BOOKS BY L. ALLEN HARKER 
 
 PUBLISHED BY CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS 
 
 CHILDREN OF THE DEAR COTSWOLDS 
 
 net $1.50 
 
 JAN AND HER JOB. Illustrated . . . net $1.50 
 
 THE FFOLLIOTS OF REDMARLEY . net 1.50 
 
 MISS ESPERANCE AND MR. WYCHERLY 
 
 net 1.50 
 
 MR. WYCHERLY'S WARDS . ... net 1.50 
 
 MASTER AND MAID net 1.50 
 
 CONCERNING PAUL AND FIAMMETTA 
 
 net i .35 
 
 A ROMANCE OF THE NURSERY . . net 1.35
 
 CHILDREN OF THE 
 DEAR COTSWOLDS
 
 CHILDREN OF THE 
 DEAR COTSWOLDS 
 
 BT 
 
 L. ALLEN BARKER 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS 
 1918
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1915, 1917, 1918, BY 
 CHARLES SCRIBNEK'S SON3 
 
 Published October. 1918 
 
 COPYRIGHT, ms. m. BY THE BUTTERJCK PUBLISHING co.
 
 TO 
 
 THE COUNTESS BATHURST 
 
 Dear to you, too, the small "uplandish" town 
 The steep stone roofs, the graceful gabled street, 
 The great beech woods, the rolling purple down, 
 The golden fields that shimmer in the heat 
 With molten glow of buttercups ablaze 
 Dear to you, too. 
 
 Dear to you, too, the folk, slow-spoken, kind, 
 Wise with a mother-wisdom not of books ; 
 The sturdy " Cotsal-bred" of cautious mind, 
 That judges men by "doin's, not by looks," 
 With sapient nods and trenchant homely phrase 
 Dear to you, too. 
 
 And since you love them well people and land 
 / bring you stories of them -just a few 
 Old folk and young in hope you'll let them stand 
 With others that I wot of dear to you. 
 How happy should these prove in future days 
 Dear to you, too.
 
 FOREWORD 
 
 "I'm homesick for my hills again 
 
 My hills again! 
 
 To see above the Severn plain, 
 Unscabbarded against the sky, 
 The blue high blade ef Cotswold lie." 
 
 F. W. HABVEY. 
 
 I WAS in the train, and at Swindon a mud- 
 stained "Tommy," hung round with equip- 
 ment like the White Knight, and accompanied 
 by an old lame man and a young lad, tumbled 
 into my carriage just as the train was leaving 
 the station. The old man and the lad had 
 evidently been to meet the soldier at the junc- 
 tion, so as to lose no possible moment of the 
 precious "leaf." They were very cheery, and 
 in turn refreshed themselves from a bottle, 
 what time the rather uncheerful smell of the 
 very-small-ale permitted at present was wafted 
 about the carriage. Mingled with the rattle 
 of the train came scraps of conversation : much 
 mutual exchange of news in the slow, rum- 
 bling Gloucestershire voices, a little quickened 
 
 vii
 
 Foreword 
 
 and sharpened, just then, by excitement and 
 the shamefaced emotion that refused to be 
 entirely hidden. Every now and then one 
 would hear such sentences as, "Ah, so 'a be, 
 at Armenteers that was, poor Ernie ! and us 
 could never find no trace on 'im." 
 
 But as we neared Kemble they fell silent hi 
 the last cold gleam of the fading sunlight of a 
 February afternoon. The soldier reached for 
 his equipment, slung it, let down the window, 
 and leaned out. Inhaling a deep breath of 
 the keen Cotswold air, he looked back into the 
 carriage, and, with a world of love in his voice, 
 said slowly, "There 'a be, dear old Kemble 
 'a do look clean." 
 
 And faster than they had tumbled in they 
 tumbled out, to be surrounded by a group of 
 welcoming friends, but not before the soldier 
 had hauled out my heavy suitcase for me, as 
 I, too, alighted there. I was going on to 
 Cirencester, but the only porter left in these 
 strenuous times, a very elderly porter, was 
 absorbed into the welcoming group, and I 
 wouldn't have disturbed him for the world. 
 I wondered rather forlornly who would carry 
 my suitcase up the stairs and across the 
 viii
 
 Foreword 
 
 bridge for me, when out of the gathering twi- 
 light there appeared another khaki-clad fig- 
 ure, who turned out to be a soldier of my very 
 own, just then training a battery at Codford, 
 who was coming to join me for a week-end 
 with friends at Cirencester. 
 
 As we reached the long platform that runs 
 alongside the shuttle line, he too sniffed de- 
 lightedly at the good Cotswold air, and said, 
 "Dear old place how clean it feels!" 
 
 This is just an epitome of what is happen- 
 ing all over England every time a leave train 
 starts inland from the coast. It's not only 
 home and family our men are so glad to see 
 it's the land that bred them. 
 
 'God gives all men all earth to love, 
 But, since man's heart is small, 
 
 Ordains for each one spot shall prove 
 BelovM over all." 
 
 And for some of us that spot happens to be 
 in the Cotswolds. 
 
 Nowhere has the spirit of place been more 
 insistent and persistent. Surely no county 
 has more melodious names than Gloucester- 
 shire. They chime in the ears of those that 
 
 ix
 
 Foreword 
 
 love them like a peal of old mellow bells. No 
 ugly place could ever be called Colne St. 
 Aldwyns or Fretherne or Minsterworth, and 
 there is something in the very sound of Bi- 
 bury, Pinbury and Sapperton, Rendcombe 
 and Miserden, that carries with it a sense of 
 wide grass glades and great old trees gathered 
 together in sun-flecked woods that, in May, 
 are carpeted with bluebells and, in October, 
 are glorious in the vivid reds and yellows of 
 the turning beeches. What pleasaunces to 
 dream in when you are amongst them ! What 
 faerie lands to dream of when you are far 
 away! 
 
 Listen to the names. Say them over softly 
 Maisemore, Hartpury, Lassington: these are 
 in the vale. Don't you hear how homesick 
 we are who whisper them lovingly where there 
 are none to recognise them? And the King 
 of the Cotswolds is Cissister (the railway may 
 call it Cirencester if it likes, but that is how 
 the natives know it) Cissister of the wide 
 market-place and narrow irregular streets, 
 with the wise-looking old gabled houses that 
 have smiled down upon so many generations 
 of sturdy Cotswold folk. Grey are the Cots-
 
 Foreword 
 
 wold houses, stone-roofed and steeply gabled, 
 welcoming, friendly, venerable; and surely 
 there is something very delightful in the 
 thought that just now young America looks 
 down (from a considerable height too) on those 
 same stone roofs and gables. For young 
 America is flying (literally, not figuratively) 
 all over the Cotswolds. One wonders what 
 the Church and the Abbey and the House 
 think when the light-hearted airmen almost 
 shave their roofs. 
 
 The mention of young America brings me 
 to what so entirely occupies all our thoughts 
 just now, that there might seem something 
 almost impertinently irrelevant in daring to 
 write of anything else. But just inasmuch as 
 the old, easy-going, comfortable England has 
 been in the melting-pot for nearly four years, 
 and because the new, nobler, more strenuous 
 England will change most things, it has seemed 
 to me that it might not be amiss to collect 
 these little sketches of some dear Cotswold 
 folk, old and young, of what will soon seem an 
 almost forgotten time. 
 
 Much has been written, and admirably 
 written, of the Cotsw r olds themselves; but not 
 
 xi
 
 Foreword 
 
 much to my knowledge except in the ever- 
 delightful "Cotswold Village," by Arthur Gibbs 
 about the people. 
 
 Most of the people in this book belong to 
 those old easy times of over twenty years ago. 
 Only one of the stories deals with anything 
 approaching "present day/' and it is nearly 
 four years old. One stoiy I may as well 
 confess it here has nothing to do with the 
 Cotswolds; but Teddy in "A Soldier's But- 
 ton" was Paul's cousin and a dear, and the 
 Cotswold country is the most hospitable coun- 
 try in the world, so we let him in. Mrs. Bir- 
 kin, Mrs. Cushion, Williams, and Dorcas 
 Heaven are of the soil, and so are the children. 
 
 Mrs. Birkin, Mrs. Cushion, and hundreds 
 like them, have had their hand in the making 
 of our men. They are but humble, simple 
 folk. In their lives they asked but little of 
 fate, and what fate sent they accepted with 
 the patient philosophy of the poor. They 
 belonged to their period, and their period has 
 passed. 
 
 Cotswold names are so much prettier than 
 any one can imagine that it has always been 
 a self-denying ordinance to refrain from using 
 xii
 
 Foreword 
 
 them, but generally I have resisted tempta- 
 tion. Otherwise somebody might go seeking 
 Mrs. Birkin in Arlington Row and be angry 
 with me because she is no longer there. I 
 live in terror of accurate people with large- 
 scale maps, who seek to pin me down to this 
 place or that. But they may take it from 
 me that all the places are, as the Cotswold 
 folk would say, "thar or thar about." 
 
 LONDON, May, 1918. 
 
 Xlll
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER 
 
 I. MRS. BIBKIN'S BONNET .... 1 
 
 II. A PHILOSOPHER OF THE COTSWOLDS 22 
 
 III. ESPECIALLY THOSE ...... 42 
 
 IV. AT BLUE HOUSE LOCK .... 49 
 V. KETURAH 63 
 
 VI. MRS. CUSHION'S CHILDREN ... 79 
 
 VII. SANCTUARY 110 
 
 VIII. A COTSWOLD BARMAID 121 
 
 IX. FUZZY WUZZY'S WATCH .... 127 
 
 X. THE DARK LADY 140 
 
 XI. HER FIRST APPEARANCE .... 153 
 
 XII. OUR FATHERS HAVE TOLD Us . . 161 
 
 XIII. A GIOTTO OF THE COTSWOLDS . . 175
 
 Contents 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 XIV. THE DAY AFTER 190 
 
 XV. A COUP D'ETAT 201 
 
 XVI. THE STACEYS OF ELCOMBE HOUSE 213 
 
 XVII. A SOLDIER'S BUTTON 236 
 
 XVIII. PAUL AND THE PLAYWRIGHT . . 259 
 
 XIX. A MISFIT 289 
 
 XX. THE CONTAGION OF HONOUR . . 314 
 
 XVI
 
 CHILDREN OF THE 
 DEAR COTSWOLDS
 
 CHILDREN OF THE DEAR 
 COTSWOLDS 
 
 MES. BIKKIN'S BONNET 
 
 THE very first time that the baby went out 
 the monthly nurse carried her to see Mrs. 
 Birkin; and as she marched with slow and 
 stately tread up the narrow garden path to 
 the cottage, a swarm of bees settled all over 
 both infant and nurse. Fortunately the nurse 
 was a Cotswold woman, and knew full well 
 that if a swarm of bees settles upon an infant 
 during the first month of its existence, and 
 departs without stinging, it is a very lucky 
 omen. And people born in other parts of the 
 world will agree as to the good fortune of the 
 latter contingency. 
 
 Mrs. Birkin in her porch, and the nurse in 
 her cloak of bees, stood like two statues in the 
 hot sunshine of that September afternoon, the 
 
 1
 
 Children of the Cotswolds 
 
 nurse hardly daring to breathe, lest by some 
 inadvertent movement she should change so 
 stupendous a piece of luck into disaster. 
 
 Presently the brown cloud lifted itself from 
 the white bundle in the anxious nurse's arms 
 and passed with its own triumphant music to 
 some other place. 
 
 The baby still slept sweetly, oblivious alike 
 of good or evil fortune. Mrs. Birkin, her 
 ruddy cheeks pale under the weather-stains 
 of years, came forth from her cottage as the 
 nurse tottered to meet her, holding out the 
 baby and exclaiming hysterically: "Take her, 
 take her, and let me sit down somewhere, for 
 my legs won't bear me no longer !" 
 
 "The Lard be praised!" cried Mrs. Birkin, 
 seizing the baby. "That there lamb '11 be 
 lucky an' good-lookin', an' she'll 'ave a good 
 'usban' for sure. Bless 'er ! Them bees knows 
 what they be about, an' 'tis plain they knew 
 as you was Cotsal barn an' bred, an' wasn't 
 none of them faintin', scritchin' women as 
 don't rekkernise the Lard's voice, not when 'E 
 'oilers in their yer." 
 
 Then, seated on the little wooden seats on 
 each side of the tiny porch, the women pro- 
 
 2
 
 Mrs. Birkin's Bonnet 
 
 ceeded to sing the size and the exceeding 
 beauty of the new baby, who seemingly pre- 
 ferred the soothing lullaby of the bees, for she 
 woke up and "hollered" with surprising vigour. 
 
 A little later the baby paid her visits to 
 Mrs. Birkin in a fine, white perambulator, 
 and, as that worthy woman put it, "You 
 didn't know where you was" before that re- 
 markable infant toddled up the cobbled path 
 to the cottage quite unassisted. 
 
 Time slips by noiseless and fleet-footed in a 
 quiet Cotswold village, even as in noisier and 
 more strenuous places, and "Squoire's little 
 darter" grew into "our young lady." To be 
 sure, there were other young ladies in the 
 neighbourhood, for the village is large and 
 cheery, with many nice places around; but the 
 other young ladies were in no way remarkable. 
 No swarm of bees had settled on any of them 
 in infancy. For it really seemed as if some of 
 the sturdy sweetness of the bees had passed 
 into the baby they thus honoured. As was 
 said of jolly Dick Steele, "she was liked in all 
 company because she liked it." 
 
 And now the village was upside down with 
 excitement, for our young lady was going to 
 
 3
 
 Children of the Cotswolds 
 
 be married, and Mrs. Birkin was to have a new 
 bonnet for the great occasion. 
 
 Mrs. Birkin felt that she had an unusually 
 important part to play in the festivities at- 
 tendant on this great event, for our young 
 lady's father, who had an excellent memory 
 for dates, had decreed that the wedding-day 
 should be on the anniversary of the day on 
 which, nineteen years before, the swarm of 
 bees had distinguished his daughter. Such a 
 thing had never happened since, though plenty 
 of babies had come both to Mrs. Birkin's vil- 
 lage and the other villages round about, and 
 you may be sure that Mrs. Birkin knew all 
 about every baby that arrived within a ten- 
 mile radius. She is an authority upon babies. 
 She is one of those women who is everybody's 
 mother because she has no living children of 
 her own. In the churchyard, under the green 
 mound that now marks the humble resting- 
 place of Mr. Birkin, there were once two tiny 
 graves, where, side by side, lay Mrs. Birkin's 
 twin sons. And for the sake of those two 
 babies, dead these forty years, Mrs. Birkin's 
 heart had kept young and kind, and full of 
 love for all other babies. So that it came 
 
 4
 
 Mrs. Birkin's Bonnet 
 
 about that the very Grossest infant ever born 
 into a world it seemed to find singularly un- 
 attractive was good with Mrs. Birkin, and in 
 consequence she was in great request with busy 
 mothers. 
 
 Nor was it only the babies who loved Mrs. 
 Birkin. Little girls brought their dolls for her 
 to dress, and little boys, even bad little boys, 
 whose grubby hands were against every other 
 man, woman, or child in the village, refrained 
 from pillaging Mrs. Birkin's garden, and had 
 been known to weed it for her, all for love. 
 
 For months past, in fact, ever since our 
 young lady's engagement was announced, Mrs. 
 Birkin had pondered the great question of the 
 Bonnet. She had not had a new bonnet for 
 six years. Four years before that, again, she 
 had indulged in a widow's bonnet, in which, 
 on Sundays, she did honour to the memory of 
 the departed Birkin; until the crape grew 
 green with age, and our young lady herself 
 suggested that the time had come when Mrs. 
 Birkin's somewhat mitigated woe might find 
 expression in head-gear less indicative of in- 
 tense gloom. 
 
 In our village, except of "a Sunday," the 
 5
 
 Children of the Cotswolds 
 
 question of costume is extremely simple. The 
 men wear corduroy; the women, lilac or pink 
 print, with sunbonnet to match. There are 
 those who wish that the wearing of these uni- 
 forms extended to Sundays, the villagers, in 
 the week, are so much more in harmony with 
 the beautiful, grey, old houses, but those who, 
 like "Squoire," love these people well, would 
 not for the world debar them from the wearing 
 of that finery dear to the heart of woman in 
 cottage and castle alike. 
 
 Squoire drives a coach, and often on Satur- 
 day afternoons he will pull up in the very 
 middle of our one street and shout, "Any one 
 for the town?" And sure enough, three or 
 four eager damsels and matrons bustle out of 
 their cottages, are packed in as inside passen- 
 gers, and away goes the coach to distant 
 "Ziren," where country folk can see the shops 
 and make their purchases, Squoire bringing 
 them and their bundles home in the evening 
 again, and never a penny to pay for carriage 
 hire. 
 
 Three times lately had Mrs. Birkin made 
 this journey to "Ziren," rightly so called from 
 its many fascinations. She had flattened her 
 
 6
 
 Mrs. Birkin's Bonnet 
 
 nose against the plate-glass windows of that 
 stately shop in the market-place where there 
 were displayed hats of the most bewitching 
 beauty, and fabrics so delicate that Mrs. Bir- 
 kin fairly caught her breath at the mere idea 
 of any one daring to wear them. It was un- 
 doubtedly an entrancing vision, that shop; 
 but then nothing was priced, and there were 
 no bonnets in that window, and for a bonnet 
 Mrs. Birkin had come to look. 
 
 At the corner of Black Jack Street, not 
 quite in the market-place, but facing it, was 
 another shop. Here there were hats and bon- 
 nets in plenty, marked in plain figures for all 
 to see, and there was one, manifestly a bonnet 
 " suitable for a elderly person," that positively 
 fascinated Mrs. Birkin. Of w r hite straw was 
 it, trimmed with scarlet geraniums and elegant 
 excrescences of watered ribbon of a delicate 
 mauve shade a truly bridal bonnet, fitted to 
 grace even the marriage of our young lady her- 
 self. But its cost was twelve and sixpence, 
 a truly prohibitive price for Mrs. Birkin 
 "A'most a month's keep," she sadly whispered 
 to herself. She went away from that window. 
 She walked right round the market-place, she 
 
 7
 
 Children of the Cotswolds 
 
 looked into every milliner's window, she gazed 
 upon other bonnets; but there was nothing to 
 compare with the creation compounded of 
 scarlet geraniums and mauve ribbon in the 
 shop in Black Jack Street. All the same, Mrs. 
 Birkin went home with only three yards of 
 scouring flannel to show for her day's shopping. 
 
 But she dreamed of the bonnet, and her 
 waking hours were haunted by its beauties. 
 "I can't afford no more nor ten shillin's," she 
 said to a neighbour with whom she discussed 
 the question. "Mebbe if I waits, her'll get a 
 bit faded, and they'll put un down in proice." 
 
 Thrice more did Mrs. Birkin avail herself of 
 Squoire's kindness and drive in the coach to 
 Ziren, and on the third occasion she screwed 
 up her courage to enter the shop, and in trem- 
 bling tones demanded of the young lady be- 
 hind the counter whether there was any chance 
 of the bonnet for it still graced the window 
 "bein' a bit cheaper for cash. I couldn't 
 pay for un to-day," she added; "but next 
 week I be comin' in again, an' if so be as her 
 were two shillin' less, I med manage un." 
 
 The young lady was good-natured and ap- 
 proachable. She even lifted the bonnet from 
 
 8
 
 Mrs. Birkin's Bonnet 
 
 its stand in the window, and proposed that 
 Mrs. Birkin should try it on. 
 
 This Mrs. Birkin did, though her knees 
 knocked together during the process, and she 
 was fain to confess that her handsome, sun- 
 burnt face was assuredly "uncommon set off" 
 when framed in the scarlet geraniums and pale 
 mauve ribbons. 
 
 "Of course I can't promise that it won't be 
 gone before next week," said the young lady. 
 "It's a very attractive article; but if it is still 
 here, we might be able to meet you. You 
 wouldn't like me to put it aside for you, to 
 make sure?" she suggested. 
 
 But here Mrs. Birkin was firm. "No," she 
 said; "if so be as you has a chanst to sell it, 
 far be it from me to stand in your way. But 
 if it be still yer, when I do come back, then, 
 if I've got the money, I'll 'ave she. The rib- 
 bons is gettin' a bit faded," she added shrewdly; 
 and with this parting shot Mrs. Birkin hurried 
 from the shop to buy yellow soap. 
 
 She was not well off, even as such a term 
 is modestly read in a Cotswold village com- 
 munity. For one thing, she was far too fond 
 of giving. For another, although she "went 
 
 9
 
 Children of the Cotswolds 
 
 out days" when she got the chance, and was 
 as sturdy and healthy at sixty as many women 
 are at forty, yet she could no longer work in 
 the fields in summer, a long day's haymaking 
 being more than she could stand. Squoire 
 let her live in her cottage rent free, for the de- 
 parted Birkin had been one of his labourers; 
 moreover, his daughter was very fond of Mrs. 
 Birkin, and that went a long way with Squoire. 
 He also had obtained for her of late, from cer- 
 tain mysterious powers called "Guardians," 
 an allowance of three and sixpence a week, so 
 that with what she could earn Mrs. Birkin got 
 on fairly comfortably. The bonnet money 
 was money saved up for years against illness, 
 but "Law bless you !" she said, "'tis only once 
 in a way. That there bonnet '11 sarve me till 
 I be put away in churchyard along of Birkin, 
 an' if I don't go foine to see that there blessed 
 lamb married to her good gentleman, when be 
 I to go foine? You just tell me that." 
 
 The day of the wedding was drawing near. 
 Only six days now till the great day itself. 
 But Mrs. Birkin was still bonnetless. In vain 
 did she count her savings over and over again ; 
 by no arithmetical process could they be per- 
 
 10
 
 Mrs. Birkin's Bonnet 
 
 suaded to amount to more than eleven shillings 
 and fivepence three farthings. Squoire sent 
 round word that he would drive the coach into 
 Ziren that afternoon and that anybody might 
 go that liked. Mrs. Birkin went, carrying with 
 her her whole worldly wealth. 
 
 Once in the market-place, she hurried to the 
 shrine of the Bonnet. It was still there, and 
 on it was a card bearing the reassuring legend, 
 "Much reduced; only nine and elevenpence 
 halfpenny." 
 
 Mrs. Birkin paused outside that she might 
 savour the sweets of purchase by anticipation. 
 For fully five minutes did she stand gloating 
 over the bonnet her bonnet, as she already 
 felt it to be, and she was on the point of enter- 
 ing the shop when she caught sight of a neigh- 
 bour on the other side of the road, one Mrs. 
 Comley, who held by the hand a small and 
 exceedingly dirty boy about ten years old. His 
 free hand was thrust into one of his tearful 
 eyes, and sobs shook his small frame. It was 
 plain that Ernie Comley was in grievous trouble. 
 Mrs. Comley, too, looked flushed and misera- 
 ble. She was an unhealthy-looking, under- 
 sized little woman whose somewhat dreary 
 
 11
 
 Children of the Cotswolds 
 
 days were passed in futile attempts to over- 
 take her multifarious duties. Mrs. Comley 
 was no manager; and it was not surprising, 
 for one weakly baby was hardly set upon its 
 bandy legs before another appeared to claim 
 her whole attention. Comley was a farm- 
 labourer with twelve shillings a week, so that 
 the charitable made excuses for Mrs. Comley. 
 Besides, she "did come from Birmiggum," and 
 the Cotswold folk felt that that explained any 
 amount of slackness and general incompetence. 
 
 It was not in the nature of Mrs. Birkin to 
 pass by any one in trouble. She forgot her 
 bonnet for the moment, and hurried across the 
 road to inquire the cause of Ernie's tears. 
 
 "We come by the carrier this morning," 
 Mrs. Comley explained, it was like her to 
 pay for the carrier when "Squoire" would 
 have brought her for nothing, "I 'ad so much 
 to do, an' Ernie 'e done nothing but w'ine and 
 cry somethin' dreadful all the time because I 
 told 'im plain 'e can't go to no weddin's, nor 
 no treats after, neither. Do you know what 
 that boyVe bin an' done? 'E've gone an' 
 tore the seat clean out of 'is Sunday trowsies, 
 an' there ain't a bit of the same stuff nowhere. 
 
 12
 
 Mrs. Birkin's Bonnet 
 
 We've bin an' tried all over the place; an' go 
 in corderoys 'e shall not, shamin' me before all 
 the neighbours, as is nasty-tongued enough as 
 it is. 'E be the most rubsome child I ever 
 see. There ain't no keepin' 'im in clothes, 
 that there ain't." 
 
 Mrs. Comley gave the "rubsome" Ernie a 
 spiteful shake, which caused that unhappy 
 urchin to burst into renewed and louder sobs. 
 
 "There, there," said Mrs. Birkin, soothingly, 
 "don't 'ee take on so! There's sure to be 
 summat as can be done, and I'm sartin of this, 
 as our young lady 'ad far sooner 'e come in 'is 
 corderoys than stopped away. She said most 
 partic'lar as she 'oped heverbody Vd come. 
 There, Ernie, then, don't 'ee take on so." And 
 Mrs. Birkin patted the boy's shoulder with a 
 kind, comforting hand. 
 
 "I tell you as there ain't nothing as can 
 be done," Mrs. Comley retorted fretfully. 
 "Them does is tore about shockin'. They 
 wasn't new when 'e got 'em, an' 'e be that 
 rubsome they've all fell to pieces. 'Tain't 
 only the trowsies. And do you mean to tell 
 me that 'e could go to hany weddin' like this 
 'ere?" 
 
 13
 
 Children of the Cotswolds 
 
 Mrs. Birkin fell back a step that she might 
 the better regard the lachrymose Ernie, and 
 sorrowfully she came to the conclusion that 
 his mother was right; for, indeed, his appear- 
 ance was the reverse of festal. Although his 
 corduroy trousers had so far withstood his 
 rubsome tendencies, his jacket had given way 
 at the elbows, and he looked altogether as dis- 
 reputable a small boy as could be met in a 
 summer's day. 
 
 "I tried to get 'im a suit at the Golden 
 Anchor, if they'd only 'ave let me take it on 
 credit; but they be that 'ard 'cash with hor- 
 der,' that's their style. An' it's no manner of 
 use me a-goin' to any of the big tailors: they 
 wouldn't so much as look at me. There, Ernie, 
 do 'old that row. You'll never be missed in 
 all that crowd. No one '11 know but what 
 you was there." 
 
 This reflection seemed hi no way to comfort 
 Ernie, who burst forth into a loud howl, and 
 was dragged down the market-place by his 
 weary and incensed parent. 
 
 Mrs. Birkin stood where she was, immersed 
 in thought. Across the road the bonnet shop 
 beckoned beguilingly, and her work-worn hand 
 14
 
 Mrs. Birkin's Bonnet 
 
 tightened upon her purse. Slowly she crossed 
 the road, and once more stood staring at the 
 bonnet. How beautiful it was ! How brilliant 
 its geraniums, how crisp and dainty its bosses 
 and twists of ribbon! "It be like the bit o' 
 carpet beddin' under Squoire's drawin'-room 
 windows, that 'a be," said Mrs. Birkin to her- 
 self. 
 
 She stared so hard at the bonnet that her 
 eyes grew misty, and the card with "much re- 
 duced" danced before her; but still she did 
 not go into the shop. She stood like a statue 
 for nearly five minutes, still staring at the 
 bonnet; but she no longer saw it. What she 
 saw was her own potato-patch last autumn; 
 and in it, hard at work, was Ernie Comley, 
 digging her potatoes for her because her lum- 
 bago was so bad. 
 
 "What do it matter for a hold image like 
 me what I do wear?" she muttered. Then 
 she turned from the window that held her 
 heart's desire, and hurried down the market- 
 place after Mrs. Comley and the rubsome 
 Ernie. 
 
 She found them staring gloomily into the 
 window of the ready-made clothes shop. 
 
 15
 
 Children of the Cotswolds 
 
 "You come in along o' me," she cried ex- 
 citedly. "There's a suit in that window, 'This 
 style eight and eleven three/ as '11 just do for 
 Ernie, allowin' for growth. I'll buy it for un, 
 an' you can pay me back a bit at a time, as 
 is most convenient. Come on in." 
 
 The suit was bought, and presently Ernie, 
 dirty, and as cheerful as he had been tearful 
 a few minutes before, emerged from the door- 
 way, hugging a large brown-paper parcel. 
 
 "I must do my shoppin' sharpish," Mrs. 
 Birkin said as she came out of the shop, "or 
 else Squoire '11 be back before I be ready. 
 Good afternoon to you. No; don't you never 
 name it. 'Tis no more than you'd 'a' done 
 for me." 
 
 To herself she murmured as she hurried up 
 the market-place, "I don't suppose as she'll 
 ever pay I, she's but a slack piece; but I could- 
 n't abear as that boy shouldn't 'ave none of 
 the fun. We're none on us young but once." 
 
 Mrs. Birkin's Sunday bonnet was black, 
 and although a black dress for best is not only 
 permissible, but suitable, for an elderly cot- 
 tager even at a wedding, to wear a black bon- 
 
 16
 
 Mrs. Birkin's Bonnet 
 
 net upon so festive an occasion is to commit 
 a solecism of the most glaring kind. 
 
 Mrs. Birkin was a woman of much resource. 
 Once the bonnet of her dreams had become 
 an impossibility, owing to the expense of 
 Ernie Comley's wedding garment, she set her- 
 self forthwith to manufacture another as like 
 the one in the shop window at Ziren as her 
 means would allow. 
 
 To that end she purchased a small, a very 
 small, pot of cream enamel; red flowers, of a 
 nondescript kind it is true, but still red, and 
 plenty of them for the money; and three 
 yards of pale lavender ribbon. She then 
 picked all the trimming off her old bonnet, 
 washed it, dried it in the oven with the door 
 well ajar, lest the precious thing should 
 "search." When dry, she enamelled it cream, 
 inside and out, and when the enamel in its 
 turn had dried, she trimmed the rejuvenated 
 bonnet with the new flowers and ribbon. 
 And a very imposing confection it looked, 
 and quite unlike anything to be seen in any 
 window of the Ziren shops. Mrs. Birkin her- 
 self felt certain misgivings about it; but she had 
 done her best, and by her best she must abide. 
 
 17
 
 Children of the Cotswolds 
 
 It happened that the night before the wed- 
 ding our young lady's maid was packing her 
 going-away trunk, talking the while about the 
 villagers and their excitement over the mor- 
 row. This maid was "own niece" to Mrs. 
 Birkin, but she was not proud of the relation- 
 ship. She was a smart young woman who 
 had travelled, and she looked down upon her 
 simple old aunt with, at the best, a tolerant 
 sort of amusement. 
 
 "You'll see some wonderful costumes to- 
 morrow, Miss," she said as she folded dainty 
 garments. "The whole village has got some- 
 thing new. My old aunt now not that you'll 
 have time to notice such as she but you never 
 saw such a bonnet as she's gone and trimmed 
 for herself. A silly old woman, that's what I 
 call her. She'd saved up quite a nice bit of 
 money, and was going to have a new bonnet 
 out of a shop in the town they sets such store 
 by, though 'tisn't much more than a village 
 to them as have travelled, is it, Miss? Well, 
 what does she go and do but lend the money 
 as she'd saved for her bonnet to a woman in 
 the village to buy a suit for one of them nasty, 
 mischievous little boys, so that he could come 
 
 18
 
 Mrs. Birkin's Bonnet 
 
 to your weddin' and the treats an' that. 
 'Twasn't aunt told me, else I'd have given her 
 a piece of my mind. A fool and his money's 
 soon parted." 
 
 Our young lady turned almost fiercely upon 
 her maid. "I think it was perfectly lovely of 
 Mrs. Birkin," she cried, with a ring in her 
 voice that warned that sharp girl she had in 
 some way offended. "I wish there were more 
 people like her in the world. It would be a 
 kinder, better place. There's nothing here 
 one half so beautiful as that bonnet of hers." 
 
 The maid went on folding lace petticoats in 
 silence, for there was a sound of tears in her 
 young lady's voice. She wondered at the 
 curious ways of the gentry; one never knew 
 where to have them. 
 
 The church was packed for the wedding. 
 Only the seats on one side of the central aisle 
 had been reserved for the guests; by special 
 request of the bride, the other side was kept 
 for the villagers, first come, first served, with 
 no distinctions whatsoever. Mrs. Comley was 
 there, with Ernie, all new suit and hair-oil. 
 Mrs. Birkin came a full hour and a half before 
 
 19
 
 Children of the Cotswolds 
 
 the service, and secured a corner seat next the 
 aisle from which wild horses could not have 
 dragged her. 
 
 The priest had said his say, the organist was 
 thundering the wedding-march, the wedding 
 was over, and the bride, her veil thrown back 
 from her radiant face, was coming down the 
 aisle on her proud young husband's arm. 
 Mrs. Birkin, tearful and exultant, stood in 
 her place devouring the pretty spectacle with 
 eager, kind old eyes. As the bride reached 
 Mrs. Birkin's pew she stopped, slipped her 
 hand from the bridegroom's arm, and turn- 
 ing, flung both her own, bouquet and all, 
 round Mrs. Birkin's neck. She kissed the 
 old woman before the whole church and whis- 
 pered loudly in her ear: "Mrs. Birkin, dear, 
 that's the most beautiful bonnet I ever saw." 
 
 In another moment she was gone. The last 
 pair of bridesmaids had passed, and after 
 them, visitors and villagers alike thronged 
 into the sunshine. Mrs. Birkin, her bonnet 
 much awry, owing to the heavy bridal bou- 
 quet, strayed out with the rest in a sort of 
 solemn rapture. She had been honoured above 
 all other women on that great day. 
 20
 
 Mrs. Birkin's Bonnet 
 
 "Wot did 'er say to you?" asked Mrs. 
 Comley, enviously, when they got outside. 
 
 Mrs. Birkin laughed. "Bless 'er sweet 
 face!" she exclaimed triumphantly, "if her 
 didn't go and think 'twas a bran' new bonnet 
 as I'd got on! I must 'a' made un over- 
 smartish, that I must." 
 
 21
 
 II 
 
 A PHILOSOPHER OF THE COTSWOLDS 
 
 IT is possible that to the unobservant his 
 great qualities were hidden: all that they 
 saw in him was a tall, shabby-looking old 
 man, who walked with that indescribable 
 garden-roller sort of motion usually associated 
 with the gait of those who minister to us in 
 the coffee-rooms of hotels an old man, who, 
 professedly a jobbing gardener, looked like a 
 broken-down something else. Frequently they 
 did not even take the trouble to crystallise 
 their doubt into a question, a sure and certain 
 measure towards its solution. 
 
 But there were those who saw beneath the 
 surface, who were moreover privileged to have 
 speech of him anpl he was always very ready 
 to converse, leaning on his spade the while, 
 but with the air of one who only just tolerated 
 such interruption these would find that here 
 was one whose ideas were the result of reflec- 
 tion and observation, not mere echoes of the
 
 A Philosopher of the Cotswolds 
 
 local press; or, as is sometimes the case in 
 other and higher walks of life, those of the 
 reviews or quarterlies. 
 
 To tell the truth, my philosopher could 
 read but indifferently well, and when he in- 
 dulged in such exercises, as "of a Sunday," 
 liked the print to be large and black. As the 
 halfpenny papers in no way pander to such 
 luxurious tastes in their readers, he was fain 
 to take his news second-hand, by word of 
 mouth, thereby materially increasing its ro- 
 mance and variety. 
 
 One day, a propos of some flowers he was to 
 take to the church for Easter decorations, I 
 asked him whether he was a churchman him- 
 self. "No," he said slowly, stopping short and 
 watching me somewhat anxiously to see the 
 effect of this pronouncement, " I goes to chapel, 
 they 'oilers more, and 'tis more loively loike 
 I bin to church, I 'ave, don't you think as 
 'ow I 'aven't sampled 'em both careful but 
 Oi be gettin' a holdish man, an' them curicks 
 is that weakly an' finnicken in their ways, it 
 don't seem to do me no sort o' good nohow. 
 Not as I've nothin' to say agen 'em, pore young 
 gen'lemen; they means well, but they be that 
 
 23
 
 Children of the Cotswolds 
 
 afraid of the sound of their own voices, and 
 they looks that thin and mournful I can't 
 away with 'em." Here he shook his head 
 sadly, as though overcome with melancholy at 
 the mere recollection. 
 
 "You are quite right to go where you feel 
 you will get most good," I said meekly. "Is 
 Mr. Blank a very powerful preacher?" 
 
 Williams (that was his name) smiled a slow, 
 crafty smile, shutting one eye with something 
 the expression of a gourmand who holds a 
 glass of good port between himself and the 
 light. "Well, I don't know as I should go so 
 fur as to say as Vs powervul, but 'e do 'oiler 
 an' thump the cushion as do do yer 'art good 
 to see, an' 'e do tell us plainish where them '11 
 go as bain't ther to yer 'im, but I bain't sure 
 as Vs powervul. The powervullest preacher 
 I ever 'ear was Fairford way at a hopen-air 
 meetin' an' 'e was took up next day for 
 stealin' bacon!" Here he returned to his 
 digging with the air of one who had said the 
 last word and could brook no further inter- 
 ruptions. 
 
 Regarding politics, Williams was even more 
 guarded in his statements : I could never dis- 
 
 24
 
 A Philosopher of the Cotswolds 
 
 cover to which side he belonged, even at a 
 time when party feeling ran particularly high, 
 as our town had been in the throes of two 
 Parliamentary elections within the year. He 
 seemed to regard the whole of the proceedings 
 with a tolerant sort of amusement tolerance 
 was ever a feature of his mental attitude 
 towards life generally. But as to stepping 
 down into the arena and taking sides ! such a 
 course was far from one of his philosophical 
 and analytic temperament. He listened to 
 both sides with a gracious impartiality that I 
 have no doubt sent each canvasser away equally 
 certain that his w r as the side which would re- 
 ceive the listener's "vote and interest." 
 
 "The yallers, they comes/' he would say, 
 wagging his large head to and fro, and smiling 
 his slow, broad smile, "an' they says, 'If our 
 candidate do get in, you'll see what us'll do 
 for 'ee. 'E'll do sech and sech, an' you'll 'ave 
 this 'ere an' that.' But the blues, they went 
 and sent my missus a good blanket on the 
 chanst." 
 
 "And for whom did you vote after all?" I 
 asked with considerable curiosity. 
 
 "Well, I bain't so to speak exactly sure," 
 25
 
 Children of the Cotswolds 
 
 he said, scratching his head. " I hain't much of 
 a schollard, so I ups an' puts two crasses, one 
 for each on 'em, an' I goes an' marches along 
 of two percessions that same day, so / done 
 my duty." 
 
 But his universal tolerance stopped short 
 of his legitimate profession. In matters horti- 
 cultural he was a veritable despot, sternly dis- 
 couraging private enterprise of any sort. Above 
 all did he object to what he was pleased to call 
 "new fanglements" in the way of plants, and 
 in the autumn had a perfect passion for grub- 
 bing up one's most cherished possessions and 
 trundling them off in the wheelbarrow to the 
 rubbish heap. One autumn a friend presented 
 me with some rare iris bulbs, which, knowing 
 the philosopher's objection to "fancy bulbs," I 
 secreted in a distant greenhouse which he as a 
 rule scornfully ignored. On a day when some 
 one else was benefiting by his ministrations I 
 hastened to fetch them, intent on planting 
 them "unbeknownst," as he would have said. 
 
 Not a trace of them remained, and I had 
 
 to wait until his next visit, when I timidly 
 
 asked if he happened to have moved them. 
 
 "Lor' bless my 'eart ! was them things bulbses? 
 
 26
 
 A Philosopher of the Cotswolds 
 
 I thought as 'ow they was hold onions and I 
 eat 'em along of a bit of bread for my lunch. 
 I remember thinkin' as they didn't semm very 
 tasty loike!" 
 
 On the subject of the then war there was 
 no uncertain sound about his views, and had 
 he been a younger man his waiter-like walk 
 would doubtless have changed to the martial 
 strut induced among the rural population by 
 perpetual practice of the goose-step. As it 
 was, he thirsted for news with the utmost 
 eagerness, and hurried up one Sunday morn- 
 ing to inform us that Lord Roberts had taken 
 "Blue Fountain" about two days after that 
 officer had arrived in South Africa. 
 
 It was rumoured that a gentleman of pro- 
 Boer proclivities proposed to address like- 
 minded citizens in the "Corn Hall." I fear 
 he must have had but a small following if, as 
 I believe, the majority of the natives were of 
 like mind with my usually philosophic gar- 
 dener. "I'd warm 'mi," Williams exclaimed, 
 digging his spade into the ground as though 
 the offending propagandist were underneath 
 "I'd warm 'im. I'd knock 'is ugly 'ead off 
 before 'e'd come 'is nasty Boerses over me. 
 27
 
 Children of the Cotswolds 
 
 Let 'im go to St. 'Elena and mind 'em; then 
 T e'd know. 'Tain't no use for 'im to come 
 and gibber to the loikes of us as 'ave 'eard 
 their goin's-on from them as 'ave fought agen 
 'em ; and minded 'em day by day and hour by 
 hour, till they was that sick and weary! . . . 
 Boers! I'd Boers 'im," and with grunts and 
 snorts expressive of intense indignation the 
 philosopher rested on his spade, glaring at me 
 as though I were a champion of the King's 
 enemies which Heaven forbid. 
 
 "It's like this 'ere," he said, after a mo- 
 ment's pause: "there's toimes w'en the meek- 
 'eartidest ain't safe if you worrits 'em, and 
 these 'ere be them sart of toimes." 
 
 When he became gardener to friends of 
 mine, he was old and they were young. His 
 progress was slow and dignified, so were his 
 manners. He could wither a budding enthu- 
 siasm with a slow smile charged full of scorn 
 as effectually as a May frost withers the peach 
 blossom. His own omniscience was empha- 
 sised in such fashion as to make his employers 
 acutely conscious of their youth and igno- 
 rance. It is true that his master was not so 
 28
 
 A Philosopher of the Cotswolds 
 
 excessively young, but then neither was he 
 particularly well instructed in matters horti- 
 cultural, and Williams had but a poor opinion 
 of a man who, while he could tell you the long 
 Latin name of every grass in the field and 
 every weed in the hedgerow, had but small 
 appreciation of carpet bedding, and had been 
 heard to remark that a cabbage moth was really 
 much prettier than a cabbage. Moreover, the 
 said master extended his liking for moths and 
 butterflies to other "hinsekses" of various and 
 inferior sorts, and collected the same in small 
 glass tubes, of which he carried numbers in his 
 pockets. When a man is addicted to such 
 "curus fads" as these, it is not to be expected 
 that an elderly and experienced gardener 
 should so much as consult him about things 
 connected with his own craft. 
 
 Towards his mistress Williams showed an 
 indulgent toleration; not that he ever did 
 what she asked him oh dear, no! But still 
 he permitted her to "come anigh him," and 
 shout her behests into his ear. He was de- 
 cidedly deaf at the best of times, and when 
 suggestions were made of which he disap- 
 proved his infirmity increased tenfold. 
 
 29
 
 Children of the Cotswolds 
 
 Sometimes the "young missus" she was 
 really young, being still in her 'teens at- 
 tempted a little gardening on her own ac- 
 count, as when she planted crocus bulbs on 
 a grassy bank facing the drawing-room win- 
 dows. She had hoped that Williams would 
 not notice them, as that bank was never mown 
 till well on in the* spring. But Williams not 
 only noted but disapproved their very earliest 
 appearance. "A grass bank be a grass bank," 
 he asserted, "and bulbs a-growing be out of 
 place," so he mowed the grass assiduously and 
 the crocuses came to nought. 
 
 "He really is a most aggravating man," ex- 
 claimed the young missus; "he won't let one 
 have a thing one wants." 
 
 However, the absolute monarchy of Wil- 
 liams was not destined to continue. Even as 
 he had ruled his master and mistress there 
 arose another who ruled not only them but 
 Williams also. Where the young missus had 
 meekly suggested that certain things might 
 be done in such a way as they never were 
 done, this personage had but to point a dimin- 
 utive forefinger in the direction of anything 
 he coveted when Williams would hasten to 
 30
 
 A Philosopher of the Cotswolds 
 
 procure it for him with the greatest alacrity. 
 He was not of imposing stature, this new auto- 
 crat. When he first began to tyrannise over 
 Williams, he stood just about as high as that 
 worthy's knee, and his walk, in its uncertainty, 
 strongly resembled that of Williams himself 
 on the night of the last election, when the 
 Tory candidate was returned by a majority 
 of two votes. 
 
 But to return to the autocrat. He certainly 
 interfered with Williams's work, causing him 
 to waste whole hours in hovering about near 
 the drive gate that he might catch a glimpse 
 of his equipage as he set out for an airing in a 
 fine white coach propelled by a white-clad at- 
 tendant. Williams would not have been averse 
 from occasional parleyings with the attendant. 
 She was young and pretty; but she had other 
 and more lively fish to fry, and would have 
 scorned to do more than exchange the most 
 formal of passing courtesies with "that there 
 deaf old gardener" who, however, was never 
 so deaf but that the clear little voice calling 
 "Weeams" attracted immediate attention. 
 
