SAWDUST
AND SIN
A belt of rhododendrons grew close down to one side
of our pond; and along the edge of it many things flourished rankly. If you
crept through the undergrowth and crouched by the water’s rim, it was easy—if
your imagination were in healthy working order—to transport yourself in a trice
to the heart of a tropical forest. Overhead the monkeys chattered, parrots
flashed from bough to bough, strange large blossoms shone around you, and the
push and rustle of great beasts moving unseen thrilled you deliciously. And if
you lay down with your nose an inch or two from the water, it was not long ere
the old sense of proportion vanished clean away. The glittering insects that
darted to and fro on its surface became sea-monsters dire, the gnats that hung
above them swelled to albatrosses, and the pond itself stretched out into a
vast inland sea, whereon a navy might ride secure, and whence at any moment the
hairy scalp of a sea serpent might be seen to emerge.
It is impossible,
however, to play at tropical forests properly, when homely accents of the human
voice intrude; and all my hopes of seeing a tiger seized by a crocodile while
drinking (vide picture-books, passim) vanished abruptly, and earth resumed her
old dimensions, when the sound of Charlotte’s prattle somewhere hard by broke
in on my primeval seclusion. Looking out from the bushes, I saw her trotting
towards an open space of lawn the other side the pond, chattering to herself in
her accustomed fashion, a doll tucked under either arm, and her brow knit with
care. Propping up her double burden against a friendly stump, she sat down in
front of them, as full of worry and anxiety as a Chancellor on a Budget night.
Her victims, who
stared resignedly in front of them, were recognisable as Jerry and Rosa. Jerry
hailed from far Japan: his hair was straight and black; his one garment cotton,
of a simple blue; and his reputation was distinctly bad. Jerome was his proper
name, from his supposed likeness to the holy man who hung in a print on the
staircase; though a shaven crown was the only thing in common ‘twixt Western
saint and Eastern sinner. Rosa was typical British, from her flaxen poll to the
stout calves she displayed so liberally, and in character she was of the
blameless order of those who have not yet been found out.
I suspected Jerry
from the first; there was a latent devilry in his slant eyes as he sat there
moodily, and knowing what he was capable of I scented trouble in store for Charlotte.
Rosa I was not so sure about; she sat demurely and upright, and looked far away
into the tree-tops in a visionary, world-forgetting sort of way; yet the prim
purse of her mouth was somewhat overdone, and her eyes glittered unnaturally.
“Now, I’m going
to begin where I left off,” said Charlotte, regardless of stops, and thumping
the turf with her fist excitedly: “and you must pay attention, ‘cos this is a
treat, to have a story told you before you’re put to bed. Well, so the White
Rabbit scuttled off down the passage and Alice hoped he’d come back ‘cos he had
a waistcoat on and her flamingo flew up a tree—but we haven’t got to that part
yet—you must wait a minute, and—where had I got to?”
Jerry only
remained passive until Charlotte had got well under way, and then began to heel
over quietly in Rosa’s direction. His head fell on her plump shoulder, causing
her to start nervously.
Charlotte seized
and shook him with vigour, “O Jerry,” she cried piteously, “if you’re not going
to be good, how ever shall I tell you my story?”
Jerry’s face was
injured innocence itself. “Blame if you like, Madam,” he seemed to say, “the
eternal laws of gravitation, but not a helpless puppet, who is also an orphan
and a stranger in the land.”
“Now we’ll go
on,” began Charlotte once more. “So she got into the garden at last—I’ve left
out a lot, but you won’t care, I’ll tell you some other time—and they were all
playing croquet, and that’s where the flamingo comes in, and the Queen shouted
out, ‘Off with her head!’”
At this point
Jerry collapsed forward, suddenly and completely, his bald pate between his
knees. Charlotte was not very angry this time. The sudden development of
tragedy in the story had evidently been too much for the poor fellow. She
straightened him out, wiped his nose, and, after trying him in various
positions, to which he refused to adapt himself, she propped him against the
shoulder of the (apparently) unconscious Rosa. Then my eyes were opened, and
the full measure of Jerry’s infamy became apparent. This, then, was what he had
been playing up for. The fellow had designs. I resolved to keep him under close
observation.
“If you’d been in
the garden,” went on Charlotte, reproachfully, “and flopped down like that when
the Queen said ‘Off with his head!’ she’d have offed with your head; but Alice
wasn’t that sort of girl at all. She just said, ‘I’m not afraid of you, you’re
nothing but a pack of cards’—oh, dear! I’ve got to the end already, and I
hadn’t begun hardly! I never can make my stories last out! Never mind, I’ll
tell you another one.”
