andthen he had been met with whispering voices and the news of his father'sdeath. Of course he had been shocked and grieved, even disappointed thatit was too late to announce his success to the old man; but he had notbeen able to resist telling Hilda, a gawky, pale-faced girl of eighteen,that his story had been taken. He could recall her expression in thatbefogged gaslight even now, her expression of utter lack of interest,faintly colored with surprise at his own bad taste. Then he had goneupstairs to see his mother, who was bathed in tears, though she had beenwarned at least six months ago that her husband might die at any moment.He had ventured after a few formal words of sympathy to lighten theburden of her grief by taking the auspicious communication from hispocket, where it had been cracking nervously between his fingers, andreading it to her. He had been sure that she would be interested becauseshe was a great reader of stories and must surely derive a gratefulwonder from the contemplation of her own son as an author. But she wasevidently too much overcome by the insistency of grief and by theprospect of monetary difficulties in the near future to grasp what hewas telling her; it had struck him that she had actually never realizedthat the stories she enjoyed were written by men and women any more thanit might have struck another person that advertisements were all writtenby human beings with their own histories of love and hate.

  "You mustn't neglect your office work, Johnnie," was what she had said."We shall want every halfpenny now that Papa is gone. James does hisbest, but the patients were more used to Papa."

  After these two rebuffs John had not felt inclined to break his goodnews to James, who would be sure to sneer, or to George, who would onlylaugh; so he had wandered upstairs to the old schoolroom, where he hadfound Edith sitting by a dull fire and dissuading little Hugh fromthrowing coals at the cat. As soon as he had told Edith what hadhappened she had made a hero of him, and ever afterwards treated himwith admiration as well as affection. Had she not prophesied even thathe wo
uld be another Dickens? That was something like sisterly love, andhe had volunteered to read her the original rough copy, which,notwithstanding Hugh's whining interruptions, she had enjoyed as much ashe had enjoyed it himself. Certainly Edith must come to Ambles; twentyyears were not enough to obliterate the memory of that warm-hearted girlof fifteen and of her welcome praise.

  But Hugh? What malign spirit had brought Hugh to his mind at a momentwhen he was already just faintly disturbed by the prospect of hisrelations' increasing demands upon his attention? Hugh was onlytwenty-seven now and much too conspicuously for his own good theyoungest of the family; like all children that arrive unexpectedly aftera long interval, he had seemed the pledge of his parents' renewed youthon the very threshold of old age, and had been spoiled, even by hiscross-grained old father, in consequence: as for his mother, though itwas out of her power to spoil him extravagantly with money, she gave himall that she did not spend on caps for herself. John determined to makeinquiries about Hugh to-morrow. Not another penny should he have fromhim, not another farthing. If he could not live on what he earned in theoffice of Stephen Crutchley, who had accepted the young spendthrift outof regard for their lifelong friendship, if he could not become adecent, well-behaved architect, why, he could starve. Not another penny... and the rest of his relations agreed with John on this point, for ifto him Hugh was a skeleton in the family cupboard, to them he was askeleton at the family feast.

  John expelled from his mind all misgivings about Hugh, hoped it would bea fine day to-morrow so that he could really look round the garden andsee what plants wanted ordering, tried to remember the name of anornamental shrub recommended by Miss Hamilton, turned over on his side,and went to sleep.