 As time went on and the autocrat's steps 
 grew steadier, the white coach was abandoned, 
 31
 
 Children of the Cotswolds 
 
 and whenever he could the late occupant 
 thereof escaped from the white-clad attendant 
 and assisted Williams in his horticultural op- 
 erations a course which he found infinitely 
 preferable to going walks with his nurse upon 
 the highroad. He upset all Williams's most 
 cherished theories, and, not infrequently, his 
 practice. He insisted upon helping to wheel 
 manure from the stable-yard to the potato 
 patch, and fell into the manure-heap. He hung 
 on to a big water-can that Williams was cany- 
 ing with such force that he spilled most of the 
 contents over himself, and he persisted in dig- 
 ging in such close proximity to Williams that 
 the senior gardener was fain to rest upon his 
 spade and admire his assistant. He possessed 
 a garden of his own, a chaotic piece of ground 
 in which might be found specimens of every- 
 thing growing in the larger garden all mixed 
 up anyhow. That Williams, who but a few 
 short years ago had objected to innocent cro- 
 cuses upon a green bank, should, with his own 
 hands, have planted a beetroot cheek by jowl 
 with a Michaelmas daisy, and allowed a potato 
 to flower in close proximity to a columbine, 
 seems incredible. But so it was. 
 32
 
 A Philosopher of the Cotswolds 
 
 "Bless 'is 'eart, 'e do like a bit of every- 
 think," Williams would say, wagging his head 
 and beaming at the autocrat, who chattered 
 incessantly in the high, clear little voice that 
 Williams found so easy to hear. The young 
 missus profited by the subjugation of Wil- 
 liams to do sundry bits of gardening on her 
 own account which he never discovered. As 
 for the "professor gen'leman," as the cottage 
 children called him, he bowed beneath the 
 yoke of the autocrat with equal meekness. It 
 is said that a fellow-feeling makes us wondrous 
 kind, and it is certain that Williams and his 
 master understood each other perfectly as re- 
 gards this one subject. 
 
 In exchange for his instruction in gardening 
 the autocrat occasionally essayed to teach 
 Williams grammar. 
 
 "You mustn't say 'he were,' Williams; you 
 must say 'he was.' It's 'he was; we were.' 
 Do you understand?" 
 
 "Well, no, Mazter Billy, I can't say as I do; 
 but I'll say 'we was' if it do please you." 
 
 " No, no, Williams. ' We were.' " 
 
 "What do us wear, Mazter Billy?" Wil- 
 liams would interpose, resting on his spade 
 33
 
 Children of the Cotswolds 
 
 and smiling broadly at his own wit; while 
 the autocrat broke into delighted laughter, and 
 the grammar lesson came to an end for that 
 day. 
 
 When the "professor gen'leman" engaged 
 his gardener, that worthy explained that he 
 "didn't want no reg'lar 'alf-'oliday," but that 
 during the cricket season he would like an 
 occasional afternoon off, as he was an enthu- 
 siastic admirer of the national game. On the 
 autocrat's fourth birthday the old gardener 
 presented him with a tiny cricket-bat, and 
 during the summer months gardening w r as 
 varied by batting practice. Williams was too 
 old and too stiff to bat or run himself; but he 
 bowled to the little boy with a tennis-ball, 
 and gave him gentle catches, and these pro- 
 ceedings delighted Billy as much as they in- 
 terfered with Williams's proper business. 
 
 When the Fifth of November came, he 
 made what Billy called a "most 'normous Guy 
 Fawkes" a real Guy Fawkes, stuffed with 
 straw, and clad in a cast-off coat and trousers 
 of Williams's own, with a mask for a face, the 
 whole crowned by a venerable top-hat. It 
 says much for the depth and sincerity of Wil- 
 34
 
 A Philosopher of the Cotswolds 
 
 liams's affection for the autocrat that he 
 should have thus sacrificed a hat still bearing 
 the smallest outward semblance of such head- 
 gear. For Williams himself never wore any 
 other shape. Winter or summer, his large 
 bald head was protected from rain or sun by 
 a wide-brimmed and generally seedy tall felt 
 hat. On Sundays it was a silk one, carefully 
 brushed, but decidedly smudgy as regarded 
 outline. All the children in the adjacent cot- 
 tages were bidden to see the guy, as Williams 
 proudly cast it upon a large bonfire that he 
 had been saving for the occasion for many 
 weeks. The professor gentleman let off rockets, 
 and even Billy himself was permitted to fire 
 off several squibs. It was altogether a great 
 occasion, and was regarded in the autocrat's 
 family as a sort of apotheosis of Williams, for 
 shortly afterwards he fell ill, and grew worse 
 so rapidly that he was removed to the cottage 
 hospital in the town. His cottage was very 
 small, and his wife very old, and the doctor 
 is a man who has the very greatest objection 
 to letting people die for lack of proper care and 
 attention. 
 
 His gentle old wife crept down the hill every 
 35
 
 Children of the Cotswolds 
 
 day to see him, but her accounts were far 
 from cheering. 
 
 "'E be that deaf 'e can't yer what they do 
 say, and 'e be that weak and low nothin' don't 
 seem to rouse 'im." 
 
 So Billy's father went down to the hospital 
 to see Williams, and found him lying, gaunt 
 and ashen-coloured and still, in the straight 
 white bed. The ward was clean and sunny 
 and comfortable, but Williams did not seem 
 to mend. 
 
 "He seems to have lost heart," said the 
 cheery matron; "he's not so very old, or so 
 very ill, but that he might get round, but his 
 deafness is against him, and if he isn't roused 
 he'll slip away simply because he doesn't care 
 to stop." 
 
 Billy's father leant over the bed and laid 
 his hand on the gnarled work-worn hand lying 
 outside the white coverlet. Williams opened 
 his eyes and stared languidly at his master. 
 Presently there lighted in the tired old eyes a 
 gleam of recognition. 
 
 "It be very quiet here," he muttered, "very 
 lonesome and fur aff ; them doctors and nusses 
 they mumbles so, I can't yer 'em, and I'd 
 36
 
 A Philosopher of the Cotswolds 
 
 like to yer suimnut. ... I can allays yer 
 Mazter Billy, 'e do talk so sensible 
 
 "He shall come and see you," said the vis~ 
 itor, loudly, right into the old man's ear; but 
 Williams shook his head wearily, and closed 
 his eyes again. 
 
 "What's the best time?" asked Billy's 
 father of the matron. "I'll bring the little 
 lad it might rouse him; he has always been 
 so fond of him." 
 
 "The morning's the best time," she an- 
 swered. "He sleeps so much. We can but 
 try it, sir." 
 
 Next day the autocrat his rosy face very 
 solemn, and his little soul oppressed by the 
 solemnity of the occasion pattered across the 
 parqueted floor to the bedside of old Williams. 
 The occupants of the three other beds in the 
 men's ward it is quite a little hospital 
 raised themselves and watched the pretty 
 child with interest as he put out his little 
 gloved hand timidly to touch this strange new 
 Williams, lying so white and still in the clean, 
 straight bed. 
 
 "Speak to him, sonnie!" said a voice at his 
 ear. 
 
 37
 
 Children of the Cotswolds 
 
 " Williams ! " whispered the child very low and 
 timidly. Then, remembering that he never used 
 to speak to Williams like that, he said loudly, 
 "Williams, dear! the celery is very good." 
 
 Williams opened his eyes, and when he saw 
 Billy a smile broke over his face like the No- 
 vember sunshine itself. 
 
 "Didn't I say as 'e talked sensible?" he 
 asked of the world in general. Then, "So you 
 be come at last, Mazter Billy!" 
 
 "Tell him you want him to get well !" whis- 
 pered Billy's father. 
 
 "I wish you'd make haste and come home, 
 Williams," Billy shouted; "I've got to go 
 walks wiv Nanna nearly every day now, and 
 it's so dull." 
 
 "Do ee miss Oi, Mazter Billy?" 
 
 "'Course I do. We all do. Please get well, 
 Williams ! Aren't you tired of stopping here ? 
 though it's very pretty," he added hastily, 
 fearing lest he had said something rude; "but 
 Mrs. Williams is very lonely, and so am I." 
 
 "I be main tired, Mazter Billy. I don't 
 seem to 'ave no sart o' stren'th in me. I be 
 a hold man " 
 
 "There's such a lot of chrysanthemums in 
 38
 
 A Philosopher of the Cotswolds 
 
 the drive, Williams, and in your garden too," 
 Billy continued, remembering his instructions 
 to "interest" the sick man, "and Trimmie has 
 scratched up such a lot of bulbs in the bed in 
 the middle of the front lawn, and thrown the 
 earth all over the place." 
 
 Trimmie was the autocrat's fox-terrier, and 
 his misdeeds were the only subject upon which 
 Williams ventured to disagree with that gen- 
 tleman on occasion expressing a strong desire 
 to thrash "that there varmint of a dog" for 
 sundry scratchings which his master only re- 
 garded with admiring amusement. 
 
 For the first tune for a whole long week 
 Williams raised his head quite two inches 
 from the pillow, exclaiming: 
 
 "That there dog'll 'ave to be beat, scrattin' 
 
 and scramblin' and spilin' my garden " 
 
 and Williams dropped his head on the pillow 
 again with an emphatic bump. 
 
 Here the nurse interfered, and the autocrat, 
 having succeeded in rousing the patient rather 
 more effectually than the authorities either 
 anticipated or desired, was led away. 
 
 Half an hour later the nurse approached his 
 bedside. 
 
 39
 
 Children of the Cotswolds 
 
 "Here's your beef-tea, Mr. Williams!" she 
 almost shouted; "you must try and take it." 
 
 "Who be you a-hollerin' at?" growled the 
 patient. "I'll take the messy stuff without so 
 much noise about it." 
 
 "I don't believe the old image is half so 
 deaf as he makes out," whispered the nurse 
 to the matron, feeling rather nettled at this 
 unexpected retort. 
 
 The old image kept muttering to himself all 
 that day, and those who listened heard re- 
 marks to the effect that there was no rest to 
 be expected this side of the grave, that he sim- 
 ply couldn't lie there and think of his garden 
 going to "wrack and rewing, all along of a 
 slippety varmint of a tarrier. Just let me 
 catch him a-scrattin' in my borders, and I'll 
 give 'im what for." 
 
 The ultimate result of these mutterings being 
 that, in another week, Williams was discharged 
 as convalescent, and by Christmas was well 
 enough to dictate to his mistress as to what 
 greenery she might cut for the decoration of 
 the house. 
 
 "Ladies, they did cum," said he to his wife, 
 "and did read in that there 'orspital, but they 
 40
 
 A Philosopher of the Cotswolds 
 
 did spake so secret-like and quiet, I couldn't 
 never yer what it were all about; and the doc- 
 tor 'e cum, and passun 'e cum, but I didn't 
 seem to take no sort of delight in none of 'em. 
 Then Mazter Billy 'e cum, and did talk the 
 most sensiblest of the lot. . . . And, in spite 
 of that there influinzy, yer Oi be !" 
 
 41
 
 Ill 
 
 "ESPECIALLY THOSE" 
 
 did not know that Billy had so many 
 friends until he lay a-dying. Then they 
 knew. 
 
 It takes some of us more than four years to 
 make one friend. Billy had only lived four 
 years altogether, but ever} 7 one he knew was 
 his friend, and he knew every one in his little 
 world. 
 
 "I want some ice for Master Billy's head !" 
 said the parlour-maid. "He's that feverish, 
 doctor says it's to be kept on all the time." 
 
 Mr. Stallon, the fishmonger, looked grave. 
 
 "I haven't a bit of ice on the premises. It's 
 ordered, but it won't be here till to-morrow. 
 Dear! dear! and to think as the little gentle- 
 man's so bad!" 
 
 Mr. Stallon was a stout, seafaring-looking 
 man, with a short brown beard. He shook 
 his head, and looked really sorry. 
 
 "Whatever shall we do?" cried the parlour- 
 maid. "Whatever shall we do?" 
 42
 
 "Especially Those'* 
 
 "Do !" echoed Mr. Stallon. "Do ! why, get 
 some, to be sure. I'll go to Farenham for it 
 myself. Tell your lady she shall have it in 
 a' hour or so." 
 
 Mr. Stallon owned an inn as well as a fish- 
 shop. He crossed the road to his inn yard; 
 there he harnessed his horse to his spring cart, 
 and he drove to Farenham for the ice. Billy's 
 town is a very little one, but Farenham, six 
 miles off, is big, and Mr. Stallon got the ice. 
 I'm afraid that he drove furiously, and beat 
 his horse. But he quite forgot to charge for 
 the ice, and no one ever thanked him for get- 
 ting it. He didn't mind, he was one of Billy's 
 friends. 
 
 The Earl was another. The Earl is young, 
 fresh-coloured, and chubby, and somewhat 
 lacking in dignity. He is an M.F.H. for all 
 that, and Billy was wont to go with him to 
 the kennels, and knew all the old hounds by 
 name. 
 
 The Earl and Billy held long conversations 
 on the subject of poachers. Billy's sympa- 
 thies were apt to go with the poachers; but 
 that was the fault of the Radical curate. 
 
 As for the curate, he and Billy were dear 
 43
 
 Children of the Cotswolds 
 
 friends. He would spend long sunny after- 
 noons, bowling slows, and twisters, and over- 
 hands to Billy, and he could sing such charm- 
 ing songs. 
 
 One of Billy's peculiarities was that he ex- 
 acted songs from all his friends. Then he 
 learnt them himself, and sang them in his 
 turn. The curate's favourite song was "For 
 it's My Delight, On a Shiny Night." It was 
 this song that caused Billy's predilection for 
 poachers. 
 
 The Earl could sing too. Of his repertoire 
 the favourite was 
 
 "She went and got married, that 'ard-'earted girl, 
 And it was not to a Wicount, and it was not to a Hearl." 
 
 Here Billy always interrupted, exclaiming 
 delightedly, "That's you, you know!" and 
 demanded the verse again. 
 
 There was one friend from whom Billy ex- 
 acted no songs. This was old Williams, the 
 gardener. He was a very good gardener, but 
 deaf. Billy was the only person whom he 
 could hear well. He really had no notion of 
 singing, that gardener. So he told Billy tales 
 in broad Gloucestershire instead, and Billy 
 44
 
 "Especially Those" 
 
 trotted after him, assisting in all his horticul- 
 tural operations, and they loved each other. 
 
 But the fever had got a hold upon Billy, 
 it was such a hot July. 
 
 At last a Sunday came, when those who 
 loved him best feared that he could not last 
 through the day. At morning service the 
 curate gave it out that "the prayers of the 
 congregation are desired for William War- 
 grave Ainger"; then he paused, and with a 
 ring of supplication in his voice, which startled 
 the listening people, said, "little Billy Ainger, 
 whom we love who lies grievously sick." 
 
 "William Wargrave Ainger" had fallen on 
 inattentive ears, but the familiar name struck 
 home, and the congregation prayed. 
 
 In the pause which followed the words 
 "especially those for whom our prayers are 
 desired," the deaf gardener's voice was heard 
 to say "Amen"; but no one smiled at him 
 that Sunday. 
 
 The Earl had no surplice to take off, so he 
 reached Billy's house first; but the curate 
 caught him at the drive gate, for the curate 
 ran. 
 
 There was no sound in the house but the 
 45
 
 Children of the Cotswolds 
 
 voice of Billy's mother, singing to him, over 
 and over again, the same old nursery rhyme. 
 It ran: 
 
 "O do not come, but go away 
 
 Away with your eyes that peep; 
 O do not come to Billy's house, 
 For Billy is going to sleep." 
 
 It has a quaint lilting tune, and Billy loved 
 it, but he could not sleep. 
 
 His father came down to the Earl and the 
 curate, and silently they followed him up into 
 the darkened nursery. Billy smiled when he 
 saw them. He could not speak, he was so tired. 
 
 His mother knelt at the head of his bed, 
 singing tirelessly. His father knelt down at 
 the other side, devouring the thin, flushed, 
 little face with loving, sorrowful eyes. The 
 curate knelt down at the foot of the bed, and 
 the Earl, who made no attempt to wipe the 
 tears from off his ruddy cheeks, knelt by a 
 chair. By the darkened window sat the pretty 
 hospital nurse, in her white cap and apron. 
 
 "0 do not come to Billy's house," the 
 mother's voice went on. Then she sang more 
 softly, and suddenly there was silence: 
 
 Billy had gone to sleep. 
 46
 
 "Especially Those" 
 
 The drive gate clicked, a quick step sounded 
 on the gravel outside. It was the doctor. 
 He came hastily into the room, and, stepping 
 softly over to Billy's mother, lifted her up, 
 and set her in a chair. 
 
 He took her place, laying his hand on the 
 child's pulse, and on his forehead. Then he 
 said in a whisper, "He'll do, he's gone to 
 sleep." 
 
 The three men rose from their knees, as 
 Billy's mother fell on hers, with the first 
 tears she had shed, in all that weary week. 
 
 They followed the doctor out of the room, 
 and crept downstairs into the hall. The doc- 
 tor pushed Billy's father into the dining-room, 
 saying, "You must give me some lunch. I 
 want to see the little chap again, in twenty 
 minutes or so what the deuce was the matter 
 with you all? Did you think he was dead?" 
 
 "7 did," said the Earl, in an awestruck 
 whisper. 
 
 "Go away!" said the doctor testily; "go 
 away, you long-faced lunatics, and leave us 
 in peace!" 
 
 The two young men turned and went into 
 the drive, where they found Williams, waiting 
 
 47
 
 Children of the Cotswolds 
 
 for news. The Earl went up to the old man, 
 and put his mouth to his ear, saying loudly, 
 and with pauses between each word "He 
 is better he's asleep the doctor says he'll 
 do." 
 
 Williams blew his nose noisily, in a large 
 red handkerchief; then said huskily, "The 
 Lard be praised! your lardship, the Lard be 
 praised!" 
 
 Then the Earl and Williams shook hands; 
 and the curate and Williams shook hands. 
 The two young men shut the gate softly, and 
 went down the road. 
 
 The curate went to lunch with the Earl. 
 They had champagne, and the Earl grew 
 frivolous, as his manner is; he has not much 
 dignity, and he and the curate are old friends, 
 for they were at Eton and "the House" to- 
 gether. 
 
 "I say, old chap!" said the Earl confiden- 
 tially, "you were jolly careful that the Al- 
 mighty should make no mistake, this morning." 
 
 The curate leaned back in his chair, and 
 with more than a reminiscence of their college 
 tutor in his manner, remarked, "In matters 
 of importance, it is well to be strictly accurate."
 
 IV 
 
 AT BLUE HOUSE LOCK 
 
 THE life of Dorcas Heaven, who keeps the 
 Blue House Lock, is somewhat lonely 
 and monotonous. Her post is more or less of 
 a sinecure, for but few barges pass along that 
 bit of the canal. Indeed, the canal itself, 
 though winding through the prettiest bit of 
 country in the neighbourhood, is only navi- 
 gable during a wet season. After a drought 
 it grows so shallow that cows are wont to 
 stand derisively in the very middle of it, cool- 
 ing their legs. 
 
 Elijah, husband of Dorcas, is a labourer on 
 a farm some two miles off. 
 
 As the path alongside the canal leads to 
 nowhere in particular, there is not much 
 traffic; but when a barge does come, Dorcas 
 "bustles her about sharpish," and there is a 
 great to-do. She looks upon herself as more 
 or less the hostess of the occupants of the 
 barge. "They change the weather and pass 
 49
 
 Children of the Cotswolds 
 
 the time of day/' their destination and their 
 business are exhaustively discussed, and when 
 at length stillness settles down over the Blue 
 House, when there is no sound but the cry of 
 a peewit or the rustle of a water-rat in the 
 rushes, Dorcas fetches a chair into the door- 
 way and sinks upon it, exclaiming, "Law! 
 what a paladum it have been, to be sure !" 
 
 On Sunday mornings Dorcas does not go to 
 church, for "Elijah do like a bit o' meat of a 
 Sunday," and Dorcas is a good wife first and 
 a good churchwoman second. She therefore 
 defers her attendance until evening, when 
 Elijah accompanies her. While the bit o' 
 meat is in course of preparation he strolls 
 round for "a bit of a talk" with one "Ethni 
 Harman, licensed to sell beer and tobacco," 
 whose house of cheer lies on the outskirts of 
 the town, and where the very latest election- 
 eering news is to be had. Elijah has been 
 heard to express an opinion to the effect that 
 "there ain't no 'arm in going to church twice, 
 for them as it suits, but once, along of my 
 missus, be enough for I." 
 
 Had it been in Elijah's nature to be aston- 
 ished at anything, he would have felt some 
 50
 
 At Blue House Lock 
 
 surprise at the amiability with which Dorcas 
 had lately speeded him on his way to "The 
 Cat and Compasses" on Sunday mornings. 
 She had at one time been rather given to in- 
 convenient suggestions as that "them peas 
 want sticking, and the salery be ready for 
 banking," when Elijah would fain have been 
 sunning himself upon the bench outside Ethni 
 Harman's hospitable door, a mug of cider and 
 like-minded friend beside him. He usually 
 fell in with his wife's suggestions, for he was 
 a man who loved a quiet life, and Dorcas 
 when annoyed on Sunday was apt to carry 
 on her domestic duties with unnecessary vig- 
 our far into the night on Monday. 
 
 The fact was that, of late, Sunday morn- 
 ings had become for Dorcas the corner-stone 
 of her week, and in this wise: it did not as a 
 rule take long to get Elijah's dinner under 
 way; this done, Dorcas would take her chair 
 into the doorway, and read her Bible. She 
 generally chose the Book of Revelation, care- 
 fully forming the words with her lips and follow- 
 ing each with gnarled and work-worn forefin- 
 ger. With Dorcas, as with many people whose 
 lives are somewhat hard and monotonous, 
 51
 
 Children of the Cotswolds 
 
 the prospect of a suite of rooms in one of the 
 many mansions was extremely pleasant. More- 
 over, the Cotswold peasant dearly loves any 
 form of spectacle, and although Dorcas could 
 not pronounce, far less understand, many of 
 the words she met with, there was a sense of 
 pageant all around her as she read; while her 
 appreciation of the city which has "no need of 
 the sun, neither of the moon to shine in it," 
 was as purely sensuous as that of any disciple 
 of Wagner himself. 
 
 "And now, a little wind and shy" scattered 
 the apple-blossoms over the path, and the 
 Sunday silence was broken by a clear child- 
 voice. To Dorcas such sound was as the skirl 
 of the pipes to a Highlander in a far country; 
 her heart beat quick and her cheeks grew red- 
 der, and she rushed out to see who "was 
 a-comin'"; for Dorcas had "put away four" 
 in the "cemetrary" on the Fletborough road, 
 and one had lived to be four years old. Be- 
 sides, to let any one pass the Blue House with- 
 out "givin' of 'em good-day !" was a thing she 
 had never done "not once in twenty year." 
 So she laid her Bible on the chair, covering 
 it with a clean white handkerchief, and crossed 
 52
 
 At Blue House Lock 
 
 the few feet of garden which lay between her 
 cottage and the towing-path. 
 
 A sturdy little boy, in reefer coat and muffin 
 cap, with round, fresh little face, and cheeks 
 pink as the petals of the apple-blossom nearest 
 the calyx, danced with excitement on the bank 
 as he watched his father gathering some yellow 
 "flags" which grew at the water's edge. The 
 attendant father parents and such were always 
 a secondary consideration with Dorcas was 
 not very successful, as the ground was soft and 
 slippery. 
 
 "Is it wet down there, dad? Can I come? 
 Oh, get that big one just over there! Won't 
 muth be pleased? What dirty boots you'll 
 have ! Shall I hold your stick for you to cling 
 on to?" 
 
 Then he noticed Dorcas. "Good-morning !" 
 said he with gay courtesy. "Isn't it a fine 
 May morning?" 
 
 "It be that surely, little master!" answered 
 Dorcas in high delight. Then "the little 
 gentleman's dada" he never achieved a sep- 
 arate identity in the mind of Dorcas scram- 
 bled up from the swamp in which he had 
 been standing. He, too, proved most approach- 
 53
 
 Children of the Cotswolds 
 
 able, and she learned that the youthful poten- 
 tate in the reefer jacket had never walked so 
 far before, that the "scroped out old quarry" 
 just beyond the Blue House was his destina- 
 tion, and that he would probably come again 
 next Sunday. 
 
 He came every Sunday morning all through 
 that summer, and always with his dad. Some- 
 times they went tapping for fossils in the dis- 
 used quarry, sometimes they came with but- 
 terfly-nets and caught "Tortoiseshells" and 
 "Wall-Browns," and upon one great occasion 
 a "Fritillary." But whatever they sought or 
 whatever they caught, Dorcas was always, as 
 who should say, "in at the death," and shared 
 the excitement and the triumph with them. 
 
 The little gentleman was very friendly a 
 child is quick to recognise an admirer as any 
 pretty woman and it is possible that the 
 attendant father understood and indulged the 
 childless woman's craving for a child's affec- 
 tion. Sometimes Dorcas felt a qualm of con- 
 science, and wondered whether her adored 
 young gentleman ought not rather to be in 
 church these sunny Sunday mornings; though 
 had he been in church he certainly could have 
 54
 
 At Blue House Lock 
 
 been nowhere in the neighbourhood of the 
 Blue House. But she was comforted when she 
 heard that he went with his mother to a chil- 
 dren's service in the afternoon. Henceforth 
 she gave herself up to the study of natural 
 history and the worship of her dear "little 
 gentleman" with a light heart. 
 
 Even in winter he sometimes came "of a 
 fine Sunday," and Dorcas would spend many 
 hours of the following week vainly trying to 
 determine whether she admired him most in 
 a sailor suit, or in the breeches and gaiters of 
 which he was so proud. One never-to-be- 
 forgotten day the rain came down in torrents 
 just as her sultan and his grand vizier reached 
 the Blue House. They took shelter with Dor- 
 cas, and the sultan w r as graciously pleased to 
 be lifted up that he might reach a certain mug 
 from the top shelf of the dresser a mug which 
 had belonged to "'im as wer gone." Dorcas 
 made gingerbread cats and ducks, and her 
 artistic efforts went so far as to attempt a king 
 "with a crown upon 'is 'ead." After regaling 
 himself with these delicacies her sultan would 
 hold up a rosy face, ornamented by sundry 
 sticky streaks, to be kissed in farewell; and 
 55
 
 Children of the Cotswolds 
 
 when she had watched him round the bend of 
 the canal her eyes would grow dim, and she 
 would go back to the Book of Revelation, mur- 
 muring another favourite quotation to herself, 
 "The Lard gave and the Lard 'ave took away. 
 Blessed be the name of the Lard." 
 
 Of course the many charms of the "little 
 gentleman" were duly reported to Elijah, and 
 the residence of Ethni Harman took on a re- 
 flected glory from the fact that it was but a 
 stone's throw from that of her sultan. 
 
 It was a wet summer, and there came four 
 wet Sundays one after the other. Vainly did 
 Dorcas try to fix her mind on the streets of 
 jasper, while all the time she was straining her 
 ears for the sound of the little voice that never 
 chimed into the stillness. She grew to hate 
 the patter of the rain on the path outside; 
 even the fact that the canal, for once, was full, 
 and three barges passed in one week, did not 
 console her. The gingerbread animals grew 
 stale and crumbly between two plates, and the 
 gorgeous mug, "A Present from Fairford," was 
 put back on the top shelf of the dresser again. 
 
 The weather changed, and there came a 
 lovely Sunday. Elijah set off to "The Cat and 
 56
 
 At Blue House Lock 
 
 Compasses" as usual; Dorcas bustled about 
 with a pleasant sense of expectation and went 
 and stood on the towing-path, her eyes fixed 
 on the distant bridge. Some boys went by 
 to bathe beyond the second bend, with laugh- 
 ter and shouting. Then the only sound was 
 the hum of bees settled on the purple scabious 
 growing a-top the crumbling Cotswold wall. 
 
 On Monday Dorcas could bear it no longer. 
 "I be that tewey and narvous, I don't know 
 what I be about," she remarked, as she locked 
 the door of the Blue House and hid the key 
 under the mat. Should a barge come well, 
 it must manage somehow ! Barges were never 
 in a hurry. She had come to a momentous 
 decision. She was going to inquire after her 
 "little gentleman." Whether he was ill or 
 gone for a holiday, or was merely forgetful, 
 she would find out and end this dreadful sus- 
 pense. She was a very simple-minded woman, 
 but in her heart of hearts she felt a little sore 
 with the grand vizier, for she had a notion that 
 he was by no means ignorant of what these 
 Sunday visits meant to her. 
 
 "I believe 'e'd 'ave come afore this if Vd 
 a' been let. 'A be that meek-'earted 'a would- 
 57
 
 Children of the Cotswolds 
 
 n't 'urt a vloi, let alone a 'oman," she said to 
 herself with a half sob. She was convinced 
 that her sultan could not forget so utterly 
 the humblest of his slaves. So she put on 
 her best clothes and tight elastic-sided boots, 
 with lots of little white buttons adorning the 
 fronts. 
 
 At the Blue House, Dorcas was never either 
 self-conscious or shy; but when she reached 
 her sultan's palace, having timidly pushed open 
 the drive gate, she became aware that the new 
 boots creaked horribly, and that perspiration 
 was dropping from her eyebrows into her eyes. 
 Having mopped her face, and generally pulled 
 herself together, she managed to reach the 
 front door, though her knees trembled, and her 
 heart fluttered like a caged bird. 
 
 Never was such a noisy bell! It clanged 
 and echoed in most alarming fashion; she 
 wished that the stone steps would open and 
 swallow her up. What would they think of 
 her for daring to make such a clatter? Be- 
 sides and at the dreadful thought she nearly 
 cried out of course she ought to have gone 
 to the back door. 
 
 For full five minutes she stood on the steps, 
 58
 
 At Blue House Lock 
 
 listening for any sound inside the house, but 
 all was perfectly quiet. She turned and went 
 into the drive, meaning to go round to the 
 back door, when it occurred to her to look 
 back at the house; she had been far too ner- 
 vous to do so as she came in. The lower 
 windows were shuttered, and all the blinds 
 were down. 
 
 They had gone then! and it was empty. 
 "And they never didn't bring 'im for to say 
 good-bye to me." 
 
 Life's little tragedies generally happen to 
 the lonely. What in a full and happy life 
 ranks but as an episode, becomes an epoch 
 in the sad-coloured days of lean monotony. 
 Dorcas wiped her eyes more than once, on her 
 way home, and went heavily for many days. 
 Elijah saw that she was fretting, and tried to 
 distract her by news from the town, and occa- 
 sional suggestions that she should go over 
 "and see sister-law" in an adjacent village; 
 but beyond her necessary journeys to the town 
 to buy such stores as she could afford, Dorcas 
 never left home. She scrubbed the kitchen 
 table till she grudged to sully its whiteness by 
 so much as a yellow bowl, and she made her- 
 59
 
 Children of the Cotswolds 
 
 self a warm new winter dress, but, for all her 
 industry, the time hung heavy on her hands, 
 and she never forgot her "little gentleman." 
 The wet season was followed by an Indian 
 summer of exceptional beauty. "The spirit 
 of October, mild and boon," was in the air; 
 the tottering Cotswold wall, which laid its 
 wayward length on the far side of the footway, 
 was covered by sprays of crimson blackberry, 
 mingled with the fluffy greyness of "old man's 
 beard." Dorcas no longer stared hungrily 
 down the towing-path on Sunday morning, 
 but she did not forget; and, in token of her re- 
 membrance, the tw T enty-first chapter of the 
 Book of Revelation was marked in her Bible 
 by a little woollen glove with a large hole in 
 the thumb. Her sultan had dropped it dur- 
 ing his last visit. 
 
 The birds sang as though it were spring, and 
 Dorcas began to read aloud to herself to keep 
 her thoughts from wandering. "And God 
 shall wipe away all tears from their eyes," 
 whispered the kind Gloucestershire voice, 
 when suddenly, above the triumphant voices 
 of the birds, above the soft wash of the water 
 among the yellowing reeds, rang that clear 
 60
 
 At Blue House Lock 
 
 sound for which the soul of Dorcas had hun- 
 gered so cruelly. 
 
 "I wonder if the lady at the Blue House 
 will know me again, dad !" 
 
 * * 
 
 It seemed as though the grand vizier had 
 not been so greatly to blame after all. He had 
 been suddenly called away to the north of 
 Scotland; and although he had left directions 
 that before the sultan and the household fol- 
 lowed him that potentate was to be taken to 
 say good-bye "to the lady at the Blue House/' 
 although the sultan himself had repeatedly 
 suggested the propriety of such a pilgrimage, 
 his nurse had always considered the road too 
 muddy. 
 
 "I thought, sir, as you was all gone fur good 
 and all," said Dorcas, with a catch in her voice; 
 "and I were that taken to I never made no 
 inquiries." 
 
 On his way home the grand vizier was rather 
 silent. Once or twice he made a queer little 
 face, and seemed to swallow something in his 
 throat. At last he quoted, but not to the 
 sultan, "By heavens, it is pitiful, the bootless 
 love of women for children in Vanity Fair." 
 61
 
 Children of the Cotswolds 
 
 The rosy-faced child, who had been wondering 
 why the usual Sunday service of gingerbread 
 had been omitted, was rather surprised, but 
 nevertheless asked curiously, "Are you think- 
 ing of the Blue House lady, dad?" 
 
 His father stooped down hastily and kissed 
 him. 
 
 62
 
 KETURAH 
 
 ON Mondays the doctor stayed at the 
 surgery to see patients from two till 
 seven. He did not live at the surgery, oh, 
 dear no ! but had a fine house, with a carriage 
 drive and a conservatory, right at the other 
 end of the town. The waiting-room was very 
 full on Mondays, people came from all parts 
 to see the doctor; moreover, it was market- 
 day, and the pursuit of health could be com- 
 bined with that of business. 
 
 It was getting late, and only two people 
 were left in the waiting-room a shabby, 
 nervous-looking woman and a handsome lad 
 of sixteen, who had come to consult the doctor 
 about a sprained thumb. "One of the gen- 
 try," thought the woman to herself, as she 
 noted the trim riding-breeches and the leather 
 on his shoulders. 
 
 From time to time she looked anxiously at 
 the clock, clasping and unclasping her thin, 
 work-worn hands. 
 
 63
 
 Children of the Cotswolds 
 
 A door banged outside, the consulting-room 
 bell pealed, signifying that an interview was 
 over. It was the lad's turn next. He stretched 
 his long legs preparatory to obeying the ex- 
 pected summons, when the woman rose hastily 
 and came and stood in front of him, saying 
 eagerly, "Sir, will you let me go in out of my 
 turn? I won't keep the doctor a minute; 
 it's to ask him to come to my child who is very 
 ill. I've been away far too long as it is, but 
 I'd no one as I could send." 
 
 "Of course, of course!" exclaimed the lad, 
 who had risen to his feet when she first spoke, 
 looking very shy and embarrassed, "and I 
 am awfully sorry, you know, but the doctor 
 will be sure to do it good. He's 'A one,' 
 you know " 
 
 At this moment the door opened and a voice 
 cried, "Next, please!" and the little woman, 
 casting a grateful look behind her, hurried into 
 the presence of the doctor. He looked up 
 surprised as she entered poor people generally 
 came on Thursdays. 
 
 "Well?" he demanded. With rich and 
 poor alike the doctor's manners were always 
 somewhat abrupt. He was saving of speech, 
 64
 
 Keturah 
 
 though it is true that he expanded under the 
 smiles of youth and beauty. 
 
 "Please, sir, could you come and see my 
 little girl? She's bin ill now these three weeks; 
 she don't get no better, and she does nothing 
 but cough, and seems that hot and restless, 
 and is that weak " 
 
 "What have you done?" interrupted the 
 doctor. 
 
 "I've kep' 'er in bed and giv' 'er 'Dinver's 
 Lung Tonic/ My 'usband, 'e don't 'old with 
 doctors 'e's a Plymouth Brother, and don't 
 seek advice " 
 
 The doctor growled out something about 
 "nonsense," prefaced by a somewhat forcible 
 adjective, then "All right! I'll come. Where 
 do you live?" 
 
 After giving her address, the woman held 
 out to him a little screw of paper. He waved 
 it aside impatiently, saying, "Haven't seen 
 her yet," held the door open, and the woman 
 hurried out. 
 
 "I'll come directly," he shouted after her. 
 His heart was much softer than his manners. 
 
 "These Plimmy brothers are the biggest 
 lunatics going," he said to himself, "with their 
 65
 
 Children of the Cotswolds 
 
 faith-healing and their providence-mongering. 
 I'd like to dose the lot of them." 
 
 The doctor was not accurate in his diagno- 
 sis of the sect in question, but in his own. mind 
 lumped together every sort of religious en- 
 thusiasm. 
 
 
 
 Matthew Moulder, baker, was an upright, 
 God-fearing man, foreman to the baker our 
 little town boasts but one. He turned out 
 excellent bread; moreover, he was a good hus- 
 band, a conscientious if not affectionate father, 
 and a diligent worshipper in that upper room, 
 wherein assembled a handful of people of 
 similar religious views. He indulged himself 
 in few pleasures, and rather wondered at the 
 frivolity of his neighbours, w r ho took life with 
 that cheerful philosophy still to be found in 
 portions of England which yet remain to 
 justify the description "merrie." 
 
 His wife was meek-hearted, and easily 
 ruled; she never questioned his authority, but 
 having early laid to heart the maxim that 
 "what a man doesn't know can't vex him," 
 she was careful to vex Matthew as seldom as 
 possible. 
 
 66
 
 Keturah 
 
 How, then, did these two sedate and re- 
 spectable persons come by such a child as 
 their daughter Keturah ? 
 
 Keturah of the elf-locks and great wine- 
 coloured eyes. Keturah, who danced and 
 sang and giggled the live-long day; who 
 yawned in sermons and played "handy-pandy" 
 with herself, while her father uplifted his voice 
 in prayer. Who turned up in the hunting- 
 field when she ought to have been safe in 
 school, ever ready to open gates for the 
 "gentry/' with dazzling smiles, showing the 
 whitest of white teeth, and with curtsies that 
 suggested drawing-rooms rather than the vil- 
 lage lane. 
 
 At the little school, which she attended 
 with a fitfulness perplexing in the extreme to 
 the worthy mistress, she did her lessons far 
 better and more quickly than anybody else. 
 There was no doubt about it, Keturah was a 
 "character." 
 
 While there were but few people outside 
 the row of cottages where they lived who even 
 knew Matthew and his wife by sight, every- 
 body knew Keturah. Always in mischief, 
 always en evidence, always doing the unex- 
 67
 
 Children of the Cotswolds 
 
 pected, undaunted by misfortunes and punish- 
 ments which would have struck terror into the 
 heart of any well-regulated little girl, she had, 
 during her six months' residence in our midst, 
 attained to a notoriety which was apparently 
 as much a matter of indifference to her as it 
 was painful to her parents. Her father looked 
 upon her as a cross to be borne with Christian 
 fortitude. He wrestled in prayer on her be- 
 half, and on occasion with Keturah herself, 
 accentuating his remarks by means of a stick. 
 But, as Thomas Beames, her slave and shadow, 
 remarked on one occasion, when they played 
 truant to attend a meet some seven miles off, 
 "They'll beat we when us do get 'ome; but 
 us'll 'ave our fun fust." 
 
 Thomas was a round-faced, in no way ex- 
 traordinarily small boy, who was dominated 
 by Keturah's stronger character; he loved her, 
 why, he himself could not have told. Per- 
 haps because he admired the way she always 
 made sure of her "fun" regardless of conse- 
 quences a disregard the stranger in Keturah's 
 case, for Nemesis was by no means leaden- 
 footed. As a rule, the punishment was in very 
 truth the other half of the crime. 
 68
 
 Keturah 
 
 She loved her mother, and regarded her 
 father much in the same light that he regarded 
 her, with this difference that she looked for 
 no change in him, but with a philosophy as 
 pagan as the rest of her conduct accepted his 
 existence as a necessary evil. Indeed, had 
 Matthew but known it, she extracted consider- 
 able "fun" out of circumventing him. 
 
 But Keturah had fallen on evil days. A 
 fishing expedition, during which she tumbled 
 into the canal, and after which she walked 
 about till she was, as she put it, "moderate 
 dry" "at least not to notice" had ended 
 in the mysterious illness to which the doctor 
 had just been called. 
 
 Matthew Moulder had gone that evening 
 to a prayer-meeting in a neighbouring village, 
 where he would stay the night with a hos- 
 pitable brother; this fact, taken together with 
 the fact that Keturah seemed most alarmingly 
 ill, had given her mother the courage to call in 
 the doctor. 
 
 He had seen Keturah, had expressed him- 
 self with his customary vigour as to the im- 
 becility of people who could treat a case of 
 acute pneumonia with "Dinver's Lung Tonic" 
 69
 
 Children of the Cotswolds 
 
 for sole remedy, and now he had returned to 
 the little bedroom to have a final look at the 
 child. 
 
 She was too weak to raise herself on her 
 elbow, but she turned her head on the doctor's 
 entrance. "Shall I go to heh 1 ?" she asked, 
 devouring his face with her great fever-bright 
 eyes. 
 
 The doctor started. She had not volun- 
 teered any remark before. 
 
 "God bless my soul, no!" he exclaimed. 
 "You'll go to Weston-super-Mare when you're 
 well enough." 
 
 Keturah shook her head. "But if I don't 
 get well ? Shall I go to hell ? " 
 
 Theology is not one of the doctor's strong 
 points. Being as a rule much concerned with 
 the treatment of the body, he expresses him- 
 self with diffidence regarding the ultimate 
 fate of the soul. But on this occasion he 
 shook his head vigorously, holding the hot 
 thin little hand in a firm comforting clasp. 
 "You must ask a parson about these things, 
 my dear, but I am quite sure that no little 
 girls go but you are going to get well 
 cheer up! Eh?" 
 
 70
 
 Keturah 
 
 "Could I ast the young gentleman parson 
 wot plays cricket?" Keturah's voice was 
 hoarse and eager. 
 
 "The very man couldn't do better. I'll 
 send him round as I go home," and the doc- 
 tor turned to go. He hurried down the nar- 
 row stairs, but stopped at the front door to 
 call back into the house, "She's to live in poul- 
 tices, mind ! Live in ; em." 
 
 He stopped at the curate's lodgings as he 
 drove home, and went right in, to find the 
 cleric in question resting his slippered feet 
 upon the chimney-piece, while he smoked and 
 read the evening paper. 
 
 "There's a kid down with pneumonia in 
 the Waterlow Cottages, and she fancies she's 
 going to hell. She'd like to see you, so I 
 said I'd send you. Her people are Plymouth 
 Rocks, or some such thing. She's a queer 
 little soul dying, I fear." 
 
 "It can't be Keturah?" exclaimed the 
 curate, swinging his feet off the mantelpiece 
 and standing up on his long legs. 
 
 "I believe that is the creature's name." 
 
 "Oh, you mustn't let Keturah die! She's 
 a genius!" 
 
 71
 
 Children of the Cotswolds 
 
 "She may be a genius," said the doctor 
 grimly, "but her people are the balliest luna- 
 tics in creation, and I rather fancy that geniuses 
 are just as likely to die of neglect as other 
 
 folk " But the curate had not waited for 
 
 the rest of the sentence. He seized his hat and 
 ran into the street, his slippers (down at the 
 heel) going flip, flop, on the wet pavement as 
 he ran. 
 
 "He's a good chap," murmured the doctor 
 as he climbed into his dog-cart. "He's a 
 devilish good chap." 
 
 He went to see Keturah again that night, 
 and found that his instructions had been car- 
 ried out to the letter. He also found the curate 
 there, in his shirt-sleeves, assisting Mrs. 
 Moulder to make poultices. He often does 
 such things. His people look upon it as an 
 amiable eccentricity. "'E's a curus gent," 
 they say. "'E'll turn 'is 'and to hanythink." 
 
 He turned his hand to the nursing of Ke- 
 turah with such success that two days later 
 the doctor said, "She is better, but weak as a 
 kitten. She must have brandy. You must 
 watch for the grey look and give it her then." 
 
 " Oh, sir !" exclaimed poor Mrs. Moulder, who, 
 72
 
 Keturah 
 
 since the invasion of the curate, could not 
 call her soul her own, "Oh, sir, I daren't. 
 My 'usband wouldn't 'ave it in the 'ouse. 
 'E's tee total, 'e is " 
 
 "Tell him it is medicine," said the doctor 
 shortly. "She must have it, and here it is. 
 Give it her in milk like this !" and suiting the 
 action to the word, he measured out something 
 into a tea-cup. Something that had a most 
 unmistakable smell. 
 
 Keturah drank it, and her ashy cheeks 
 grew a shade less grey. Then she turned to 
 the doctor, with one of her dazzling smiles. 
 "I don't think much on the taste of it, but" 
 with immense conviction "it do make you 
 feel so cheerful-like, about the knees." 
 
 Her mother wrung her hands, but the 
 doctor chuckled, and, placing on the table 
 the innocent-looking medicine bottle he had 
 produced from his pocket, nodded at it, re- 
 marking, "Every time she looks so grey, 
 mind!" 
 
 Mrs. Moulder burnt brown paper in the bed- 
 room, for Matthew came home at five. She 
 dared not pour the accursed stuff away, for the 
 doctor and the curate between them had fright- 
 
 73
 
 Children of the Cotswolds 
 
 ened her out of her wits, by threatening legal 
 proceedings if Keturah were in any way neg- 
 lected. She had been obliged to confess to 
 the visits of the doctor, who might fly in at any 
 moment when Matthew was at home. But 
 she had not felt in any way called upon to tell 
 her husband that the curate had sat up with 
 Keturah the whole night that he was away, 
 helping her poultice, and allaying the child's 
 fears as to eternal punishment so successfully 
 that she fell asleep. It was therefore a shock 
 to Matthew, on his return to tea that afternoon, 
 to hear an undoubtedly clerical voice, ap- 
 parently reading to Keturah. 
 
 The house was perfectly quiet, though there 
 were movements in the back kitchen, showing 
 the whereabouts of Mrs. Moulder. He stood 
 at the foot of the little narrow staircase and 
 listened, fully prepared to find some taint of 
 ritualism in the curate's ministrations. He 
 had come to make a convert of Keturah, of 
 that he was sure; was there not an office 
 Matthew almost licked his lips over the word 
 "office" in the Book of Common Prayer 
 especially adapted to the visiting of the sick? 
 All the Protestant in him rose in rebellion. 
 74
 
 Keturah 
 
 He would be calm ; but he would convict this 
 meddling priest out of his own mouth. Then 
 with the dignified strength born of a just in- 
 dignation bid him begone ! 
 
 The bedroom door stood open, and he heard 
 Keturah's weak little voice saving, "Tell it 
 again ! I like it." 
 