Jerry didn’t seem
to care, now he had gained his end, whether the stories lasted out or not. He
was nestling against Rosa’s plump form with a look of satisfaction that was
simply idiotic; and one arm had disappeared from view—was it round her waist?
Rosa’s natural blush seemed deeper than usual, her head inclined shyly—it must
have been round her waist.
“If it wasn’t so
near your bedtime,” continued Charlotte, reflectively, “I’d tell you a nice
story with a bogy in it. But you’d be frightened, and you’d dream of bogies all
night. So I’ll tell you one about a White Bear, only you mustn’t scream when
the bear says ‘Wow,’ like I used to, ‘cos he’s a good bear really—”
Here Rosa fell
flat on her back in the deadest of faints. Her limbs were rigid, her eyes
glassy; what had Jerry been doing? It must have been something very bad, for
her to take on like that. I scrutinised him carefully, while Charlotte ran to
comfort the damsel. He appeared to be whistling a tune and regarding the
scenery. If I only possessed Jerry’s command of feature, I thought to myself,
half regretfully, I would never be found out in anything.
“It’s all your
fault, Jerry,” said Charlotte, reproachfully, when the lady had been restored
to consciousness: “Rosa’s as good as gold, except when you make her wicked. I’d
put you in the corner, only a stump hasn’t got a corner—wonder why that is?
Thought everything had corners. Never mind, you’ll have to sit with your face
to the wall—SO. Now you can sulk if you like!”
Jerry seemed to
hesitate a moment between the bliss of indulgence in sulks with a sense of
injury, and the imperious summons of beauty waiting to be wooed at his elbow;
then, carried away by his passion, he fell sideways across Rosa’s lap. One arm
stuck stiffly upwards, as in passionate protestation; his amorous countenance
was full of entreaty. Rosa hesitated—wavered—and yielded, crushing his slight
frame under the weight of her full-bodied surrender.
Charlotte had
stood a good deal, but it was possible to abuse even her patience. Snatching
Jerry from his lawless embraces, she reversed him across her knee, and then—the
outrage offered to the whole superior sex in Jerry’s hapless person was too
painful to witness; but though I turned my head away, the sound of brisk slaps
continued to reach my tingling ears. When I looked again, Jerry was sitting up
as before; his garment, somewhat crumpled, was restored to its original
position; but his pallid countenance was set hard. Knowing as I did, only too well,
what a volcano of passion and shame must be seething under that impassive
exterior, for the moment I felt sorry for him.
Rosa’s face was
still buried in her frock; it might have been shame, it might have been grief
for Jerry’s sufferings. But the callous Japanese never even looked her way. His
heart was exceeding bitter within him. In merely following up his natural
impulses he had run his head against convention, and learnt how hard a thing it
was; and the sunshiny world was all black to him.
Even Charlotte
softened somewhat at the sight of his rigid misery. “If you’ll say you’re
sorry. Jerome,” she said, “I’ll say I’m sorry, too.”
Jerry only
dropped his shoulders against the stump and stared out in the direction of his
dear native Japan, where love was no sin, and smacking had not been introduced.
Why had he ever left it? He would go back to-morrow—and yet there were
obstacles: another grievance. Nature, in endowing Jerry with every grace of
form and feature, along with a sensitive soul, had somehow forgotten the gift
of locomotion.
There was a
crackling in the bushes behind me, with sharp short pants as of a small
steam-engine, and Rollo, the black retriever, just released from his chain by
some friendly hand, burst through the underwood, seeking congenial company. I
joyfully hailed him to stop and be a panther; but he sped away round the pond,
upset Charlotte with a boisterous caress, and seizing Jerry by the middle,
disappeared with him down the drive. Charlotte raved, panting behind the
swift-footed avenger of crime; Rosa lay dishevelled, bereft of consciousness;
Jerry himself spread helpless arms to heaven, and I almost thought I heard a
cry for mercy, a tardy promise of amendment; but it was too late. The Black Man
had got Jerry at last; and though the tear of sensibility might moisten the
eye, no one who really knew him could deny the justice of his fate.
“YOUNG
ADAM CUPID”
No one would have suspected Edward of being in
love, but that after breakfast, with an over-acted carelessness, “Anybody who
likes,” he said, “can feed my rabbits,” and he disappeared, with a jauntiness
that deceived nobody, in the direction of the orchard. Now, kingdoms might
totter and reel, and convulsions change the map of Europe; but the iron
unwritten law prevailed, that each boy severely fed his own rabbits. There was
good ground, then, for suspicion and alarm; and while the lettuce-leaves were
being drawn through the wires, Harold and I conferred seriously on the
situation.