 Matthew braced himself to listen, and this 
 was what he heard: 
 
 "We built a ship upon the stairs, 
 All made of the back bedroom chairs, 
 And filled it full of sofa pillows, 
 To go a-sailing on the billows. 
 
 "We took a saw and several nails, 
 And water in the nursery pails; 
 And Tom said, 'Let us also take 
 An apple and a slice of cake;' 
 Which was enough for Tom and me 
 To go a-sailing on, till tea. 
 
 "We sailed along for days and days, 
 And had the very best of plays; 
 But Tom fell out and hurt his knee, 
 So there was no one left but me." 
 
 "So there was no one left but me," repeated 
 the weak child-voice. Matthew rose from the 
 third stair from the bottom, where he had been 
 75
 
 Children of the Cotswolds 
 
 sitting, and stumbled somewhat blindly into 
 the parlour, where he sat down on the slippery 
 horse-hair sofa. He cleared his throat and 
 blew his nose, and there was an expression on 
 his face which was seldom seen there. 
 
 "And ther' was no one left but me." The 
 forlorn weak voice repeating that moved him 
 strangely. Keturah was the last of the chil- 
 dren. There had been six babies before Ke- 
 turah, and none had lived beyond babyhood. 
 At that moment he forgot how naughty she 
 was, how unregenerate ! He only remembered 
 that she used to lay her baby face against his, 
 and that she said "dada" the very first word 
 she spoke. 
 
 A hundred pretty scenes of her first years 
 flashed into his recollection. His suspicions 
 of the curate were forgotten, and in their 
 place came cold-handed fear to fill his heart 
 with the dread that Keturah might not get 
 well. 
 
 
 
 After all, one honest man can recognise 
 
 another, whether he wear an M.B. waistcoat 
 
 or a baker's apron. Anyhow, the curate so 
 
 far won upon Matthew Moulder that he per- 
 
 76
 
 Keturah 
 
 suaded him to allow the district nurse to be 
 sent to sit up with Keturah till she was "round 
 the corner," and that the nurse might keep a 
 sharp look out for the recurrence of "the grey 
 look." 
 
 As Keturah grew better, Matthew made, 
 with his own hands, and at the instigation of 
 the curate, a whole series of fantastic little 
 loaves that she might the better "fancy her 
 tea." 
 
 "My dada don't say much, but I knows 
 now that 'e do like me," said Keturah, in a 
 burst of confidence to Thomas Beames, and 
 Thomas, with that caution for which the 
 Cotswold folk are justly famed, replied 
 
 "Mebbe 'e do. But folks when they be 
 growed up be oncommon akard times." 
 
 "As for that there doctor," said Mrs. Moulder 
 to a bosom friend, " 'e's the most commanding- 
 est gent I ever see. But 'e do get 'is own way. 
 'E and that curie between them come over 
 Matthew something wonderful; they flaunted 
 their brandy in 'is very face, and 'e never said 
 nothink. They giv' 'er champang one night, 
 as she was so low, an' 'e hopened the bottle 
 77
 
 Children of the Cotswolds 
 
 'imself. But I will say this for 'em, they al- 
 ways says to Keturah, when they giv' 'er them 
 liquors, 'Now, remember, you're never to tech 
 this when you be got well. You're to be a tea- 
 totaller like your dada.' An' Matthew, 'e 
 took 'er to Weston 'is own self. 'E do seem 
 more set up about Keturah than 'e was. But, 
 mark my words, if you wants to call your 
 'ouse your own, don't you let that there doctor 
 inside of it, that's all." 
 
 Curiously enough, it was Matthew Moulder 
 who was grateful to the doctor. 
 
 78
 
 VI 
 
 MRS. CUSHION'S CHILDREN 
 
 SHE was rather like her name, for she 
 seemed specially created to make life easier 
 for other people. 
 
 A short, comfortably stout, elderly woman, 
 with a round, rosy face and kind blue eyes 
 beaming behind steel-rimmed spectacles. On 
 Sundays the spectacles had gold rims acid 
 w^ere never seen on any other day. 
 
 To be taken as a lodger by Mrs. Cushion 
 implied introductions and references from the 
 lodger and Mrs. Cushion was by no means 
 too easily pleased. If neither the vicar, the 
 doctor, nor the squire could guarantee your 
 integrity and personal pleasantness, there was 
 no hope of obtaining Mrs. Cushion's rooms. 
 Moreover, she preferred gentlemen. She was 
 frankly emphatic about that. 
 
 To be sure, in wet weather "they did make 
 a goodish mess," what with tackle and muddy 
 boots and the many garments that got soaking 
 79
 
 Children of the Cotswolds 
 
 wet and had to be dried. But then, they did 
 go out for most of the day, and that gave a 
 body time to clear up after them. And when 
 they'd had their dinners they put their feet 
 on the mantelpiece "I always clears all my 
 own things off of it except the clock" and 
 they smoked peaceably till they went to bed. 
 "Now, ladies" it was clear that Mrs. Cushion 
 was not partial to ladies "they did stay in- 
 doors if there cum so much as a spot of rain." 
 And they rang their bells at all sorts of awkward 
 times. "You couldn't be sure of 'em like you 
 was of gentlemen. When a gentleman settles 
 down, he settles down, and you knows where 
 you are, and what's more, you knows where 
 'e is. Now, ladies, as often as not, 'ud be 
 upon you in your kitching before you so much 
 as knew they was in the passage an' it were 
 onsettlin'." 
 
 No lady was ever allowed to set foot in Mrs. 
 Cushion's hospitable house in May or June or 
 the first part of July. Those months were 
 sacred to the fishers; but as a favour to one 
 of the references she would sometimes con- 
 sent to take a lady in August. 
 
 The vicar, my old friend, was my reference, 
 80
 
 Mrs. Cushion's Children 
 
 and he stood surety for my general "peace- 
 ableness." He assured Mrs. Cushion that so 
 long as I might sleep with my back to the light 
 that I would not want to alter everything in 
 my bedroom (one lady lodger had done this, 
 and Mrs. Cushion never forgot or forgave the 
 "'ubbub" that ensued), that I was in search 
 of perfect quiet in which to finish a book, and 
 lastly he got at Mrs. Cushion through her kind 
 heart declaring that I was a delicate, muddly, 
 incapable sort of person who required looking 
 after. 
 
 So at the beginning of a singularly sunny 
 August I went down to Redmarley to take 
 possession of two rooms in "Snig's Cottage." 
 The cottage stands about half a mile from 
 Redmarley itself, high above a bend of the 
 river known as " Snig's Ferry," and the vil- 
 lagers always call it "Snig's." 
 
 Who Snig was no one knows, for the cottage 
 was built "nigh upon three 'undred year ago." 
 The vicar, who is something of an antiquarian, 
 says even earlier. In the memory of man 
 "Snig's" has never been bought, it is always 
 "left," and the heritor, so far, has never been 
 willing to sell, though, as Mrs. Cushion re- 
 
 81
 
 Children of the Cotswolds 
 
 marked scornfully, "Artises an' sich do often 
 come after it, an' one, an American gentleman 
 'e was, wanted to buy 'un and build out at the 
 back all over my bit o' garden and kip the old 
 'ouse just as a' be for a curiositee. I let 'im 
 talk, but, bless you, my uncle left it to me in 
 'is will and I shall leave it the same in mine; 
 and so it'll always be, so long as there's one 
 stone to another. 'Ouses is 'ouses in these 
 parts." 
 
 Solid and grey and gabled, the little six- 
 roomed house still stood in its trim garden, 
 outwardly the same as when the untraceable 
 Snig first named it. Inside, its furniture was 
 a jumble of periods, but there were no aspi- 
 distras, nor did any ornament cling to a phish 
 bracket on the walls. Jacob and Rachel 
 were there, and the infant Samuel, and on either 
 side of the clock was a red-and-white china 
 spaniel and a Toby jug. Mrs. Cushion frankly 
 owned that she had preferred her own "bits of 
 things" to some of her uncle's that were there 
 when she came. To make room for her ma- 
 hogany sideboard she had sold an old oak 
 chest to the American gentleman, who was 
 glad to give a good price for it. 
 82
 
 Mrs. Cushion's Children 
 
 "A hoak chest," said Mrs. Cushion, "is 
 an on'andy thing to keep the gentlemen's 
 beverages in. One always 'as to lift every- 
 thing off the top to get inside. Now, my 
 sideboard 'as doors and shelves all convenient 
 one side, and a reg'lar cellar for beverages on 
 the other. Not but as what folks 'ud be much 
 better without them." 
 
 Mrs. Cushion was, herself, strong for the 
 temperance cause, but she was too tolerant 
 a woman and too excellent a landlady to do 
 more than hint her disapproval. And by 
 calling every form of alcohol "a beverage" 
 I'm certain she felt that in some inexpli- 
 cable way she so rendered it more or less in- 
 nocuous. She never spoke of either wines or 
 spirits by their names, only collectively as 
 "beverages." 
 
 And I speedily learned that although in- 
 dulgence in such pleasures of the table was to 
 be tolerated, even condoned, in men, women 
 were expected to be of sterner stuff; and I 
 believe my modest half-flagon of Burgundy, 
 reposing in meek solitude in all the roomy glory 
 of the "cellaret," grieved her far more than 
 when that same cellaret was filled by the varied 
 83
 
 Children of the Cotswolds 
 
 and much stronger "beverages" of her male 
 guests. Yet she never failed to remind me 
 when there was only, as she put it, "one more 
 dose," that I might order a fresh supply from 
 the grocer. 
 
 Men she regarded as children. Her mental 
 attitude towards them was that of "boys will 
 be boys," and they might be bald and stout, 
 Generals or Viceroys or Secretaries of State in 
 their public capacity but did such an one be- 
 come Mrs. Cushion's lodger she instantly felt 
 called upon to stand between him and every 
 discomfort, to condone his vagaries, and to 
 give him, so far as was humanly possible, every 
 mortal thing he wanted. Small wonder that 
 her "fishing gentlemen" took her rooms months 
 beforehand and year after year. 
 
 "I don't suppose as you've noticed, miss, 
 being, so to speak, unmarried yourself but 
 there's something in men-folk as seems to 
 stop growin' when they be about ten year 
 old. It crops up different in different sorts, 
 but it's there all the same in all of 'em. And 
 when it crops up no matter if 'e be hever so 
 majestical an' say nothing to nobody, the seein' 
 eye can figure 'im out in tore knickerbockers an' 
 84
 
 Mrs. Cushion's Children 
 
 a dirty face same as if he stood in front of you 
 more especially if you've 'ad little boys of 
 your own." 
 
 "I suppose/' I said perhaps a bit wist- 
 fully, for Mrs. Cushion was rather fond of 
 referring to my spinsterhood "it does make 
 a great difference. . . . First you know your 
 husband so well, and then your sons. . . . 
 By the way, what was your husband, Mrs. 
 Cushion?" 
 
 Mrs. Cushion turned very red and was 
 manifestly uncomfortable. "I'd rather not 
 talk about 'im, miss," she said hastily. "He 
 weren't an overly good 'usban' to me ... 
 but the children ..." Here Mrs. Cushion 
 beamed, and with restored tranquillity con- 
 tinued, "The children 'ave made it all up to 
 me over and over." 
 
 Yet from an outsider's point of view, espe- 
 cially from that of one who was "so to speak 
 unmarried," Mrs. Cushion didn't seem to get 
 any great benefit from her two sons. One 
 was in Australia and one in Canada, and though 
 she had been living in Redmarley some six 
 years, I could not discover that either had ever 
 been home. They were not, I gathered, par- 
 85
 
 Children of the Cotswolds 
 
 ticularly good correspondents, nor did they seem 
 to assist their mother in any way financially, 
 or send presents home. All the same, they were 
 a source of pride and joy to Mrs. Cushion, and 
 a never-failing topic of conversation. In fact, 
 I think that one of the things that caused her 
 to tolerate my sex and my spinsterhood was 
 the real interest I took in Arty and Bert, and 
 my readiness to talk about either or both at all 
 times. 
 
 They were never quite clear to me, and 
 this was odd, because Mrs. Cushion was cer- 
 tainly graphic and vivid in her descriptions 
 as a rule. She would never show me their 
 portraits because she said they "took badly," 
 both of them. 
 
 By my third August I could have passed 
 a stiff examination in her "gentlemen." I 
 felt that I knew them intimately, both as to 
 their appearance, manners, and taste both 
 in viands and beverages. 
 
 There was Mr. Lancaster, who ate meat 
 only once a day, drank white wine, and was 
 that gentle and considerate you'd never know 
 he was there except that he did lose his things 
 so, and had a habit of putting his coffee-cup 
 86
 
 Mrs. Cushion's Children 
 
 and pipes and newspapers under the valance 
 of the sofa. 
 
 "Faithful-'earted, I calls 'im!" said Mrs. 
 Cushion. "Every Saturday reg'lar he sends 
 me the Times newspaper, and it is gratifying 
 to see a 'igh-class newspaper like that once 
 a week. It do make me feel like a real lady 
 just to read the rents of them 'ouses on the back 
 page, and it does me no end of good to know 
 who's preaching at St. Paul's Cathedral all 
 the churches, in fact; it's almost as good as 
 being there." 
 
 " Wouldn't you rather have a picture paper ? " 
 I asked. 
 
 "Certainly not, miss," Mrs. Cushion re- 
 plied with dignified asperity. "I much pre- 
 fer what Mr. Lancaster reads his-self, an' it's 
 the kind thought I values far more than the 
 amusingness of the paper. It seems to keep 
 him an' me in mind of one another." 
 
 " Do your boys often send you papers, Mrs. 
 Cushion?" 
 
 "Well . . . not so to speak often. . . . It's 
 difficult for them, and I dare say the papers 
 in those parts ain't like ours. Perhaps they 
 
 wouldn't be suitable " 
 
 87
 
 Children of the Cotswolds 
 
 "Is Mr. Lancaster married?" 
 
 "Not to my knowledge, miss," answered 
 the cautious Mrs. Cushion. "He don't be- 
 have like a married man. . . . Not" she 
 added hastily, eager to give no wrong im- 
 pression "not that Vs ever anything but 
 most conformable; only there's a difference 
 between them as is married and them as isn't. 
 I'm sure you see it yourself, miss, though, to 
 be sure, you're nothing like so set in your 
 ways as some. If I was you, miss," said Mrs. 
 Cushion, suddenly beaming upon me like a 
 rosy sun in spectacles, "I shouldn't give up 
 hope. Mr. Right may come along for you 
 even yet. I 'ad a friend who married when 
 she were fifty-nine. ... To be sure, 'er 
 'usban' was bedridden, but Vs living to this 
 day, an' it's a good fifteen years ago." 
 
 "I don't think I should like a bedridden 
 husband, Mrs. Cushion." 
 
 "You'll like whatever you gets, my dear, 
 never you fear." And Mrs. Cushion bustled 
 out with the tray, leaving me to the rather 
 rueful reflection that her last speech was more 
 complimentary to my stoicism than to my 
 matrimonial prospects.
 
 Mrs. Cushion's Children 
 
 "Snig's" was an ideal place to work in: 
 quiet without being lonely; fresh and brac- 
 ing, yet seldom cold; beautiful with the 
 homely, tender grace of pastoral England. 
 The doctor and his wife "over to Winstone" 
 were hospitable and kind, the villagers were 
 friendly as only peasant folk in the remote 
 Cotswolds still are; the vicar I always look 
 upon as one of the most understanding and 
 delightful people I've ever met. That autumn 
 the squire and his large lively family were up 
 in Scotland, but this only increased possibilities 
 of work, and I stayed on at Snig's into October. 
 
 One day the vicar summoned me to luncheon. 
 A friend from a distance had motored over, 
 bringing with him his guests, a visiting parson 
 and his wife, to see the church and the village, 
 and he implored my presence "to keep Mrs. 
 Robinson in countenance." 
 
 Not that anything of the kind was needed, 
 for Mrs. Robinson turned out to be a most 
 self-sufficient and didactic lady, with "clergy- 
 man's wife" writ large all over her. Her 
 husband was of the conscientious, mentally 
 mediocre type of parson, with much energy 
 and no imagination; and luncheon seemed a 
 89
 
 Children of the Cotswolds 
 
 very long meal. There appeared a curious 
 dearth of topics of conversation, and for lack 
 of something better the vicar explained my 
 presence in Redmarley, mentioning that I 
 had been living for the last two months with the 
 excellent Mrs. Cushion "who comes, I be- 
 lieve," he added, "from your part of the 
 world." 
 
 "Caroline Cushion?" Mrs. Robinson de- 
 manded, with that air of cross-questioning a 
 witness which made small-talk so difficult. 
 "If it's Caroline Cushion, she did live in our 
 parish, and she certainly wasn't 'Mrs.' then, 
 but a middle-aged single woman. She left 
 soon after my husband got the living, but I 
 remember her quite well she came into a 
 house, or something, and went away to live 
 in it." 
 
 "It's a curious coincidence," said the vicar 
 easily, "but it can't be our Mrs. Cushion, for 
 not only is she married, but she has grown- 
 up sons to whom she is absolutely devoted." 
 
 "It's unlikely," said Mrs. Robinson, "that 
 there could be two Caroline Cushions both 
 coming from the same village, and both in- 
 heriting property at a distance. The matter 
 90
 
 Mrs. Cushion's Children 
 
 should be looked into, for certainly with us 
 she passed always as a single woman, and to 
 the best of my belief had spent almost her 
 whole life in the village. Is she a fairish woman, 
 stout, with red cheeks?" 
 
 "She is very pleasant and fresh-looking," 
 said the vicar, looking at me for help. "But 
 I am quite sure she can't be the one you mean." 
 
 "I'm not at all sure of anything of the kind," 
 Mrs. Robinson snapped. "She may have been 
 living a double life all these years. As I said 
 before, the matter should be looked into. I'd 
 know her again if I saw her. I never forget a 
 face." 
 
 I don't know why it was, but I suddenly 
 felt most uncomfortable, and was surprised 
 at my own passionate determination that 
 Mrs. Robinson should not see Mrs. Cushion. 
 We had reached the walnut stage, and I sug- 
 gested to her that she and I might go and sit 
 in the drawing-room and leave the gentlemen 
 to smoke. 
 
 "My husband doesn't smoke," she said 
 severely as we crossed the hall; "he doesn't 
 think it becoming in a clergyman, and I must 
 say I agree with him. But then he is rector 
 
 91
 
 Children of the Cotswolds 
 
 of the parish, and one of those too few, alas ! 
 in these lax days who acts up to his con- 
 victions. . . . Now, about this Mrs. Cushion. 
 . . ." Mrs. Robinson by this time was seated 
 beside me on the vicar's chesterfield. "I feel 
 quite anxious. What can be her reason for 
 masquerading as a married woman here? 
 Even if she had married since she left her old 
 home, it's most unlikely that her name would 
 still be Cushion, and it's impossible that she 
 should have grown-up sons. Have you seen 
 them?" 
 
 "They are both abroad/' I answered, "and 
 isn't Cushion quite a common name in Glouces- 
 tershire?" 
 
 "Not at all; it's a very uncommon name, 
 that's why I remember it so distinctly and 
 to think she always passed for a most respect- 
 able woman!" 
 
 "So she is," I interrupted with some heat. 
 "A most kind and admirable woman in every 
 possible way. Every one here has the greatest 
 respect for her. She's probably a cousin of 
 your one who doubtless was quite excellent 
 also. Would you care to go out and look at 
 the dahlias? The vicar has quite a show." 
 
 92
 
 Mrs. Cushion's Children 
 
 Never did I spend a more trying half-hour 
 than the one that followed. Mrs. Robinson 
 kept returning to the subject of Mrs. Cushion 
 with a persistency worthy of a better cause; 
 and I, for no reason that I could formulate, 
 kept heading her off and trying to turn her 
 thoughts down other paths. It was Mrs. 
 Cushion's sons that seemed to annoy her 
 most, and I had the queer, wholly illogical 
 feeling that Mrs. Robinson would, unless 
 prevented, snatch them away from Mrs. 
 Cushion, and that it was up to me to prevent 
 anything of the kind. So nervous did I feel 
 that I accompanied the party to see the church 
 and the village, and only breathed freely again 
 when Mr. Vernon's car had borne Mr. and Mrs. 
 Robinson away in a direction wholly opposite to 
 Snig's. 
 
 As his guests vanished over the bridge hi the 
 direction of Marlehouse, the vicar sighed deeply. 
 "Now, why," he demanded, "should Vernon 
 have brought those people to me? I suppose 
 he was so bored himself he had to do something. 
 She's his cousin, I believe, and what a trying 
 lady!" 
 
 "Did you 'ave a nice party, miss?" asked 
 93
 
 Children of the Cotswolds 
 
 Mrs. Cushion an hour or so later, as she brought 
 in my tea. 
 
 "Curiously enough, there was a clergyman 
 and his wife from your old home, Mrs. Cushion. 
 I wonder if you remember them? A Mr. and 
 Mrs. Robinson." 
 
 "I suppose you didn't 'appen to name me, 
 miss?" Mrs. Cushion asked I thought a 
 trifle nervously. 
 
 "Well, I didn't, but the vicar did." 
 
 "Yes, miss, and did Mrs. Robinson seem to 
 remember me?" 
 
 "She remembered some one of your name, 
 Mrs. Cushion, but it couldn't have been you 
 perhaps you have relations in her parish?" 
 
 "May I make so bold, miss, as to ask ex- 
 actly what she did say?" 
 
 "That it was a Miss Cushion she knew, 
 who left soon after her husband got the liv- 
 ing." 
 
 "I dare say she did," said Mrs. Cushion 
 grimly; "and there was many as would have 
 gone, too, if they'd had the chanst. If it's 
 not taking a liberty, miss, was you exactly 
 draw'd to Mrs. Robinson?" 
 
 "Certainly not," I replied. "I couldn't 
 94
 
 Mrs. Cushion's Children 
 
 get on with her at all. Are they popular in 
 the parish?" 
 
 "It's not for me to say, miss. I left two 
 months after they did come. They was new 
 brooms, you see, and swep' away a lot of 
 old customs. They wasn't like the Reverend 
 'ere he's all for 'live and let live' but they 
 was all for making every one live as they thought 
 proper. I don't say they was wrong, and I 
 don't say they was right, but whichever it was, 
 it weren't peaceable. 
 
 "But," concluded Mrs. Cushion, "I've no 
 business gossiping here, and you wanting your 
 tea." 
 
 So she left me to my tea and the reflection 
 that she had neither contradicted nor con- 
 firmed Mrs. Robinson's statement. 
 
 During the next couple of days I was con- 
 scious of a certain constraint in our, hitherto, 
 completely cordial relationship. Mrs. Cushion 
 was just as careful as ever for my comfort 
 everything was just as well done, and meals as 
 punctual, and rooms spick and span as before; 
 but I missed something. I missed the interest 
 she used to take in me and the interest she 
 allowed me to take in her. She was still the 
 95
 
 Children of the Cotswolds 
 
 perfect landlady, but I grievously missed the 
 frank and genial human being. 
 
 I had lunched with the vicar and his guests 
 on Tuesday. On Friday afternoon Mrs. 
 Cushion got a lift into "Ziren" to do some 
 shopping, and I had to take my own letters 
 to the post office. I met the vicar on his 
 way to call on me, and he turned back and 
 walked with me, and I speedily perceived that 
 something worried him. The vicar is stout 
 and gouty, and walks but slowly. We only 
 just caught the post, and then he asked me to 
 go with him to the vicarage to look at a black 
 dahlia in his garden before the first frosts 
 took it. 
 
 In the garden he stopped long before we 
 came to the dahlias and exclaimed, "I've heard 
 from that vexatious woman." 
 
 "Mrs. Robinson?" 
 
 "Yes; just read her letter." 
 
 "DEAR MR. MOLYNEUX," it ran, "I feel it 
 is my duty to tell you that I have been making 
 inquiries about Caroline Cushion, and there is 
 no question whatever that she is the same per- 
 son who was living here when my husband and 
 96
 
 Mrs. Cushion's Children 
 
 I first came to the parish. It happens that 
 Mrs. Bayley, widow of the former incumbent, 
 is at present staying with Lady Moreland at the 
 Manor, and I called upon her the day I returned 
 from Mr. Vernon's, that I might make search- 
 ing inquiries as to where Caroline Cushion had 
 lived before she left for Redmarley, where I 
 understand she was left a cottage by her uncle, 
 her mother's brother. Mrs. Bayley remembered 
 her perfectly well, and, I must say, spoke 
 highly of her. But she was as astonished as I 
 was to hear she was posing as a married woman 
 with a family, for she had lived in this parish 
 from her youth up. I grieve much that I 
 should have to bring this life of duplicity to 
 light; and I feel it is only right to let you know, 
 that you may take steps to sift the matter and 
 bring the woman to a proper sense of her wrong- 
 doing. For if during the years she lived here 
 she really possessed a husband and children, 
 she shamefully neglected them; and if she is 
 unmarried the case is infinitely worse. Please 
 let me know the result of your investiga- 
 tions. 
 
 "Yours sincerely, 
 
 "ELAINE M. ROBINSON." 
 97
 
 Children of the Cotswolds 
 
 In silence I gave back the letter to the vicar 
 and involuntarily I shivered, for the wind was 
 very cold. 
 
 "Well?" he asked impatiently, "what do 
 you make of it?" 
 
 "I can't make anything of it. The whole 
 thing's a mystery." 
 
 Then I told him of my tea-time conversa- 
 tion with Mrs. Cushion, and of the curious 
 constraint in her manner ever since: of how 
 unhappy it made me, and how cordially I 
 detested Mrs. Robinson and wished her far 
 further than the Forest of Dean though to 
 the Redmarley folk the Forest of Dean is in- 
 deed as the ends of the earth. 
 
 "If I know anything of human nature," 
 said the vicar, punctuating his remarks with 
 vicious flicks of the finger upon Mrs. Robin- 
 son's envelope, "Mrs. Cushion is as honest 
 and straightforward a woman as ever stepped, 
 a good woman, a kindly woman. Has she never 
 said anything to you about her husband?" 
 
 "Only once. I asked about him, and I 
 saw it was a painful subject, so I never men- 
 tioned him again. I fear he w r as an unsatis- 
 factory person." 
 
 98
 
 Mrs. Cushion's Children 
 
 "But what am I to say to this pestiferous 
 woman? If I don't answer her, she's capable 
 of coming over here and setting the whole 
 village by the ears. ... I should like," he 
 added vindictively, "to throw a stone through 
 her window." As he spoke I was reminded of 
 Mrs. Cushion's remark, "There's something in 
 men-folks as seems to stop growin' when they 
 be about ten year old": for although the vicar 
 is stout and bald, and his close-cropped beard 
 and moustache quite white, yet there and then 
 I seemed to see "a little boy in tore knicker- 
 bockers and a dirty face same as if 'e stood in 
 front of me." 
 
 "Wait a day or two," I suggested; "she 
 won't expect an answer by return because 
 you've got to make your 'investigations,' 
 you know." 
 
 He groaned. "How can I? If there's one 
 thing I wholeheartedly abhor it's poking and 
 prying into another person's affairs it's so 
 . . . ungentlemanly. I wouldn't do it to my 
 worst enemy, but when it's a decent, kindly 
 body who has been my right hand in every 
 good thing that's been done in this village ever 
 since she came. . . . Look here, my dear. 
 99
 
 Children of the Cotswolds 
 
 Perhaps you without hurting her feelings 
 could find out something to satisfy Mrs. Robin- 
 son. It would come better from you." 
 
 I doubted this, but I promised the poor 
 worried vicar to do my best. I walked back to 
 Snig's as fast as I could, for I was chilled to the 
 bone. It certainly was a very cold east wind. 
 
 Mrs. Cushion was back when I arrived. A 
 bright fire blazed on my hearth and hot muffins 
 awaited me for tea. She looked cold and de- 
 pressed, and she had no news for me either of 
 the fashions in the "Ziren" shop windows or of 
 acquaintances she had met. Even references 
 to her beloved boys failed to elicit more than 
 monosyllables. 
 
 Next morning she began to cough. For a 
 day and a half she struggled on doing her house- 
 hold work as usual. Through the night I 
 heard her coughing so incessantly that I got 
 up and went across to her room. It had turned 
 very cold, and in spite of her protests, I lit a 
 fire and did what I could to relieve her, in the 
 shape of hot black-currant tea and rubbing her 
 with embrocation. I also took her temperature, 
 which was 104 ! 
 
 In the morning she was so ill that she con- 
 100
 
 Mrs. Cushion's Children 
 
 sented to stay in bed, and I sent a note to the 
 doctor by the boy that brought the milk. 
 
 When he came he declared Mrs. Cushion 
 to be down with influenza, and that she must 
 be very careful. He would send in the parish 
 nurse that morning and a woman to do for me. 
 If a trained nurse should be necessary, he'd 
 get one, but he thought if I could stay for a day 
 or two to superintend things we could manage. 
 Warmth, rest, and quiet in bed till her tempera- 
 ture went down were all that was necessary. 
 
 Everything went smoothly. The parish 
 nurse was a personal friend of Mrs. Cushion. 
 The woman sent in "mornings" was most 
 attentive and efficient, and the fact that she 
 was no cook did not seem to matter, for so 
 much more than Mrs. Cushion could eat was 
 sent in by sympathetic neighbours that we 
 lived on the fat of the land on the surplus. 
 If there had ever been any question as to 
 Mrs. Cushion's popularity in Redmarley, it 
 was answered now, and in the most emphatic 
 way. 
 
 Anxious inquirers came at all hours, and 
 I spent most of my time watching the garden 
 that I might open the door, front or back, 
 101
 
 Children of the Cotswolds 
 
 before the visitor could rap you rap with your 
 knuckles in Redmarley, whether the door hap- 
 pens to be open or shut : the latter only occurs 
 in cold weather or on washing-days. 
 
 One thing did strike me, and that was the 
 number of young men and boys who came, 
 not only to inquire, but to bring offerings of 
 all sorts. It seemed to me that every male 
 being under thirty that I had ever seen in Red- 
 marley, man or boy, or hobbledehoy, came to 
 get news of Mrs. Cushion and I' was always 
 careful to ask their names and write them down, 
 for I soon discovered that their solicitude gave 
 her pleasure. 
 
 It was the only thing that did seem to 
 give her pleasure just then. When the cough 
 was easier and her temperature went down, 
 she remained heartrendingly weak, and at 
 the end of six days the doctor asked me if I 
 thought "she had anything on her mind," 
 for, if so, it must be got at and lifted; for she'd 
 never get well at this rate. 
 
 Now that she was, of necessity, rather de- 
 pendent on me in a good many small ways, 
 Mrs. Cushion had become less reserved, more 
 like her former self, in fact but yet, I always 
 102
 
 Mrs. Cushion's Children 
 
 felt that there was something between us. 
 Her blue eyes, sometimes without the spec- 
 tacles now, would follow me about with a wist- 
 ful, weighing expression that was full of dumb 
 pain and pathos; but naturally all exciting 
 topics were taboo, and I had never again, since 
 that first afternoon, referred to Mrs. Robinson 
 and her disturbing revelations. 
 
 One evening about nine o'clock, when Mrs. 
 Cushion had been in bed eight whole days, 
 when the nurse had gone for the night, and 
 I was left in charge, when I had made up 
 her fire, lit the night-light, and arranged the 
 hand-bell and all her possible wants on a table 
 by her bed I was going back to mine, but she 
 stopped me as I reached the door with a faintly 
 whispered " Miss ! " 
 
 I went back to the side of the bed and looked 
 down at her. She was very pale, and had put 
 on the spectacles as though to see me better 
 in the dim light. 
 
 "Miss," she repeated, "I can't kip it to 
 myself no longer; that there Mrs. Robinson 
 was right I wasn't never married an' I never 
 'ad no children." 
 
 Mrs. Cushion's hands were picking nervously 
 103
 
 Children of the Cotswolds 
 
 at the sheet, though her eyes never left my 
 face for a single minute. I seized one of the 
 weak, cold hands, and held it in both mine 
 but I could not speak. 
 
 "You'd better sit down, miss, while I tell 
 'ee. . . . All my life long I've loved children 
 more especially boys. When I was a young 
 'ooman, I 'ad my chanst same as most. One 
 was a school-teacher, most respectable 'e 
 were but I couldn't seem to fancy 'im: and 
 t'other, 'e were a hundertaker, and I couldn't 
 fancy 'is trade so there it was. An' as time 
 went on I did get thinkin' about the little boys 
 as I should like to 'ave 'ad; and they did seem 
 to get realler and realler Arty and Bert did 
 till I sorter felt I couldn't get along without 
 'em. ... Do it seem very queer to you, 
 miss?" 
 
 "Not a bit, dear Mrs. Cushion." 
 
 "Now, I ast you, miss do I look like a 
 hold maid, or do I look like a comfortable 
 married woman with a family?" 
 
 "I think you look very married," I exclaimed 
 quite truthfully "very motherly." 
 
 "Well, so do I think and when I came 'ere 
 where no one knowed anything about me ex- 
 104
 
 Mrs. Cushion's Children 
 
 cepting I was uncle's niece, I says to v myself, 
 says I, 'You act up to your looks, Caroline 
 Cushion an' then you can talk about your 
 children same as the rest.' I didn't trouble my 
 'ead about a 'usban' I 'adn't never thought 
 about 'im. So when folks asked me like you 
 yourself, miss I just prims up my mouth and 
 shakes my 'ead, and they sees as 'e weren't up 
 to much, and they says no more. Sometimes 
 I've thought as it were a bit onfair on 'im, pore 
 chap, an' 'im never done me no 'arm but 
 there. ... I couldn't stop to think about 'im. 
 'Twere the boys as I wanted an' they did 
 comfort me so, miss, an' I don't know y ow as 
 I can ever give 'em up." 
 "But I see no reason why you should." 
 "Ah, miss, you speaks so kind because 
 you do think, 'She's ill, poor thing, and we 
 must yumour 'er,' but what'd the Reverend 
 say? You may depend as that there Mrs. 
 Robinson'll never let it alone. What'll 'e 
 say? An' if 'e says as I've got to tell every 
 one I ain't no married woman an' never 'ad 
 no children, I'd rather not get well. I couldn't 
 face it, miss. Because I can't feel as the Lard's 
 very angry with me I can't." 
 105
 
 Children of the Cotswolds 
 
 "Mrs. Cushion, will you let me tell Mr. 
 Molyneux, and see what he says?" 
 
 Mrs. Cushion sighed. "I suppose 'e'll 'ave 
 to be told, an' you'd tell him more straight- 
 forward nor I could. It's all so mixed up like. 
 You see, them boys ain't never done no 'arm 
 to any one they so far off and all an' I will 
 say this, miss, they've give me a sort of 'old 
 over young growin' chaps I wouldn't 'ave 'ad 
 without 'em. Many's the young chap as 'ave 
 listened to a word from me about drink and the 
 like, because Vs thought, 'There, she knows as 
 it's only natural she's got some of 'er own 
 she won't be too 'ard on me' and they did 
 like me, I knows they did they did indeed, 
 
 miss." 
 
 I thought of the hobbledehoys and the shy, 
 furtive presents of eggs and honey and tight 
 little bunches of flowers, and an occasional 
 rabbit how come by it were perhaps better 
 not to inquire and the inarticulate lingering, 
 the waiting for intelligence they were too shy 
 to ask for I thought of these things, and I 
 knew that Mrs. Cushion spoke the truth. 
 
 "Now, you, miss," the tired, whispering 
 voice went on, "if I may say so, you looks 
 106
 
 Mrs. Cushion's Children 
 
 unmarried; and yet, I do believe as you 
 understands." 
 
 "I do, I do, Mrs. Cushion." 
 
 "It seemed some'ow as if it 'ad to be, and 
 yet there's no one 'ates lies and bedanglements 
 more than me. An' there I've been and gone 
 and done it myself. But I ain't going to own 
 it!" Mrs. Cushion added almost fiercely. 
 "Not if I 'ad to let Snig's an' leave these parts. 
 I'd far rather die." 
 
 By this time she was as flushed as she had 
 been pale before, and I had to tell her she 
 mustn't talk any more, but leave it all till the 
 morning, when we'd consult the vicar. 
 
 For about an hour I sat by her bed, till her 
 more regular breathing showed me she had 
 dropped off into the sleep of sheer exhaustion. 
 
 In the morning I sent a note to the vicar 
 by one of the solicitous young men, and by 
 ten o'clock he was in my sitting-room, while 
 the parish nurse was getting Mrs. Cushion's 
 room ready upstairs. 
 
 I told the story very briefly, and as far as 
 
 possible in her own words; and the vicar, 
 
 who had been sitting at the table facing the 
 
 light, suddenly got up and stood by the fire- 
 
 107
 
 Children of the Cotswolds 
 
 place, his elbow on the mantel-shelf, shading 
 his eyes with his hand and almost turning his 
 back upon me. 
 
 "And if she can't keep her children, she 
 won't get well," I concluded. 
 
 "Of course she must keep her children," 
 he muttered hoarsely. 
 
 "But what about Mrs. Robinson?" 
 
 He blew his nose, with his handkerchief 
 all over his face, and then turned on me tri- 
 umphantly, handing me a letter. 
 
 "I was coming to you this morning in any 
 case, to show you this. I suddenly decided 
 what to say and thought you'd like to see it. 
 I'm glad I wrote before you told me this. 
 There's a decisive vagueness about it that will, 
 I know, command your literary respect if 
 nothing else." 
 
 This is what he had written: 
 
 "DEAR MRS. ROBINSON, Of course you 
 are right. The Caroline Cushion you knew 
 never was married nor had she any children; 
 and she always was, as you charitably sup- 
 posed, an entirely respectable woman. The 
 confusion arose with Miss Legh and me, and I 
 108
 
 Mrs. Cushion's Children 
 
 apologise for the trouble we have inadvertently 
 caused you. Thanking you for so satisfactorily 
 clearing up the matter, I am yours faithfully, 
 
 "G. W. MOLYNEUX." 
 
 The parish nurse knocked at the door. 
 "I've put her quite straight, Miss Legh, and 
 the doctor said yesterday she can have any- 
 thing she fancies for her dinner." 
 
 Up the steep stairs the vicar climbed, paus- 
 ing at the top to get his breath. Mrs. Cushion 
 was sitting up in bed, propped up with pillows. 
 She had. on her best cap and the gold-rimmed 
 spectacles sacred to Sundays. 
 
 "Peace be to this house, and all that dwell 
 in it," said the vicar from the threshold. 
 
 I shut the bedroom door and left them. 
 
 When the vicar had creaked heavily down- 
 stairs again, I went and opened the front door 
 for him. 
 
 "Poor soul !" he said, "poor, hungry-hearted, 
 loving soul! Do you remember Elia?" And 
 more to himself than to me he murmured, 
 "And yet they are nothing; less than nothing, 
 and dreams. They are only what might have 
 been." 
 
 109
 
 VII 
 
 SANCTUARY 
 
 THE Reverend Grantley Molyneux hob- 
 bled down to the church for the first time 
 for some weeks. An attack of gout, unusually 
 severe, had kept him veritably "tied by the 
 leg" during the best of the June weather. 
 Now that he was about again there were but 
 gleams of watery sunshine to tempt him out 
 of doors. However, the sunshine if watery 
 was warm, and by the time the "old vicar" 
 for so he loved to be called had reached 
 the church he was glad to enter and rest in 
 its cool grey shadows. 
 
 From sunrise to sunset Redmarley Church 
 stood open. There were no week-day ser- 
 vices the worthy yeomen who formed the 
 bulk of the congregation would have looked 
 with great suspicion on any such innovation; 
 but none the less would they have been in- 
 dignant had the church been shut. 
 
 For nearly forty years the present incum- 
 110
 
 Sanctuary 
 
 bent had ministered to the people of Red- 
 marley. He was, on the whole, decidedly 
 popular indeed, rumour had it that in his 
 slim youth he had been over-popular with 
 the fair, being in the matter of susceptibility 
 to their attractions something of a Burns. 
 But, unlike Burns, he attempted no explana- 
 tion, no vindication of his conduct, if such 
 were needed, and it is surprising how short- 
 lived are rumours when there is no one to 
 contradict them. 
 
 The old vicar had ruled his life according 
 to the maxim given by an exceedingly wise 
 man to a young politician, "Never quarrel, 
 never explain, never fear." He found it to 
 answer wonderfully well on the whole, and 
 for the last ten years had placidly increased 
 in bulk, untroubled by any enemy other than 
 the gout. 
 
 A courteous scholarly man, of a somewhat 
 florid old-world politeness, he seemed strangely 
 out of place in this remote Gloucestershire 
 village, but he suited the people, and the people 
 suited him. Gallio himself was not more care- 
 less of doctrine than is the average Cotswold 
 peasant, whose highest praise of "passun" 
 111
 
 Children of the Cotswolds 
 
 lies in the phrase, "'e don't never interfere 
 with oi." The old vicar never interfered, not 
 even in so far as to appoint a curate when dis- 
 abled himself by gout. 
 
 Had he worn a ruff instead of the orthodox 
 "choker," he might have passed for one of 
 his own Elizabethan ancestors, as he rested 
 in the squire's pew, his head leaning against 
 the high oak back. 
 
 A long face, with high narrow forehead and 
 pointed beard, cheeks heavy and creased, 
 straight nose, with strongly marked sensitive 
 nostrils. The mouth full-lipped and shutting 
 firmly under the grey moustache cut straight 
 across the upper lip. Truly a fine old face, 
 deeply lined and sorrowful, bearing upon it 
 the tragic impress of great possibilities, that 
 had remained possibilities. 
 
 The grey coolness of the little Norman 
 church was restful. The vicar sighed and 
 closed his eyes those full blue eyes that had 
 once been bold and winsome, that were still 
 keen. The old live mostly in the past, they 
 are not often dull or lonely. At will they 
 can summon a whole pageantry of love, and 
 friendship, and eager strife. The vicar of 
 112
 
 Sanctuary 
 
 Redmarley was much given to warming his 
 hands at the fires of recollection. His mem- 
 ory was excellent, and he had much to re- 
 member, for he had lived strenuously. Age 
 had not dimmed his faculties, his hearing 
 being particularly acute. 
 
 Presently his good dream was disturbed, 
 and he began to be annoyed by a strange little 
 scraping noise for which he could not account. 
 
 It was almost continuous. 
 
 He leant forward and listened, frowned, 
 then looked interested, and finally rose from 
 his seat. 
 
 The noise ceased. 
 
 He sat down again and waited. Sure enough 
 the sound began again, and it was for all the 
 world like the scratch of a quill pen in the hand 
 of a rapid writer. He decided that it came 
 from a chapel on the right side of the altar 
 the chapel in which his wife was buried. A 
 square sarcophagus stood in the centre, but 
 there were no seats, as the chapel was quite 
 small. Hobbling up the three steps that led 
 to it from the body of the church, the vicar 
 looked about him but could see nothing, and 
 the silence was unbroken. 
 113
 
 Children of the Cotswolds 
 
 Suddenly it occurred to him to look over the 
 tomb which filled the centre vacant space. 
 What he discovered caused him to exclaim, 
 more surprisedly than piously: 
 
 "God bless my soul!" 
 
 Seated on the floor, in the narrow space 
 which separated the side of the tomb from 
 the church wall, was a young man. A card 
 blotting-book lay on his knees, a leather ink- 
 bottle was stuck into the tracery of the tomb, 
 and scattered round him were closely written 
 sheets of manuscript. He looked up at the 
 vicar's exclamation, but made no attempt 
 to rise. 
 
 " Sir ! What are you doing here ? " 
 
 The vicar's voice was low, but in the "Sir!" 
 there was infinite rebuke. 
 
 The intruder lifted his gaunt face the better 
 to observe his questioner. Then he pointed 
 to the scattered papers, saying: 
 
 "It is not difficult to see." 
 
 "But why do you write in my church?" 
 persisted the vicar, peering over the side of 
 the tomb at this strange sacrilegious person, 
 with a curiosity that almost mastered his 
 annoyance. 
 
 114
 
 Sanctuary 
 
 "Because there was nowhere else. I have 
 done no harm to your church besides, how 
 is it more your church than mine?" 
 
 "Do you think you could come and con- 
 verse with me in the porch upon this subject? 
 I am old-fashioned, and your action strikes 
 me as incongruous. Moreover, it tires me to 
 stand." 
 
 The young man scrambled to his feet. Lay- 
 ing his hands upon the tomb's flat top he 
 vaulted lightly over, and stood beside the vicar 
 on the wider side of the tiny chapel. 
 
 The vicar frowned, demanding: 
 
 "Would you like me to jump over your wife's 
 grave ?i" 
 
 A momentary gleam of amusement lighted 
 up the stranger's tragic black eyes as he noted 
 the vicar's cumbrous figure and swathed foot. 
 Then his expression changed, and he said 
 gently: 
 
 "I beg your pardon." 
 
 Often in these last days he had found him- 
 self wondering with a sort of tender curiosity 
 about the Lady Cicely Molyneux, "aged 
 twenty-one years," who had lain there so 
 long. 
 
 115
 
 Children of the Cotswolds 
 
 When they reached the porch the vicar sat 
 down, and, pointing to a place beside him, 
 said: 
 
 "Sit down, and tell me what you mean when 
 you say there is nowhere else?" 
 
 The young man obeyed, saying wearily: 
 
 "It is the simple truth. I am lodging at 
 Eliza Heaven's, in the village, and you prob- 
 ably know that there is no living-room except 
 the kitchen. I share a bedroom with three 
 of the boys, and the rain comes down in tor- 
 rents every day. I can't tramp about the 
 country I only get wet through and fall ill. 
 My holiday lasts ten days how could I spend 
 it better? The church was quiet; I was 
 under cover. No one has ever come in be- 
 fore." 
 
 The vicar stared silently at this strange 
 youth clad in threadbare black, with flannel 
 shirt open at his lean throat. He felt at- 
 tracted to him in spite of his square grim jaw 
 and Nihilistic-looking crop of thick black 
 hair. His voice was not uncultivated and 
 the vicar recognised, with a little thrill of 
 pleasure, the soft guttural "r" which pro- 
 claimed the stranger to be Welsh. Lady 
 116
 
 Sanctuary 
 
 Cicely was Welsh, and for her sake the vicar 
 loved well that courteous fiery little people. 
 
 "I am sorry you should have had such a 
 wet holiday. In fine weather the country 
 round here is very beautiful, and you look 
 as though long days out of doors would be 
 better for you than literary work anywhere." 
 
 The young man looked rather surprised at 
 the urbanity of this speech but it is difficult 
 for the Welsh to be other than courteous, 
 even when they meet with churls. It was 
 easy, therefore, to explain the position of 
 affairs to this gouty but amiable old gentle- 
 man. The hunted look left the stranger's 
 eyes, the tense lines round his mouth relaxed 
 as he said, "I work at a cloth factory at 
 Stroud. One of my mates told me his mother 
 would lodge me for my holiday I could not 
 afford to go home so I came here. I am a 
 Socialist, but my father was a Wesleyan 
 minister. I speak at Labour meetings in 
 Stroud that is my next speech I was writing 
 it is nearly finished.' 7 
 
 The musical voice ceased; the vicar gave 
 a little start; he had been gazing out on the 
 sunlit grass in the churchyard. Then he 
 117
 
 Children of the Cotswolds 
 
 turned and faced his new acquaintance: "Will 
 you let me read your speech? It would in- 
 terest me greatly. It is long since I took any 
 active interest in politics. I am glad I found 
 you instead of Daniel Long the clerk. He 
 would, with the best intentions in life, have 
 been rude. I can understand your seeking 
 sanctuary hi the church, and, as you say, She 
 belongs to all of us; but perhaps it is prej- 
 udice I had rather you didn't write political 
 speeches there. Will you come and write at 
 the vicarage instead? You shall be quite un- 
 disturbed." 
 
 The young man cleared his throat, and when 
 he spoke his voice was rather husky: "How 
 do you know I should not steal your spoons?" 
 
 "My good friend," the vicar answered cheer- 
 fully, "though I know but little of politics, 
 I know this much, that it is nothing less than 
 my whole possessions you Socialists want. 
 Spoons, indeed ! that's but a small part of it ; 
 and you don't want to steal them either, but 
 to take them, boldly and in the light of day, 
 that every one may see and admire the redis- 
 tribution I believe that is the word of 
 property." 
 
 118
 
 Sanctuary 
 
 As he spoke the vicar rose, and, leaning 
 heavily on his stick, prepared to fare forth 
 into the sunshine again. The little Welsh- 
 man made no answer, so the vicar turned and 
 put his hand on his shoulder, saying kindly: 
 "But as you write, you probably read. I have 
 plenty of books. You must come and see 
 them. Come now!" 
 
 "May I collect my papers, sir? I won't 
 be a minute." The voice was eager, with a 
 deference in the tone which had been lacking 
 at first. The vicar smiled that pleasant smile, 
 which had won him so much goodwill. "I 
 like these Welshmen/' he thought to himself, 
 "always so much in earnest, always responsive." 
 Then he sighed and frowned as his gouty foot 
 gave a warning twinge. 
 
 He and his strange acquaintance walked 
 through the churchyard together. At the 
 vicarage door the old man stopped, and, rub- 
 bing his hands delightedly, exclaimed, "Now 
 you are going to enjoy yourself." 
 
 "I am bewildered; Fortune is not usually 
 
 kind to me," murmured the stranger, as he 
 
 followed his host into a room walled round 
 
 with books. The vicar sank wearily into 
 
 119
 
 Children of the Cotswolds 
 
 an armchair, while his servant arranged his 
 gouty foot upon the rest. As the door closed 
 behind the man, the little Welshman clasped 
 his hands, and, standing before the vicar with 
 flushed cheeks and shining eyes, cried breath- 
 lessly: "Do you mean that I may take them 
 down handle them read them?" 
 
 The vicar laughed. "Sesame," said he, and 
 waved his hand towards the largest bookcase. 
 
 What "Sesame" meant the other knew 
 not, nor cared. It was a permission, that 
 was enough. He held out his work-worn 
 hands, palms upwards, to the vicar, saying sim- 
 ply: "They are clean." 
 
 The vicar leaned back in his chair and closed 
 his eyes, quoting softly, as if to himself: "These 
 are all at your choice; and life is short." But 
 the stranger did not hear him, for he found him- 
 self amidst a company "wide as the world, 
 multitudinous as its days, the chosen and the 
 mighty, of every place and time." 
 
 120
 
 VIII 
 
 A COTSWOLD BARMAID 
 
 IT seemed an odd name for an elderly woman, 
 even when, as in this case, she happened to 
 be a barmaid: but some one with an eye for 
 likenesses christened her "Bobby" because of 
 a really striking resemblance to the statesman 
 at that time familiarly known as "Bobby 
 Lowe." Anyway the name expressed her, and 
 Bobby she remained to the end. Let it not be 
 imagined that disrespect was so much as sug- 
 gested by the title: she was the best respected 
 woman in our town, and certainly one of the 
 most influential. 
 
 There was a college, of a sort, near the town 
 where Bobby lived, and generations of students 
 and the whole hunting youth of the country- 
 side passed through her kind hands, and every 
 man amongst them will acknowledge that he 
 was the better for having known Bobby. 
 
 It is to be supposed that at one time she 
 was slim, instead of round-about, that her 
 121
 
 Children of the Cotswolds 
 
 abundant white hair was once brown or golden, 
 that she had a story of her own apart from the 
 "Moonstone" and her "boys"; but we took 
 her for granted none the less thankfully that 
 we were apt to forget how unique she was, till 
 we were far from Bobby and the Moonstone 
 Bar. 
 
 Youthful new-comers were her especial care. 
 She not infrequently confiscated their money 
 if she thought they were going to "play the 
 giddy," only restoring it when she considered 
 they were capable of using it with some discre- 
 tion. And how carefully she looked after the 
 digestions of such as were inexperienced in the 
 matter of drinks! "What?" she would ex- 
 claim, "green chartreuse, sir, and you just bin 
 'avin' beer! You really mustn't, sir, you'd 
 be that bad" . . . and the best of it was that 
 nobody was ever foolish enough to resent her 
 interference. 
 
 "If a holdish man likes to take too much," 
 she would say sorrowfully, "it isn't me that 
 can stop 'im, but with these young chaps 
 just fresh from school, I must do my best 
 according to my lights." 
 
 What becomes of the young chaps fresh 
 122
 
 A Cotswold Barmaid 
 
 from school where there is no Bobby to take 
 care of them I wonder. 
 
 "As you know, sir/' she continued, "I 
 don't hold with drinkin' for drinkin's sake, but 
 I do think that a gentleman should be able 
 to take his glass sociable-like, and friendly. 
 There don't seem no good fellowship in them 
 there aereated waters, and I'm sure they ain't 
 no good to a body's inside, by theirselves." 
 
 She had a healthy crop of prejudices, this 
 Bobby of ours. Any sort of blasphemy or 
 loose talk she could not away with. "It's 
 sort of natural for a man to swear if he's a 
 bit taken to or astonished," she would say in 
 lenient mood, "but when they goes breaking the 
 third commandment like as if it was a hold 
 chipped plate, it gives me cold shivers down 
 my back that it do." 
 
 She never expostulated, but her square, 
 rosy face got less square and less rosy if> in 
 her presence, the conversation waxed too 
 forcible and free. At such times the offender 
 would be warned by one of Bobby's old friends 
 who respected what he probably called her 
 "fads." If the new-comer profited by the 
 warning all went well, but if he offended a 
 123
 
 Children of the Cotswolds 
 
 second time he was forcibly ejected and found 
 himself in the dark and draughty covered way 
 leading to the Moonstone stables, with the 
 explanation, "you can pile on the adjectives 
 here, old chap, but she doesn't like it." 
 
 Bobby was a sincere believer in good works, 
 and many were the "boxes" benefited by win- 
 nings at billiards or otherwise: and every Sun- 
 day saw her slowly taking her decorous way to 
 church, seemly and satin-clad, bearing the very 
 portliest of prayer books. 
 
 For man in the abstract, she had the greatest 
 respect, but taken individually, she looked upon 
 him as singularly gullible, and as requiring much 
 maternal supervision, both digestively and 
 morally. "Law! They may talk about their 
 science and their chemistry and that, but bless 
 you ! Just let one of them minxes come along, 
 and they're no better than imbeciles, that 
 they're not." 
 
 The one human creature for whom Bobby's 
 kind heart could find no toleration, was a 
 "minx." And by "minx" she meant such 
 pretty girls of the shop and dressmaker class, 
 as she imagined cherished hopes of "marrying 
 a gentleman." The idea that one of her boys 
 124
 
 A Cotswold Barmaid 
 
 (anybody under thirty was a "boy" to Bobby) 
 should get entangled in the meshes of a minx, 
 or more dreadful still, "marry beneath him" 
 roused Bobby as did nothing else. How she 
 got her information no one could ever imagine, 
 but she always knew when anything of the kind 
 was afoot, and Machiavellian were her methods 
 of preventing such a catastrophe. More than 
 one "county family" has Bobby to thank that 
 no undesirable daughter-in-law has been added 
 to its ranks. People under twenty she con- 
 sidered her especial charge. She gave them 
 much homely and excellent advice, and only 
 such drinks as she deemed suitable to their 
 tender years. 
 
 When one of Bobby's old favourites came 
 back from foreign parts the very first place 
 he would hasten to was Bobby's bar. He 
 would lounge in, after the fashion of a stranger, 
 and ask, in a feigned voice, for what had been 
 his favourite drink in the old days. But 
 Bobby's ears were very quick, one sharp 
 glance at the stranger, a little cry of recogni- 
 tion . . . and over the counter he leaps and 
 fast in his embrace is the old barmaid's stout, 
 comfortable, little figure, and for a minute or 
 125
 
 Children of the Cotswolds 
 
 two neither she nor the stranger can see each 
 other very clearly. And then, what a talking 
 over of old days there would be ! What asking 
 after old chums ! At such times Bobby would 
 even give us news of the minxes. Poor pretty 
 minxes, did any of you ever marry gentlemen 
 I wonder? They were really very nice those 
 minxes! But we don't remember them as we 
 remember Bobby Bobby of the silver hair and 
 little dumpy figure, who by sheer force of strong 
 and kindly character held sway over several 
 generations of hot-blooded young England. 
 She was not beautiful; she was not, as the world 
 accounts it, clever: but she was of the type of 
 the eternal mother-woman. "Bless you," she 
 would say with her broad, confident smile, 
 "it's easy enough to manage 'em if only you 
 lets ; em think as they're managin' you." 
 
 126
 
 IX 
 
 FUZZY WUZZY 'S WATCH 
 
 HE was Billy's little brother, and we called 
 him "Fuzzy Wuzzy" because his abun- 
 dant yellow hair stuck out straight and bushy 
 all over his head. Moreover, at tennis parties 
 he was sometimes allowed to "squeege" the 
 soda water into the tall glasses held out for 
 that purpose by thirsty friends; and they would 
 say "Here's to you, Fuzzy Wuzzy!" 
 
 This, however, is not a story of Fuzzy 
 Wuzzy, but of a man to whom Fortune had 
 not been kind, whereas Fuzzy Wuzzy was. 
 
 "He is the rowdiest chap in the college, 
 he goes on the drunk for days together; and 
 yet he's a perfect gentleman, even when he's 
 drunk." 
 
 We were all of us sitting on the lawn. Fuz- 
 zy's mother looked up as Mr. Calcraft spoke, 
 asking, "Who is this unhappy person?'* 
 
 "Oh, the 'Bookie' you know, that chap 
 who's got Vereker's old rooms. Riddell is 
 his name the professor knows him." 
 127
 
 Children of the Cotswolds 
 
 Mr. Calcraft waited for the professor to 
 give further information, but he said nothing. 
 Then a small voice remarked: "/ know Mr. 
 Riddell. He's got the beautifullest big dog, 
 and he gave me a ride on its back I like 
 him." 
 
 Fuzzy was sitting on my knee after a 
 moment's silence his mother asked, "Do you 
 like him, Hugh? Is it true that he is so 
 wild?" 
 
 The professor took his pipe out of his mouth. 
 He was not given to discussing the students, 
 we all knew that but this time he said, "I 
 like Riddell. He's a very clever fellow, and 
 most good-natured. I think his little weak- 
 nesses are much exaggerated. I have seen no 
 sign of rowdiness." 
 
 Mr. Calcraft laughed. "If you'd been at 
 'The Moonstone' the other evening, sir, you 
 would have seen more than a sign. He broke 
 every cue in the billiard room, and nearly 
 threw the marker out of the window !" 
 
 "Did he frow a man out of the window?" 
 exclaimed Fuzzy ecstatically. "Oh, Mr. 
 Bookie is strong." 
 
 There was a horror-stricken pause. They 
 128
 
 Fuzzy Wuzzy's Watch 
 
 had forgotten Fuzzy. His mother looked re- 
 proachfully at Mr. Calcraft, and somebody 
 murmured something about virginibus puerisque. 
 
 "If only the 'Bookie' could be kept sober," 
 Mr. Calcraft remarked apologetically, "he 
 would be a splendid chap. He is all right for 
 weeks together, and is as hard as nails; then he 
 goes off and makes an ass of himself down town, 
 and it makes people cut him. He told me the 
 other day that he doesn't know a lady in the 
 place." 
 
 "He is going to know one!" said Fuzzy's 
 mother, "he's going to know me. I think 
 it is too bad. You all say he is foolish, yet 
 not one of you has the courage to tell him 
 so, I think it is a shame." 
 
 "He would be an awkward chap to tackle," 
 murmured Mr. Calcraft. "He'd throw you 
 out of the window as soon as look at you." 
 
 "He can't throw me out of the window," 
 said Fuzzy's mother, "and I shall talk to 
 him. You must ask him to lunch, Hugh!" 
 
 Then we all went to eat gooseberries in the 
 kitchen garden and played at horses with 
 Fuzzy. 
 
 The first day of the horse show Riddell 
 129
 
 Children of the Cotswolds 
 
 was with Mrs. Ainger all the time. As usual 
 he was untidy. His tie was over his collar, 
 his collar frayed; he wore a terrible old cap, 
 and the front of his coat was smothered in 
 dust from Fuzzy's boots, for that gentleman 
 spent the greater part of the afternoon perched 
 on Riddell's shoulder. 
 
 "The Bookie" looked radiant, and carried 
 off his lady to tea in the tent; I followed, 
 sitting with friends at the next table. They 
 looked a little surprised at Mrs. Ainger 's 
 cavalier, for that lady was known to be par- 
 ticular as to the men she admitted to intimacy. 
 
 Afterwards I heard all about it. It seems 
 that the professor had asked Riddell to lunch, 
 and that he had behaved beautifully. He 
 was a cultivated man, and talked well, in 
 the softest, most musical voice in the world. 
 His knowledge of swear-words was the widest 
 and most far-reaching; when with men his 
 conversation was so garnished with oaths, that 
 one had to pick one's steps, as it were, to dis- 
 cover what he was talking about. But with 
 ladies, he was the most courtly and careful of 
 men. At the horse show he had discovered 
 Mrs. Ainger trying to lift Fuzzy to see over the 
 130
 
 Fuzzy Wuzzy's Watch 
 
 heads of some yokels who obstructed the view. 
 In a moment Riddell had relieved her of her 
 burden, and devoted himself to her for the rest 
 of the day. The professor was counting marks 
 and could not come. 
 
 Then ensued a time of peace and quiet for 
 the Bookie. He followed Mrs. Ainger like a 
 big dog, constituted himself head nurse to 
 Fuzzy, and he was sober, absolutely sober, for 
 six months. When other ladies met him con- 
 stantly at the Aingers', and found him to be 
 not only harmless but charming, they also 
 asked him to lunch and to dine. Thus "The 
 Bookie" who had plenty of money, and was of 
 unexceptional family, became something of a 
 personage. He bought new clothes, and wore 
 a clean straw hat. His linen was no longer 
 frayed, and he shaved twice a day. 
 
 Mrs. Ainger sang his praises wherever she 
 went, and openly declared that she believed 
 all the stories of his rowdiness to be slanders; 
 she had not seen his bill for billiard cues from 
 the " Moonstone." 
 
 At the end of April came the "Point to 
 Point" steeplechase, a day fatal to the Bookie, 
 who was "well on" by five o'clock in the after- 
 131
 
 Children of the Cotswolds 
 
 noon. Mrs. Ainger was not at the races, so 
 she was spared the spectacle of her protege, 
 swaying gracefully on the seat of his dogcart 
 as he drove off the course. He had not brought 
 his man, and as he was, his friends considered, 
 quite capable of getting home in safety, they 
 preferred not to be seen with him. He pressed 
 them courteously to accompany him, offering to 
 stand them a dinner at the "Moonstone." 
 But they stood in awe of Mrs. Ainger, and 
 not considering themselves in any way called 
 upon to act as keeper for the Bookie, they 
 let him alone. 
 
 Fuzzy's Nana was of a literary turn, spend- 
 ing a large proportion of the salary she received 
 for her attentions to Fuzzy on the lighter kinds 
 of fiction. On this particular afternoon, hav- 
 ing wheeled him in his go-cart some distance 
 along the high road, " she sat her down upon a 
 green bank," and bidding him "Play about, 
 there's a good boy, and pick some pretty flowers 
 for mama!" she was soon immersed in a 
 periodical, bearing a bloodcurdling device upon 
 the cover. 
 
 Fuzzy gathered a bunch of celandines, and 
 with them clasped tightly in his hot, fat hand, 
 132
 
 Fuzzy Wuzzy's Watch 
 
 set off at a run down the road, giggling delight- 
 edly when he discovered that Nana neither 
 called him nor yet started in pursuit. 
 
 Trotting gleefully along for some little 
 distance he turned off into an inviting-looking 
 lane. He kept close to the hedge for there was 
 a sound of galloping hoofs, and Fuzzy was an 
 extremely sensible small boy. Then there 
 passed him a horse and dogcart, the horse go- 
 ing at a hand gallop, the dogcart empty. This 
 struck Fuzzy as strange, but then strange things 
 do happen when one sets forth to seek adven- 
 tures. So he girded up his stocking which had 
 become uncomfortably wrinkly and trudged on. 
 
 Presently he saw a man lying by the side of 
 the road. Now Fuzzy had a large acquaintance 
 among road men, and for tramps he felt a real 
 affection. Had they not sometimes got white 
 rats in their pockets ? Nay, those of a superior 
 sort even carried ferrets ! He and his mother 
 were wont to bestow pence on tramps, and on 
 the road men, boots and the professor's old 
 coats. In fact the professor was often heard 
 to complain that he met his favourite coat by 
 a heap of stones every time he went out. Fuzzy 
 advanced fearlessly to inspect this weary man, 
 133
 
 Children of the Cotswolds 
 
 who was lying on his face, with one arm doubled 
 up under him in the strangest fashion. The 
 man did not move as Fuzzy came up, and the 
 little boy went and stood by the prostrate form, 
 saying, with a comical imitation of his father: 
 "Thirsty weather, eh?" but the usual "It 
 be that, Master !" did not follow. 
 
 The afternoon was very still. The sound 
 of galloping hoofs and bumping wheels had 
 died away in the distance. Suddenly Fuzzy 
 gave a little cry "Bookie! Bookie dear! 
 are you hurted ? Why do you lie in the road ? 
 gentlemens don't lie in the road Bookie ! 
 your foot is bad, it's all bleedy and dreadful !" 
 
 The Bookie did not answer, "he kind of 
 snored" as Fuzzy afterwards described it. The 
 child tried to turn him over on his back, but 
 the Bookie being six foot two, and propor- 
 tionately broad, and Fuzzy by no means tall 
 for his age, this proved an impossible feat. 
 
 "I'm afraid he's hurted very bad, his face 
 is so red and dirty," said Fuzzy to himself. 
 Then, with Herculean efforts, he succeeded in 
 inserting his own legs under the Bookie's head, 
 so that it rested on his clean holland smock. 
 He stroked the tumbled hair, and laid his 
 134
 
 Fuzzy Wuzzy's Watch 
 
 soft little face upon the Bookie's hot, prickly 
 cheek. They remained thus for what seemed 
 to Fuzzy an interminable time. He began to 
 grow sleepy himself. His head nodded, and 
 finally he too fell over on to his back sound 
 asleep. 
 
 When the Bookie came to himself he lay 
 still for a few minutes collecting his thoughts. 
 He discovered that his arm was certainly 
 broken, that a wheel had gone over his ankle, 
 that his face was resting on something soft, 
 and that not ten niches from his face was a 
 pair of small, dusty strap-shoes. 
 
 This last discovery completely sobered him. 
 He raised himself on his good arm and looked 
 down at the something which had been sup- 
 porting him. A golden head, resting on two 
 plump arms crossed behind it; sturdy legs, 
 crushed by his weight, which now drew them- 
 selves up stretching out again as if relieved 
 . . . and then the Bookie realised that Fuzzy 
 had found him, and had stayed to keep guard. 
 
 "God help me for a drunken beast! and 
 
 I can't carry him for my arm's broken," he 
 
 ejaculated. He got up on to his knees feeling 
 
 very giddy. The movement woke Fuzzy. He 
 
 135
 
 Children of the Cotswolds 
 
 too was puzzled for a moment as to where he 
 could be, then he saw the Bookie, and, his 
 brains not being muddled by various "drinks" 
 and a heavy fall, he sat up, saying in his tender 
 little voice: "Are you hurted much, my poor 
 dear? I stayed with you till you woked up." 
 
 The Bookie looked at Fuzzy and tried to 
 speak, but somehow he couldn't. Fuzzy was 
 on his feet in a moment and held out his 
 grubby hands: "Shall I pull you up? I can 
 pull dad up." 
 
 The Bookie took one of the little hands 
 and carried it to his lips, saying brokenly, 
 "Why do you love me, Fuzzy? I'm not 
 worth it." 
 
 Fuzzy took no notice of this remark, it was 
 just one of those foolish and irrelevant things 
 that grown-up people have a habit of saying, 
 so he said, "Aren't you tired of sitting in the 
 road? Hadn't we better go home? I'm very 
 hungry." 
 
 The Bookie tried again to get up on to his 
 feet, but something had gone wrong with 
 his leg, as well as his arm, and after a few 
 excruciating efforts he gave it up. 
 
 "I'm afraid it's no go, Fuzzy, I can't walk; 
 136
 
 Fuzzy Wuzzy's Watch 
 
 you see I was pitched out of the dogcart, 
 and I'm all smashed up whatever is to be 
 done?" 
 
 "Shall you be very lonely if I go home and 
 tell them?" asked Fuzzy with his arms round 
 the Bookie's neck, "and then they could 
 bring a carriage for you; you're too big to go 
 in my mail cart, or I'd lend it to you. It's 
 in a field wiv Nana." 
 
 "How on earth I got into this lane I can't 
 think, it's right off the high road. Fuzzy 
 Wuzzy, what an ass I've been!" The Bookie 
 groaned, and Fuzzy clasped his arms tighter 
 round his neck. Then he wiped his friend's 
 dirty face with the crumpled smock, remark- 
 ing: "Your poor face is so grubby, and you've 
 lost your hat!" 
 
 "Where's yours?" asked the Bookie. 
 
 "I think it felled into the ditch!" Fuzzy 
 answered composedly, "but there's no sun to 
 sun-stroke us." 
 
 "You must be got home, old chap; it's 
 getting ever so late and they will be anxious; 
 do you think you could go by yourself, and 
 tell them where you left me?" "a pretty 
 tale, truly," thought the Bookie to himself. 
 137
 
 Children of the Cotswolds 
 
 Fuzzy was torn by conflicting desires. He 
 hated to leave his wounded friend, and he 
 wanted his mother. Finally, having embraced 
 the Bookie several times, he trotted off down 
 the lane and into the high road once more. 
 When he got home it was nearly eight o'clock. 
 His father and mother, white-faced and anxi- 
 ous, were standing at the drive gate, straining 
 their eyes in the twilight. Nana, having 
 searched vainly herself, had only just come 
 back to confess that Fuzzy was lost. He 
 hardly waited to receive his mother's caresses, 
 but seizing her by the hand, dragged her down 
 the road, crying excitedly: "Come quick! 
 the Bookie's hurted and he's all alone." 
 
 By dint of much questioning, the Bookie's 
 whereabouts and the extent of his misfortunes 
 were arrived at. The dogcart and horse were 
 captured in an adjacent village, and the Bookie 
 spent a month indoors. Fuzzy went to see 
 him every day, so did they all, but they never 
 spoke of the accident. They played Poker 
 and Nap round his sick-bed, and the beggar 
 constantly won. 
 
 The night before he went down he told them 
 about Fuzzy. He forgot to swear at all dur- 
 138
 
 Fuzzy Wuzzy's Watch 
 
 ing the narrative, but at the end he said: "And 
 I'm damned if those dusty strap-shoes wouldn't 
 get between me and too much of the best cham- 
 pagne ever bottled !" 
 
 139
 
 X 
 
 THE DARK LADY 
 
 NOBODY knew her that is to say, none 
 of the other ladies knew her. She was 
 staying at the "Moonstone" for the hunting, 
 accompanied by a maid, a couple of grooms, 
 and six horses. The hotel people called her 
 "the Baroness." Billy always spoke of her 
 as "that pretty lady"; but then it is possible 
 that admiration for her daring horsemanship 
 coloured Billy's views. 
 
 On this particular afternoon Billy and the 
 unknown lady found themselves at the same 
 gate, in the gathering gloom of a November 
 afternoon, six good miles from home. She 
 was trying to lift a refractory latch with her 
 hunting-crop when Billy rode up on his shaggy 
 sheltie, dismounted cap in hand, and opened 
 the gate for her. 
 
 "We seem to have lost the others, you and I. 
 Shall we jog home together?" she asked, as 
 Billy, having carefully fastened the gate, fol- 
 140
 
 The Dark Lady 
 
 lowed her down the rutty lane. "I'm not very 
 sure where we are; but I suppose this lane leads 
 somewhere/' she continued. 
 
 "I know the way," answered the little boy 
 cheerfully. "I shall be very glad of your 
 company. Jackson that's our man lamed 
 the cob early in the day and had to go home, 
 and it's lonely riding by one's self." 
 
 "I am often lonely," said the lady, more 
 to herself than to Billy. 
 
 "Are you? So am I. I'm the only one 
 who hunts, you see; but I'm going to school 
 at Easter, then I shan't be lonely any more." 
 
 "Are you glad to be going to school?" 
 
 "Oh, yes! I shall like being with the other 
 chaps awfully; but, of course, I shall miss 
 my people . . . and the dogs, and the pony." 
 
 "Your people don't hunt, do they?" 
 
 "No; we've only the cob and my pony. 
 Mother doesn't hunt, she's too nervous; and 
 father doesn't care for it. Mother drives to 
 the near meets sometimes, but when it is a 
 long way she likes Jackson to come with me 
 for the day. Not that he's any mortal use," 
 added Billy with a gleeful chuckle. "He's 
 a potterer and my brother is too little." 
 141
 
 Children of the Cotswolds 
 
 "I wonder/' the lady began ; then stopped 
 suddenly. Billy turned his rosy face towards 
 her, but she did not speak. The child, be- 
 cause he knew one woman so well, divined 
 that this woman was tired and sad. So he, 
 too, was silent. The horses' hoofs went thud, 
 swish, thud, swish, through the foot-deep 
 decaying beech leaves. A delicate silver mist 
 gathered round the roots of the great trees; 
 like the bridal veil of a rosy girl, it spread it- 
 self over the stretches of ruddy space. They 
 had turned into the grass-carpeted main avenue 
 of the Earl's famous park, and Billy sniffed de- 
 lightedly at what he called "the good smell of 
 Christmas." Happy Billy ! to whom the death 
 of summer brought no sad thoughts. 
 
 "I'm afraid you are very tired!" he said 
 suddenly, in his kind boyish voice. "Would 
 you like to stop a bit ? " 
 
 The lady started. Not, indeed, that she 
 had forgotten Billy; she was in a subconscious 
 way basking in the warmth that radiates from 
 all simple and kindly people. Her rebellious 
 mood of the last weeks had passed. That mood 
 in which she loved to assert her fascination for 
 men; mentally snapping her fingers in the faces 
 142
 
 The Dark Lady 
 
 of her sister women so ready to think evil of her. 
 Certain kinds of men come to heel easily and 
 she felt her triumph to be but a poor one. This 
 half-hour's companionship of a friendly little 
 boy had altered everything; at the moment 
 she no longer felt herself to be the sport of cir- 
 cumstance; but her heart ached and her voice 
 was weariful as she said: "No, we won't stop. 
 I am tired, but we are only about three miles 
 from home. You live just outside the town, 
 don't you?" 
 
 "Yes! at that tall grey gabled house where 
 the cross roads meet!" 
 
 "I have seen you go into the drive. Do you 
 do lessons who teaches you?" 
 
 "Partly mother, partly dad. I am not 
 clever at lessons." Billy flushed as he spoke; 
 he was fully aware that his small love for 
 books was something of a reproach. People 
 expect so much from the child of clever parents. 
 He did not know that his strongly developed 
 sporting instincts were the pride of his bookish 
 father's heart; nor how cheerfully that father 
 had foregone many a rare edition, that Billy 
 might ride to hounds. "A modest lad, a good 
 lad; let him play about in the sunshine the 
 143
 
 Children of the Cotswolds 
 
 rest will come." So Billy's father, who would 
 relate with glee how successfully Billy had 
 vetoed one topic of conversation. On an 
 evening, not so very long ago, Billy had put 
 his head round the drawing-room door, de- 
 manding, "Is dad going to talk about 'The 
 Dark Lady of the Sonnets?' 'cause, if he is, 
 I'm not coming in. I've had enough of hearing 
 about her." 
 
 So dad vowed he would talk of her no more, 
 and discussed the habits of "Pug" with a 
 learning that astonished and charmed Billy 
 beyond telling. 
 
 The much-vexed question of Mary Fitton's 
 identity with the "Dark Lady of the Son- 
 nets" had raged with violence in Billy's house. 
 His father had written many articles upon the 
 subject articles appearing in those fat, un- 
 interesting magazines which littered drawing- 
 room and study; in whose closely printed pages 
 Billy sought in vain for "pictures and conver- 
 sations." He did wish that dad wrote for the 
 Strand. 
 
 Curiously enough, as they rode home in 
 the gathering eventide, the thought jumped 
 into Billy's head that the dark lady of the 
 144
 
 The Dark Lady 
 
 sonnets must have been exactly like the Baron- 
 ess. With the inconsequent aptness of child- 
 hood he proceeded to quote aloud lines learned 
 to please his father: 
 
 "For sweetest things turn sourest by their deeds; 
 Lilies that fester smell far worse than weeds." 
 
 The lady pulled up short and, turning in her 
 saddle, asked with a catch in her voice, "Why 
 do you say that? What is it? Where is it 
 from?" 
 
 "Oh, it's those sonnets, you know I've 
 learnt lots of 'em to please my dad." 
 
 "But what made you quote that just then?" 
 persisted the Baroness, her eyes dark and tragic 
 with some nameless fear: "What made you 
 quote it then? Were you thinking of me?" 
 
 Billy blushed and took off his cap that he 
 might rumple his hair, a thing he always did 
 when perplexed. 
 
 "I was thinking of you," he said at last, 
 "yet that has nothing to do with you. This 
 has though" and, blushing more than ever, 
 Billy repeated : 
 
 "Thine eyes I love, and they, as pitying me, 
 Knowing thy heart, torment me with disdain; 
 145
 
 Children of the Cotswolds 
 
 Have put on black, and loving mourners be, 
 Looking with pretty ruth upon my pain: 
 And truly not the morning sun of heaven 
 Better becomes the grey cheeks of the east, 
 Nor that full star that ushers in the even, 
 Than those two mourning eyes become thy face." 
 
 Billy stopped breathless, but confident that 
 he had said the right thing this time. 
 
 "It is veiy pretty!" said the lady with a 
 sigh "but the other is tine. What a queer 
 little boy you are to repeat poetry like that ! 
 How old are you?" 
 
 "I shall be nine at Easter. Then I go to 
 school. Where are you going when the hunt- 
 ing is over? It ends early here; we never kill 
 a May fox the crops, you know." 
 
 "I don't know where I shall go, probably to 
 London, or to Paris, or here she mur- 
 mured something in a language Billy did not 
 understand, then, turning to him, said dreamily : 
 
 '"That is my home of love: if I have ranged, 
 Like him that travels, I return again.' 
 
 You see I know something of your poetry 
 too ! But, wherever I go, I shall be lonely- 
 lonely and sad." 
 
 There was a sound of tears in her voice. 
 146
 
 The Dark Lady 
 
 Billy, infinitely distressed, felt that this mel- 
 ancholy lady must be cheered and encouraged, 
 so he said stoutly: 
 
 "I've never- seen you alone before. You've 
 generally got Mr. Rigby Folaire, or Captain 
 Garth, or Lord Edward, or all of them." 
 
 "That's just it," said the Baroness, and 
 Billy was more puzzled than ever. Feeling 
 that he must get on to more comprehensible 
 ground, he asked, 
 
 "How did you lose the others?" 
 
 "Probably very much as you did. Any- 
 how, here we are together, and I am very 
 glad. I have enjoyed your society extremely. 
 I shall remember our afternoon." 
 
 The Baroness was destined to remember, 
 for at that moment Billy's pony put his foot 
 in a rabbit hole and came down, throwing 
 the child with some violence against the 
 trunk of a tree. They were riding at the 
 edge of the wood. 
 
 The pony scrambled up and galloped off; 
 but Billy lay quite still in a pathetic heap. 
 The Baroness had pulled up her tall horse 
 almost on to his haunches, for Billy had been 
 thrown right in front of her. Now, with the 
 147
 
 . 
 Children of the Cotswolds 
 
 reins over her arm, she was stooping over the 
 prostrate Billy, while the nervous thorough- 
 bred trembled and curvetted beside her. 
 
 The Baroness was noted for the speed and 
 grace with which she could mount or dismount. 
 
 She lifted Billy in her arms. There was 
 a big bruise on his temple, and he seemed 
 stunned by the fall. His head rolled on to 
 her shoulder, lying there heavily. Reaching 
 for her flask from the pocket of her saddle, 
 and with the reins still round her wrist, she sat 
 down on the ground with Billy in her arms. 
 She soaked her handkerchief in brandy, and 
 dabbed his forehead, and, as if to aid her, there 
 pattered down upon his upturned face the first 
 drops of a cold November shower. 
 
 The Baroness had faced many dangers in 
 her time. To "scenes" of various kinds she 
 was quite inured; but she trembled as Billy's 
 face touched her neck, and there was a look in 
 her eyes that neither Mr. Rigby Folaire nor 
 Lord Edward had ever seen there. Presently 
 Billy stirred and opened his eyes, saying eagerly, 
 "I'm all right, mother! It wasn't Dalgo's 
 fault I fell off. It's all right." 
 
 Sitting up suddenly, he saw the Baroness, 
 148
 
 The Dark Lady 
 
 and knew where he was. But he had clung 
 to her she always remembered that. 
 
 He scrambled to his feet, exclaiming, "I 
 beg your pardon. Did I frighten you? I 
 am so sorry"; then, turning very giddy, 
 sat down again amongst the wet leaves. 
 
 "I wonder if I ought to give him brandy," 
 murmured the Baroness. She put her free 
 arm round him, while the tall horse sniffed 
 inquiringly at them both. 
 
 The white mist crept higher among the trees 
 and the rain grew heavier. Billy shivered. 
 
 "We can't sit here/' said the Baroness 
 decidedly. "You'll have to ride Frivolity 
 in front of me. I don't know where your 
 pony is, and if he has galloped home they will 
 be in a dreadful state. So we must hurry." 
 
 "How strong you are!" said Billy, admir- 
 ingly, as she swung him up to the saddle in 
 front of her "and how kind!" He put his 
 hand on hers that held the reins, her other arm 
 was round him. Thus they rode home in the 
 cold gloom of that November afternoon. 
 
 "Billy's late!" said his mother nervously 
 as she poked the study fire. "I am always 
 149
 
 Children of the Cotswolds 
 
 worried when he is out without Jackson; 
 he is so reckless, and Jackson came home 
 just before lunch, you know." Billy's father 
 pushed his papers away from him, and came 
 and stood beside her at the fire. 
 
 "There he is!" he said, "there's the drive 
 gate." 
 
 "That's a horse; besides, Billy always goes 
 straight to the yard Oh, can he be hurt ? and 
 some one has come to tell us. Go down quick 
 and see." 
 
 On no occasion did Billy ever go hunting 
 but his mother pictured every possible mis- 
 hap. Had the child ever realised her agony 
 of apprehension he would never have gone; 
 but she loved him too well to interfere with 
 his pleasures. "He's such a manly little f el- 
 low, " H she would say when he came safely back, 
 forgetting her dread in her pride of him until 
 next hunting day. 
 
 She followed her husband into the fire-lit 
 hall. The door stood open. The well-loved 
 little figure was silhouetted against the gloom, 
 and the kind young voice was persuading some 
 one to come in. "Do come and have some 
 tea," she heard him say; then, as he saw his 
 150
 
 The Dark Lady 
 
 mother: "It's the dark lady, dear; she has 
 been so kind to me. Has Dalgo come home?" 
 
 The mother went out on to the steps beside 
 her husband. The unknown lady had already 
 turned her horse preparatory to departure, but 
 waited just to say in short, jerky sentences: 
 
 "Your little boy was thrown, and the pony 
 ran away. I thought it best to bring him home 
 without looking for the pony. He fell with 
 some force against a tree, but I don't 
 think !" 
 
 "Won't you come in?" asked Billy's mother, 
 going down into the rain beside her guest. A 
 great many considerations flashed into her mind, 
 but "and let me thank you." 
 
 The soft voice was so like Billy's. For a 
 moment the Baroness wavered. She looked 
 somewhat wistfully into the hall where the 
 ruddy firelight danced on the old oak furni- 
 ture, but she gave a little wriggle on her saddle 
 and said lightly and in the voice that jarred, 
 "Thanks ! but I'm far too wet. I must go 
 home and change. The boy is wet. I hope 
 the pony will turn up all right," and with that 
 she rode out of the drive. 
 
 Billy spent some days in bed with concussion 
 151
 
 Children of the Cotswolds 
 
 of the brain. He talked constantly of his 
 "dark lady" to the bewilderment of his mother, 
 who had no idea how firmly he was imbued 
 with the notion that his dark lady was the dark 
 lady "of the sonnets/' as he always piously 
 concluded. 
 
 As for the lady when Billy's father went 
 down to the "Moonstone" that very evening 
 in the pouring rain, to thank her for her kind- 
 ness to his little son, she was declared to be 
 engaged and would see no one. 
 
 When Billy's mother went next morning 
 she was told that the Baroness had gone to 
 town the night before. Her servants and 
 her horses followed her, and the hunt knew 
 her no more. She left no address. Mr. 
 Rigby Folaire and Lord Edward inquired her 
 whereabouts in vain. But Billy knew she 
 had "gone back into the sonnets"; for had she 
 not said, as they rode home in the rain that 
 afternoon, 
 
 "That is my home of love: if I have ranged 
 Like him that travels, I return again"? 
 
 Billy was sure; and even Billy's father has 
 given up talking about Mary Fitton. 
 152
 
 XI 
 
 HER FIRST APPEARANCE 
 
 SOMEHOW or other it got noised abroad in 
 the town that Lady Valeria was coming to 
 church the very next Sunday. 
 
 The town was much interested. There are 
 people who speak of our town as a "village." 
 Such people are lacking in all sense of propor- 
 tion. We pity them, and try to ignore the in- 
 sult. 
 
 But to return to Lady Valeria. For nearly 
 four years we have had her in our midst. At 
 first she was known as "the Earl's baby"; but 
 her appearance and character were such that 
 she speedily achieved a distinct entity, and now 
 her doings are chronicled with extreme minute- 
 ness. 
 
 "Mammy dear ! Mammy dear ! " said Lady 
 Valeria, "what does God do in church?" 
 
 Her mother looked puzzled for a moment, 
 then she said, "He listens to our prayers, and 
 to the psalms and hymns we sing." 
 153
 
 Children of the Cotswolds 
 
 "Will He speak to me, mammy dear? Will 
 He want to kiss me?" 
 
 Most people wanted to kiss Lady Valeria; 
 she was quite used to it. 
 
 "We cannot see God/' answered the Count- 
 ess gravely. 
 
 "Why, mammy dear?" asked the persistent 
 treble voice, "what does He hide for?" 
 
 The Countess looked beseechingly at her 
 husband, but he would not come to her assist- 
 ance; he went and looked out of the window, 
 and his shoulders shook. He gave her no help 
 in these matters no help at all and, really, 
 there never was a more inquiring child than 
 Lady Valeria. 
 
 "I'd like to see God, mammy dear! why 
 can't I?" 
 
 "We can none of us see God yet," said her 
 mother, gently; "we shall see Him some day if 
 we are good. Now listen, sweetheart, you 
 must be perfectly quiet in church, and not talk 
 at all ; you must do whatever I do. Remember, 
 it is God's House, and we go there to thank 
 Him for all He gives us, and to pray to Him 
 for help to do right." 
 
 Lady Valeria's face was very solemn, and 
 154
 
 
 Her First Appearance 
 
 she held it up to be kissed, and she made 
 many protestations with regard to the ex- 
 treme decorum of her conduct when Sunday 
 should come. Then the head nurse appeared 
 and carried her off to nursery tea. 
 
 Her parents had misgivings as to the sobriety 
 of her behaviour in church. The Countess 
 felt nervous and said so; as for the Earl, he 
 laughed and loved her, but he said that nothing 
 would induce him to accompany his daughter 
 to church next Sunday afternoon. Hers was 
 a character of much originality. She acted 
 with decision, and always unexpectedly; and 
 the little Countess, who was only nineteen 
 years older than her daughter, often felt that 
 the baby girl was the stronger of the two. 
 
 There was a pleasant flutter of expectation 
 among the Sunday-school children, and, in- 
 deed, among the congregation generally, at 
 the children's service on that memorable 
 Sunday when Lady Valeria first came to church. 
 Since her own christening, and that of her small 
 brother, nothing so exciting had occurred. The 
 Earl's seat was high up in the centre aisle, in 
 full view of the congregation. As the young 
 Countess walked in, leading her little daughter 
 155
 
 Children of the Cotswolds 
 
 by the hand, she had to run the gauntlet of the 
 kindly inquisitive eyes of the entire congrega- 
 tion, an unusually large one. She blushed very 
 much, for she was a shy little lady, who loved 
 to go her gracious way quietly and unobserved. 
 Not so Lady Valeria from her earliest infancy 
 she had been taught to give pleasure by her 
 pretty smiles, and that to "notice people" was 
 one of the most binding of her obligations. 
 Though certainly no Pharisee, she dearly loved 
 "greetings in the market-place," and as she 
 trotted up the aisle she nodded gaily to her ac- 
 quaintances, who were there in large numbers. 
 She waved her fat hand to the curate as he took 
 his seat in the choir, much to his confusion. 
 
 In the choir were two of the lodge-keeper's 
 sons. Their white garments had for the nonce 
 concealed their identity; but presently Lady 
 Valeria recognised them, and, mounting a high 
 hassock, she nodded and waved ecstatically 
 she felt so sure they would be delighted to see 
 her in church. She wondered why they looked 
 so red, and why they did not pull their front 
 locks and grin, as they were wont to do when she 
 passed them in the pony carriage. She felt 
 chilled and disappointed at this lack of re- 
 156
 
 Her First Appearance 
 
 sponsiveness on the part of so many of her 
 friends. 
 
 The service began. Lady Valeria carefully 
 copied her mother and made no sound. That 
 lady, who had not noticed "the nods, and 
 becks, and wreathed smiles" which marked 
 her daughter's entrance, felt her cheeks begin 
 to cool and was conscious of a hope upspring- 
 ing that her temerity in bringing Lady Valeria 
 to church was to be triumphantly vindicated. 
 
 Suddenly, however, in the middle of the 
 psalms, which were read in alternate verses 
 by vicar and congregation, she noticed that, 
 in the congregation's verse, somebody was 
 saying in a triumphant sing-song: 
 
 "There was a lady loved a swine. 
 
 ' Honey ! ' said she, 
 'Pighog, wilt thou be mine?' 
 
 'HuncI' said he." 
 
 The final "hunc" was a life-like imitation 
 of one of the Earl's prize pigs. The verse in 
 question happened to be shorter than Lady 
 Valeria's, and she finished after the congrega- 
 tion. 
 
 The curate turned purple, and the vicar's 
 157
 
 Children of the Cotswolds 
 
 voice trembled. The Countess blushed redder 
 than before, and, stooping down, whispered, 
 "You mustn't say anything, darling!" 
 
 Lady Valeria looked up in pained surprise. 
 
 "Every one else is talking, mammy dear. 
 I'm sure God wouldn't mind." 
 
 Her mother shook her head again, and 
 Lady Valeria relapsed into a wondering and 
 somewhat injured silence. Why should those 
 Sunday-school children be allowed to bawl 
 out all sorts of seemingly irrelevant remarks, 
 while she was checked for one little tiny 
 rhyme? Truly, church was a puzzling place. 
 She sighed, and pulled off her gloves, then she 
 rolled them into a neat ball and played catch 
 with them. But she was no hand at catch, 
 and the gloves fell with a soft "plop" into the 
 aisle. Her mother looked up at the little 
 sound and again shook her head. Lady 
 Valeria yawned. 
 
 Then something happened. There was a 
 scuffling at the back, and the vicar's wife, 
 who is a strict disciplinarian, marched up the 
 aisle propelling a small boy in front of her 
 the very small boy who was the cause of the 
 disturbance. Lady Valeria nearly fell off her 
 158
 
 Her First Appearance 
 
 stool in her excitement. The procession of 
 two, the pusher and the pushed, passed the 
 Earl's pew, and reached the big brass bird, 
 whose classification had been puzzling Lady 
 Valeria for the last ten minutes. The vicar's 
 wife left the small boy just beside the big bird, 
 and marched down the aisle again. The hymn 
 finished, the vicar went into the pulpit and 
 gave out the text. Thomas Beames, the cul- 
 prit, stuffed his fists into his eyes, and wept 
 copiously, but silently. There he would have 
 to stand, publicly disgraced, with his back 
 in full view of the congregation for the rest 
 of the service. 
 