It may be thought
that the affair was none of our business; and indeed we cared little as
individuals. We were only concerned as members of a corporation, for each of
whom the mental or physical ailment of one of his fellows might have
far-reaching effects. It was thought best that Harold, as least open to
suspicion of motive, should be despatched to probe and peer. His instructions
were, to proceed by a report on the health of our rabbits in particular; to
glide gently into a discussion on rabbits in general, their customs, practices,
and vices; to pass thence, by a natural transition, to the female sex, the
inherent flaws in its composition, and the reasons for regarding it (speaking
broadly) as dirt. He was especially to be very diplomatic, and then to return
and report progress. He departed on his mission gaily; but his absence was
short, and his return, discomfited and in tears, seemed to betoken some want of
parts for diplomacy. He had found Edward, it appeared, pacing the orchard, with
the sort of set smile that mountebanks wear in their precarious antics, fixed
painfully on his face, as with pins. Harold had opened well, on the rabbit
subject, but, with a fatal confusion between the abstract and the concrete, had
then gone on to remark that Edward’s lop-eared doe, with her long hindlegs and
contemptuous twitch of the nose, always reminded him of Sabina Larkin (a
nine-year-old damsel, child of a neighbouring farmer): at which point Edward,
it would seem, had turned upon and savagely maltreated him, twisting his arm
and punching him in the short ribs. So that Harold returned to the
rabbit-hutches preceded by long-drawn wails: anon wishing, with sobs, that he
were a man, to kick his love-lorn brother: anon lamenting that ever he had been
born.
I was not big
enough to stand up to Edward personally, so I had to console the sufferer by
allowing him to grease the wheels of the donkey-cart—a luscious treat that had
been specially reserved for me, a week past, by the gardener’s boy, for putting
in a good word on his behalf with the new kitchen-maid. Harold was soon all
smiles and grease; and I was not, on the whole, dissatisfied with the
significant hint that had been gained as to the fons at origo mali.
Fortunately,
means were at hand for resolving any doubts on the subject, since the morning
was Sunday, and already the bells were ringing for church. Lest the connexion
may not be evident at first sight, I should explain that the gloomy period of
church-time, with its enforced inaction and its lack of real interest—passed,
too, within sight of all that the village held of fairest—was just the one when
a young man’s fancies lightly turned to thoughts of love. For such trifling the
rest of the week afforded no leisure; but in church—well, there was really
nothing else to do! True, naughts-and-crosses might be indulged in on
fly-leaves of prayer-books while the Litany dragged its slow length along; but
what balm or what solace could be found for the sermon? Naturally the eye,
wandering here and there among the serried ranks, made bold, untrammelled
choice among our fair fellow-supplicants. It was in this way that, some months
earlier, under the exceptional strain of the Athanasian Creed, my roving fancy
had settled upon the baker’s wife as a fit object for a life-long devotion. Her
riper charms had conquered a heart which none of her be-muslined, tittering
juniors had been able to subdue; and that she was already wedded had never
occurred to me as any bar to my affection. Edward’s general demeanour, then,
during morning service, was safe to convict him; but there was also a special
test for the particular case. It happened that we sat in a transept, and, the
Larkins being behind us, Edward’s only chance of feasting on Sabina’s charms
was in the all-too fleeting interval when we swung round eastwards. I was not mistaken.
During the singing of the Benedictus the impatient one made several false
starts, and at last he slewed fairly round before “As it was in the beginning,
is now, and ever shall be” was half finished. The evidence was conclusive: a
court of law could have desired no better.
The fact being
patent, the next thing was to grapple with it; and my mind was fully occupied
during the sermon. There was really nothing unfair or unbrotherly in my
attitude. A philosophic affection such as mine own, which clashed with nothing,
was (I held) permissible; but the volcanic passions in which Edward indulged
about once a quarter were a serious interference with business. To make matters
worse, next week there was a circus coming to the neighbourhood, to which we
had all been strictly forbidden to go; and without Edward no visit in contempt
of law and orders could be successfully brought off. I had sounded him as to
the circus on our way to church, and he had replied briefly that the very
thought of a clown made him sick. Morbidity could no further go. But the sermon
came to an end without any line of conduct having suggested itself; and I
walked home in some depression, feeling sadly that Venus was in the ascendant
and in direful opposition, while Auriga—the circus star—drooped declinant,
perilously near the horizon.
By the irony of
fate, Aunt Eliza, of all people, turned out to be the Dea ex machina: which
thing fell out in this wise. It was that lady’s obnoxious practice to issue
forth, of a Sunday afternoon, on a visit of state to such farmers and cottagers
as dwelt at hand; on which occasion she was wont to hale a reluctant boy along
with her, from the mixed motives of propriety and his soul’s health. Much
cudgelling of brains, I suppose, had on that particular day made me torpid and
unwary. Anyhow, when a victim came to be sought for, I fell an easy prey, while
the others fled scatheless and whooping. Our first visit was to the Larkins.