 "I'll turn dissenter, I will !" vowed Thomas, 
 in his miserable soul. "I'll vote yallow when 
 I be growed a man. I won't cap she, when I 
 do meet her in the street." 
 
 The vicar's voice exhorting the children to 
 industry, sobriety, and universal charity fell 
 on deaf ears as far as Thomas was concerned. 
 But what he did hear was the soft patter of 
 little feet behind him, then came a pull at his 
 arm by two small impatient hands. He took 
 his fists out of his eyes, and looked down to 
 see Lady Valeria standing beside him. Her 
 159
 
 Children of the Cotswolds 
 
 blue eyes were full of pity, and she said very 
 softly and distinctly, "Don't ky, little boy! 
 there's plenty of room in our seat!" and be- 
 fore the astonished Thomas could demur, one 
 of the imperative little hands had seized his, 
 and pulled him into the Earl's pew, where he 
 sat crimson and desperately uncomfortable 
 for the rest of the service; but he was not 
 quite so sure that he would vote "yallow when 
 he were growed a man." The sermon was 
 long. The vicar felt this flying in the face of 
 law and order must be lived or preached down. 
 
 Lady Valeria yawned again. Heedless of 
 the precepts of St. Paul, she removed her hat. 
 Then she leaned her head against her mother's 
 shoulder and slept. 
 
 She slept all through the sermon; even the 
 singing of the closing hymn did not awake her. 
 
 The school children, including the now re- 
 pentant Thomas Beames, had clattered out, 
 and still the Lady Valeria slept. 
 
 Her mother kissed and woke her, and as 
 they walked across the sunny market-place, 
 Lady Valeria remarked cheerfully, "Mammy 
 dear, mammy dear! I like church, you feels 
 so nice and fresh when you comes out !" 
 160
 
 XII 
 
 "OUB FATHERS HAVE TOLD US" 
 
 RLDGEWAY came in with the morning 
 paper while Johnny was still at break- 
 fast. Johnny was late, but at the beginning 
 of the holidays he generally was late unless 
 it happened to be a hunting morning. 
 
 Something had evidently stirred Ridgeway 
 out of his usual stately calm, for instead of 
 bringing in the paper neatly folded upon a 
 salver, he held it open in his hand, and his 
 hands were shaking. 
 
 "It's all here, Master Johnny!" he cried. 
 "Bobs 'e spoke and Lord Curzon 'e spoke, 
 and the King and the Viceroy sent messages 
 and no end of notes besides: and to think of 
 it ! the General was there to 'ear it all. An' 
 that gentleman wot writes the books you're 
 so fond of, he was there an' 'e wrote an hymn 
 specially for the occasion." 
 
 Johnny snatched the paper and Ridgeway 
 161
 
 Children of the Cotswolds 
 
 retired to the sideboard, where he stood with 
 his back to Johnny, blowing his nose and 
 clearing his throat in a highly unprofessional 
 fashion. 
 
 "I'm glad grandfather was there," Johnny 
 said presently. "Don't you wish you'd been 
 there, Ridgeway? But I suppose you were 
 born a bit too late . . . you were born after 
 the Mutiny, weren't you?" 
 
 "Bless you, yes, Master Johnny. Why, 
 'owever old do you think I am?" 
 
 "Everybody seems rather old in this house 
 after school, you know," Johnny explained 
 apologetically. "At school there's fifty chaps, 
 and Hatton Major's the eldest and he's just 
 fourteen and seven months. He's leaving 
 this term. I shall be leaving at midsummer, 
 you know, for then I shall be fourteen. 
 When'll grandfather be back, Ridgeway?" 
 
 "The General said Vd telegraph this morn- 
 ing. I expect 'e's a bit tired after that dinner. 
 My word ! it must have been a fine sight all 
 those old chaps, and the officers, all with their 
 medals and their orders on. Somethin' like 
 a Tamash that was. They've seen a deal, they 
 'ave." 
 
 162
 
 "Our Fathers Have Told Us" 
 
 Johnny rose from table with the paper still 
 in his hand. "I think," he said, "that grand- 
 father would wish all the servants to hear 
 what's in this paper, and I'd like to read it to 
 them. Please tell them to come here at once, 
 Ridgeway." 
 
 The long line of servants filed into the room 
 just as they did when the General was at 
 home to read prayers. And Johnny, fair- 
 haired, round-faced, and ever so serious, stood 
 up before them all to read aloud about the 
 dinner that the proprietors of a great news- 
 paper had given to the survivors of the In- 
 dian Mutiny of 1857. 
 
 Everybody was impressed; and the cook, 
 who was fat and full of sensibility, wept 
 audibly. 
 
 Johnny's voice did not falter except when 
 he stumbled over one or two of the long words 
 in some of the speeches, till he came to what 
 Ridgeway called "the hymn" written by Mr. 
 Rudyard Kipling. 
 
 "One service more we dare to ask: 
 
 Pray for us, heroes, pray, 
 That when Fate lays on us our task, 
 We do not shame the day." 
 163
 
 Children of the Cotswolds 
 
 As he reached this last verse his voice 
 broke. 
 
 "That's all," he said hastily, "and thank 
 you very much for listening." Then he fled 
 to the stables, bearing the precious newspaper 
 with him that he might read it all over again 
 to the General's groom and the stable boys. 
 
 Johnny was the youngest of a long line of 
 soldiers and civilians who had served our In- 
 dian Empire. Father and mother were still 
 in India, though they were coming home be- 
 fore the hot weather and mother would prob- 
 ably not go out again. Johnny, himself, 
 always talked of "going back" when he should 
 be through Sandhurst; although he had left 
 India for good at four years old. Yet he heard 
 "the East a-calling" with the same loud im- 
 perative call that all his race had so ungrudg- 
 ingly obeyed. 
 
 Johnny adored the works of Mr. Rudyard 
 Kipling. His nursery days had been enriched 
 and enchanted by the "Jungle Books" and 
 "Just So Stories"; and as he grew older he 
 chose out for enthusiastic admiration certain 
 heroes from among the short stories, heroes 
 who were to him a never-failing inspiration 
 164
 
 "Our Fathers Have Told Us" 
 
 and example. He was sure, of course, that 
 Mr. Kipling was "a real person," but he was 
 infinitely more confident that Bobby Wicks 
 and John Chinn and Georgie Cottar had ac- 
 tually existed, did actually exist, except poor 
 Bobby Wicks who died of cholera. They were, 
 in fact, far more manifest to the mind of 
 Johnny than the man privileged to chronicle 
 their doings. It was beastly bad luck that 
 Bobby Wicks had died: it always made him 
 want to kick his best friend for at least an 
 hour afterwards when he read that story. All 
 the same, Bobby had not died in vain, for his 
 cheery, unconscious heroism had kindled in 
 the breast of at least one small boy a steady 
 flame of patriotism and the passionate hope 
 that when his time should come he, too, 
 might serve and suffer with the men he hoped 
 one day to lead. 
 
 That mild December morning, as he rode 
 alone along the muddy lanes, Johnny's mind 
 was full of the Mutiny, and his heart grew 
 big within him as he thought of the men whose 
 dangers his grandfather had been privileged 
 to share. 
 
 When he got back to lunch he found a long 
 165
 
 Children of the Cotswolds 
 
 telegram from the General saying that certain 
 old friends who had come up for the Mutiny 
 dinner had persuaded him to stay one more 
 night in town, but that he would motor back 
 very early on Christmas morning irTpIenty of 
 time for church. Johnny felt a bit disap- 
 pointed, but he went to tea with some cheery 
 neighbours where there was assembled a large 
 and youthful party, and he dined in solemn 
 state with Ridgeway in attendance. After 
 dinner he arranged his gifts for grandfather 
 and the servants and was quite ready for bed 
 when bed-time came. He said his prayers with 
 his usual precipitation : but when he had finally 
 besought blessings upon "father and mother 
 and grandfather and all my kind friends" he 
 found himself still upon his knees repeating: 
 
 "One service more we dare to ask: 
 
 Pray for us, heroes, pray, 
 That when Fate lays on us our task, 
 We do not shame the day." 
 
 "How rummy of me!" quoth Johnny to 
 himself as he snuggled down in bed. "I've 
 got that Mutiny dinner on the brain." And 
 then he fell asleep. 
 
 166
 
 "Our Fathers Have Told Us" 
 
 Later on he began to dream. He dreamt 
 that he was in the sick-room at school and 
 that he had a very bad cough a tickling tire- 
 some, choking cough. He implored the ma- 
 tron to give him some water, but she only 
 laughed at him and hurried out of the room. 
 And the cough grew worse and worse till he 
 thought he should choke. It was so unlike 
 matron, too, to be hard-hearted and unsym- 
 pathetic, that Johnny grew very angry, and 
 he tried to shout at her but the cough wouldn't 
 let him. Still, he must have managed to make 
 a considerable noise, for the sound of his own 
 voice woke him up, and as he opened his eyes 
 they began to smart violently. He sat up in 
 bed still coughing and choking, and it was 
 gradually revealed to him that the room was 
 full of smoke. 
 
 Now Johnny had no fire in his bedroom, 
 for the whole house was heated by hot pipes. 
 Not long ago, too, grandfather had put in the 
 electric light. Johnny pressed the button at 
 the head of his bed, but no light came. 
 
 He sat perfectly still for a few seconds, 
 realising the while that the house must as- 
 suredly be on fire somewhere. Then he leaped 
 167
 
 Children of the Cotswolds 
 
 out of bed and flung his window wide open. 
 He hung out of the window and filled his lungs 
 with the good fresh air. 
 
 He was wideawake now and quite able to 
 understand that there was danger. His first 
 impulse was to get out of the window and 
 scramble down into safety by the ivy on the 
 wall. His room was on the first floor, the 
 rooms were low and old-fashioned, and he had 
 done it before. Just as he was preparing to 
 scramble out he remembered the servants. 
 The women ah 1 slept at the end of a long pas- 
 sage (which went the whole length of the 
 house) through a swing door. Johnny's end 
 was quite unoccupied, as grandfather had 
 taken his own man with him; the lady who 
 did the housekeeping had gone back to her 
 own home for Christmas, and there were no 
 visitors just then. Ridgeway slept in a wing 
 room built over the pantry close to the back 
 staircase. Half-way down the passage was 
 the turret staircase, and in the turret hung 
 the great bell to be rung to rouse the servants 
 in case of fire or sudden illness. 
 
 Johnny drew in his head and turned back 
 into his room. The smoke was not quite so 
 168
 
 "Our Fathers Have Told Us" 
 
 bad now, but it was very dark. He opened 
 the door, and as he did so there flowed in great 
 waves and gusts of smoke that drove him back 
 into the room again. 
 
 It would be much easier to get out of the 
 window and go round to ring the front-door 
 bell, or throw stones at the servants' windows, 
 or do anything rather than face that stinging, 
 stifling darkness which was not black but 
 grey. 
 
 It drove him back to the window again, 
 the window with its easy drop out into the 
 safe, kind night of stars and watery moon and 
 cold wet air. 
 
 But the servants! How was he to warn 
 the servants? 
 
 And the fire might be spreading. He felt 
 his way to the washstand and dipped one of 
 the towels in water. He wrapped it round 
 his neck like a muffler, covering mouth and 
 nose, and then he opened his door again, ran 
 down the smoke-packed passage as fast as 
 he could; and up the little staircase to the 
 belfry, where he fell gasping, for the acrid 
 smoke was terrible. 
 
 Here it was better, for the belfry tower was 
 169
 
 Children of the Cotswolds 
 
 open to the night. Johnny seized the rope 
 and pulled for dear life. How long must he 
 ring before they would all be roused? 
 
 It was a big, loud bell: he heard it clanging 
 overhead, and insensibly it seemed to swing 
 to the rhythm of these words: 
 
 Pray for us, heroes, pray, 
 That when Fate lays on us our task, 
 We do not shame the day." 
 
 Johnny's arms were tired and his bare feet 
 were cold. Would they hear? Had he rung 
 long enough? Might he go back to his room 
 now and get out of the window? 
 
 The smoke was creeping up into the belfry. 
 It was the smoke, of course, that made the 
 tears come into his eyes. 
 
 Clang, clang, clang, clang clang, clang! 
 
 Johnny loosed the rope for a minute and 
 listened. 
 
 Yes; he heard shouts. 
 
 They were roused, then: just a few more 
 pulls and he might go. 
 
 The terrified maidservants came huddling 
 down the back staircase and out at the back 
 door. Men came from the stables, and the 
 170
 
 "Our Fathers Have Told Us" 
 
 lodge, and the gardeners' cottages, and Ridge- 
 way dropped from his window, for he could 
 not face the smoke in the passage. 
 
 The fire was in the front of the house in the 
 main wing; the dining room was undoubtedly 
 in flames, and the men went round to the front 
 with the hose while one of the grooms galloped 
 off to the nearest town for the fire-engine. 
 
 Ridgeway was the last to join the fright- 
 ened group outside the back door, and his 
 first question was, "Where's Master Johnny?" 
 
 It took several minutes of most violent 
 language before he discovered that no one 
 had seen Master Johnny, but his window was 
 open, and he must have got out that way: 
 "he was active as a cat." 
 
 But Johnny was not with the men. 
 
 "Who rang the alarm bell?" Ridgeway 
 shouted. 
 
 Apparently no one had rung the alarm bell. 
 
 A ladder was set against Johnny's window, 
 and Ridgeway went up and into Johnny's 
 room. 
 
 Twice the volumes of smoke drove him back 
 from the door, for Ridgeway had never done 
 fire-drill at school, and knew nothing of the 
 171
 
 Children of the Cotswolds 
 
 advantages of a wet towel; but the third time 
 he made a dash down the passage and reached 
 the belfry stairs. At the foot of the steps he 
 trod upon something soft and, stooping, picked 
 up Johnny in his arms and staggered back 
 again. 
 
 When he appeared at the window with his 
 burden the men sent up a cheer, but Ridgeway 
 gave a hard, dry sob and muttered, "If Vs 
 dead I'm goin' back into the 'ouse; I'll never 
 face the General." 
 
 All the same Ridgeway was the first to face 
 the General when that aged warrior arrived 
 at his drive gate early on Christmas morning. 
 He faced the General with the intelligence 
 that he would find his dining-room, his hall, 
 and a great part of his staircase a mass of 
 charred ruins by reason of the fusing of the 
 wires of the recently installed electric light. 
 And Ridgeway further related that to the 
 General which almost consoled him for the 
 state of chaos in which he found his house- 
 hold. 
 
 The General's own man had got out when 
 Ridgeway stopped the motor at the drive 
 gate. He and Ridgeway stood side by side 
 172
 
 "Our Fathers Have Told Us" 
 
 at the door of the brougham while Ridgeway 
 spoke. 
 
 "You've made it pretty clear that the boy 
 saved the lot of you," said the General. "But 
 who the dickens fetched the boy out of all 
 that smother? Tell me that, now!" 
 
 Ridgeway passed his hand over his very 
 rough chin and looked foolish, saying never 
 a word. 
 
 "Get in, man!" said the General, "get in. 
 Do you think we can loaf about here all day 
 get in!" and the General dragged Ridgeway 
 into the motor with both hands. 
 
 As the motor rounded the last corner of 
 the drive, the General beheld, as through a 
 mist, a little figure in an Eton jacket stand- 
 ing outside the bulged and blackened front 
 door. 
 
 The figure waved cheerfully and ran to 
 assist the General to alight. 
 
 The old soldier grasped Johnny by the 
 shoulder and shook him gently : 
 
 "You're a nice person to leave in charge!" 
 he roared. "What have you got to say for 
 yourself, hey?" 
 
 Johnny grinned. '"You're very well up 
 173
 
 Children of the Cotswolds 
 
 to time, sir," he said cheerily. "We'll have 
 to have breakfast in the housekeeper's room, 
 for you never saw such a beastly mess in all 
 your life!" 
 
 174
 
 XIII 
 
 A GIOTTO OF THE COTSWOLDS 
 
 WHEN Mary Cardross first saw Jethro 
 he was six years old, and still wore 
 petticoats. He was not particularly small 
 for his age, and his appearance was, to say 
 the least of it, peculiar. A cotton frock, made 
 with skirt and body like a housemaid's morn- 
 ing dress, reached to his ankles; and he seemed 
 to have very little underneath, for his outer 
 garment hung limp and straight from waist 
 to heel, except on Sundays, when, fresh from 
 the hands of his aunt, it stuck out all round 
 like a lamp-shade. His hair, cropped very 
 short round the edges, was several inches long 
 on the crown. Mrs. Gegg, by courtesy his 
 "aunt," did not even put a basin on his head 
 by way of guide in the shearing, but, brushing 
 all the hair forward from the centre of the 
 crown, laid the scissors against his forehead, 
 and cut the hair close to the skin all round. 
 175
 
 Children of the Cotswolds 
 
 It grew again quickly, and stuck out above his 
 temples like a new straw thatch. 
 
 "Isn't he rather a big boy for petticoats?" 
 Mary asked, as her landlady removed the 
 supper, pausing at intervals to explain Jethro 's 
 presence under her roof. 
 
 "Yes, 'e be a biggish boy, but I baint a-goin' 
 to be at no expense for 'im as I can 'elp. 'E 
 can wait cum Christmas for 'is trowsies. 'E 
 ought to be thankful as 'e weren't tuk to the 
 workus, an' me only 'is mother's cousin, though 
 'e do call me haunt. 'E be a great expense, 
 and I've 'ad 'im this two year. The most 
 onandiest, nothingly child you ever see al- 
 ways a-scribblin' and a-messin' and moonin'. 
 I don't set no store by Jethro, I can tell you, 
 Miss ! 'E's got to be brought up 'ard to hearn 
 'is own livin'" and Mrs. Gegg paused 
 breathless. Mary said nothing, but she felt 
 rather sorry for Jethro. 
 
 Had Mrs. Gegg lived anywhere but in the 
 lovely, lonely Cotswold village perched like 
 a smiling fastness in the midst of beech-clad 
 hills, reached only by the loosest and worst 
 of roads, she would hardly have dared to dress 
 a six-year boy in such extraordinary fashion. 
 176
 
 A Giotto of the Cotswolds 
 
 Public opinion would have been too strong 
 for her. But Nookham, with its dozen cot- 
 tages, lived and let live in easy apathy, and 
 Jethro in bitterness of spirit wore his cotton 
 frock. Two years ago Mary had discovered 
 Nookham. Friends had driven her over to 
 have tea in the woods, and to gather the wild 
 strawberries found there in such abundance. 
 She fell in love with the place, and came again 
 upon a private exploring expedition, when 
 she discovered that lodgings were to be had 
 at the post-office, in the house of one Mrs. 
 Gegg. There she spent a most delightful fort- 
 night, sketching. Never was more attentive 
 and honest landlady, never cleaner, more or- 
 derly house! It is true that Mary's painting 
 tackle greatly distressed her hostess, partak- 
 ing as it did of the nature of things "messy 
 and slummicky," which her soul abhorred. 
 Otherwise, she* liked Mary, as did most people; 
 and she had in her way great toleration for 
 the "curus ways" of the "gentry" generally, 
 expecting less of them in the matter of common 
 sense than she exacted from people of her own 
 class. And now, after two years in Italy, Mary 
 found herself once more in the dear Cotswold 
 177
 
 Children of the Cotswolds 
 
 country, in the very middle of a perfect June. 
 Nookham generally was unfeignedly pleased 
 to see her again. Few strangers came to stay 
 there, and the roads were too bad and too hilly 
 for even the ubiquitous cyclist. The squire's 
 house was three miles from the village, the 
 vicarage two, and the tall lady with the abun- 
 dant wavy grey hair and strong, kind face 
 had made a very distinct and pleasant im- 
 pression. 
 
 Mary did not catch a glimpse of Jethro dur- 
 ing her first day until, happening at post-time 
 to want a letter she had left in her bedroom, 
 she ran upstairs to fetch it. 
 
 The room, with door flung wide, faced the 
 narrow staircase. In the very middle of the 
 floor stood Jethro, in rapt contemplation of a 
 large photograph of Giovanni Bellini's Ma- 
 donna the one in the sacristy of the Frari at 
 Venice which Mary had placed on the little 
 mantelpiece. 
 
 The day was well on in the week, the cotton 
 frock hung in limp and draggled folds about 
 the childish limbs, and the queer little crea- 
 ture's attitude was almost pathetically boyish 
 as he stood, legs far apart, his hands grasping 
 178
 
 A Giotto of the Cotswolds 
 
 the lilac cotton where pockets ought to have 
 been. 
 
 For a full minute Mary stood watching him. 
 He made no attempt to touch the picture; in 
 fact and afterwards the circumstance seemed 
 significant he stood at some distance from it, 
 that he might see it whole. 
 
 Mary must have moved, for the stairs 
 creaked. Jethro jumped, did not even turn 
 his head to see who was coming, but darted 
 under the bed with the instant speed of a 
 startled squirrel. She came into the room, 
 shut the door, and sat down on her trunk, re- 
 marking, "If you come out I'll show you some 
 more pictures ! " Dead silence for five minutes, 
 while Mary sat patiently waiting. She was 
 determined that she would in no way frighten 
 or constrain the timid child, for it seemed to 
 her that the little Cotswold peasant who stood 
 gazing with absorbed interest at her favourite 
 Madonna must be worth knowing. 
 
 "I can't think why you stay under there, 
 Jethro," she said at last; "we could have such 
 a nice time together if you would come out, 
 and I must go directly to finish my letters." 
 
 But, like Brer Rabbit, Jethro "lay low and 
 179
 
 Children of the Cotswolds 
 
 said niiffiV," so Mary was fain to go and finish 
 her letters, determined to play a waiting game. 
 From time to time she stopped writing, look- 
 ing pained and puzzled. "It is dreadful that 
 a little child should be so afraid of one," she 
 said to herself; "what can they have done to 
 him?" Presently Jethro rushed past the open 
 door, and later on there came from the direc- 
 tion of the back kitchen a sound uncommonly 
 like smacks. 
 
 Mrs. Gegg laid the supper as tnough she 
 were dealing cards with the angry emphasis 
 indulged in by certain Bridge players after a 
 series of bad hands. Mary ventured on a 
 timid remark to the effect that Nookham had 
 changed but little during her two years' ab- 
 sence. Mrs. Gegg replied that "Squire didn't 
 encourage no fancy building," and that there- 
 fore it was likely to remain the same for some 
 time to come. Conversation languished, and 
 she went into the garden to "take in" certain 
 exquisitely white garments still spread upon 
 the currant bushes, while Mary stood at the 
 front door waiting for the nightingale to "touch 
 his lyre of gold," when another and very differ- 
 ent sound broke into the scented stillness a 
 180
 
 A Giotto of the Cotswolds 
 
 breathless, broken sound of sobs a child's 
 sobs. She listened for a moment, then turned 
 and went back into the house to follow the 
 sound. From the landing window she noted 
 with relief that Mrs. Gegg was engaged in con- 
 verse with a neighbour (Mary stood in great 
 awe of her landlady); she mounted a ladder 
 leading to the attic, and there, under the slates, 
 lying full length on the outside of his clean lit- 
 tle bed, was Jethro, sobbing with an abandon 
 and intensity that left Mary in no doubt as to 
 what she should do this time. Bumping her 
 head violently, and nearly driving it through 
 the slates in her haste, for she could by no 
 means stand upright, she climbed in and 
 reached the side of the bed. 
 
 Her entrance was so noisy that the child 
 had plenty of time to vanish, as he had done 
 in the afternoon; but he was evidently so 
 astonished by her appearance that no thought 
 of flight occurred to him; he even forgot to be 
 frightened, left off crying, and asked eagerly: 
 
 "Did you 'urt your 'ead?" 
 
 "No, not much. I heard you crying, and 
 came to see what was the matter." 
 
 Jethro looked Queerer than ever. He wore 
 181
 
 Children of the Cotswolds 
 
 a voluminous unbleached calico nightgown, 
 several sizes too big for him; the big tears on 
 his cheeks shone like jewels in the soft June 
 twilight, and the thatch of tow-coloured hair 
 was rumpled into a quick-set hedge above his 
 great, grave forehead. 
 
 "I've bin beat," he whispered. 
 
 "Why, what had you done?" 
 
 "I thrown a stwun at Earny Mustoe akez 'e 
 did call oi 'Jemima,' and it did break 's mother's 
 windy. "^ 
 
 "Is he bigger than you?" 
 
 "Yes, 'ebenoine!" 
 
 "Then why didn't you go for him and hit 
 him? You couldn't break any windows that 
 way, and it would teach him better manners." 
 
 Jethro stared in astonishment at this war- 
 like lady. 
 
 "But 'e be ever so much bigger nor me," he 
 exclaimed, "and I be allays beat aterwards"; 
 then, remembering his woes, "and it do 'urt 
 so, it do," and Jethro began to wail again. 
 
 Mary gathered the woebegone little figure 
 into her arms and sat down on the floor, say- 
 ing cheerfully: 
 
 "Cheer up, old chap; I'll pay for that win- 
 182
 
 A Giotto of the Cotswolds 
 
 dow, and you mustn't throw any more stones; 
 and don't cry any more, and we'll have ever 
 such nice times while I'm here." 
 
 It was evident that Jethro was not used to 
 being cuddled. He sat stiff and solemn on 
 her knee, staring at her with great puzzled 
 eyes. She talked to him as tender women 
 talk to children, and finally put him to bed, 
 tucked him in, kissed and blessed him, and 
 climbed down the ladder again. Much to her 
 relief she saw that Mrs. Gegg was still in the 
 garden. 
 
 Jethro lay awake, staring at a patch of 
 moonlight on the whitewashed wall. Hazily, 
 vaguely there arose in his mind a recollection 
 that at one time some one always tucked him 
 into bed some one who looked kindly at him. 
 He couldn't remember the face, but the eyes 
 were like the tall lady's like the lady's in the 
 picture downstairs; and again Jethro wanted 
 to cry, but not because he had been "beat." 
 However, he would not cry; she had asked him 
 not to, and she had such sharp ears, and she 
 would come to see him every night, and she 
 had lots more pictures. Here the tall lady 
 and the lady in the picture became inextrica- 
 183
 
 Children of the Cotswolds 
 
 bly mixed up, and Jethro slept that blessed 
 sleep of childhood which is oblivion. 
 
 "I'd just like to show you, Miss, a present 
 as I've 'ad from my nephew down Cubberly 
 way. 'E's on'y fifteen, and 'e's that clever 
 with 'is fingers " Mrs. Gegg held up for 
 Mary's admiration a frame made of fir-cones 
 which had been varnished and squeezed to- 
 gether till they looked like a hollow square of 
 highly polished brown sausages. "There, 
 Jethro, if you could make summut like that." 
 
 "I likes 'em better a-growin'," said Jethro, 
 softly. 
 
 During the scornful scolding that followed 
 Mary watched Jethro. His serene grey eyes 
 under the square, peaceful forehead looked 
 a trifle weary, and he sighed as his aunt ha- 
 rangued him, but he did not seem greatly dis- 
 turbed. After all, whether people scolded or 
 not, gracious, gentle things continued a-grow- 
 in', and Jethro through the sweet uses of ad- 
 versity had early learnt that "Nature, the 
 kind old nurse," never refuses consolation to 
 such of her children as seek it in sweet solitary 
 places with an understanding heart. 
 
 Mary found Jethro very difficult to get at. 
 184
 
 A Giotto of the Cotswolds 
 
 ffi'V '"'" 
 
 He followed her about, and would sit watch- 
 ing her paint for hours in silent, absolute ab- 
 sorption, but he very seldom spoke himself. 
 One day, as they were walking together down 
 the steep stony road leading to the woods, 
 he suddenly clasped her round the knees ex- 
 claiming, "You be such a dear 'ooman!" 
 
 Mary stooped hastily and kissed the little 
 upturned face. In a life compassed about 
 with much affection and many friends no one 
 had ever spoken to her with such a rapture 
 of appreciation, and she fell to thinking how 
 little she had done to deserve it. Two days 
 after she got a letter. 
 
 "The mater cannot write herself," it ran, 
 "because she is busy with a big chest in the 
 attic upon which the dust of ages has hither- 
 to been allowed to rest in peace. From time 
 to time you may hear her murmur, 'Six, and 
 an average size. Poor little lad! What a 
 shame ! this will do, I think.' So you know 
 what is going on. Do you remember the 
 bundles? All neatly docketed 'To fit boy 
 of twelve,' etc. A regular trousseau is coming, 
 so tell that kiddie to cheer up." 
 
 Three days later Jethro appeared at school 
 185
 
 Children of the Cotswolds 
 
 in all the glory of jacket and "trowsies"; and 
 the very boy who had most grievously tor- 
 mented him about his petticoats chastised 
 another on his behalf who made derisive re- 
 marks about a "gal in trowsies." Thus the 
 chief misery in Jethro's life was removed, and 
 he felt that he bade fair to become a social 
 success. 
 
 His aunt manifested no objection to the 
 new clothes. A thrifty soul, she believed in 
 taking what she could get, and remarked, 
 quite good-naturedly, that Jethro did look 
 a bit more like other folk now. 
 
 "Of a Saturday" Mrs. Gegg "hearthstoned" 
 the whole of her back kitchen till its spotless- 
 ness rivalled that of the whitewashed walls. 
 The placid expectancy of Saturday evening 
 had settled on the village. Mary, tired by 
 her long day's painting, was resting upon the 
 slippery horsehair sofa, and meditating on the 
 impossibility of reproducing on canvas the 
 brilliant transparency of young green larches, 
 when her landlady burst into the room, posi- 
 tively breathless with passion. "Just you 
 come 'ere, miss, and see what that there mishti- 
 ful young imp o' darkness been and done. I'll 
 186
 
 A Giotto of the Cotswolds 
 
 warm 'im so's 'e shan't forget it in a 'urry!" 
 Mary hastily followed the woman into the 
 sacred back kitchen, and there in a corner 
 near the pump crouched Jethro, one arm curved 
 above his head to protect it from a renewal 
 of the rain of blows that had just fallen, while 
 the floor was decorated by a monochrome 
 landscape, painted by Jethro with Mrs. G egg's 
 blue-bag. 
 
 Mary gazed at it with astonishment. With 
 strong certainty of touch the child had splashed 
 in by means of the coarse blue the stretch of 
 hills that met his eyes every time he went out 
 at Mrs. Gegg's front door. The queer im- 
 pressionist sketch had atmosphere, distance, 
 and, above all, perspective. "Oh, Mrs. Gegg !" 
 cried Mary, holding back the angry little 
 woman with her strong arms as she was ad- 
 vancing across the picture to wreak fresh 
 vengeance upon Jethro, "leave it! leave it 
 till Monday, and I'll give you blue and whiten- 
 ning to last you a twelve-month. It is a won- 
 derful picture! Some day you will be proud 
 of him. He couldn't help it. We none of us 
 gave him anything to draw on. Why didn't you 
 tell me, child, that you could draw like this?" 
 187
 
 Children of the Cotswolds 
 
 Astonishment was cooling Mrs. Gegg's 
 wrath. She had heard, nay, upon one occa- 
 sion seen, that a pavement artist in distant 
 Gloucester earned good money, though it was 
 but a poor trade. Then there was Miss Card- 
 ross, always messing with paints and things 
 perhaps she really knew something about it. 
 "If you will leave the picture where it is till 
 Monday," continued Mary, "I will ride over 
 to Colescombe to-morrow and persuade an 
 artist friend to come and look at it, and we 
 will see what can be done for Jethro. Please, 
 Mrs. Gegg!" And Mary got her way. 
 
 "You must leave him where he is," said 
 the great art critic to Mary when he had in- 
 spected the frescoed floor. "He may be a 
 genius. I think he is. All the more reason 
 to leave him alone just now. Give him paper 
 and paints lots of them; don't lose sight 
 of htm and we'll help him when the right time 
 comes. It hasn't come yet." 
 
 So Mary left him in the peace of the kindly 
 
 Cotswold hills. And while Bellini's Madonna 
 
 smiles down upon him from the whitewashed 
 
 attic wall, while sun and cloud make light 
 
 188
 
 A Giotto of the Cotswolds 
 
 and shadow for him on beech-clad slope and 
 grassy plain, and life is full "of mysteries and 
 presences, innumerable, of living things," we 
 need not pity Jethro. For, even as one who 
 wandered long ago upon the steeps of far 
 Fiesole found infinite potentialities among 
 solitary places and pleasant pastoral creatures, 
 even so in time to come the little Cotswold 
 peasant may enter into his inheritance in that 
 kingdom where "every colour is lovely and 
 every space is light. The world, the universe, 
 is divine; all sadness is a part of harmony, 
 and all gloom a part of peace." 
 
 189
 
 xrv 
 
 THE DAY AFTER 
 
 THE election was over and Patsey was 
 sad, for her father had lost his seat. 
 Patsey could not altogether understand why 
 her father should be so anxious to sit in that 
 particular House in London when he had so 
 many comfortable chairs in his own. But 
 at eight years old a little girl cannot expect 
 to understand everything, and she was a very 
 humble-minded child. She loved her father 
 dearly, and whatever he wanted, she wanted 
 too, very much indeed; so that when she went 
 downstairs that morning to pour out his coffee, 
 and found him looking so pale and tired in 
 spite of his gay pink coat and beautiful white 
 breeches, for he was going out hunting, she gave 
 him an extra big hug and laid her soft cheek 
 against his, saying, "Dear, dear dad," quite 
 a number of times, and big tears forced them- 
 selves out of her eyes and ran down her cheeks, 
 although she did her best to keep them back. 
 190
 
 The Day After 
 
 As her father kissed her he tasted the wet, 
 salt little cheek, and held her away from him, 
 exclaiming, "How now, Pat! What 's the 
 matter ? You mustn't fret. We're sportsmen, 
 you know, and we must take a defeat like gentle- 
 men; no grousing. The umpire's decision has 
 gone against us and we must abide by it. Look 
 at me ! If I'd been in I'd have been going off 
 to make bad speeches in stuffy committee- 
 rooms; as it is, I'm off for a good day's sport in 
 beautiful soft weather. Which is best, do you 
 think?" 
 
 Patsey tried to smile, but she knew very 
 well which her father would have liked best, 
 and her tears came afresh. 
 
 "He's a dirty Radical," she sobbed, "a 
 nasty, common working man. I can't think 
 how they could like him better than you 
 so clean and handsome and good." 
 
 Her father wiped the wet little face with 
 his big silk handkerchief, and took her up on 
 his knee. 
 
 "I'd rather you didn't repeat what you 
 hear the servants say, Pat," he said gravely. 
 "It's largely a case of 'let the best man win/ 
 and we'll hope he has." 
 .191
 
 Children of the Cotswolds 
 
 So Patsey cheered up, poured out her father's 
 coffee, and they talked about pleasanter things 
 than the election till she went out on to the 
 steps to see him ride away. 
 
 Then everything seemed very flat, for life 
 had been rather exciting lately. It is true 
 that Patsey had never been allowed to take 
 an active part in the election, her father 
 expressing himself somewhat strongly in con- 
 demnation of such candidates as " turned their 
 little daughters into sandwich-men and their 
 young sons into phonographs"; but she had 
 been permitted to wear a blue rosette when she 
 drove into the town with her governess. And 
 sometimes people who knew her cheered her 
 as they passed, and it was pleasant to feel so 
 important. 
 
 It was curious, too, that although all the 
 servants were so loud in their abuse of the 
 new member, they none of them seemed in 
 the least cast down by the result of the elec- 
 tion; and Patsey's gentle little soul was puz- 
 zled by a partisanship that loudly disparaged 
 the conqueror while yet it held no sympathy 
 for the vanquished. 
 
 All morning it rained, but after lunch the 
 192
 
 The Day After 
 
 sun came out, and Patsey's governess, who 
 had a cold, bade her put on her overshoes and 
 go and play in the garden for half an hour by 
 herself. 
 
 Now, Patsey's father had given her a bicycle 
 just a week before, and although she was not 
 yet an expert rider, still, she could get along, 
 and it struck her that it would be a good 
 opportunity to practise by riding up and down 
 the drive. A stray gardener helped her on, 
 and she found herself riding so beautifully that 
 when she came to the lodge and saw that the 
 great gates were open, the spirit of adventure 
 seized upon her and bore her through them, 
 out on to the high road. 
 
 Patsey had never been in the road alone 
 in all her life before, so that she felt most 
 bold and daring, and the feeling was so new 
 and delightful that she rode on for half a mile, 
 finally turning into a quiet lane that led to 
 the cemetery which lay a couple of miles out- 
 side the town. Here it was very muddy, and 
 Patsey had not gone very far before her bicycle 
 skidded violently. She tried to save herself 
 with one foot, but it twisted under her, and she 
 came down with the bicycle on the top of her. 
 193
 
 Children of the Cotswolcls 
 
 When she tried to get up again she found 
 that one of her ankles was horribly swollen 
 and painful, and that she couldn't stand. 
 It was a very woebegone little figure that 
 sat weeping at the side of the road. The 
 "fond adventure" had indeed ended disas- 
 trously, and Patsey bitterly repented her of her 
 enterprise, and longed for her governess or nurse. 
 
 It was such a lonely road. Except on 
 Sundays, when people went to take flowers 
 to the cemetery, hardly any one went up or 
 down, and the awful prospect of sitting there 
 till some one should come from home to look 
 for her and why should they look for her 
 in that particular road? confronted Patsey 
 with chilly menace. 
 
 The January sunshine faded early, and she 
 began to feel very cold. 
 
 Presently she heard quick footsteps coming 
 from the direction of the cemetery, and a 
 man appeared in sight. As he reached the 
 prostrate bicycle and the doleful little figure 
 seated beside it, he stopped, exclaiming, "Hullo ! 
 What's to do here? Have you tumbled off, 
 my dear? I wouldn't sit there, though, it's 
 so wet." 
 
 194
 
 The Day After 
 
 "I can't get up," poor Patsey faltered; 
 "I've hurt my foot; it's all gone fat and 
 funny, and it does pain so. I can't stand. 
 Oh, could you? could you call in at my 
 home on your way back and tell them to send 
 the carriage for me ? It would be so very kind 
 of you. Do you think you could ?" 
 
 The man stooped down and looked at 
 the poor little foot. He touched it gently 
 and shook his head, saying, "It's rather a 
 bad sprain, I fear; just tell me where you 
 live and I'll carry you home. Then they 
 can get a doctor and have it fomented and 
 bound. I'd best tie it up now as well as I 
 can, so as not to shake you more than I can 
 help." 
 
 The man took out a large handkerchief of 
 brilliant yellow silk, and Patsey shuddered. 
 "Oh, please don't!" she cried. "I mustn't 
 wear anything yellow, not to-day of all days; 
 it would be so disloyal to daddie. If it must be 
 tied up, please take mine but I don't think it 
 need be." 
 
 As Patsey dragged a damp and dirty little 
 square of once-white cambric from her pocket 
 the man laughed. 
 
 195
 
 Children of the Cotswolds 
 
 "That's no use," he said. "If little Tory 
 ladies go and sprain their ankles just like com- 
 mon folk, they must bear a bandage even if it's 
 the wrong colour." 
 
 And without more ado this masterful man 
 bound up the little foot with his gaudy hand- 
 kerchief very deftly and kindly. 
 
 "I hope we shan't meet anybody," said 
 Patsey, when he had lifted her into his arms, 
 having carried the bicycle behind the hedge 
 for safety. "It would be so unkind of me to 
 wear yellow to-day." 
 
 The man turned and looked sharply at the 
 pale little face so close to his own, and gave 
 a low whistle. 
 
 "Do you know who I am?" Patsey asked 
 with dignity. 
 
 "And do you know who 7 am?" demanded 
 the man. 
 
 There flashed an illuminating ray of remem- 
 brance into Patsey's mind. She had seen this 
 man before, and he was no other than the 
 "Labour candidate" who had stolen her father's 
 seat. 
 
 There was silence for a minute till Patsey 
 said earnestly, "If you know who I am, you 
 196
 
 The Day After 
 
 need not wonder that I biject to wear anything 
 yellow." Then, for Patsey's father had taught 
 her that other people have political opinions 
 too, "And perhaps you biject just as much to 
 carrying a little blue girl." 
 
 The man laughed and held her a little 
 closer as he said, "Far from objecting, I like 
 carrying this little blue girl exceedingly. It's 
 a long time since I carried any little girl," he 
 added sadly. 
 
 "Haven't you any little girls of your own?" 
 she asked curiously. 
 
 "My little girl lies yonder," said the man, 
 nodding his head in the direction of the ceme- 
 tery. 
 
 Patsey lifted her arm and put it round his 
 neck that he might carry her more easily, 
 and, forgetting all about the yellow handker- 
 chief, exclaimed, "How sad! I am so sorry. 
 My mummy is buried there too. Was your 
 little girl ill a long time? My mummy was, 
 months and months. Was your little girl 
 eight, too, like me?" 
 
 "She was just ten when she died," the 
 man said quietly, "but she was nothing like 
 so big or so heavy as you, poor little lass! 
 197
 
 Children of the Cotswolds 
 
 She died because I could get neither food nor 
 firing for her, and I've just been to her grave. 
 . . ' ." The man paused, and in quite a different 
 tone continued, "And that's why I stand in 
 your father's shoes to-day, little lady, and per- 
 haps I may help to make it better for other 
 little girls by and by." 
 
 "I wish my daddie had known," Patsey 
 said softly. "He would have sent you every- 
 thing you wanted for her; he would indeed. 
 He's so good to the poor." 
 
 The man gave a hard little laugh. 
 
 "I've no doubt of it," he said, "but, you 
 see, that's not what we want. We're not 
 over-fond of charity, some of us. Besides, 
 charity's a bit uncertain. What we want is 
 to be able to give our little girls food and 
 firing our own selves. Yes, charity's a bit 
 uncertain and children's appetites uncom- 
 monly regular." 
 
 "Were you hungry and cold too?" asked 
 Patsey. 
 
 Again the man laughed that queer, hard 
 
 laugh. "It don't hurt a man to be hungry 
 
 and cold occasionally," he said grimly, "but 
 
 too much of it breaks a man's spirit. It's see- 
 
 198
 
 The Day After 
 
 ing them belonging to him hungry and cold 
 and not being able to help them that puts the 
 devil into a man. I beg your pardon, little 
 lady, but there's no other word." 
 
 By this time they had turned into Patsey's 
 own drive. The sun was setting behind the 
 house, gorgeous and golden, and the mellow 
 light fell full on the face of the "dirty Radical" 
 who carried Patsey. She considered him care- 
 fully. It was a sad face, strong and lined with 
 hardship and suffering, but there was something 
 in the expression of his eyes that made her for- 
 get his politics, and she patted his shoulder, 
 saying warmly, "I hope you will succeed, in- 
 deed I do." 
 
 Her father, still in his muddy hunting things, 
 was standing on the steps looking anxiously 
 down the drive. When he saw them he ran 
 forward, exclaiming anxiously, "Patsey, my 
 darling, what has happened?" 
 
 "It's all right, daddie," Patsey called back. 
 " I've had a spill off my bicycle, and this . . . 
 gentleman found me and has carried me all 
 the way home." 
 
 Patsey's father smiled a whimsical smile 
 as he held out his arms for her, and as the 
 199
 
 Children of the Cotswolds 
 
 muddy little figure changed hands, he said, 
 "You are evidently determined to benefit 
 all your constituents, sir." 
 
 The Labour member smiled too, but his 
 face was very sad as he answered, "You 
 might have my place and welcome, if I could 
 have what you hold in your arms." 
 
 Without another word he turned and walked 
 swiftly down the drive. Patsey's father neither 
 called after him, nor did he follow; but he held 
 his little daughter very close. 
 
 That night Patsey added an extra petition 
 to her usual prayers. It was: "Please, dear 
 God, let the kind Radical man what carried me, 
 get what he wants for all the other little girls." 
 
 200
 
 XV 
 
 A COUP D'ETAT 
 
 R3GER stood at the nursery window, 
 apparently watching the driving rain, 
 but in reality puzzling, with knit brows, over 
 a situation he could by no means understand, 
 although he was painfully conscious of its vague 
 discomfort. When a small boy loves both his 
 parents dearly, and it is gradually but most 
 effectually brought home to him that he can- 
 not show affection for the one without in some 
 subtle fashion appearing to hurt the other, the 
 said small boy finds himself in a cul de sac 
 none the less final that its walls are by no means 
 clearly defined. Older people than Roger real- 
 ise that the only way out of a, cul de sac is to 
 go back the way you came; but he, having no 
 idea how he had got there, could not do this; 
 in fact, it was only that very morning that he 
 awoke to the fact that he was there. 
 
 It was in this wise. His mother was chang- 
 ing the ornaments in the drawing-room she 
 201
 
 Children of the Cotswolds 
 
 had changed her drawing-room about once a 
 week lately, lest it should get to look "set"- 
 and she had moved the easel holding the big 
 portrait of her uncle, the Dean, over to the 
 corner by the piano. Roger assisted her, ad- 
 miring her arrangement, as he admired every- 
 thing about his mother, and she said, 
 
 "I hope you will grow up like your uncle 
 Ambrose, sonnie!" 
 
 Roger was by no means sure that he echoed 
 her wish. He had once visited the deanery 
 and found the atmosphere somewhat oppres- 
 sively dignified. 
 
 "Why, mother dear?" he asked. 
 
 "Because" and a certain tone in her voice 
 puzzled Roger "he is a stainless gentleman." 
 
 "I think I'd rather be like father," he said 
 meditatively; "that would do just as well. 
 To be a dean you've got to be a parson first, 
 and I'd much rather be a soldier, like father." 
 
 His mother turned her head hastily so that 
 the child could not see her face. 
 
 "You can be like your uncle in character 
 whatever your profession; it is there I would 
 have you resemble him." 
 
 "But," .interrupted Roger, "father's a stain- 
 202
 
 A Coup d'Etat 
 
 less gentleman too, isn't he? And he's much 
 more jollier than Uncle Ambrose." 
 
 His mother did not answer, and to the child 
 such silence seemed charged with chilly omen. 
 He did not ask her, as he longed to do, what she 
 exactly meant by a stainless gentleman. He 
 was sure that in some incomprehensible fashion 
 the stainlessness of great-Uncle Ambrose re- 
 flected unfavourably upon his father and re- 
 sented it accordingly. He was also sure that 
 this enviable quality had nothing to do with per- 
 sonal cleanliness, for there was no one in the 
 whole world so clean and smart as father. 
 Why, when he drove to a distant meet, he 
 wore "two pinafores," one in front and one 
 behind, to keep his leathers spotlessly white; 
 the said pinafores, by the way, doing much 
 toward reconciling Roger to the wearing of 
 his bib at meals. 
 
 The nursery window was open and the 
 soft spring rain whispered pleasant things 
 to the grass; but Roger did not listen. For 
 the first time in his life he was weighing evi- 
 dence; and the worst of it was, that, do as he 
 would, the bulk of the evidence all went into 
 one scale. 
 
 203
 
 Children of the Cotswolds 
 
 "They're just as fond of me," he thought 
 to himself, "but somehow they're never with 
 me together." There were no jolly drives 
 into the town now those drives in the high 
 dog-cart when he would sit between them rap- 
 turously thinking that never had little boy 
 such resplendent parents. Now, mother al- 
 ways went in the "bucket" with his little sisters, 
 and when father took him out driving, mother 
 did not even come and stand on the steps to 
 wave them a farewell. She never sat on 
 father's knee now, or called him a "ridiculous 
 boy," or untied his necktie, or rumpled his hair. 
 She seemed always to sit as far off as possible, 
 and when she did look at her big, jolly husband, 
 there was that in her expression which Roger 
 felt he would rather not understand. 
 
 The truth was that Roger the elder and 
 Lettice his wife, having been at one time 
 rather demonstratively fond of one another, 
 found it somewhat difficult to keep up appear- 
 ances since such time as began the state of 
 affairs their little son so deprecated. Lettice 
 certainly flattered herself upon the secrecy 
 and dignity with which she attended to the 
 linen less well-bred people will sometimes in- 
 204
 
 A Coup d'Etat 
 
 sist upon hanging up to the public gaze even 
 before it has gone through the cleansing proc- 
 ess, and was quite unconscious that all the 
 while her servants discussed the affair ex- 
 haustively, her friends pronounced the position 
 untenable, and her little son grieved and won- 
 dered, casting about in his child mind for some 
 way of clearing an atmosphere which even he 
 felt was so charged with electricity as to be 
 well-nigh intolerable. 
 
 The rain ceased whispering, but the trees 
 took up the story and rustled importantly, 
 shaking their glistening leaves at the sun 
 who winked lazily in the west. The two 
 little sisters called to Roger to come and 
 have tea with the dolls; but he shook his 
 head impatiently, thrusting it between the 
 bars of the window that he might not hear 
 them. A robin on the hawthorn hedge below 
 regarded him in friendly fashion and sang a 
 song of coming summer; but Roger saw nothing 
 but a blurred little splash of crimson against 
 the green, for his eyes were full of tears. 
 
 "Father, what's a stainless gentleman?" 
 he asked as they went together in the evening 
 to feed the big carp in the pond. 
 205
 
 Children of the Cotswolds 
 
 Roger the elder stopped in the middle of 
 the path. He took his cigar out of his mouth 
 and cleared his throat. 
 
 "Well, sonnie, I suppose it's a man who 
 runs very straight, who never plays the fool, 
 and does idiotic things, for the doing of which 
 he has to pay Jew prices a very good man, 
 you know. But why? What d'you want to 
 know for?" 
 
 "Well, mother said Uncle Ambrose is a 
 1 stainless gentleman/ and she hoped I'd be 
 like him when I'm grown up." 
 
 "For the matter of that, sonnie, so do I. 
 You couldn't have a better model." 
 
 "I rather be like you, fardie, dear much 
 rather." And Roger took his father's hand 
 in both his own, and squeezed it hard. 
 
 The elder Roger said nothing for a minute, 
 but he grew very red. How was he to tell 
 the faithful little soul at his side that his 
 ideal was by no means a high one ? 
 
 "You'll grow up very much the sort of 
 man you want to be, sonnie. So mind and 
 want to be the best sort going." 
 
 "Well, 't all events, I shan't be like Uncle 
 Ambrose. He's too fond of sitting still." 
 206
 
 A Coup d'Etat 
 
 "You'll be fond of sitting still when you're 
 his age," said his father, with a sigh of 
 relief. 
 
 They fed the carp, and Roger almost for- 
 got his troubles, till, on returning to the house, 
 they saw his mother on the tennis court with 
 the little girls. She called to him to come and 
 play cricket with his sisters. 
 
 "Will you come too, father?" he asked, 
 pulling at his father's hand. 
 
 The elder Roger looked somewhat wistfully 
 at the little group inside the netting on the 
 tennis court. His little daughters kissed their 
 fingers to him, calling to him to come; but his 
 wife had turned her back upon him, and she 
 had a most expressive back. He shook his 
 head at the children, muttering something 
 about letters to write, and turned to walk 
 slowly towards the house. 
 
 "I'll bowl to you if you come, Roger; the 
 grass is really quite dry again!" called his 
 mother. Roger stood still in the drive, look- 
 ing from one to the other of his parents both 
 with their backs to him. Lettice looked over 
 her shoulder and saw her husband's departing 
 figure. "Come, my son!" she called, with a 
 207
 
 Children of the Cotswolds 
 
 queer little catch in her sweet voice. "I've 
 hardly seen you all day." 
 
 Roger went round the netting till he found 
 an opening and pushed through. His mother 
 came to meet him, and put her arm round his 
 shoulders. He pointed to his father, who was 
 walking slowly away with bent head. 
 
 " Don't you think fardie looks rather lonely ? " 
 he asked. 
 
 Lettice looked after her husband. "I don't 
 think he is lonely, sonnie: he has so many 
 other friends." But the boy was not con- 
 vinced. 
 
 Roger's mother bowls uncommonly well, 
 but he did not enjoy the cricket. He kept 
 contrasting it with that of last year. Then 
 father always played too, and one day mother 
 bowled him clean, and there was great shouting 
 and excitement. " It was jollier cricket then ! " 
 he reflected sadly. 
 
 The elder Roger went and sat in the gun- 
 room. He had to relight his cigar three times, 
 and his reflections, although engrossing, did 
 not seem pleasant. 
 
 "Will she never understand," he muttered, 
 "that a man may care and yet play the giddy, 
 208
 
 A Coup d'Etat 
 
 and that he may play the giddy and not care a 
 damn ? What an almighty fool I've been ! " 
 
 When the children had gone to bed Lettice 
 went and sat in the newly arranged drawing- 
 room. 
 
 "It's perfectly hideous!" she exclaimed; 
 "I can't sit here!" 
 
 But she did sit there, staring at nothing for 
 a good half-hour till the dressing-bell rang. In 
 the evening she took up that very wise book, 
 "On the Face of the Waters," and read in 
 what manner Kate Erleton had refused "her 
 chance." 
 
 When little Roger woke next morning he 
 remembered that something very pleasant was 
 to happen that day. He was going with his 
 father to the riding-school in the town to see a 
 pony, and on that pony, if it proved suitable, 
 he was to go hunting next winter. As the full 
 significance of this tremendous occurrence was 
 brought home to him hi the shape of a pair of 
 new and very stiff gaiters, he felt equal to 
 negotiating the very biggest bullfinch; which 
 may account for what happened half an hour 
 later, as he stood in the hall waiting for the 
 dog-cart. 
 
 209
 
 Children of the Cotswolds 
 
 The rain had come on again, heavy " Mayish 
 rain," as Roger called it, but they didn't mind 
 about that. His father was standing in the 
 doorway looking very big in a wide white 
 macintosh. His mother ran downstairs with 
 her own macintosh cape for the little boy. 
 As she reached the bottom step, the elder Roger 
 came back into the hall. Perkins, who had 
 been in "father's regiment" when father first 
 joined, stood at the door with a rug over his 
 arm, looking imperturbable as usual. 
 
 Lettice stooped to kiss her little son as 
 she buttoned the cape at his neck. He caught 
 at her hands as they fumbled with the stiff 
 button, and said loudly, 
 
 "Kiss father too, mother dear, and wish 
 us luck!" 
 
 Perkins turned his head quickly, looking 
 back into the hall. Lettice felt the small 
 insistent hands upon her own, and heard her 
 husband's quick breathing just behind her. 
 There flashed into her brain the thought that 
 here and now was her "chance." She turned 
 quickly and lifted up her small proud face 
 towards her husband. 
 
 There was a flutter and flash of white macin- 
 210
 
 A Coup d'Etat 
 
 tosh in the dusky hall as Roger the elder caught 
 his wife up in his arms and carried her into the 
 dining-room. The door shut with a bang, and 
 little Roger was left alone with Perkins, who 
 blew his nose and waved the rug, exclaiming, in 
 an excited whisper 
 
 "Bless your 'eart, sir, you've done it !" 
 
 Roger stood on the steps and waited; the 
 smart little groom drove the dog-cart round 
 and round the drive; ten minutes passed, and 
 still father did not come. 
 
 " I'm rather afraid we shall miss the 'ppoint- 
 ment," said Roger, and made as if to go after 
 his parents into the dining-room; but Per- 
 kins caught him by the shoulder and pulled 
 him out on to the steps again, exclaiming 
 fiercely, 
 
 "No, you don't, Master Roger not for 
 your life!" 
 
 Another five minutes, then the dining- 
 room door opened: with a swish and swither 
 of silk petticoats his mother flew upstairs two 
 steps at a time. 
 
 "Buck up !" her husband shouted after her, 
 and his voice sounded as though he'd got a 
 dreadful cold; then, to Roger, "Mother is 
 211
 
 Children of the Cotswolds 
 
 coming too, to see about the pony; and just 
 look what a lovely day it's turned." 
 
 Roger thrust his hand into his father's, who 
 held it very tight, but he didn't say anything 
 at all. 
 
 There are the makings of a statesman in 
 Roger. 
 
 212
 
 XVI 
 
 THE STACEYS OF ELCOMBE HOUSE 
 
 A<TER Harry went to school Paul and I 
 had breakfast as well as lunch with father 
 and mother, unless there happened to be a great 
 many visitors. This was interesting because 
 the letters came at breakfast and we heard 
 the news. 
 
 It is curious how the most epoch-making 
 intelligence is often given quite quietly with 
 no flourish of trumpets, no preparation; just 
 as the most momentous decisions are almost 
 always made at once, without much reflection. 
 
 In the middle of May I remember it was 
 such a beautiful morning and tulips blazed 
 in the herbaceous border opposite the window 
 mother looked up from her letters and said : 
 "Measles is very bad in Fiammetta's school. 
 Mr. Glyn has taken her away, and as soon as 
 the quarantine is over he wants us to have 
 her here for the rest of the summer, as he 
 needs to go to America this month." 
 213
 
 Children of the Cotswolds 
 
 I couldn't speak. It was so tremendous. 
 
 Fiammetta here! for the rest of the sum- 
 mer ! and summer had only just begun. 
 
 "Well," said father, "that seems to me a 
 very sound suggestion but what'll he do 
 with Miss Sparling?" 
 
 She was the lady who kept house for him. 
 
 "She'll go off on a round of visits and they'll 
 shut the house. We were to have the child 
 in any case in the holidays, so it's only a month 
 or two sooner. It will be nice for you, Janey, 
 to have her" and mother smiled at me. 
 
 Nice for me ! 
 
 I mumbled something suitable: but I felt 
 too strongly to do more than mumble. There 
 was a singing in my ears and a lump in my 
 throat . . . but father understood, for he said : 
 "It will be pleasant to have the little blue maid 
 again: eh, Janey?" and I nodded at father 
 and father nodded at me. Then he opened the 
 newspaper and didn't look at me any more, and 
 I was grateful. 
 
 "I wonder," said Paul, "how many more 
 plays she's been to. We shall be able to act 
 them all when she's told us." 
 
 A year ago she had come to us, this child, 
 214
 
 The Staceys of Elcombe House 
 
 so utterly different from any other child we 
 knew; come to us, and, for me, had changed 
 and widened and vitalised the whole essential 
 part of my being. 
 
 At first I wasn't even sure that I liked her. 
 She was so different : but gradually I discovered 
 that in this difference lay her mysterious elusive 
 charm. 
 
 Little blue-gowned Fiammetta, always 
 quaint, always picturesque, always and en- 
 tirely unexpected. At first her somewhat 
 superior and grown-up attitude irritated us 
 extremely, but very soon we found that this 
 was but a thin veneer acquired by much con- 
 tact with grown-up people of a type we seldom 
 saw. Beneath it was the child, a veritable 
 child whimsical, imaginative, affectionate, 
 ever-various with a power of suggesting and 
 carrying through new and fascinating forms of 
 play that even Paul could not equal, Paul who 
 had imagination enough to stock ten families. 
 
 But we regarded the vagaries of our younger 
 brother with suspicion and some scorn. He 
 was so young. What is eight compared to 
 eleven? And Harry, now alas! exiled at a 
 preparatory school, was twelve. Harry, my 
 215
 
 Children of the Cotswolds 
 
 guide, philosopher and friend, reft from me 
 for long periods of the year. 
 
 We had seen her once since last summer 
 just once, in the Christmas holidays, when 
 Harry, Paul and I, in charge of Miss Good- 
 lake, our governess, went for two long, crowded, 
 glorious days to London. We stayed out at 
 Hampstead, where Mr. Glyn had taken a house 
 that Fiammetta might as a day-girl go to a 
 nice school there. 
 
 But when you are seeing things all day long 
 you can't seem to see people, and Fiammetta 
 herself was swamped in a sea of other wonders 
 and impressions. 
 
 Now she was really coming back and I 
 should get some good of her. 
 
 And the very week she came back we had to 
 go from Friday to Monday to stay with Uncle 
 Edward and Aunt Alice over at Elcombe House. 
 
 I never wanted to go there, and desired it 
 less than ever just then; but Aunt Alice 
 is mother's sister and it had been arranged 
 for weeks, and when mother suggested that 
 I couldn't go because Fiammetta was coming, 
 they invited her too with the utmost cordi- 
 ality. So there was no getting out of it. 
 216
 
 The Staceys of Elcombe House 
 
 As it happened, it proved a more amusing 
 visit than usual. 
 
 "What's the matter with them, Janey, that 
 you groan so?" Fiammetta asked that Friday 
 morning. "Don't you like your cousins?" 
 
 Put crudely like that, it sounded rather 
 bad. I hedged. 
 
 "I like them well enough, but I hate going 
 there, to stay. It's so stiff somehow, every- 
 thing's always arranged for one you'll see." 
 
 "I like Teddy," Lucy announced plump, 
 placid Lucy, who had come into our room 
 in nurse's wake while she packed our things 
 for Sunday. "I love Teddy," Lucy continued, 
 "he and me's both five." 
 
 "If," nurse remarked severely, "you was 
 a bit more like your cousins, Miss Janey, it 
 would be better for all parties. Very nicely 
 brought-up young ladies they are, and full of 
 accomplishments. ' ' 
 
 That was it. They were so full of accom- 
 plishments. Hermy (her name was Hermione), 
 only a year my senior, was already learning to 
 paint in oils and studied Italian. Viola, 
 eighteen months younger, could play quite 
 difficult music and danced by herself at tea- 
 217
 
 Children of the Cotswolds 
 
 parties, clad in classic draperies. Teddy it 
 was father who called him Teddy, and the name 
 stuck, though Uncle Edward disliked it ex- 
 tremely was the best of them: moon-faced, 
 good-natured and absolutely simple, a well- 
 meaning, quite ordinary little boy with no airs 
 or graces. Teddy, so Harry said, was "aw- 
 fully decent." 
 
 "You haven't explained," Fiammetta in- 
 sisted. "What's your uncle like?" 
 
 "It's no use," I exclaimed, "I can't explain 
 you wait. Perhaps," I added hopefully, 
 "you'll like him." 
 
 When Uncle Edw r ard bought Elcombe House, 
 only eight miles off, we children rejoiced: for 
 now, we thought, there could be no possible 
 reason for the "Eeny-Peenies," as we called 
 the girls, coming to stay with us. But we had 
 reckoned without the hospitality of the Staceys. 
 We were everlastingly being invited to stay 
 with them, and of two evils this was by far the 
 greater. They were always Uncle Edward, 
 the two governesses, Hermy and Vi trying to 
 improve us, especially me. 
 
 Paul didn't fit as to age, and his tempera- 
 ment was, apparently, even less adaptable 
 218
 
 The Staceys of Elcombe House 
 
 than mine. Whenever Paul went, there was 
 trouble. Lucy and Teddy were the best of 
 friends, but nurse and the Staceys' nurse 
 couldn't hit it off at all. Harry was safe at 
 school, therefore the lot generally fell upon 
 me to go ... and I hated it. 
 
 This time I felt it would not be so bad be- 
 cause Fiammetta was there, and Fiammetta 
 was capable of holding her own with dozens of 
 Staceys. 
 
 In the first place, she was a well-known 
 poet's only child. They would respect her 
 for that. In the second place, people who 
 tried to patronise Fiammetta were riding for 
 a fall. That I had seen proved, over and 
 over again. Paul was like that too, but then 
 Paul was only one of us, and they looked down 
 on us. Uncle Edward looked down on father. 
 I knew it, I felt it. I resented it intensely. 
 
 Uncle Edward had a way of condemning 
 amusements that he didn't care about by 
 calling them "rather horrid" in a high thin 
 voice that was far more condemnatory than 
 the loudest fulminations of ordinary folk. 
 Both hunting and shooting fell under this 
 ban, and father liked both. As for fishing, 
 219
 
 Children of the Cotswolds 
 
 Uncle Edward considered it the last resource 
 of the mentally effete. Agricultural pursuits 
 he dismissed as "rather bucolic," and father 
 farmed his own land and was extremely keen 
 about everything that concerned it. Whist 
 and Bridge Bridge had just begun to be 
 popular he described as "dreadful games"; 
 in fact, he "loathed all cards" except Patience. 
 He was an expert in Patience, knowing quite 
 forty different kinds; but he didn't care for 
 it unless at least three people watched him 
 do it which was dull for the selected three. 
 
 He was a slim, small man, whom no mortal 
 ever saw without his pince-nez I believe he 
 slept in them with a pale, regularly-featured 
 face, clean-shaven and legal-looking. He was 
 delicate, took immense care of himself, and cul- 
 tivated a large and healthy crop of dislikes. 
 His sense of smell was painfully acute and many 
 ordinary odours, that do not offend less sen- 
 sitively constituted mortals, were, to him, quite 
 unbearable. Tobacco he could not endure. 
 When father went to Elcombe House he had to 
 creep away to the furthest point of the most 
 distant garden to enjoy the smoke he could in 
 no wise forego. And when he returned, Uncle 
 220
 
 The Staceys of Elcombe House 
 
 Edward always sniffed delicately and looked 
 pained. 
 
 A cut melon caused Uncle Edward to feel 
 unwell, and I do believe if any one had eaten 
 an apple in front of him he would have fainted 
 outright. 
 
 We arrived just before tea. Hermy and 
 Vi met us in the hall and walked upstairs one 
 on either side of Fiammetta, leaving me to 
 follow by myself. They showed us our rooms 
 we had one each and they left me in mine 
 while they both accompanied Fiammetta to 
 hers. 
 
 After tea, presided over by Mademoiselle 
 and Fraulein, Teddy suddenly demanded, 
 "What have you done with the poet?" 
 
 "What poet?" asked Fiammetta, for Ted- 
 dy's remark was evidently addressed to her, 
 his round eyes never left her face. 
 
 "The poet you belongs to. Where have 
 you put him ? " 
 
 "I don't," Fiammetta said rather huffily 
 "put my father anywhere do you?" 
 
 "He's not a poet," Teddy said, quite un- 
 moved by her disapproval. "He's only an 
 or 'nary father." 
 
 221
 
 Children of the Cotswolds 
 
 "Indeed he's not," cried Viola; "he's very 
 extraordinary most gifted/' she added com- 
 placently. 
 
 Teddy continued to stare at Fiammetta. 
 "You haven't told me," he continued. 
 
 "Told you what?" 
 
 "where he is." 
 
 "He's in London, if you mean my daddie." 
 
 "Must he stay there?" 
 
 "Of course not, if he doesn't want to." 
 
 "Then why doesn't he come here with you?" 
 
 "Because he's in London, I tell you." 
 
 " Doesn't he want to come here ? " 
 
 "I suppose not," said Fiammetta, whose 
 patience was nearly exhausted. "Do you al- 
 ways ask so many questions?" 
 
 "I always ask," Teddy replied candidly, 
 "but people never tells me all I want to know. 
 Sometimes they don't even answer." 
 
 "I should think not," cried Viola. "A 
 little boy like you ! Run away and play with 
 your horse and cart. Fiammetta has come 
 to see us, not you." 
 
 "Have you?" the downright Teddy asked 
 wistfully. 
 
 "I've come to see all of you," Fiammetta 
 222
 
 The Staceys of Elcombe House 
 
 said graciously, "though I'm really staying 
 with Janey, you know." 
 
 "Perhaps you'll come and stay with us 
 too, mother said; without Janey, for a bit," 
 Hermy suggested. 
 
 Fiammetta stared. 
 
 " Without Janey ? " she repeated. " Why ? " 
 
 Hermy looked rather uncomfortable. 
 
 "Well, in case Janey didn't care to come, 
 you know," and Hermy put her arm round 
 Fiammetta. 
 
 Fiammetta drew herself away: "I shouldn't 
 like it at all without Janey, thank you," she 
 said stiffly; "she's my greatest friend." 
 
 Hermy and Viola looked at each other and 
 then at me, as though they were considering 
 me in a new light. Teddy, who had not done 
 his sister's bidding and was still hanging on 
 the outskirts of our little group, said suddenly, 
 "I'll come and stay with both of you when- 
 ever you ask me, wvout Nana," and he thrust 
 a sticky little hand into mine. My heart 
 went out to him, and I gave the hot small hand 
 a squeeze. Teddy and I were of the inarticu- 
 late, but we understood one another. 
 
 Viola turned ostentatiously to Fiammetta. 
 223
 
 Children of the Cotswolds 
 
 "Would you/' she asked sweetly, "like to 
 see me dance? Fraulein will play for me, and 
 we have half an hour before we go down to 
 father in the drawing-room." 
 
 "No, thank you," Fiammetta replied with 
 the utmost decision; "I see plenty of girls 
 dancing at school, and I can dance myself 
 perhaps you'd like to see me dance?" 
 
 "I think," Viola said hastily, "that we'd 
 better neither of us dance just now, lest we 
 get too hot. Shall we go out into the garden 
 till reading time?" 
 
 This we did. 
 
 On the stroke of six a bell was rung from 
 the front door and we all four went to the 
 drawing-room, where Aunt Alice and Uncle 
 Edward awaited us. It was his custom to 
 read to his family every evening at this hour, 
 unless there happened to be a garden-party. 
 Whatever anybody was doing, they were 
 haled to the drawing-room to hear Uncle 
 Edward read aloud. 
 
 "Edward reads so beautifully," Aunt Alice 
 
 always said, and I dare say he did. But 
 
 no one always wants to listen to the most 
 
 perfect reading, and this evening I noted with 
 
 224
 
 The Staceys of Elcombe House 
 
 some consternation that Fiammetta was bored, 
 and showed it. 
 
 She fidgeted, sne yawned, she drummed 
 with her fingers on the edge of her chair. 
 Once she shuffled her feet, and Uncle Edward 
 actually stopped and looked severely at me. 
 I know he gave me the credit for all the small 
 disturbances that occurred that evening, 
 whereas I was still as a mouse, and far too 
 interested in Fiammetta's frank manifestations 
 of ennui to have indulged in any myself. 
 
 At that time he was going through a course 
 of Jane Austen, for whose works he had an 
 enthusiastic admiration, and I remember think- 
 ing that he was rather like a Jane Austen per- 
 son himself, and that she would have "done 
 him" uncommonly well. The book he read 
 was "Pride and Prejudice," most witty and 
 delightful to read in later life. But children 
 miss the real savour of its caustic wit, and I 
 know that it was as much over Fiammetta's 
 head as over mine, even though she was so 
 infinitely better versed in literature of all kinds 
 than I. At seven Uncle Edward ceased, placing 
 a marker in the page as he closed the book. 
 
 "Perhaps," he said, "Fiammetta already 
 225
 
 Children of the Cotswolds 
 
 knows this book by heart and can tell me 
 what comes next." 
 
 Fiammetta arose hastily from her chair 
 with evident relief: "Oh, no," she said frankly, 
 "that's not the sort of book one knows by 
 heart. I don't think it's particularly interesting 
 do you?" 
 
 "I think it is a masterpiece," Uncle Edward 
 replied, almost breathless with astonishment. 
 "I hope that in a year or two Viola and Her- 
 mione will know it, and many others by the in- 
 comparable Jane, as well as they know their 
 multiplication table." 
 
 "Do they know that awfully well?" asked 
 Fiammetta. "I don't; the sevens and the 
 nines are so muddling my daddie quite agrees 
 with me. May we go away now ?" 
 
 In all my intercourse with Fiammetta, the 
 thing that never failed of its joy and wonder 
 was the way she nonplussed grown up people. 
 They seemed to have no suitable snub ready 
 for her. She was not in the least impertinent, 
 but neither was she deferential to their superior 
 intelligence. In fact, she made us question 
 sometimes whether they were so very intelli- 
 gent. She lived on terms of such absolute 
 226
 
 The Staceys of Elcombe House 
 
 equality with her father, such understanding 
 affection existed between them, that it never 
 occurred to Fiammetta to conceal her opinions 
 or to pretend she liked things merely to please 
 people who happened to be several years older 
 than herself. She was quite prepared to show 
 Uncle Edward good reasons for her lack of 
 interest in "Pride and Prejudice" as frankly 
 as she afterwards gave them to me. But she 
 had no opportunity, for I remember Aunt Alice 
 hustled us out into the garden with almost 
 unseemly haste, and we were set to play golf 
 croquet, in which game Viola and Hermione 
 excelled, I was only moderately good, and 
 Fiammetta couldn't play at all. Naturally she 
 did not enjoy herself much. 
 
 By lunch tune on Saturday she was, as she 
 herself put it, "thoroughly issasperated " with 
 things in general. Never for one moment 
 were we left alone. Something was arranged 
 for every minute. The Staceys believed in 
 organised games; "innocent pastimes varied 
 by intellectual pursuits" was Uncle Edward's 
 curriculum, and it would have been excellent 
 had there been rather less of the innocent pas- 
 times. Until quite recently the Staceys had 
 227
 
 Children of the Cotswolds 
 
 lived in towns, and they had yet to learn that 
 in the country children can find their own 
 amusements with the greatest ease : that Dame 
 Nature is an excellent M.C., and that the 
 queer plays children invent for themselves are 
 far more entrancing than any game that is 
 played by rule. 
 
 Fiammetta looked quite pale and exhausted 
 after a morning spent in rounders, clumps, 
 golf croquet (she rested and watched us dur- 
 ing this, as she firmly refused to play, but 
 Fraulein sat with her lest she should be dull), 
 spelling-game, Puss-in-the-corner, and "Earth, 
 air, fire, and water." 
 
 Observe the judicious admixture of active 
 exercise and mental gymnastics. 
 
 While I was washing my hands for lunch 
 she came into my room, shut my door I'm 
 afraid she banged it locked it, and stood with 
 her back against it. 
 
 " Janey, I want to go home," she announced. 
 " I want to go back to the Court this afternoon. 
 Will you ask them to drive us?" 
 
 "I can't," I exclaimed, aghast. "It would 
 never do; we've been asked till Monday, and 
 we must stay here till then." 
 228
 
 The Staceys of Elcombe House 
 
 " Why should I stay if I hate it ? " 
 
 "Because it's all arranged; they'd never 
 forgive us if we went home; it would be so 
 rude." 
 
 She began to cry. "I'm so tired," she 
 sobbed, "sick and tired of silly games that 
 one can make so many mistakes in, and they 
 keep showing you all the time. Janey, I 
 can't go on with it." 
 
 I was horror-struck. The luncheon gong 
 would ring in two minutes, and if Fiammetta 
 was tear-stained there would be inquiries. 
 
 I flew to her with the towel in my wet 
 hands, and put my arms round her. "Don't 
 cry!" I besought her, "if you do, they'll 
 think I've been pinching you, or something," 
 and she began to laugh. She dried her eyes 
 on the towel and then said irrelevantly, "Paul 
 didn't come. Why isn't he here, too, to help 
 bear it?" 
 
 "He wasn't asked," I said. "He doesn't 
 do here at all." 
 
 "I don't do either," she protested; "it's 
 a shame. When I think of Paul wandering 
 about in that dear garden, doing exactly what 
 he likes, I could scream." 
 229
 
 Children of the Cotswolds 
 
 "For mercy's sake don't/' I said. "They'd 
 want to know why, and then what could you 
 say?" 
 
 "Janey, after we've gone to bed and every- 
 thing's quiet, may I come in and sleep with 
 you? I wouldn't be so miserable then." 
 
 "It's a very little bed," I said dubiously, 
 "and you're an awful fidget. I hear you 
 in our room at home. You go round and 
 round like a dog." 
 
 "I'll bring my bedclothes and sleep on the 
 floor, and go back very early in the morning, 
 then they'll never know." 
 
 To pacify her, I consented to this, well know- 
 ing which of us would sleep on the floor. 
 
 In the afternoon they took us out in the 
 motor, and this we enjoyed, for motors were 
 then something of a novelty, and Uncle Edward 
 did not come. 
 
 Tea passed off quite peacefully. After tea 
 Viola again proposed to dance for us, and 
 again Fiammetta politely but firmly gain- 
 sayed the suggestion unless she, too, might 
 perform which was not in the least what 
 Viola wanted. 
 
 As the fateful hour of six approached I 
 230
 
 The Staceys of Elcombe House 
 
 trembled, especially as Fiammetta left us 
 without any explanation (we were gathered 
 on the lawn in front of the drawing-room 
 windows) and calmly walked into the house. 
 I watched the slim blue figure vanish; pre- 
 sently she returned, carrying one of the Jungle 
 books. 
 
 "What's the use of getting that just as 
 we're going in to papa?" asked Hermy. 
 
 "It's because I've got to go in to Mr. 
 Stacey that I've fetched it. I don't care 
 for that book about Mr. d'Arcy, so I'll read 
 this." 
 
 Hermy and Viola gasped, I quaked, Aunt 
 Alice looked rather frightened; Fraulein and 
 Mademoiselle regarded Fiammetta with silent 
 admiration. 
 
 "I don't think papa would like you to do 
 that, my dear," Aunt Alice said gently. "You 
 see, if he is kind enough to read to us, the least 
 we can do is to listen carefully." 
 
 "Why, if we don't want to?" Fiammetta 
 persisted. "If I mayn't read in there, may 
 I stay out here and read?" 
 
 "Papa likes us all to be present when he's 
 so good as to read to us," Aunt Alice said more 
 231
 
 Children of the Cotswolds 
 
 firmly. "It would never do for one of our 
 guests to miss his reading. Give me that book, 
 dear!" 
 
 Aunt Alice held out her hand for the book. 
 Fiammetta put it behind her back: "Mrs. 
 Stacey," she said earnestly, "I don't under- 
 stand. Is it like church? Nurse says we go 
 to church here because it's pleasing to the 
 Almighty we never go in London, daddie and 
 I. Do we have to listen to Mr. Stacey because 
 it's pleasing to the Almighty, or what?" 
 
 Aunt Alice lost her temper. "You must 
 do as you are told," she said shortly. "Give 
 me that book. I see papa at the window; 
 he is ready for us." 
 
 With a sigh Fiammetta handed over the 
 Jungle Book and we all filed into the drawing- 
 room. 
 
 Uncle Edward sat in his usual chair, care- 
 fully placed so that the light fell at exactly 
 the right angle upon his book. We all settled 
 ourselves to listen respectfully, except Fiam- 
 metta, who, just as he was about to begin, stood 
 up and said, "Mr. Stacey, do you mind if I 
 go into the garden instead of listening?" 
 
 Uncle Edward gazed at Fiammetta in the 
 232
 
 The Staceys of Elcombe House 
 
 utmost astonishment: "Don't you want to 
 hear the reading?" he asked. 
 
 "Not a bit," Fiammetta said firmly. "I 
 know you do it for kindness and all that, but 
 it does bore me so. I asked Mrs. Stacey, but 
 she seemed to think you'd mind . . . you 
 don't, do you?" and she smiled in friendliest 
 fashion at Uncle Edward. 
 
 "It is, of course," he said slowly, "a matter 
 of pure indifference to me whether you are 
 present or not." 
 
 "Thank you so much," Fiammetta said 
 sweetly. "You don't mind now, do you, 
 dear Mrs. Stacey? And may I have the 
 Jungle Book to take with me?" 
 
 She took the book from Aunt Alice's un- 
 resisting hands as she passed. She skipped 
 out of the window and across the lawn. She 
 arranged herself in a garden chair with a leg- 
 rest, all in full view of the windows . . . and 
 Uncle Edward began to read. 
 
 He read for an hour and a half. 
 
 Even Aunt Alice looked three times at the 
 clock during the last half-hour. 
 
 When at length he did finish, and Hermy 
 and Viola and I were about to flee into the 
 233
 
 Children of the Cotswolds 
 
 garden to hunt for Fiammetta, who had long 
 ago tired of the Jungle Book and wandered 
 away, he stayed us with a motion of his hand. 
 
 "I hope," he said gravely, "that you will 
 let this evening's incident be a lesson to you, 
 an object-lesson as to how a guest should not 
 behave." 
 
 Hermy and Viola looked duly disgusted 
 at Fiammetta's conduct; I, as usual when 
 confronted with Uncle Edward, looked foolish. 
 None of the three of us made any remark. 
 "Remember," he said, "that the perfect guest 
 invariably falls in with every custom of his 
 host. He becomes a part of the household. 
 You understand?" 
 
 "Yes, papa," said Hermy and Viola in duti- 
 ful chorus; "we will always try to." 
 
 "And you, Janey, will you lay this lesson 
 to heart?" 
 
 "Yes, Uncle Edward," I, too, said meekly; 
 and then, feeling rather mean, I added, "but 
 father says we ought to ask our guests if they 
 like things." 
 
 "Certainly," he replied coldly, "in reason; 
 but you cannot disorganize the entire working 
 of a household to please a guest. Especially," 
 234
 
 The Staceys of Elcombe House 
 
 he added, with evident annoyance, "when that 
 guest happens to be a spoilt, conceited child." 
 
 "I don't think Fiammetta is conceited," 
 I pleaded, "but she's used to saying right 
 out when she hates things " 
 
 "That will do, Janey," Aunt Alice inter- 
 posed hastily. "Run away, children, and 
 find Fiammetta." 
 
 As we ran, I reflected that Uncle Edward 
 certainly did not himself fulfil his definition 
 of the perfect guest. When he stayed with 
 us, poor father couldn't smoke a single pipe 
 in the house, and all fruits that had any sort 
 of a smell were banished from the menu. 
 
 We found Fiammetta at last in the garage, 
 conversing with the chauffeur. 
 
 "He's really a much more interesting man 
 than Mr. Stacey," she confided to me that 
 night when she came to sleep in my bed the 
 floor was hard and rather cold "he told me 
 about all the accidents he's ever been in." 
 
 235
 
 XVII 
 A SOLDIER'S BUTTON 
 
 HIS family could not understand why 
 Teddy had such a passion for soldiers. 
 Certainly his family neither inspired nor shared 
 it. 
 
 Papa declared them to be "elementary 
 persons of a low standard of intelligence." 
 
 Mummy was mildly negative in her views. 
 She did not, like papa, express actual disap- 
 proval of them as a class; they may even 
 have had a dimly-felt attraction for her she 
 was very like Teddy in some ways but she 
 was a devoted wife, and it would never have 
 occurred to her to champion any cause or 
 individual disapproved of by papa. 
 
 Teddy's sisters, both considerably older than 
 he for he was only four were facile echoes of 
 then- parents. And, after all, there was no 
 earthly reason why any of the family should 
 take any particular interest in soldiers. They 
 had seen very few. When they did happen to 
 236
 
 A Soldier's Button 
 
 come across a body of men in uniform march- 
 ing to the strains of a military band, they doubt- 
 less thrilled for a moment like everybody else; 
 then the soldiers and all they stood for vanished 
 from their minds as from their sight. 
 
 But it was otherwise with Teddy. He 
 thought about soldiers, dreamed of soldiers, 
 talked about soldiers, and asked incessant 
 questions about soldiers all day long and with 
 any one he could get to answer him. And 
 this was the more surprising inasmuch as he 
 was not naturally a talkative child, being of a 
 somewhat taciturn and ruminative disposition. 
 It annoyed papa, for, quiet and biddable as 
 Teddy was in every other respect, his enthusi- 
 asm for the soldier subject was such that no 
 amount of snubbing could keep him off it. 
 
 And it started this way. One year, on 
 their way to the Highlands, they stayed in 
 Edinburgh for the month of July. A friend 
 of papa's lent them his flat. The flat was hi 
 Ramsay Gardens, and Teddy's nursery win- 
 dow looked over the Castle Esplanade. The 
 Black Watch was stationed at the Castle just 
 then, and from his window Teddy beheld them 
 drilling. He was always seeing them when he 
 237
 
 Children of the Cotswolds 
 
 went out, and whensoever he did see them, 
 singly or in companies, he was thrilled to the 
 centre of his little soul. It is believed that 
 his nurse shared his enthusiasm, but this was 
 not known till long afterwards. But this 
 much is certain, that when she and Teddy 
 went out to take the air, whether he trotted by 
 her side, or was seated proudly in his mail- 
 cart, they seldom went in any direction that 
 did not either lead to, or circulate round about, 
 the evolutions of the Black Watch. Moreover, 
 that regiment never marched in any direction 
 whatsoever that Teddy and his nurse were not 
 among the most palpitating of interested 
 spectators. 
 
 Teddy's nurse was distinctly pleasing to 
 the eye. Plump, fresh-coloured and very neat 
 in her becoming uniform, she was of that 
 superior order of nurses who are trained in 
 institutions guaranteed to turn out guardians 
 of the young not only medically competent to 
 deal with every known form of infantile disease, 
 but so deeply versed in psychology as to be 
 able to draw out all that is best, and suppress 
 anything that is evil, in a child's character. 
 
 Mummy had selected her with extreme 
 238
 
 A Soldier's Button 
 
 care, and Teddy was almost entirely in her 
 charge. Mummy went out a good deal, for 
 both she and papa had many friends in Edin- 
 burgh whom they had not seen for a very long 
 time. His sisters were under the dominion of a 
 Fraulein, so he and his nurse were left almost 
 entirely to their own devices. 
 
 It was a beautiful July, and they were 
 hardly ever kept indoors by bad weather. 
 Teddy's cheeks grew round and rosy, his eyes 
 bright and interested, so that his parents de- 
 clared the keen bracing air was doing him all 
 the good in the world. Up to that time he had 
 been rather a pale, phlegmatic child. 
 
 To get from Princes Street to Ramsay 
 Gardens one has to mount an exceedingly steep 
 hill, pretty stiff walking for a pedestrian, and 
 real hard work when you've got to push a 
 mail-cart with a solid small boy in it. Yet 
 very often his nurse would take Teddy to 
 Princes Street Gardens in the afternoon, and 
 generally on such occasions the band of the 
 Black Watch discoursed sweet music from the 
 band-stand. 
 
 On the return journey there always ap- 
 peared some kindly kilted figure anxious to 
 239
 
 Children of the Cotswolds 
 
 "gie the bairn a hurl" up the steepest part 
 of the hill. Nurse was always very staid and 
 dignified on such occasions. She accepted 
 assistance, it is true, but with reservations. 
 Moreover, she even tried to check Teddy's 
 efforts in the way of conversation with his 
 escort by time-worn aphorisms to the effect 
 that little boys should be seen and not heard. 
 But here she failed signally. 
 
 "When I'm a man," said Teddy, during one 
 of these delicious "hurrls," "I hope I sail be a 
 gate big soldier like you." 
 
 "You mean, my dear, that you hope you'll 
 be an officer," nurse remarked loftily. 
 
 "A bave British officer," Teddy repeated 
 obediently. 
 
 "That's the ticket," he of the kilt agreed 
 cordially, quite unconscious of the implied snub. 
 "I'd like fine to serve under ye mysel'." 
 
 "I expect you'll be an officer too by then," 
 Teddy suggested. 
 
 The big soldier chuckled. "I'm no for onny- 
 thing o' that sort," he said, shaking his head. 
 "I'm for the Resairve when I marry," he 
 added, with a side glance at Teddy's pretty 
 nurse. 
 
 240
 
 A Soldier's Button 
 
 "That will do, Mr. Macdonald," she said, 
 laying a neatly-gloved hand on the handle 
 of the mail-cart. "I can manage myself now; 
 we are past the steepest part." 
 
 The soldier obediently relinquished the mail- 
 cart. He saluted Teddy, and Teddy saluted 
 him with great solemnity. Then, with quite 
 equal solemnity he winked, and swung away 
 down the hill again. 
 
 Papa's friend had lent his servants as well 
 as his flat, and among them was a highland 
 housemaid, called Campbell by the authori- 
 ties but known among her fellows as Girzie. 
 And so Teddy knew her. Of course, nurse 
 was far too grand a person to consort with 
 the other servants on familiar terms. She 
 might, on occasion, when nobody else was 
 present, unbend a little towards a sergeant- 
 major in his splendid uniform, but she rigor- 
 ously enforced the distance her "training" 
 put between her and the servants, and they 
 not even of her employer's household. All 
 the same, nurse made no objection when 
 Girzie offered to look after Teddy on such 
 occasions as she wanted an afternoon off in 
 the society of that same sergeant-major. And 
 241
 
 Children of the Cotswolds 
 
 Girzie, who adored Teddy, was most accom- 
 modating. 
 
 Now Girzie had a brother in the Black 
 Watch. It is true he was "only just a soldier/' 
 as Teddy put it, to distinguish him from the 
 more highly-placed acquaintance of nurse, but 
 he looked upon it as a distinct advantage, for 
 under Girzie's guardianship he was allowed to 
 converse freely with the short, thick-set man, 
 who was so agreeably ready to answer ques- 
 tions. 
 
 From him Teddy learnt the true signifi- 
 cance of dirks and sporrans and philabegs and 
 plaids and badges, and many other things. 
 The letter R was still a difficulty with Teddy, 
 and he felt rather out of it among people who 
 seemed to take a positive delight in giving that 
 letter an almost undue prominence. Yet, 
 though Girzie's brother did exclaim rather 
 often, "eh! what's that you're sayin'?" they 
 got on famously on the whole; and though it 
 may not be wholly nattering to be addressed 
 as "the wee stoot yen," yet Teddy overlooked 
 the familiarity because of the affection in its 
 tone. 
 
 He was something of an Elizabethan in his 
 242
 
 A Soldier's Button 
 
 simplicity and jovial sense of fellowship with 
 his kind. And the truth is that the atmosphere 
 of Teddy's home was somewhat rarefied. 
 
 Papa was a Superior Person, quite excellent 
 and kind in all his domestic relations, but in 
 many respects what more ordinary mortals 
 called a crank. 
 
 He had views, strong views, and he was 
 apt to enforce them: not only upon his family, 
 whom, of course, in consequence of these very 
 views, he felt bound to influence, but also upon 
 outsiders, who, if of a hasty disposition, w r ere 
 apt to wish papa at Jericho, or even in some 
 still warmer place. He was also a person of 
 many and vigorous antipathies, which he seemed 
 to think entitled him to special consideration. 
 Therefore did Teddy feel that the simple and 
 jovial persons he encountered in Edinburgh 
 rilled a hitherto unsatisfied want in his nature, 
 and he loved them dearly. 
 
 And they loved him; for the "wee stoot yen" 
 was irresistibly frank and friendly and few of us 
 are impervious to the flattery of such respect- 
 ful admiration as Teddy's round face and blue 
 eyes plainly manifested whenever he came across 
 any of his friends in the Black Watch. 
 243
 
 Children of the Cotswolds 
 
 One day when he was out with Girzie she 
 took him to the Arcade in Princes Street, 
 and there bought him a doll dressed as a 
 Highlander. Teddy was charmed with the 
 present, though he could have wished that 
 the china face under the fierce busby had 
 been a thought less chubby and simpering, 
 and what really did worry him was a feeling 
 that there was something not quite right 
 about the uniform. He didn't know what 
 it was, and he was too well-bred and grateful 
 to Girzie for her kind present to find any 
 fault; but when on the way up the hill they 
 met her brother, he at once pointed out several 
 discrepancies, which he commanded Girzie to 
 alter, explaining how it should be done. Girzie 
 carried out his instructions that night, and next 
 day they christened the doll "Colin Dougal," 
 after the said brother, and it became Teddy's 
 most precious possession. 
 
 Colin Dougal slept with him, ousting from 
 that proud post a fluffy bird attached to an 
 elastic that had hitherto possessed the privi- 
 lege. Colin Dougal accompanied him in his 
 mail-cart, and sat beside him at nursery 
 meals; and to Colin Dougal Teddy used to 
 244
 
 A Soldier's Button 
 
 sing, over and over again, the refrain of an 
 old song he had learned from Girzie: 
 
 " My love, she's in Dumbarton, 
 Whaur they weir the tartan, 
 Whaur they weir the tartan 
 Faur abin the knee !" 
 