Here ceremonial might be viewed in its finest flower, and we conducted
ourselves, like Queen Elizabeth when she trod the measure, “high and
disposedly.” In the low, oak-panelled parlour, cake and currant wine were set
forth, and after courtesies and compliments exchanged, Aunt Eliza, greatly
condescending, talked the fashions with Mrs Larkin; while the farmer and I,
perspiring with the unusual effort, exchanged remarks on the mutability of the
weather and the steady fall in the price of corn. (Who would have thought, to
hear us, that only two short days ago we had confronted each other on either
side of a hedge,—I triumphant, provocative, derisive; he flushed, wroth,
cracking his whip, and volleying forth profanity? So powerful is all-subduing
ceremony!) Sabina the while, demurely seated with a Pilgrim’s Progress on her
knee, and apparently absorbed in a brightly coloured presentment of “Apollyon
Straddling Right across the Way,” eyed me at times with shy interest; but
repelled all Aunt Eliza’s advances with a frigid politeness for which I could
not sufficiently admire her.
“It’s surprising
to me,” I heard my aunt remark presently, “how my eldest nephew, Edward,
despises little girls. I heard him tell Charlotte the other day that he wished
he could exchange her for a pair of Japanese guinea-pigs. It made the poor
child cry. Boys are so heartless!” (I saw Sabina stiffen as she sat, and her
tip-tilted nose twitched scornfully.) “Now this boy here—” (my soul descended
into my very boots. Could the woman have intercepted any of my amorous glances
at the baker’s wife?) “Now this boy,” my aunt went on, “is more human altogether.
Only yesterday he took his sister to the baker’s shop, and spent his only penny
buying her sweets. I thought it showed such a nice disposition. I wish Edward
were more like him!”
I breathed again.
It was unnecessary to explain my real motives for that visit to the baker’s.
Sabina’s face softened, and her contemptuous nose descended from its altitude
of scorn; she gave me one shy glance of kindness, and then concentrated her
attention upon Mercy knocking at the Wicket Gate. I felt awfully mean as regarded
Edward; but what could I do? I was in Gaza, gagged and bound; the Philistines
hemmed me in.
The same evening
the storm burst, the bolt fell, and—to continue the metaphor—the atmosphere
grew serene and clear once more. The evening service was shorter than usual,
the vicar, as he ascended the pulpit steps, having dropped two pages out of his
sermon-case,—unperceived by any but ourselves, either at the moment or
subsequently when the hiatus was reached; so as we joyfully shuffled out I
whispered Edward that by racing home at top speed we should make time to assume
our bows and arrows (laid aside for the day) and play at Indians and buffaloes
with Aunt Eliza’s fowls—already strolling roostwards, regardless of their
doom—before that sedately stepping lady could return. Edward hung at the door,
wavering; the suggestion had unhallowed charms.
At that moment
Sabina issued primly forth, and, seeing Edward, put out her tongue at him in
the most exasperating manner conceivable; then passed on her way, her shoulders
rigid, her dainty head held high. A man can stand very much in the cause of
love: poverty, aunts, rivals, barriers of every sort,—all these only serve to
fan the flame. But personal ridicule is a shaft that reaches the very vitals.
Edward led the race home at a speed which one of Ballantyne’s heroes might have
equalled but never surpassed; and that evening the Indians dispersed Aunt
Eliza’s fowls over several square miles of country, so that the tale of them
remaineth incomplete unto this day. Edward himself, cheering wildly, pursued
the big Cochin-China cock till the bird sank gasping under the drawing-room
window, whereat its mistress stood petrified; and after supper, in the
shrubbery, smoked a half-consumed cigar he had picked up in the road, and declared
to an awe-stricken audience his final, his immitigable, resolve to go into the
army.
The crisis was
past, and Edward was saved!... And yet... sunt lachrymae rerem... to me
watching the cigar-stump alternately pale and glow against the dark background
of laurel, a vision of a tip-tilted nose, of a small head poised scornfully,
seemed to hover on the gathering gloom—seemed to grow and fade and grow again,
like the grin of the Cheshire cat—pathetically, reproachfully even; and the
charms of the baker’s wife slipped from my memory like snow-wreaths in thaw.
After all, Sabina was nowise to blame: why should the child be punished?
To-morrow I would give them the slip, and stroll round by her garden
promiscuous-like, at a time when the farmer was safe in the rick-yard. If
nothing came of it, there was no harm done; and if on the contrary...!
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