 It seemed quite fitting that anybody's love 
 should dwell in a part of the country where 
 they wore that entrancing costume, and Teddy 
 felt certain that Dumbarton must be a specially 
 delightful place, and was quite drawn to the 
 lady. But always after singing it he was 
 assailed by doubts as to whether Colin Dougal's 
 tartan was quite short enough. Girzie had 
 shortened it, but the exigencies of his china 
 legs precluded the strict brevity of a kilt as 
 worn by the Black Watch. Still, the tartan 
 was the right tartan, and that was something. 
 
 The pleasant July days, so long and light, 
 slipped speedily away, till an afternoon came 
 when Teddy, returning from a walk with 
 Girzie, found the nursery full of boxes, and 
 nurse, who demanded the immediate surren- 
 der of Colin Dougal that she might pack him. 
 245
 
 Children of the Cotswolds 
 
 The little boy clasped his doll more firmly 
 in his arms, looked round the dismantled 
 nursery, and grim foreboding laid a chilly 
 hand upon his heart. 
 
 "What do you want to pack for?" he asked 
 breathlessly. 
 
 "Because we're going by an early train to- 
 morrow, and mummy says everything must be 
 ready to-night." 
 
 " Going ! " he gasped. " Going where ? " 
 
 "We're all going to Kingussie for August." 
 
 "I'm not going, I don't want to go. I 
 want to stay here, wiv all my fends. . . . 
 Do you," he asked anxiously, "want to go 
 to Kingussie?" 
 
 Nurse looked flushed and rather cross. 
 
 "I'm not asked," she muttered, "what I 
 want, nor you neither, Teddy. Give me that 
 doll at once, and I'll pack him with the other 
 toys." 
 
 Teddy stared stonily at her, nor made the 
 smallest effort to surrender his doll. 
 
 "I'm not going," he said firmly, "not to- 
 morrow. Why, I haven't said good-bye to 
 none of them, have you?" 
 
 "I don't know what you're talking about," 
 245
 
 A Soldier's Button 
 
 said nurse huffily; "give me that doll at once, 
 you know I don't allow disobedience." 
 
 And as she spoke she made a grab at the 
 doll. 
 
 Teddy held on with all his strength. 
 
 They were starting for Kingussie a day 
 earlier than had been originally intended, and 
 it had only been decided upon that morning. 
 Mummy had taken it upon herself to send 
 Girzie out with Teddy, leaving nurse free to 
 pack. This had upset all nurse's plans, and 
 left Sergeant-Major Macdonald kicking his 
 heels during a vain wait at the bottom of the 
 hill, while Girzie and Teddy went off in quite 
 another direction. Therefore nurse was de- 
 cidedly irritable, and rather roughly tried to 
 pull Colin Dougal out of Teddy's arms. 
 
 For a full minute Teddy held on with all 
 his little strength, then suddenly and des- 
 pairingly let go. And at the same instant 
 nurse also let go, remembering that it was 
 undignified to struggle with a small child for 
 the possession of a china doll. 
 
 Colin Dougal fell with a thump upon the 
 floor, one of his china legs broke right in two, 
 and the severed half leapt gaily under a chair. 
 247
 
 Children of the Cotswolds 
 
 Teddy took a deep breath and yelled and 
 yelled and yelled. 
 
 Papa and mummy heard him in the draw- 
 ing-room, and rushed to the nursery to see 
 what had happened. 
 
 He was standing stock still just inside the 
 door. Nurse had picked up Colin Dougal and 
 the bit of his leg, and was vainly trying to 
 explain to her demented charge that it could 
 easily be mended. 
 
 But Teddy struck at her with both his 
 hands, and refused to be comforted. He also 
 continued to bawl with unabated vigour after 
 his parents had entered the room. 
 
 "What's this? What's this?" exclaimed 
 papa. 
 
 "Are you hurt, my precious?" mummy 
 inquired tenderly, as she knelt beside her 
 little boy. 
 
 Teddy did not repulse his mother, and 
 managed to ejaculate in the middle of a roar, 
 "I don't want to go to Kingussie!" 
 
 The accident to Colin Dougal seemed a 
 minor woe, caused by, and included in, this 
 devastating news of departure. 
 
 " Nonsense ! " papa exclaimed, looking pained; 
 248
 
 A Soldier's Button 
 
 "not want to go to Kingussie! Why, it's 
 country real, beautiful, quiet country far 
 better than this place, with those infernal bugles 
 braying from morning till night, and the horrid 
 band, and all those tramping soldiers. You'll 
 love Kingussie." 
 
 Teddy stopped afresh in the midst of re- 
 newed efforts in the way of yells to hiccough 
 indignantly "not 'fernal bugles!" 
 
 Papa looked rather surprised, but his pained 
 look returned as Teddy started to shout again 
 at the top of his voice. 
 
 Nurse, taking advantage of the general 
 confusion, packed Colin Dougal, and actually 
 wrapped up the piece of his leg in a separate 
 bit of paper with cold-blooded detachment. 
 
 Mummy reasoned, papa reasoned, and nurse, 
 who had by this time recovered her Institu- 
 tional serenity, spoke soothingly; but all to 
 no avail. Teddy continued to scream, to lose 
 his breath, and then roar with renewed vigour 
 when he had got it again. 
 
 He really made a great to-do. 
 
 Finally papa and mummy departed in de- 
 spair. Nurse went on packing, and Girzie, 
 who had been listening at the end of the pas- 
 249
 
 Children of the Cotswolds 
 
 sage with her hand against her heart, came in 
 and took the tired, miserable little figure into 
 her kind strong arms and sat down on a 
 chair. 
 
 "Eh, Master Teddy, and what'll the soldiers 
 be thinkin' this night, to hear such an awfV 
 stramash in this respectable house . . . an' 
 both the windows open? They'll be fairaf- 
 frontet to think the young gentleman they 
 thought such a heap on could cry like a randy 
 wife. They puir soldiers won't know what to 
 make of it at all, at all." 
 
 And Girzie shook her head as though over- 
 come with care. 
 
 Teddy sat up and stared at her, and though 
 his breath still came in sobs he made no noise. 
 
 "Will they mind, Girzie?" he asked anx- 
 iously. " Will they 'eally mind ? " 
 
 " Mind ! " Girzie repeated. " Mind ! They'll 
 just be that upset and you almost like one o' 
 them." 
 
 "Colin Dougal's broken his leg." 
 
 "Well, he'll get over that. My brother 
 broke his leg at the football, and look at him 
 now!" 
 
 "But we're going away, Girzie, . . . and 
 250
 
 A Soldier's Button 
 
 I haven't said good-bye to nobody, not to 
 your Colin Dougal nor no one." 
 
 "Never fear but he'll see ye to say good- 
 bye but not if you cry an' you going to be 
 a grand officer gentleman some day. Soldiers 
 don't cry, laddie. It would be the very last 
 thing they'd think of doing." 
 
 " Not if they're hurted in their hearts ? 
 nor never?" 
 
 " Not that any other person could see or 
 hear them, you may depend on that. And 
 you mustn't cry either, any way not so loud 
 that folk could hear ye right across the Es- 
 planade. Listen, laddie, we'll no forget you. 
 My brother's just fair taken up wi' you, and 
 he's sent you this for a bit keepsake. It's 
 one o' his buttons made into a safety-pin, and 
 when you're a wee thing bigger you'll wear 
 it to hold down your tie ... if nurse'll let 
 you," she added hastily, with an anxious 
 glance at nurse, who continued to pack in 
 absorbed silence. 
 
 Eagerly Teddy untied the little packet, 
 and there was a real soldier's button mounted 
 as a safety-phi. 
 
 "When can I have a tie?" he asked eagerly. 
 251
 
 Children of the Cotswolds 
 
 Nurse came over to them and stood looking 
 down at the little pin. Her face softened. 
 "I've got one rather like that, myself," she 
 said. "You can fasten it in your blouse 
 whether you have a tie or not. No one would 
 notice." 
 
 "Can I wear it always?" he asked. 
 
 "Yes, if you like," nurse said graciously, 
 "and perhaps it will help you to remember 
 not to cry when you fall down." 
 
 Girzie said nothing, but she fastened the 
 brooch so that the button shone resplendent 
 just above the ribbons that tied Teddy's 
 sailor blouse. 
 
 "I will remember," he said solemnly. 
 
 "Are you sorry you were so naughty?" 
 nurse asked, ever desirous to improve the 
 occasion. 
 
 "No," said Teddy firmly. "I hate Kin- 
 gussie." 
 
 But after all he didn't hate Kingussie. He 
 would have liked it immensely but that it 
 rained nearly all the time. July seemed to 
 have used up all the nice weather, and August 
 was very cold and wet. He got one chill on 
 the top of another, and sneezed and snuffled, 
 252
 
 A Soldier's Button 
 
 and snuffled and sneezed, and lost all the pretty 
 pink colour in his cheeks that he had gained in 
 Edinburgh. 
 
 Kingussie is a beautiful place with woods 
 and streams and a glorious golf links covered 
 with short springy turf. Their lodgings were 
 right on the top of a hill, and the view from 
 the windows was very lovely, but even the 
 loveliest view palls when it can only be seen 
 through a veil of driving rain. 
 
 Toward the end of their stay Teddy alarmed 
 his family by falling really ill. The local doc- 
 tor took a gloomy view of his case, and talked 
 of unripe blackberries and appendicitis. Papa 
 thereupon carried the whole family back to 
 Edinburgh before the end of the month. This 
 time they stayed at the Caledonian Hotel, 
 where the noise of Princes Street and the con- 
 stant trains tried papa even more than the in- 
 fernal bugles in Ramsay Gardens. 
 
 A great doctor, who had not yet started for 
 his holiday, was consulted about Teddy, and 
 he was even graver than the doctor up in 
 Kingussie, and said there must be an operation 
 at once. 
 
 That was a puzzling day for Teddy. 
 253
 
 Children of the Cotswolds 
 
 He was kept in bed till evening, and nurse 
 and everybody were extraordinarily kind to 
 him. 
 
 Then mummy came and sat beside him 
 and held his hand, and told him that he was 
 to go that night to another house, and that 
 the next day the great doctor would do some- 
 thing for him that would make him quite well. 
 
 "Why can't he do it here?" Teddy asked. 
 
 It seemed that people didn't have these 
 things done in hotels; that doctors were par- 
 ticular men who liked to make people well 
 in specially chosen houses called Nursing 
 Homes, and that Teddy was to go to one of 
 those homes that very night in a taxi-cab. 
 
 "Will my nurse come?" he asked anxiously. 
 
 "I will come," said mummy, and her voice 
 sounded as if she, too, had got one of the 
 Kingussie colds. 
 
 "Not nurse," he repeated, rather puzzled. 
 "Who will dress me?" 
 
 "There are lots of nice nurses in the Home 
 who can do that, but you won't be dressed 
 just at first, you know. The doctor will want 
 to keep you in bed a little while after the 
 operation." 
 
 254
 
 A Soldier's Button 
 
 "What's a operation? What's it do to 
 you?" 
 
 But this mummy did not seem able to 
 explain very clearly, and Teddy began to feel 
 rather doubtful about the whole thing. 
 
 "Will it hurt?" he asked at last. 
 
 "Not at the time, my precious," said Mum- 
 my, "but afterwards it may. I'm afraid it 
 will, rather. I'm afraid it may hurt a good 
 deal. But you will try to be brave. I know 
 you will be brave." 
 
 "A bave Bittish officer " Teddy mut- 
 tered. Then, turning his big, bright eyes 
 upon his mother, he asked eagerly: "Can 
 I wear my button ? " 
 
 Mummy did not understand, but nurse did, 
 and when it was all explained he was assured 
 that he should wear his button. 
 
 Then they dressed him, and nurse packed 
 a little suitcase, with Colin Dougal in it, and 
 all his new pyjamas and his dressing-gown, and 
 he and Mummy went alone together to that 
 strange house full of nurses. 
 
 A great many odd things happened that 
 night, and Teddy simply couldn't have borne 
 the strangeness of it all if his button had not 
 255
 
 Children of the Cotswolds 
 
 been fastened on the pocket of the jacket of 
 his pyjamas: they were real pyjamas, two gar- 
 ments, not baby ones fastened together. 
 
 He didn't sleep very well that night, but as 
 often as he woke up he touched his button and 
 repeated to himself "Guadaloupe, Martinique, 
 Selingapatam," which are the first three of the 
 long list of battles fought by the Black Watch. 
 Girzie's brother could say them all, and Teddy 
 loved to hear him roll them out in his strong 
 Scottish voice, and tried to learn them him- 
 self, but they are mostly very long names, and 
 only the first three remained in his mind. 
 
 Every one was most kind, but it was depress- 
 ing not to have any breakfast. Mummy's 
 cold seemed to get worse, and one of the nurses 
 suggested that it would be better if she did not 
 come as far as the operating-room lest she should 
 give it to Teddy. 
 
 His heart was thumping in his ears. He 
 kissed mummy, he kissed Colin Dougal, who 
 simpered sweetly as usual (his leg hardly 
 showed at all) and was quite unmoved; and 
 then, with lips that trembled, he whispered 
 "Bave Bittish officer" to himself over and 
 over again. 
 
 256
 
 A Soldier's Button 
 
 He put one hand into that of the kind 
 nurse, and held his button with the other, 
 and together they went down a long passage 
 into a room that was walled and floored with 
 white tiles. It had no chairs in it, only tables, 
 one of them long and narrow and high, right 
 in the middle of the room. Two doctors were 
 waiting for them, and the one Teddy had seen 
 at the hotel had his coat off as if he were going 
 to play some game. He looked very kindly at 
 Teddy as they came in. "You're a man," 
 he said. "I can see that." 
 
 "I sail not ky," Teddy said in rather a 
 shaky voice. "I sail not ky, because I'm 
 going to be a soldier, and they don't, you 
 know." 
 
 "I guessed that, the minute I saw you," 
 said the doctor. "We like soldiers here, 
 they get well extra quick. Up with you, 
 and you mustn't mind when we put that funny 
 thing over your face." 
 
 Teddy lay down on the high narrow table. 
 He looked up anxiously at the doctor he 
 didn't know. "You won't take my button 
 away, will you, not when you make me go 
 to sleep?" 
 
 257
 
 Children of the Cotswolds 
 
 "Keep a tight hold of it," said the doctor, 
 "and you'll find it there when you wake up. 
 No one would dream of touching it." 
 
 A soft rubber mask was pressed on Teddy's 
 face; it was not pleasant, but it did not hurt. 
 Then came a roaring in his ears like the burn 
 at Kingussie when it had rained more than 
 usual. 
 
 "A bave Bittish Guadaloupe, Marti- 
 nique 
 
 The burn had swept little Teddy away into 
 oblivion, but even there the small hand was 
 closed tightly over the soldier's button. 
 
 That night the doctor congratulated papa 
 both upon the entire success of the operation 
 and on the splendid military training he had 
 given his little son. 
 
 258
 
 XVIII 
 
 PAUL AND THE PLAYWRIGHT 
 
 " T WAS eight yesterday," said Paul to Thor, 
 A "so this week's different. I'm different. 
 I'm older five years older than you, dear, 
 though you are so big." 
 
 Thor wagged his tail and looked sympa- 
 thetic. A deerhound contrives to express more 
 by his looks than most humans, and Paul 
 talked so continually to Thor that the great 
 dog always seemed to understand. 
 
 "So," Paul continued, "I think it's time we 
 went about a bit and looked for an adventure 
 like him, you know. We've been awfully 
 good for ever so long. You haven't stole 
 anything, nor chased the sheep, nor ate any- 
 body's slipper, and I haven't gone off for the 
 day, or smacked Lucy, or read a book at meals. 
 We've been sort of saints, and it's time we did 
 something, or we'll be turning into kind of 
 angels and they always die, you know, and 
 we've no time for that: we've got ever such a 
 259
 
 Children of the Cotswolds 
 
 deal to see to. Come on, my dear, nobody 
 wants us. Let's walk and walk till we find 
 somethin' instastin'." 
 
 Paul wasted no time in preparations. He 
 didn't even wait to put on his boots. He was 
 already equipped with his favourite weapon, 
 a smooth roller-like piece of wood about 
 a foot long, which had originally been used 
 as a support for photographs. They had 
 been rolled round it for postal purposes. Paul 
 annexed it when he was about three, christened 
 it his "chuncheon" (in those days "r's" were 
 a difficulty,) and had treasured it ever since. 
 
 Once Dorcas, the under-nurse, tidied it 
 away in her excess of zeal, when his grief was 
 so uncontrollable that the whole household 
 turned out to hunt for it, and it was finally 
 rescued from the dustbin by cook. 
 
 Before setting out he would fain have 
 divested himself of his smock, but a smock 
 is a tiresome garment securely fastened at 
 the back by means of treacherous little loops 
 and buttons, quite too complex to be success- 
 fully tackled by the wearer. He did his best, 
 however, to turn it into a doublet by tying 
 a piece of string as tightly as possible round 
 260
 
 Paul and the Playwright 
 
 his waist, and through the string he thrust 
 his trusty "chuncheon." He pulled his dilapi- 
 dated cotton hat well over his eyes, and, 
 lest any of the authorities should look out 
 of the window and inquire his intentions, 
 he set off down the drive very slowly, as 
 though bound for nowhere in particular. 
 
 Nurse saw him strolling towards the gate, 
 but that was nothing; he was always stroll- 
 ing about the garden with Thor the only 
 wonder was that some five other dogs had not 
 already joined them. 
 
 Mrs. Button at the lodge saw him go by 
 as she was hanging out sheets on the line, 
 and they "changed the weather and passed 
 the time of day," but she only thought he 
 was going across to the village shop for some- 
 thing, so she was not curious or suspicious 
 either. 
 
 At "The Cat and Compasses" Paul stopped. 
 Mr. Mumford, the landlord, was standing in 
 the doorway leaning on a hoe. They greeted 
 each other suitably, and Paul remarked, "Miss 
 Goodlake's stopped in bed: She's got a head- 
 ache " 
 
 "Sorry to 'ear it, I'm sure," Mr. Mumford 
 261
 
 Children of the Cotswolds 
 
 replied sympathetically. "Per'aps the sun 'ave 
 been a bit too strong for she." 
 
 "Janey and Fiammetta," Paul continued, 
 unconcerned as to the causes of Miss Good- 
 lake's headache, "are doing their lessons 
 alone. They're hearing each other, and they 
 said I disturbed them, so Thor and I've come 
 off together." 
 
 He paused and looked expectantly at Mr. 
 Mumford, as though waiting for a suggestion 
 of some sort. 
 
 Mr. Mumford is shaped rather like a pair 
 of bellows with two substantial legs instead 
 of one slim one. He completely filled his 
 own doorway, and perspiring and benevolent, 
 looked down at Paul. 
 
 "I wish as I could ast you to come in and 
 set a bit, Master Paul," he said apologeti- 
 cally, "but my missus she be a-cleanin', and 
 when a woman gets a-cleanin', the 'ouse 
 beant no place for the likes of we. Not a 
 moment's peace or quiet to be 'ad. You 
 knows what 'a' be, doan't 'ee, Master Paul?" 
 
 Here Mr. Mumford winked at Paul, who 
 wagged his head sympathetically as the sum- 
 mer stillness was broken by the clashing of 
 262
 
 Paul and the Playwright 
 
 pails, the sound of falling brooms, and a 
 strident voice exclaimed, "Sammle! you get 
 along down garden an' weed them there pars- 
 nips. That bed be disgrace to be'old. You 
 take 'oe along; be off now, don't 'ee stand 
 gossipin' there, ye lazy varmint, you !" 
 
 With a groan Mr. Mumford seized the hoe, 
 turned back into the bar, and disappeared 
 from view. Paul, congratulating Thor on 
 the fact that neither of them had a missus 
 who insisted on the weeding of parsnips on 
 such a hot morning, strolled through the 
 village. It was not yet ten o'clock, and no 
 one was to be seen. All the women were 
 busy indoors, the men at work. The sky 
 was blue, the sun was hot, and a ribbon of 
 white road lay before them "beckoning and 
 winding." So he and Thor set off at a good 
 pace, and Paul muttered as he went, "He 
 would have given his housekeeper and his 
 niece for a fair opportunity of kicking the 
 traitor Galabon," adding thoughtfully, "They'd 
 be about as bad as a missus, I expect." 
 
 Of course the quotation came from the 
 Book of the Moment, which, just then, hap- 
 pened to be Don Quixote. He had found 
 263
 
 Children of the Cotswolds 
 
 the Mad Knight in the attic, an old transla- 
 tion in four volumes, published in 1810, with 
 a map and many steel engravings. He read 
 it right through with his usual absorbed in- 
 terest, but expressed regret that there was 
 such "an awful lot about lovers and that." 
 The Don's passion for the peerless Dulcinea 
 he did not attempt to understand, and the 
 long love stories of other people interspersed 
 throughout bored him. But the adventures 
 thrilled him, and Sancho Panza's was a char- 
 acter that he got on terms with at once. 
 There was something dear and familiar about 
 the sturdy Sancho: something of Mr. Mum- 
 ford. 
 
 For although, so far as Paul knew, Mr. 
 Mumford never went further afield than Gar- 
 chester, still he was confident that, did occa- 
 sion arise, Mr. Mumford would not fail him. 
 Paul often pictured himself, attended by 
 this faithful henchman, riding forth on two of 
 his father's best hunters, to seek their fortunes 
 in an unknown world. 
 
 It is true that he had never in so many 
 words mooted the idea to Mr. Mumford in 
 any of their more intimate conversations, 
 264
 
 Paul and the Playwright 
 
 but he felt assured that Mr. Mumford would 
 never suffer him to set out alone and un- 
 aided. 
 
 He was, perhaps, a thought disappointed 
 that this boon companion had not suggested 
 going with him that very morning, but he 
 acquitted him of all intentional disloyalty, 
 when he reflected on the compelling qualities 
 of the voice that hailed the unwilling Sammle 
 to the parsnip bed. He was sure Mr. Mum- 
 ford would have preferred to accompany him 
 which is quite likely. 
 
 It was impossible to be Don Quixote with- 
 out an attendant; so, somewhat regretfully, 
 Paul fell back upon the beloved Boots, the 
 resourceful and ever-conquering third son of 
 his favourite Fairy Book. 
 
 Here, Thor was quite in the picture. 
 
 It is true that in "Tales from the Norse" 
 there isn't much about dogs. Horses play all 
 the larger parts, but "lots of animals come in," 
 and Paul liked that. "After all," he remarked 
 complacently to Thor, "we shan't have to keep 
 on being in love on such a hot morning." 
 
 Paul's view of love-making strongly re- 
 sembled that of cook, who, when she caught 
 265
 
 Children of the Cotswolds 
 
 Greenwood, the groom, kissing the kitchen- 
 maid, boxed their several ears, but related the 
 incident quite dispassionately to mother, con- 
 cluding her recital with the remark, "I don't 
 hold with it myself, but there I suppose it's 
 pleasing to some." 
 
 Paul, too, was quite ready to allow that it 
 might be "pleasing to some"; but his mood 
 that morning was not attuned to the contempla- 
 tion of transcendently beautiful ladies. He 
 pined for the society of a like-minded bachelor, 
 a jolly bachelor of sociable habits, who would 
 understand and sympathise with a desire to 
 be free for a while from the tyranny of the tem- 
 pestuous petticoat. 
 
 So they strolled along in the middle of the 
 winding road for nearly a couple of miles, 
 then an open gate into an unfamiliar field 
 invited them, and they went in and crossed 
 it. Paul climbed and Thor leapt the gate 
 into the next. There were sheep in that 
 field, but Thor resisted temptation, and rested 
 quietly with his master under the shade of 
 an elm. On again across more fields, meeting 
 with no adventures whatsoever. All the trolls, 
 giants, witches, lions, pirates, knights and 
 266
 
 Paul and the Playwright 
 
 princesses seemed to have remained indoors or 
 underground that morning. 
 
 A man shouted at them once, but he was 
 too far off to discover whether his words 
 were friendly or the reverse. Previous ex- 
 perience, however, led Paul to believe they 
 were in some way "be off out of that-ish!" 
 and he hurried away in an opposite direction. 
 
 His feet ached and the soles of his shoes 
 felt very thin. He decided that the moment 
 they struck the road again he'd make for the 
 very first house in sight and ask for some 
 water for both of them. 
 
 At last they reached a field bordered by 
 a road. They pushed through a gap hi the 
 hedge and found themselves not far from 
 four crossroads and a church. Paul made 
 for the church, for as a rule where churches 
 are, houses are not far off and, sure enough, 
 right opposite the church gate was one that 
 led into somebody's drive with an exceedingly 
 trim lodge on the left-hand side. 
 
 He paused, undecided for a moment whether 
 
 to go round to the back door, which would 
 
 be certain to be open, and ask for water from 
 
 the lady of the lodge, or go right up the drive 
 
 267
 
 Children of the Cotswolds 
 
 and see what the people of the house were 
 like. 
 
 If he went to the back and rapped with his 
 knuckles a woman would come out he was 
 sure of that. She might be washing; she 
 might be displeased at the interruption; she 
 would be almost certain to disapprove of 
 Thor. 
 
 He decided to go up to the house. 
 
 Here, as everywhere else that morning, 
 there was not a soul in sight and it was very 
 still. The sun was high in the heavens, and 
 the great lawns in front of the house stretched 
 almost shadowless green and shaven and 
 smooth. It was a pretty house: irregular, 
 long and low, covered with creepers, with 
 sloping roofs, clustering chimneys, and kindly- 
 looking gables a restful house, Paul thought 
 wistfully. Would they let him go in and sit 
 a bit? 
 
 The open front door was hooded by a deep 
 sunblind, but he peeped underneath and be- 
 held a cool dark hall, absolutely un tenanted; 
 and here, too, the same soft, all-pervading 
 silence. It was veiy hot out on the gravel 
 drive; there seemed no shadows anywhere. 
 268
 
 Paul and the Playwright 
 
 Even a cedar-tree on the far side of a wide 
 lawn, though it looked dark and cool, threw 
 hardly any shade. 
 
 Thor's tongue was hanging out, and he 
 turned his beautiful grave eyes on his master 
 with the clear question, "How long are we to 
 stand here?" 
 
 Presently Paul became conscious of a faint 
 sound: a sharp, irregular, clipped sort of 
 sound, that was neither a tap nor a click, 
 but a cross between the two. 
 
 The country-bred child is a connoisseur in 
 sounds, and here was one quite new to him. 
 Thor, too, heard it, and looked inquiring. 
 
 They moved away in its direction and 
 came upon another door. This, too, had its 
 sunblind. This, too, was open, and the curious 
 sound was coming from the room within that 
 door. 
 
 Paul dived underneath the sunblind and 
 Thor followed him. 
 
 They found themselves in what appeared 
 to be a small square porch leading to the 
 room within. It contained nothing but a 
 fixed basin with a tap and a towel-rail. Here 
 at all events was water. 
 269
 
 Children of the Cotswolds 
 
 Paul ran some into the basin, and Thor 
 put his paws on the edge, reared his great 
 body, sloped his head, and drank greedily. 
 And all the time that curious noise continued, 
 that indescribable, irregularly recurrent sound, 
 that was half tap, half click, with a mysterious 
 scrape occurring every thirty seconds or so. 
 When Thor had finished his drink, Paul formed 
 his own hands into a cup and drank from them; 
 he whispered to Thor to lie down, and stood 
 himself in the open doorway leading to the 
 room whence the sound came. 
 
 He forgot how his feet ached, he forgot 
 how desperately hungry he was, for he felt 
 that, at last, he had come up with the adventure 
 he had been questing all that long hot morning. 
 
 Never had he beheld such a delightful 
 room. It was large and high, with two big 
 wide-open windows, which, however, were not 
 like ordinary windows, for they started ever 
 so far from the ground, like those in a studio. 
 The panelling, where it could be seen for books, 
 was white; but there was no glare, for books 
 were everywhere, books in many-hued bindings, 
 making irregular patches of subdued colour. 
 Nearly all looked as though they had sat long 
 270
 
 Paul and the Playwright 
 
 in their shelves, and wore the pleasant faded 
 tints that time brings to things cared-for and 
 well-loved. There was one line of vivid red 
 that Paul recognised with a little thrill (for we 
 had it at home) as the "Elephant" edition of 
 " The man who made Mowgli." But these were 
 on a high shelf, and the steps were too far off 
 for him to drag them over without making 
 a noise. Besides, for once, it was not the 
 books that most interested Paul; it was what 
 he afterwards described as "a kind-of-man- 
 ness" about the room. 
 
 "It was all such a jolly muddle and so com- 
 fortable." 
 
 If there were many books there were even 
 more papers. He didn't mean newspapers 
 and magazines, though there were plenty of 
 them it was the quantities of letters that 
 impressed him. Never had he seen so many 
 letters, not even at Christmas. They were 
 strewed about everywhere, and on the floor 
 behind the great, double, knee-hole table, an 
 open trunk was lying full of them stuffed 
 in pell-mell, anyhow. 
 
 All the furniture was big and solid and 
 comfortable. There were two pianos "a big 
 271
 
 Children of the Cotswolds 
 
 one and a little one"; a huge sofa that invited 
 repose on the part of the slothful; great, deep 
 chairs; steady tables; nothing to upset any- 
 where; no tiresome "frippy" things. 
 
 And seated at the knee-hole table was a 
 man who wore spectacles: a biggish man 
 going bald, with grey hair, grey moustache, 
 and short, closely-trimmed grey beard. Paul 
 decided that he liked the look of him, and 
 that there was something familiar in his 
 appearance; that he had met this man before 
 somewhere in a story. He knitted his brows 
 and thought deeply, never taking his eyes 
 off him, but he couldn't place him. Never- 
 theless he was sure of him. He was one of 
 the understanding. "He didn't look a 'run- 
 away-and-play ' sort of a man," Paul said 
 afterwards, "nor the sort who says 'my boy/ 
 and he didn't ever not once." 
 
 It was he who was making that queer noise. 
 He was playing with both hands on a kind of 
 instrument. 
 
 Paul accepted the noise as some novel and 
 
 not very agreeable form of music. He guessed 
 
 the man was musical from the fact that he had 
 
 two pianos. But why, having two real pianos, 
 
 272
 
 Paul and the Playwright 
 
 he should play on that horrid little one, puzzled 
 Paul extremely. It was not nearly so pleasing 
 to the ear as one he himself possessed, which 
 you played by thumping the keys with a 
 hammer made of cork. It was possible to get 
 some sort of tune out of that. 
 
 Click-click click-click-click the man could 
 play very fast. He used both hands, and 
 was so absorbed in the tune he was trying 
 to make that he never noticed Paul. He 
 appeared to change his music very often, and 
 it seemed rather a business to get it fixed in 
 the stand, and one thing that interested Paul 
 was that when he chose a new piece he always 
 put in a black sheet of paper behind it. Just 
 inside the door Paul stood gazing absorbedly. 
 Had the man looked up he must have seen 
 him. 
 
 "I'll wait till he's finished practising," Paul 
 resolved, "then we'll talk." 
 
 The door was at the side, not in the middle 
 of the end wall, and that wall was entirely 
 covered by a huge bookcase by stretching 
 out his hand he could have taken a book from 
 the shelves, and he was greatly tempted. But 
 he thought it would hardly be polite, as the 
 273
 
 Children of the Cotswolds 
 
 man was there. Had the room been empty 
 he would have had no such scruples. 
 
 He was tired, so he sat down on the floor 
 and leant against the lintel of the open door. 
 
 "I wish he'd play a tunier tune/' he thought. 
 
 Thor lay full length in the little room with 
 the basin, his nose between his paws, his 
 speaking eyes fixed on his master. There was 
 no sound at all except that eternal click-click. 
 
 "I kept thinking," Paul said afterwards, 
 "how splendid it would have been to play 
 'Camptown Races' against Harry. I'd have 
 had the biggest piano and drowned him." 
 Harry could play "Cock o' the North" on the 
 black notes. Paul could thump out "Camp- 
 town Races" with one finger! Occasionally, 
 when they got the chance, they would per- 
 form against each other, one on the school- 
 room the other on the drawing-room piano. 
 Paul was envious of Harry's achievement, but 
 the black notes were beyond him, and "Cock 
 o' the North" skips about so. 
 
 If you start "Camptown Races" on F natural 
 it's all plain sailing; the same note is repeated 
 so often that it is not difficult. 
 
 Paul stretched out his legs luxuriously and 
 274
 
 Paul and the Playwright 
 
 pictured the amazing row he and Harry could 
 produce on those two pianos in what he was 
 pleased to call their "duet." 
 
 Presently the man stopped playing on his 
 unmelodious instrument and, looking over his 
 spectacles across the room towards the door, 
 saw Paul. He immediately took off his glasses, 
 and his eyes were blue and keen and kind. 
 
 Paul scrambled to his feet. "How d'you 
 do?" he said politely. "I just called in as I 
 was passing." 
 
 The man looked rather astonished. " Where 
 were you going?" he asked. 
 
 Paul came slowly across the room until he 
 stood close by the big desk. "Nowhere in 
 particular. We've just come out for the day." 
 
 "We!" the man repeated. "Are there any 
 more of you?" And he looked rather anxious. 
 
 "Only Thor," Paul answered reassuringly. 
 "He's sitting in the little room with the basin 
 I hope you don't mind. We both drank 
 some water, but we didn't wash not without 
 leave. May Thor come in ?" 
 
 "He'd better, I think," said the man. 
 
 "You may come in, my dear," Paul said, 
 quietly, without raising his voice, and Thor, 
 275
 
 Children of the Cotswolds 
 
 large, deliberate, and graceful, strolled into the 
 room, looked inquiringly at the man, wagged 
 his tail gently, and came and stood by his 
 master. 
 
 "This is Thor," said Paul. "Do you mind 
 him?" 
 
 "Not a bit !" said the man. "I like him." 
 
 "Sometimes," Paul remarked, "people are 
 afraid he'll upset things; he's so large, you 
 know. . . . But it wouldn't be easy to upset 
 things here. Would you mind telling me why 
 you kept playing that funny tune? Do you 
 think it's pretty?" 
 
 "Tune?" the man repeated. "When?" 
 
 "Just a minute ago ever since I came in, 
 and outside. I heard you; it's what made 
 me come. I couldn't think what it was." 
 
 "Can you read?" asked the man. 
 
 "Read!" Paul exclaimed. "I should think 
 so; years and years ago." 
 
 The man handed him one of the pages he 
 had been playing. 
 
 "That's what I was doing," he said. 
 
 "Why, it's print!" cried Paul. 
 
 "Exactly; nicer than handwriting, isn't it?" 
 
 Paul's quick eyes devoured the page. 
 276
 
 Paul and the Playwright 
 
 "Like Shakespeare," he added. 
 
 The man laughed. "I only wish it was/' 
 he said. 
 
 "It's a play, anyway, isn't it?" 
 
 "It is." 
 
 "And you've been making it up as you go 
 along?" 
 
 "Well, hardly that, but I scribble it down 
 first, you know." 
 
 "Does it spell for you?" Paul asked breath- 
 lessly. 
 
 "No, it doesn't, bother it that's where it's 
 rather sniffy sometimes." 
 
 "When I'm grown up," Paul said solemnly, 
 "and rich I hope I'll be rich I'll have one 
 of those, but I'll get one that does the spelling 
 as well. I suppose they are made." 
 
 "I haven't come across one yet," said the 
 man; "when I do I shall buy it at once " 
 
 "And you'll tell me, won't you?" Paul said 
 eagerly. 
 
 "I'll let you know very first thing !" 
 
 "Would you like me to read some more of 
 your interesting play?" he asked. "I can't 
 quite make out what it's all about beginning 
 in the middle like this." 
 277
 
 Children of the Cotswolds 
 
 "I don't think I'd read it just now," said 
 the man. "You see, I want to talk to you. 
 I want to know all sorts of things." 
 
 "I came in on purpose to have a chat," 
 Paul remarked genially. "Do you mind if I 
 sit down ? My feet do ache so Lie down, my 
 dear; the gentleman doesn't mind you." 
 
 The man pulled up a comfortable chair for 
 Paul. Thor lay down at his feet, and then 
 then* host, in his chair by the desk, swung 
 round and faced them. 
 
 "I suppose now," said Paul, "you haven't 
 got a missus, have you?" 
 
 "What makes you think that?" asked the 
 man. 
 
 "Well, you see, there's such a muddle of 
 papers, isn't there? She'd never let you keep 
 it like that. Mr. Mumford says his missus is 
 always cleanin' and sortin' and putting things 
 away. Not," he added truthfully, "that Mr. 
 Mumford gets many letters I've never seen 
 any in his house." 
 
 "It's not always like this," pleaded the man. 
 "Sometimes it's awfully tidy." 
 
 "Oh, but I like it like this," Paul exclaimed 
 eagerly. "Have you a housekeeper and a 
 278
 
 Paul and the Playwright 
 
 niece by any chance? Do they tidy for 
 you?" 
 
 "Why a housekeeper and a niece?" asked 
 the man. 
 
 "He had, you know Don Quixote. I've 
 been playing at him a good deal lately. 
 
 "Do you generally play at the people you 
 read about?" 
 
 "Always," Paul said solemnly. "What 
 would be the good of reading about them else?" 
 
 "I suppose it's a good plan," the man said 
 musingly; "it must lead you into many ad- 
 ventures." 
 
 "It does," Paul said solemnly. "This is 
 one of them, and you, I suppose, are a sort of 
 magician, since you make plays. Do people 
 really act them?" 
 
 "Not as often as I could wish," the man 
 said, "... but it's great fun all the same." 
 
 "Do you play at being the people?" 
 
 The man shook his head. "I'm afraid not," 
 he said sadly. Then more to himself than to 
 Paul "That's the hardest thing of all to do; 
 to look on is much easier. 
 
 "I don't care for looking on," said Paul de- 
 cidedly. "I want to be it all the time." 
 279
 
 Children of the Cotswolds 
 
 "I suppose we all do to begin with, arid 
 then ... we find out that lookers-on see 
 most of the game." 
 
 "I don't care much about seeing games. 
 I'd rather play them; it's much more fun 
 really. Truly it is," he said earnestly. 
 
 " Doubtless you are right," the man said 
 courteously, "but, you see, we don't all care 
 for the same games." 
 
 "When I'm grown up and rich," Paul an- 
 nounced, "I shall write books " 
 
 "You're wise to be rich first," murmured 
 the man. 
 
 "I shall write books," Paul continued, "with 
 that little piano, and when I'm not writing I 
 shall play at being all the people in my books 
 one after the other at least, all the nice 
 ones, who are successful." 
 
 "Are the nice ones always successful?" 
 
 "In the end, always. Of course, they have 
 trials and things." 
 
 "What about Don Quixote?" asked the 
 man. 
 
 Paul looked unhappy. "It worries me," he 
 said. "It worries me dreadfully. He was so 
 nice and so silly and" the corners of Paul's 
 280
 
 Paul and the Playwright 
 
 mouth went down "and ... he died in the 
 end." 
 
 "I quite agree with you," said the man. 
 "It is worrying. Don't let us talk about it." 
 
 Thor suddenly sat up on his haunches and 
 tried to lick Paul's face. 
 
 "You seem," said Paul, "to be very fond of 
 reading, you've such a splendid lot of books. 
 Do you ever, by any chance, read at meals?" 
 
 Paul held him with stern, searching eyes. 
 
 "Only when I'm alone," the man said 
 primly. 
 
 "Never when people are there?" Paul 
 asked, fixing him with a gaze that seemed to 
 search his very soul. 
 
 "Well . . . only at tea-time . . . occasion- 
 ally. . . . Why do you ask ? " 
 
 "Because," Paul answered, "they're all so 
 down on me for doing it. I always want to 
 read at tea-time, and they won't let me. Now 
 I shall tell them you do it; that'll surprise 
 
 'em." 
 
 "Oh, don't!" the man urged, "don't give 
 me away. They'd be so shocked." 
 
 "Of course, I shan't say anything if you'd 
 rather I didn't," Paul remarked magnani- 
 281
 
 Children of the Cotswolds 
 
 mously, "but I thought if I just mentioned a 
 grown-up gentleman did it they couldn't be 
 so down on me! ... But I truly won't if 
 you'd rather not. I guessed you did it the 
 minute I saw you." 
 
 "I'm quite certain neither of us ought to," 
 said the man, "but it is a temptation . . . 
 when the conversation is dull." 
 
 "It's often jolly dull," Paul groaned and 
 at that moment a gong sounded. 
 
 "That's for luncheon," said the man. "Are 
 you hungry?" 
 
 "I'm starving, and do you think there will 
 be any little bits for Thor?" 
 
 "Sure of it," said the man. "Would you 
 like to wash? And do you require any . . . 
 assistance?" 
 
 The man looked down at Paul; he had to 
 look rather a long way, for Paul was very 
 small for his age. Perhaps it was that made 
 him ask. Anyway Paul was not offended. 
 
 "I can wash all right," he said, "but nurse 
 generally gives my hair a bit of a do but if 
 you don't mind I don't." 
 
 They went up some steps and through a 
 glass door into another room more like other 
 282
 
 Paul and the Playwright 
 
 people's rooms this tidy and arranged like 
 other drawing-rooms, then across the hall to 
 the dining-room, where an elderly parlour- 
 maid with a kind face put a fat book on Paul's 
 chair to make it high enough. 
 
 He was desperately hungry, and the lunch 
 was very good, but he couldn't have enjoyed 
 it as much if the kind-looking parlour-maid 
 had not brought a big plate of scraps for Thor, 
 and spread a duster under it. 
 
 Paul liked his host. He liked the sense of 
 good fellowship, the absence of patronage, the 
 unusual reticence that abstained from ques- 
 tions as to why he was there at all. 
 
 "Do you know my father?" he asked pres- 
 ently. 
 
 "I'm afraid not," said the man, "but if you 
 tell me his name I dare say I may have heard 
 of him." 
 
 "He's not at all like me," Paul announced. 
 "He's awfully sensible, every one says that, 
 but he's a most good-natured man and kind 
 as kind. Surely you must know Squire Stan- 
 iland?" 
 
 The man shook his head. "I'm afraid not, 
 though I have heard his name." 
 283
 
 Children of the Cotswolds 
 
 "What county are we in?" asked Paul. 
 
 The man told him, and it was not our county. 
 
 "Then we've walked right into another 
 shire," Paul exclaimed. "What a way we've 
 come ! That's why you don't know father." 
 
 "What about your people?" asked the 
 man. "Won't they wonder where you are?" 
 
 "They'll wvnder," said Paul, "and they 
 won't be best pleased, but they won't send out 
 search-parties till evening because I've done 
 it before." 
 
 "Oh, you're given to wandering, are you? 
 Don't you think I'd better take you home in 
 the motor?" 
 
 "And Thor?" Paul asked anxiously. "He 
 mustn't run with it. Motors go too fast for 
 dogs. Father says so." 
 
 "And Thor," said the man. "He can come 
 inside with us." 
 
 They had coffee, which pleased Paul greatly, 
 and he confided to his friend that he had 
 never had a cup all to himself before, only the 
 sugar at the bottom of other people's cups if 
 he could get at them before they were cleared 
 away. 
 
 Motors were something of a novelty then, 
 284
 
 Paul and the Playwright 
 
 and Paul thought it very exciting to go in one. 
 Thor was suspicious and refused to go in be- 
 fore his master, but followed him obediently 
 when Paul got in first. 
 
 "We can't have a motor/' he remarked, as 
 they slid down the drive, "it would break 
 Button's heart, father says, and we're very 
 fond of horses, though I like the dogs best 
 myself. Did your coachman mind very 
 much?" 
 
 "My coachman got so frail and ill he could- 
 n't drive any more, and it would have broken 
 his heart to have any one else drive his horses, 
 so I had to get a motor, because I'm such a 
 long way from the station. He didn't mind 
 that so much." 
 
 "It's the same reason really," said Paul. 
 "Did he get better?" 
 
 "He'll never be any better, but I think he's 
 pretty comfortable." 
 
 Paul was certain he was. 
 
 After all it wasn't such a very long way by 
 the road, though it was in another county. 
 The motor stopped at the drive gate, Paul and 
 Thor descended, for, despite entreaties, this 
 hospitable man refused to come up to the house. 
 285
 
 Children of the Cotswolds 
 
 "You'll let me know when you've found the 
 printing thing that spells right, won't you?" 
 Paul called out at parting. 
 
 "I most certainly will/' the man called 
 back, "and if you find it first I expect you to 
 tell me." 
 
 Paul's family did not share the reticence of 
 his late host. He was catechised at long 
 length, and would assuredly have been pun- 
 ished but for father's intervention. Father, 
 who refused to be anxious or excited when his 
 younger son played the prodigal, seemed rather 
 to sympathise with his wandering propensi- 
 ties. "As if anything could happen to the 
 boy, with that great dog always at his heels," 
 he said scornfully, when, before lunch, we had 
 all suggested the manifold disasters that might 
 have befallen Paul. "It's no use expecting a 
 boy to stay in the grounds for ever. Let him 
 go out and tramp the country occasionally, 
 and when he comes back take no notice, and 
 he'll soon tire of it. Paul likes to make a 
 sensation. It would be quite flat and tame if 
 we were none of us the least concerned as to 
 where he has been. You may be sure he'll 
 286 

 
 Paul and the Playwright 
 
 fall on his feet whatever way he goes he's 
 that sort." 
 
 All very well for father, who was the least 
 inquisitive man on earth, but Fiammetta and 
 I were bursting with curiosity, and I noticed 
 mother hovered near during Paul's recital of 
 his adventures. 
 
 Just at bedtime he discovered that he had 
 left his "chuncheon" behind. He remembered 
 that it "stuck into him rather" as he sat talk- 
 ing to the man who wrote plays just before 
 lunch, and he had slipped it out of the string 
 round his waist and laid it at the back of his 
 chair. 
 
 "You'll never see it again," said Fiammetta. 
 "Somebody's sure to throw it away." 
 
 Paul looked sad. Then his face brightened 
 -"I don't think so," he said. "Nothing's 
 ever thro wed away out of that room." 
 
 "How do you know?" asked mother. 
 
 "He hasn't got a missus," Paul said, "any- 
 body could see that. He does exactly what he 
 likes. No one tidies his things. He hasn't 
 got one." 
 
 "Perhaps he'll throw it away himself," 
 Fiammetta persisted. 
 
 287
 
 Children of the Cotswolds 
 
 "I don't believe it," cried Paul, on the 
 verge of tears. "He wouldn't do such a thing. 
 He's not that kind of person." 
 
 "You'll never see that old truncheon 
 again," Fiammetta remarked with a superior 
 finality that drove Paul to make reprisals. 
 
 He stoutly maintained his belief in his 
 friend, but he was plainly anxious, for he 
 knew that he could never find his way again 
 to that other county. He had wandered 
 there, haphazard, across fields, and never no- 
 ticed the roads on the return journey he 
 was so busy talking to his friend. He added 
 a petition to his prayers that the beloved 
 "chuncheon" might be restored to him, and 
 "so," as Mr. Pepys would say, "to bed." 
 
 Next morning his faith was justified. It 
 arrived by post, in a neat parcel sealed at 
 each end, and inside, printed by the little 
 piano, "I hope you were not worried about 
 it. I found the weapon when I got back." 
 
 "There," said Paul, "didn't I say so? I 
 knew he wasn't a throwing-away sort of 
 
 man." 
 
 288
 
 XIX 
 
 A MISFIT 
 
 RONNIE left the beach and climbed the 
 steep slope till he reached the summit, 
 where rough grass and stones edged golden 
 cornfields that stretched inland as far as the 
 eye could see. 
 
 No one noticed that he had gone. Miss 
 Biddle, the holiday governess, sat reading in 
 the shade of the cliff, absorbed in "The Blue 
 Necklace." His cousins, Cedric and Githa, 
 both older than he, were building an elaborate 
 sand-castle, according to a diagram spread 
 on the sand, and held in place by stones laid 
 on the four corners. 
 
 When he reached the top he turned his back 
 upon the beach, and sat down on a big stone, 
 elbows on knees, and hands clasped under the 
 sharp little chin that rested on them. The 
 yellow cornfields became blurred and dim as 
 he gazed, for Ronnie was lonely and dread- 
 fully homesick. Everybody he cared for 
 289
 
 Children of the Cotswolds 
 
 seemed so far away even Uncle Gerald, the 
 kind and understanding, was shooting in Scot- 
 land, and seemed as remote as father and 
 mother in India. 
 
 The big tears brimmed over and fell. Then 
 everything grew clear again. It was very 
 pretty, the corn billowing in golden waves 
 under the soft wind; but its beauty did not 
 cheer him. Rather did he remember dismally 
 that last time he sat beside it insects, that he 
 decided must be singularly silent and stealthy 
 mosquitoes, came out and bit him so that he 
 was all over itching lumps afterwards. All 
 the same, he didn't move: he was too miser- 
 able. Moreover he had that morning come 
 to the conclusion that something must be 
 done. He had no idea what. But ideas come 
 with reflection. So, after a sniff or two, he 
 unclasped his hands, polished his nose with 
 his sleeve, and then sat very still, going over 
 in his mind all the time since he came Home, 
 to try to discover why there should be what 
 he called "a kind-of-a-ness" over everything. 
 
 He was quite fair. He recognised that it 
 was partly his own fault for getting fever in 
 the cold weather. Then, too, fate had con- 
 290 

 
 A Misfit 
 
 spired against him, for the Friths were coming 
 Home in the middle of May. If they hadn't 
 been sailing then, there would have been no- 
 body to send him with. He had been coming 
 for good next hot weather, when he would 
 be seven, with mother and baby-brother. 
 They were coming then for certain. But a 
 whole year, to a child, seems an interminable, 
 abysmal space, that no hopes can bridge. 
 
 He had known all along that he was to go 
 to Aunt Hildegarde till mother came back 
 Aunt Hildegarde, who lived in a place called 
 Colder 's Green. He knew that there was an 
 Uncle Edward and two cousins, in fact, he 
 faintly remembered having seen them last 
 time he came Home; but as he was only three 
 then his impressions were somewhat hazy. 
 
 Perhaps if he had come straight to these 
 relatives he might have shaken down better, 
 but the Fates had settled otherwise. Just 
 as the P. & 0. reached Marseilles, Cedric and 
 Githa got measles, and Aunt Hildegarde, who 
 was most conscientious, decided that she 
 couldn't possibly allow Ronnie to run the risk 
 of infection. She therefore appealed to Uncle 
 Gerald to take him till all danger was past. 
 291
 
 Children of the Cotswolds 
 
 This, had Ronnie known it, was asking a 
 good deal; for Uncle Gerald, who was his 
 father's uncle, was an elderly bachelor of fairly 
 fixed habits. Nevertheless, as he was fond 
 of Ronnie's parents, and there really seemed 
 to be nobody else, he agreed to take the little 
 boy till such time as the nursery at Golder's 
 Green was ready to receive him. He even 
 came up himself to Charing Cross to meet 
 the P. & 0. express, and took over Ronnie 
 from kind Mrs. Frith, who, with three chil- 
 dren of her own to look after, had yet found 
 room in her heart to love Ronnie quite a 
 lot. 
 
 As he sat there in the sunshine gazing at 
 the golden waves, he thought of the blue 
 green waves that washed around the big 
 home-bound steamer, and in remembering 
 the voyage, unconsciously compared his aunt 
 and Mrs. Frith, wondering why it was Aunt 
 Hildegarde made you "feel so different." Mrs. 
 Frith was often hasty four children and an 
 ayah in the Red Sea are enough to put an edge 
 on the smoothest temper but she was always 
 fair even in her hastiness. And she judged 
 the exasperating conduct of Ronnie with pre- 
 292
 
 A Misfit 
 
 cisely the same amount of irritation as she 
 brought to bear on that of her own offspring. 
 Aunt Hildegarde kept a quite separate com- 
 partment in her mind for the consideration of 
 Ronnie. He was conscious of this and resented 
 it. Then memory swung back to Uncle Gerald 
 Uncle Gerald coming down the drive in a 
 cloud of dogs. 
 
 As he thought of the dogs the big tears 
 welled up again and rolled down his cheeks. 
 Everything about that first day in England 
 seemed to stand out before him in a series of 
 pictures like those he had once seen at a 
 theatre in India. There was all the bustle 
 and rushing at Charing Cross. Uncle Gerald, 
 tall, with closely-trimmed grey beard, and 
 kind keen eyes under his broad forehead 
 such a lot of forehead Uncle Gerald had. 
 Ronnie even remembered hearing Mrs. Frith 
 say, "Oh, he's a dear little soul, very talka- 
 tive and officious, but quite affectionate; 
 cheerful too which is a great matter with 
 children, don't you think?" Then there was 
 a scramble for luggage. Ronnie's little cabin 
 trunk was disentangled. He was embraced 
 by all the Frith family and ayah, and, hand 
 293 

 
 Children of the Cotswolds 
 
 in hand with this tall, unknown Uncle Gerald, 
 hurried down the big station to a taxi-cab. 
 They drove across London to another station 
 Paddington it was called, where they had 
 tea and into the train again for another 
 journey. Then, in the slowly fading spring 
 light, a long drive in a motor through green 
 country lanes till they turned into some big 
 gates and drove up to a house whence issued 
 a most tremendous barking and yapping. The 
 door was opened and four dogs rushed out 
 long-bodied, rough-haired West Highland ter- 
 riers, their colour ranging from almost black 
 to lightish grey who jumped all over Uncle 
 Gerald with noisy manifestations of delight, 
 sniffed curiously at Ronnie, and as he was not 
 in the least afraid of them, took him into 
 favour at once and jumped on him Collum 
 and Puddock and Mona their mother, and 
 frisky, cheeky little Rannoch, who was no 
 relation to any of them, and took the greatest 
 liberties with all three. 
 
 All Uncle Gerald's servants had been with 
 him for untold ages, and all were elderly ex- 
 cepting the housemaid, who had only been 
 there a short ten years, and occasionally was 
 294
 
 A Misfit 
 
 still spoken of as "that new girl." Her name 
 was Grace, and she came from somewhere 
 near Perth, and it was to her care that Ronnie 
 was entrusted for such matters as bathing 
 and dressing and hair-brushing. 
 
 Before he slept that night he knew all about 
 Grace, and decided that she was a person to 
 be cultivated. But he felt that about all of 
 them. His coming into that silent (save for 
 the dogs), regular house was something of an 
 adventure. The household rose to it, and the 
 loquacious, inquisitive, lively little boy never 
 even knocked at their hearts, but walked 
 straight in and took possession. He decided 
 that England was a nice place: a bit cold, 
 perhaps, when one got up in the morning, but 
 very pretty and full of interesting things to 
 do. He gardened with the three gardeners, 
 wasting hours of their time, and starting end- 
 less horticultural experiments which were 
 wholly without result. He cleaned the motor 
 with Robinson and got so wet that Grace, 
 looking out of the pantry window, caught him 
 and changed all his clothes, which he thought 
 very unnecessary. It was her one fault she 
 was always so suspicious of damp. 
 295
 
 Children of the Cotswolds 
 
 He penetrated to the kitchen, and discussed 
 its small resemblance to an Indian kitchen 
 with Mrs. Robinson, who was Robinson's wife. 
 He was very fond of telling them about In- 
 dia, and thoroughly enjoyed their respectful 
 astonishment at some of his tallest stories, and 
 when he wasn't telling things himself he asked 
 questions. All day long he asked questions, so 
 that, when he was safe in bed and asleep, 
 Uncle Gerald would take down large heavy 
 tomes from the bookcases and prime himself 
 with useful knowledge for the morrow. 
 
 Into every corner of that big old Cotswold 
 house did Ronnie poke his inquisitive curly 
 head, and the more he saw of it the better he 
 liked it. It was such a kind, welcoming sort 
 of house. Of course, sometimes he wanted 
 his mother pretty badly, and then he sought 
 Uncle Gerald, who seemed to know exactly 
 what was wrong, and no matter what he was 
 doing would find time for a homesick little 
 boy; and by the charms of his conversation, 
 and sometimes without any conversation at 
 all, would so steep Ronnie in an atmosphere 
 of warm friendship that the curious ache would 
 depart, leaving no remembrance of it. 
 296
 
 A Misfit 
 
 And now, as he sat looking into the forest 
 of corn, there came to his mind a piece of 
 poetry that he had learned to please Uncle 
 Gerald. It was a very great adventure that 
 led to the learning of these verses, and Ronnie 
 thrilled with the remembrance. One night 
 early in that June, one never-to-be-forgotten 
 night, Uncle Gerald came into his room and 
 woke him up, made Grace put on his clothes, 
 and then wrapped him up in a blanket and 
 carried him out to the back of the house where 
 there was a little copse. 
 
 The dogs were not allowed to come. 
 
 It was a brilliant moonlight night almost 
 like a night in India, except that it was 
 nothing like so warm. The copse looked very- 
 black against the sky, but they didn't go into 
 it; they stayed outside just beside the wire 
 fence, and some way off he could see the ser- 
 vants standing in a group. 
 
 "I felt I must wake you," Uncle Gerald 
 whispered, just as though he were at a con- 
 cert and feared to disturb the artists; "it's 
 the first of the nightingales listen !" 
 
 Ronnie held his breath and listened with 
 all his might; but at first all he could hear 
 297 
 
 "
 
 Children of the Cotswolds 
 
 was a soft, whispering sort of note that 
 seemed to say Ti6, Ti6 } Ti6, Tio, Tio, Ti6, 
 Tio, Tio, Tik ! 
 
 He pressed his cheek against Uncle Gerald's 
 and yawned. The soft note changed to a full- 
 throated song, full of trills and cascades and 
 roulades and occasional odd chuckles. He 
 supposed it was very wonderful (though he 
 infinitely preferred Robinson's whistling of 
 "The Sailor's Star"), but he was not so much 
 interested in the nightingales as in the night. 
 It was so big and mysterious and scented and 
 silvery out in that moonshine, so warm and 
 safe in Uncle Gerald's arms. It was such fun 
 to be out so late, and to hear nightingales like 
 a grown-up person. 
 
 Ronnie's little soul was flooded with an im- 
 mense content. 
 
 They listened for what seemed to him a 
 very long time, and he was nearly falling asleep 
 again when Uncle Gerald said suddenly, still 
 in that hushed, concerty sort of voice, "There ! 
 isn't that fine? But I must take you home to 
 bed." And as they went back Uncle Gerald 
 repeated some poetry to himself. Ronnie 
 didn't understand it in the least, but next day 
 298
 
 A Misfit 
 
 asked his uncle to "tell again that bit about 
 fairy lands for lawns." 
 
 Uncle Gerald laughed and said it wasn't 
 quite that, but he "told it again," and then 
 suggested that it would be nice if Ronnie, hav- 
 ing heard one, learned what a poet called Keats 
 had said about a nightingale: and Ronnie, 
 who had a quick ear and retentive memory, 
 learned two long verses the end of the poem, 
 Uncle Gerald said, and used to repeat them to 
 his uncle to their mutual pride and satisfac- 
 tion. 
 
 And now as he sat beside this cornfield 
 there sounded in his head the lines 
 
 "Perhaps the self-same song that found a path 
 Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home, 
 She stood in tears among the alien corn; 
 
 Forlorn I the very word is like a bell. . . ." 
 
 That was just what Ronnie was. He 
 spared no pity for Ruth, though he knew all 
 about her for Uncle Gerald had told him. 
 At all events she had not had to go and live 
 with an aunt at Golder's Green, and with 
 odious, priggish, plump cousins, who made 
 299
 
 Children of the Cotswolds 
 
 fun of the way he talked, and took no interest 
 whatever in India. 
 
 He detested Golder's Green. The house 
 seemed so small and pokey, and the garden 
 so prim, after the great rooms in India and 
 Uncle Gerald's kindly, wandering old house 
 and big friendly garden. The trim roads and 
 jumbled, pretty little houses weighed upon 
 him with a deadly weight of depression, though 
 he couldn't have told why. There were no 
 dogs either, only a large aloof cat called "Ra," 
 that Aunt Hildegarde used to enthrone on a 
 cushion, placed on a kind of pillar, while she 
 and visiting ladies, attired in straight, sad- 
 coloured garments, sandals, and digitated 
 socks, sat round about upon the floor and en- 
 thused upon his wondrous beauty and wisdom. 
 Ronnie would have liked Ra, if he might have 
 stroked and cuddled him, but the children 
 were not allowed to touch him, as he was sup- 
 posed to be fierce and resentful of such atten- 
 tions. 
 
 Ronnie was always in trouble, always doing 
 
 or, even more often, saying what he ought 
 
 not. Seeing ladies who wore veils on their 
 
 heads, and had bare feet and sandals, he asked 
 
 300
 
 A Misfit 
 
 if they were ayahs; on being told hastily "of 
 course not/' he suggested that they were Parsi 
 ladies, and was severely snubbed in conse- 
 quence. 
 
 He was slow and clumsy over the little 
 handicrafts his cousins practised with such 
 skill and industry, and when Cedric and Githa 
 irritated him beyond bearing he tried to beat 
 them, which caused a frightful commotion 
 and filled the whole household with consterna- 
 tion. 
 
 His aunt and uncle were not like Uncle 
 Gerald in the matter of answering questions. 
 To be sure, they told him all sorts of things 
 he didn't particularly want to know, or knew 
 already; but they refused to answer ques- 
 tions. They held his cousins up to him as 
 models, a fatal thing to do, and they made 
 no allowance for a lonely little boy suddenly 
 transported to an entirely new environment. 
 They were cold, too, sniffy and uninterested 
 in all he had to say about Uncle Gerald, and 
 this he resented extremely. He could not 
 know that they were a centre of light and lead- 
 ing in the most superior set in Golder's Green, 
 and that there existed between them and 
 301 

 
 Children of the Cotswolds 
 
 Uncle Gerald the deep-seated, never expressed, 
 hearty dislike of the poseur for the simple and 
 sincere. 
 
 Had he but known it, Uncle Gerald took 
 care that he never came across them more 
 often than the very remote connection war- 
 ranted. But Aunt Hildegarde was mother's 
 only sister, and she seemed the natural guar- 
 dian for Ronnie, and Uncle Gerald never in- 
 terfered in other people's concerns. But he 
 had his doubts, and his heart was sore for the 
 frank, talkative little boy when he left him. 
 
 Nobody was actively unkind. He had 
 plenty to eat, a nice room which he shared 
 with Cedric, who was destined for a school 
 all fads and flannel shirts, and already could 
 make his own bed and empty his washing- 
 basin matters wherein Ronnie was hope- 
 lessly ignorant, and showed no aptitude when 
 Cedric tried to teach him. That was the mis- 
 chief: Cedric and Githa were always teaching, 
 and let him know it; and it roused every evil 
 disposition in Ronnie; so that he was rapidly 
 becoming a sort of Ishmael both in feeling 
 and in fact. 
 
 Then Miss Biddle brought them to the sea- 
 302
 
 A Misfit 
 
 side, while aunt and uncle went for a walking 
 tour in Wales. 
 
 The soft wind blew a cloud over the sun. 
 Ronnie shivered and arose from his stone. 
 Cedric and Githa were still absorbed in their 
 plan. Miss Biddle was breathlessly following 
 the fortunes of "The Hon. Jane." Ronnie, 
 wilfully disobedient, decided to go for a walk 
 by himself along the edge of the cornfield. No 
 ideas had come to him except the omnipresent 
 determination to go back to Uncle Gerald till 
 mother should come Home. 
 
 But how? 
 
 He was sensible and sophisticated enough 
 to know he couldn't walk there, and that he 
 hadn't enough money to go by train. He had, 
 to be precise, exactly one penny in the world; 
 the weekly penny given to each of them every 
 Monday by Miss Biddle on behalf of Uncle 
 Edward. He couldn't write, and he knew 
 that it would both distress and annoy his aunt 
 if she heard that he was unhappy in her house. 
 She would never see he was unhappy; he was 
 sure of that. She would only see that he was 
 "unpleasant." 
 
 He stumped along, picking his way through 
 303
 
 Children of the Cotswolds 
 
 the stones and thistles, big with an entirely 
 vague purpose, when suddenly he came upon 
 a man sitting, as he himself had been sitting 
 a few minutes ago, on a big stone; only this 
 man had a blotting-pad upon his knees and 
 was writing very fast. He wore a panama 
 hat tilted almost over his nose to shelter his 
 eyes, big round spectacles with tortoise-shell 
 rims, and as he finished a sheet he laid it on 
 a pile of others that, like Cedric's plan, were 
 kept from blowing away by the stones laid 
 upon them. Ronnie watched him breath- 
 lessly. How fast he wrote ! Uncle Gerald 
 could write like that, and daddie . . . and 
 thinking of daddie there came into his mind 
 the picture of a busy Eastern street, and the 
 likhne-wdld (letter-writer) sitting on the curb- 
 stone in the sunshine ready to write letters 
 for those who could not write themselves . . . 
 if they could pay him. 
 
 Was this man a likhne-wdld? 
 
 He looked like a sahib, but then so did 
 Robinson, and he was Uncle Gerald's gharri- 
 wallah. 
 
 Ronnie drew a little nearer. 
 
 If this man was a likhne-wdld, would he 
 oh, would he write a letter for one anna? 
 304 

 
 A Misfit 
 
 Ronnie felt it was a very small sum to offer, 
 but the man looked kind, and he could write 
 so fast. It wouldn't take him long. 
 
 Perhaps if he was approached very po- 
 litely. . . . Ronnie crept a bit nearer and 
 the man looked up and saw him. 
 
 The little boy joined his hands, and touch- 
 ing his forehead bowed his body, as he had 
 seen men in India bow when they came be- 
 fore his father to ask for something. 
 
 "Sahib," he said earnestly, "could you 
 write a letter for one anna?" 
 
 "Hullo, shrimp!" said the man. "Have 
 you sprung right out of the Shiny into here?" 
 
 "I know it's very little monies," Ronnie 
 continued apologetically, "very little monies, 
 but I do want that letter wrote, so badly. I've 
 truly got one anna; here it is." 
 
 The man held out his hand, and Ronnie 
 laid the penny on his palm. 
 
 The man closed his hand upon it. 
 
 "Now," he said, "what shall I write?" 
 
 He took a fresh sheet of paper and looked 
 at Ronnie, and the little boy saw that the eyes 
 behind the round glasses were bright and kind. 
 
 "Dear Uncle Gerald," Ronnie began. 
 "Please come. I do not like it here. I want 
 305 

 
 Children of the Cotswolds 
 
 to come back to you. It is forlorn here, not 
 fairylands " 
 
 "Eh, what's that?" asked the man. "You 
 dictate very fast. 'Not fairylands'? Yes?" 
 
 "I am mizzable," Ronnie continued. 
 "Please come quickly and take me away. 
 Cejic and Githa do not like me. They are so 
 pompshus " 
 
 "What's that?" asked the man. 
 
 "I do not like them," Ronnie went on. "I 
 like the dogs much better; kiss them all on 
 their foreheads for me, not their noses, they 
 are too wet, especially Rannoch. Please come 
 quick. I am so mizzable. Your loving Ron- 
 nie. . . . That's all, thank you." 
 
 "Mizzable, eh?" the man repeated. "Is 
 it indiscreet to ask why?" 
 
 "I don't know exactly myself," said Ron- 
 nie. "It just is." 
 
 "Ah," said the man. "I know that; that's 
 the very worst kind. Long since you came 
 Home?" 
 
 "Oh, very long," Ronnie answered sadly. 
 "Ages and ages." 
 
 "Hm-m-m!" said the man. "With rela- 
 tions?" 
 
 306 

 
 A Misfit 
 
 "Yes, but Uncle Gerald's a relation too, 
 you know, only he's a nice one oh, a 'dor- 
 able relation." 
 
 "How is it you're here and not with him, 
 then ? " asked the man. 
 
 "It was arranged," Ronnie said solemnly, 
 "/didn't do it." 
 
 "I see," said the man. " 'It was an order.' 
 And what will the parents out in the Shiny 
 say?" 
 
 Ronnie looked grave. "I b'lieve they'd 
 like it," he said, after a moment's thought. 
 "They 'dore Uncle Gerald too." 
 
 "Hm-m-m! Seems a popular person," said 
 the man. "What's his name?" 
 
 "Same as daddie's and mine." 
 
 "Yes, and yours?" 
 
 "Ronald Forsyth Hardy." 
 
 "Then he's Gerald Hardy, I suppose? And 
 where is he at present?" 
 
 "Scotland," said Ronnie promptly. 
 
 "But that's a bit vague. What part of 
 Scotland?" 
 
 "Oh, they're sure to know him there; he 
 goes every year; he told me so." 
 
 "Were you there with him?" 
 307
 
 Children of the Cotswolds 
 
 "No, I was in his own bungalow. He went 
 to Scotland after I left." 
 
 "Can you remember the name of his bun- 
 galow?" 
 
 "Yes: Longhope." 
 
 "Any station?" 
 
 "There is a station, but it's very far off, 
 and I don't remember its name. Won't my 
 letter get to him?" the little boy asked anx- 
 iously. 
 
 The man looked through his bright spec- 
 tacles right into Ronnie's large brown eyes. 
 He noticed that the child was very thin, and 
 that he hunched his shoulders and drooped 
 his head. 
 
 The man laid his writing-pad upon the 
 ground and lifted Ronnie on to his knee. 
 
 "Old chap," he said, "you've got the blues, 
 and you're a bit of a misfit. That's what's 
 the matter with you. But it won't last. Be- 
 lieve me, it won't last. I'll do my best to find 
 this Uncle Gerald of yours. I'm going to town 
 this afternoon, and I'll look him up in Burke." 
 
 "Oh, he's not in Burke," Ronnie declared 
 positively. "He's in Scotland; he's wrote 
 to me from there." 
 
 308
 
 A Misfit 
 
 "All right," said the man. "I'll try and 
 get the letter to him somehow. But you 
 mustn't expect too much. It may not be 
 overeasy for Uncle Gerald to do anything, 
 and it takes a deuce of a time for letters to 
 get to Scotland." 
 
 "Longer than to Burke?" 
 
 "Hark!" said the man. "Isn't that some 
 one calling?" 
 
 "It's for me," exclaimed Ronnie, jumping 
 off his knee. "I expect it's time to go to 
 dinner. You won't forget? You do promise? 
 You won't tell them?" For he saw Miss 
 Biddle and Cedric and Githa arrive breath- 
 lessly at the top of the slope. 
 
 "Honest Injun," said the man. "But it'll 
 take a good week. Then you'll hear some- 
 thing, if Uncle Gerald's the man I take him 
 for." 
 
 They shook hands. Miss Biddle and his 
 cousins were quite close, and he turned to meet 
 them. Their questions and reproaches passed 
 over his head lightly. He didn't care. He 
 had done something at last, and he believed 
 in the likhne-wdld. 
 
 "How long is a week?" he asked, when 
 309
 
 Children of the Cotswolds 
 
 the enormity of his conduct had been thor- 
 oughly threshed out. 
 
 "Seven days, of course. You are an ig- 
 norant little boy," said Githa. 
 
 As it happened, Uncle Gerald was in Burke, 
 so the likhnk-wdld found his home address, 
 and Ronnie's letter reached him three days 
 later, when he came back from a long day on 
 the moors. There was another letter also, 
 from the likhw-wdld, and in it he used the 
 very phrase he had used to Ronnie. "I fear," 
 he said, "the little chap is a misfit, and it's a 
 painful game to play when one is a kiddy. He 
 looked peaked and thin and timid, and he 
 ought to be such a jolly little chap." 
 
 He said a great many other things, did the 
 likhnb-wdld, and the name he signed at the 
 end of his letter was one well known to Uncle 
 Gerald as the author of certain books he knew 
 and cared for. 
 
 The week dragged on. It rained a lot and 
 the days were long for Ronnie in the seaside 
 lodgings. He kept count of the days, though, 
 310
 
 A Misfit 
 
 and at last it reached the sixth day from the 
 time he met the likhne-wdld, and no answer 
 had come to his letter. Yet he never doubted 
 him. He was convinced that somehow or 
 other his letter would reach Uncle Gerald. 
 
 It was on Monday he had met the likhnb- 
 wdld, and on Saturday evening after tea it 
 cleared up and they went out to the sands. 
 They were to return to Golder's Green next 
 week, and Ronnie dreaded it unspeakably, 
 for he felt that if nothing happened before 
 he did that, then he was indeed abandoned 
 and forlorn. Cedric and Githa would not let 
 him dig with them because his methods were 
 too erratic. Miss Biddle had finished "The 
 Blue Necklace," and started on "Love is a 
 Snare," and found it equally enthralling. 
 
 Ronnie was digging by himself, a lonely 
 little figure apart from the rest, and talking 
 to himself as he worked. He had built a 
 bungalow, and had just flattened out the com- 
 pound round about it, and was beginning on 
 the servants' quarters, when he looked up to 
 see a solitary figure coming across the ribbed 
 and glistening sand. The tide was out, and 
 there seemed miles of beach between him and 
 311
 
 Children of the Cotswolds 
 
 the sea. They had had their tea extra early, 
 and the beach was almost deserted, for it was 
 just five o'clock. Ronnie watched the distant 
 figure, and his heart seemed to jump up and 
 turn over, for there was something dear and 
 familiar about it, and yet ... he didn't dare 
 to hope. 
 
 Then suddenly his long sight told him there 
 was no mistake. It was, it was the Uncle 
 Gerald of his hopes and dreams! He started 
 to run, and the figure made the glad assurance 
 doubly sure by taking off its hat and waving 
 it. Then Ronnie saw the dear, tall forehead, 
 that, as he once pointed out to his uncle, "went 
 right over to the back"; after that there could 
 be no mistake. 
 
 "I never thought you would come," he said, 
 safe in the shelter of those kind arms, "and 
 if you did I always thought all the dogs would 
 be bound to come too." 
 
 The likhne-wdld was quite right when he 
 said it would not be "overeasy" for Uncle 
 Gerald. 
 
 It wasn't. 
 
 It required a deal of diplomacy, and only 
 Uncle Gerald's charm and tact carried the 
 312
 
 A Misfit 
 
 matter through without a serious breach be- 
 tween the Golder's Green relations and Ron- 
 nie's parents. It cost a small fortune in cables, 
 too. 
 
 But in the end it was managed, and Ronnie 
 went back to Longhope, where he fitted so 
 uncommonly well. 
 
 "I must say," said Uncle Gerald, "you've 
 a nice taste in amanuenses." 
 
 "What's that?" asked Ronnie. 
 
 "Well, I believe you call it a likhne-wdld," 
 said Uncle Gerald. "Both are long, rather 
 clumsy names, and there's not much to choose 
 between them." 
 
 "He was a nice likhne-wdld" said Ronnie; 
 "and very cheap." 
 
 313
 
 XX 
 
 THE CONTAGION OF HONOUR 
 
 IT'S a far cry from cantonments in a town 
 in Northern India to a village in the Cots- 
 wolds, and events had moved so fast in the 
 last four months that for a while Robin felt 
 rather breathless and bewildered. 
 
 He was not yet six years old, but he had 
 been through the Suez Canal six times. 
 
 The first tunes he couldn't remember at 
 all, the second two passages only faintly, but 
 the last two were vivid and epoch-making. 
 
 They came so close together, too. 
 
 Had any one just then asked Robin to de- 
 fine war, he would have tried to explain that 
 it meant continual departure from where you 
 happened to be, separation and loss, that 
 through it all like the refrain of a marching 
 tune there sounded stanzas of joyous ex- 
 citement; but these passed quickly, leaving 
 silence and desolation for those left behind. 
 
 Of one thing he was certain: war meant 
 314
 
 The Contagion of Honour 
 
 movement. No grown-up person could keep 
 in one place for any length of time when there 
 was war. In April, when the hot weather set 
 in, he and mummy and ayah and Jean went 
 to the hills, as usual; but daddy stayed in 
 cantonments. Long before the hot weather 
 was over they all went back. There was much 
 bustle and activity, and the Sikhs all looked 
 very cheerful indeed. 
 
 Then came more moves. 
 
 Daddy went first this time, and took the 
 regiment with him; but he wasn't going 
 Home. 
 
 Mummy and the children went next, leav- 
 ing a weeping ayah at the new Alexandra 
 Dock in Bombay. 
 
 The voyage was long and wearisome in a 
 very crowded boat, where there were many 
 other children and anxious-looking mummies, 
 but no sahibs no sahibs at all. 
 
 When they arrived in England, they all 
 came to live with grandfather and Aunt 
 Monica at the Vicarage, and, though this was 
 very different from India, and not nearly so 
 gay and cheerful, it was quite bearable till 
 mummy went too. 
 
 315
 
 Children of the Cotswolds 
 
 That was a wholly unexpected blow. Sol- 
 diers' children, especially the children of 
 soldiers serving abroad, early realise that a 
 mysterious power called "the Service" may 
 at any moment snatch daddy away. It may 
 be that he has to go where they cannot follow, 
 or that he has to stay and they have to go. 
 In any case, it means separation. 
 
 But mummies are different. They belong 
 most of all when children are quite small. 
 
 Yet Robin's mother had gone. 
 
 As he pottered up and down the rather wet 
 path that Saturday afternoon, he was remem- 
 bering a conversation he had heard in the 
 verandah just before the regiment left India. 
 He was building a temple on the floor with 
 his bricks, and mummy was very rapidly turn- 
 ing the heel of a sock while Major Booth talked 
 to her. Major Booth was their doctor, and 
 a very good doctor too. 
 
 "It's frightful waste, you know," Major 
 Booth said, in a grumbling voice, "for you 
 to go and rust in a remote village doing nurse- 
 maid to a couple of kids." 
 
 "You see, they happen to be my kids," 
 mummy answered quietly. 
 316
 
 The Contagion of Honour 
 
 "That's no argument just now/' he retorted. 
 "They are healthy, jolly kids; they've got a 
 competent aunt you told me so yourself. 
 They'll be perfectly well cared for whether 
 you are there or not and you're wanted, I 
 tell you." 
 
 Mummy gave a little gasp. "Oh, man!" 
 she cried, "why do you dangle the unattain- 
 able before my eyes? You know I'm just 
 dying to go ... but I've taken on another job 
 . . . and there are plenty without me. I won't 
 butt in " 
 
 "Will you go if you're asked for?" 
 
 "If I'm asked for!" Mummy repeated the 
 words scornfully. "Of course I'd go." 
 
 Robin looked up from his temple. 
 
 "Go where?" he asked. "Can I come, 
 too?" 
 
 "Don't you worry, sonny dear," mummy 
 said, and her voice sounded flat and tired. 
 "I don't for one moment suppose they'll want 
 me. I only wish they would. 'That's all shove 
 be'ind me long ago and far away,' ' she 
 quoted, while Major Booth shook his head in 
 violent dissent. 
 
 They talked of other things that did not 
 317
 
 Children of the Cotswolds 
 
 particularly interest Robin till he went away, 
 but as Major Booth ran down the verandah 
 steps he had called out : " Mind, it's a banda- 
 bost ! You come if you're asked for." 
 
 Robin remembered that very distinctly. 
 
 When they had been four weeks at the 
 Vicarage, when they were just settling down 
 to the quiet life there, the summons came. 
 
 It seems that Robin's mummy, before there 
 was any Robin or Jean or even daddy, had 
 been a particularly first-class surgical nurse, 
 and not only that, but an Army nurse. She 
 never talked about it, but Major Booth had 
 discovered it soon after she came to India with 
 daddy. They were out in camp, and there 
 was a bad accident to one of the soldiers, and 
 mummy just took charge and helped Major 
 Booth as only a skilful nurse can help. 
 
 After that, if sudden illness or accidents 
 occurred where no trained nurses were handy, 
 people rather got into the way of sending for 
 mummy to lend a hand. 
 
 And now they had sent for her to nurse 
 wounded soldiers at a base hospital. 
 
 She explained this to Robin the night be- 
 fore she left, as he sat on her knee all ready 
 318
 
 The Contagion of Honour 
 
 for bed in front of the nursery fire. He re- 
 membered the feel of the nursery fender, the 
 warm wire bars, as he pressed his feet against 
 them. 
 
 Mummy did not deny that she was im- 
 mensely proud and glad to go it was such 
 an honour to be allowed to do anything 
 but she hated leaving Robin and Jean. Still, 
 in war we must all give up something. He 
 had to give up his daddy and his mummy 
 "a good deal for a little boy," she added. 
 
 Would he be good and try to please Aunt 
 Monica and the new nurse, and encourage 
 Jean to be good, and not fret, and try to help 
 all he could ? 
 
 Just then Robin felt so solemn and exalted 
 that it seemed he could give up anything to 
 help the poor wounded soldiers, and so he 
 said. And after his prayers, mummy tucked 
 him into bed and kissed him, and whispered 
 the things mummies do whisper at such times. 
 Her eyes tasted salt when he kissed them, 
 dragging her head down with his two arms 
 that he might do it mummy was so tall 
 and the next day she went away. 
 
 She had been gone five whole weeks, and 
 319
 
 Children of the Cotswolds 
 
 Christmas was not far off, and that Friday 
 afternoon Robin wanted her most desperately, 
 for somehow everything had gone wrong. 
 
 It began with digging trenches. 
 
 Now to dig a trench properly, as in war, 
 you must lie on your tummy and throw the 
 earth up in front of you; if you stood up, the 
 enemy would pot you that's an understood 
 thing. 
 
 But they didn't seem to realise this at the 
 Vicarage. For when Robin essayed to do it 
 in his own garden a nice large plot at the 
 far end of the kitchen garden that grand- 
 father had given him for his very own he 
 naturally got what nurse called "all over 
 mould," and she was far from pleased, the 
 less so in that Jean, coming with nurse to 
 find him, immediately flung herself face 
 downwards in the adjacent carrot-bed in 
 imitation of her brother. 
 
 Jean was pretty, and every one fell in love 
 with her at first sight; but Robin was what 
 nurse called a "very or'nary child," and visit- 
 ing strangers showed no inclination to make 
 a fuss of him. 
 
 Grandfather was a very old gentleman, 
 320
 
 The Contagion of Honour 
 
 and Aunt Monica was always busy with parish 
 work. Robin had heard his father say that 
 she was "as good as three curates" to grand- 
 father. Therefore did he find himself wish- 
 ing that she had been less capable, for, he 
 reasoned, if Aunt Monica was equal to three 
 curates now, and a visiting curate whom Robin 
 liked exceedingly was still necessary had she 
 been rather less efficient, two visiting curates 
 might have been required. Or, better still, 
 the present one might have been permanent. 
 And this, from Robin's point of view, was 
 most desirable. 
 
 The visiting curate came every Sunday to 
 intone the service, read the lessons, help in 
 the Sunday-school, and take the children's 
 service in the afternoon, and he always 
 lunched at the Vicarage. 
 
 He was tall, with a cheerful red face and 
 broad shoulders, which made a most com- 
 fortable seat for little boys. Moreover, he 
 was a most accomplished person. He could 
 waggle his ears without moving his head, and 
 move his hair up and down without disar- 
 ranging a muscle of his face. He could shut 
 one eye "shut flat," Robin called it, "no 
 321
 
 Children of the Cotswolds 
 
 wrinkles" and stare at you with the other, 
 and he could wink each eye in succession in 
 a fashion that conveyed infinite possibilities 
 of merriment. And all these things he con- 
 trived to do at the solemn Sunday luncheon 
 when neither grandfather nor Aunt Monica 
 happened to be looking. 
 
 Then there was Pollard. 
 
 Pollard was the gardener. He was not a 
 gifted being like the curate. By no stretch 
 of imagination could he be regarded as en- 
 tertaining. He was a stocky, silent young 
 man, whose conversation consisted mainly 
 of "Yes, Mazter Robin"; "Noa, little gentle- 
 man"; or, "I don't 'old with it myself, young 
 zur," when Robin solicited his opinions about 
 the war and kindred subjects. 
 
 Yet there was something in his bearing that 
 subtly conveyed to the lonely little boy the 
 fact that in Pollard he had a friend, and a 
 rather admiring friend at that, and Robin 
 followed him about like a small dog. 
 
 Yes, Pollard was a comfort. 
 
 He spied him now wheeling a barrow loaded 
 with what Pollard himself called "dong," 
 with a spade resting on the top of the heap. 
 322
 
 The Contagion 'of Honour 
 
 "Wait for me, Pollard wait for me!" 
 called the clear little voice. The man stopped, 
 and when Robin caught him up, they went 
 together to the flower-garden, where Pollard 
 was preparing the ground for a hedge of 
 sweet peas next year. 
 
 Here Robin was thrilled to perceive that 
 Pollard started to dig a trench. He was a 
 capital digger, throwing up great spadefuls 
 of soil, and the trench was beautifully even. 
 
 "They'd like you to help them in Bel- 
 gium," Robin exclaimed admiringly, "you're 
 so strong only you couldn't do it that way." 
 
 Pollard rested on his spade. "Well, there 
 now, Mazter Robin," he exclaimed, "be you 
 agoin' to teach Oi to dig at this time o' day?" 
 
 "Not standing up like that," Robin con- 
 tinued, as though he had not heard "not 
 to begin with. You'd get shot directly. Can 
 you do it as well lying down?" 
 
 "Lyin' down!" Pollard repeated. "Lyin' 
 down! 'Ooever 'card o' diggin' lyin' down?" 
 
 "Soldiers do," Robin answered. "They 
 have to. I can a little, too, only the soil here 
 sticks to one so." 
 
 "Do you mean as they lays flat on their 
 323
 
 Children of the Cotswolds 
 
 backs and scrabbles sideways with a trowel?" 
 asked Pollard, fairly puzzled. 
 
 "No, no/' exclaimed Robin, "front ways, 
 of course. I could show you in a minute if 
 nurse wasn't so cross. You throw it up in 
 front of you so's to hide you, and when the 
 hill in front's high enough, and your hole is 
 deep enough, then you can stand up, stoop- 
 ing, and dig your way. I've got one in my 
 garden, not a good one, 'cos nurse stopped 
 me, but you should see soldiers do it!" 
 
 And just then nurse came to look for 
 Robin, and took him indoors because it was 
 getting dark. 
 
 Pollard continued to dig thoughtfully. 
 From time to time he paused, leant upon 
 his spade and scratched his head. By the 
 time he had prepared the ground for the sweet 
 peas it was just about dark, but before he 
 went home he visited Robin's garden. Here 
 he tried digging a trench in military fashion, 
 and exceedingly hard work he found it. 
 
 From time to time precious letters came 
 to Robin from daddy in the trenches (how 
 he longed to see those trenches!), and from 
 324
 
 The Contagion of Honour 
 
 mother in her hospital. Aunt Monica was 
 very kind about those letters; she read them 
 aloud over and over again, till Robin knew 
 them by heart and imparted their contents 
 to Pollard, who always appeared much edified, 
 though he was a man of few words. 
 
 On the end of a barn that he passed every 
 day between his mother's cottage and the 
 Vicarage, there were posters which declared 
 in flaming, foot-long letters that his "King 
 and Country" needed him, and adjuring him 
 to join the Army NOW for the war, and so on. 
 
 Hitherto, Pollard had regarded the war 
 entirely from the outside. "Soldierin' bain't 
 for the likes of me," he said, and his mother 
 quite agreed with him. Some was "fond of 
 a bit of soldiering" even in peace; and it was 
 quite natural and suitable that such should 
 join the "Tarriers." For them, of course, 
 the call to arms was imperative, and Pollard 
 took it for granted that they should obey and 
 march away, and be seen no more. He was 
 quite content that they should do so. But, 
 with regard to himself, such a course seemed 
 neither sensible nor feasible. 
 
 "What'd I do with a gun, let alone a 
 325
 
 Children of the Cotswolds 
 
 bay'nit?" he would inquire facetiously. "I 
 shouldn't know which end to catch 'old on 
 'im. What good 'ud a' be?" 
 
 Lately, though, there had stirred in his 
 mind a tiny, creeping doubt as to whether it 
 was quite justifiable to remain in this state of 
 ignorance. Much talk with Robin, or rather 
 much listening to the talk of Robin, had 
 opened new vistas of possibility to Pollard. 
 He realised in a dim, kindly way that the 
 child was homesick and lonely, and longing 
 for his parents; yet the little boy never wished 
 they had not gone. The Major's letters, too, 
 repeated word for word by his little son, so 
 simple and plain in their language, yet told 
 heroic things of the doings of his men, and 
 these men Pollard knew were "poor Injuns" 
 "blackies" he had called them, till Robin in- 
 dignantly denied that they were anything of 
 the sort. 
 
 It began to dawn upon Pollard that the 
 heathen in his blindness, who had crossed the 
 seas to fight for old England, was perhaps 
 doing more to uphold her honour than cer- 
 tain young Englishmen who could go, and re- 
 mained peacefully at home. He had inquired 
 326
 
 The Contagion of Honour 
 
 of Robin as to their worship of "wood and 
 stone," but Robin could throw no light upon 
 this, declaring, indeed, that his father's Sikhs 
 "were very religious men, very religious, in- 
 deed." So there was another illusion gone. 
 
 Pollard became more and more uncomfort- 
 able and uncertain. The red posters seemed 
 to reproach him, but the trench finished him 
 altogether. 
 
 As he walked home that night as much 
 "all over mould" as Robin had been earlier 
 in the day, the good, clean smell of the wet 
 earth in his nostrils seemed to go to his head 
 like wine, for he kept on muttering to him- 
 self: "There be summat as I can do, any'ow." 
 
 The thought that a man who could dig 
 might be of use "over there" was positively 
 staggering in its intensity. 
 
 Robin was allowed to sit up half an hour 
 later on a Saturday evening, and during that 
 half-hour Aunt Monica read to him or played 
 spillikins with him, or helped him to stick in 
 his little flags on the big map mummy had 
 given him before she left. 
 
 That evening they did the map, for there 
 327
 
 Children of the Cotswolds 
 
 were a lot of new flags to stick in for Russia. 
 When nurse came for him, as they climbed 
 the broad staircase together, she said in quite 
 an excited voice: "You have done it this 
 time, Master Robin; Pollard's gone for a sol- 
 dier." 
 
 "Gone!" Robin exclaimed aghast, "and 
 never said good-bye, nor anything !" 
 
 "Well, not exactly gone; but 'e's 'listed 
 in the 'Gloucesters did it this afternoon over 
 to Cissister. An' it's all you; he says so." 
 
 "Me!" cried Robin by this time they 
 were in the nursery. "I never sent him. I 
 like him. I don't want him to go." 
 
 "Well, anyway, he's been and done it this 
 afternoon, and his mother's in the kitchen 
 this minute in a fine takin'. And it's all along 
 of you and your talk, she says." 
 
 Robin pondered. "Of course, he's right 
 to go," he said slowly; "but, truly, I never 
 asked him to." 
 
 "I don't know who'll do the garden," nurse 
 said, still in the same thrilled, impressive 
 voice, "or what Vicar'll say, or Miss Rivers." 
 
 "Will Aunt Monica be angry?" Robin 
 asked, vaguely troubled. It was bad enough 
 328
 
 The Contagion of Honour 
 
 to lose Pollard, but if everybody blamed him 
 for it ... and just then who should come 
 into the nursery but grandfather himself. 
 
 He came very slowly, for he was an old, 
 old gentleman. 
 
 Robin was standing by the fire with noth- 
 ing on but his vest and his stockings. 
 
 When grandfather reached the hearth-rug, 
 he held out his hand. "Grandson," he said, 
 solemnly, "I congratulate you. You've 
 managed to do what none of the rest of us 
 could do. You've roused a spark of patriot- 
 ism in Pollard. Aunt Monica and I are proud 
 of you." 
 
 It was very wonderful to shake hands with 
 grandfather like that, and to have him there 
 looking down at one so kindly through his 
 gold-rimmed glasses. Robin was not at all 
 sure what it all meant, except that grand- 
 father and Aunt Monica were not angry, 
 neither with Pollard nor with him. But he 
 did connect Pollard's sudden action with all 
 he had told him about daddy and mummy 
 and the Sikhs. 
 
 "I suppose," he said thoughtfully, "he 
 kind of caught it." 
 
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