THE THIRD DAY
THE BOY INVADES THE KITCHEN
The Boy sat on a corner of the kitchen table, swinging a loose leg, andwatching Martha make hot buttered-toast.
He had arrived early, and, finding no one in the garden, had enteredthe house by the garden-door, to pursue investigations upstairs.
On the mat in the hall he saw a pair of goloshes; in theumbrella-stand, a very large, badly-rolled umbrella; hanging on a pegnear by, a professor's cap and gown.
The Boy stood stock still in the middle of the little hall, and lookedat the goloshes.
Then from the drawing-room, through the closed door, came the voice ofMiss Charteris--full, clear, measured, melodious--reading Greek tragedy.
_errois anaides, en tachei neania_
declaimed Miss Charteris; and the Boy fled.
Arrived in the kitchen, he persuaded Martha that cigarette smoke wasfatal to black-beetles. He went about, blowing fragrant clouds intoevery possible crack and cranny. Martha watched him, out of the cornerof her eye, crawling along under the dresser in his immaculate whiteflannels, and Martha blessed her stars that her kitchen floor was sospotlessly clean. Only this morning she had remarked to Jenkins thathe could very well eat his dinner off the boards. Mercifully,Jenkins--tiresome man though he usually was--had not taken thisliterally; or he might have made the floor less fit for the Boy'sperambulations.
Having taken all this trouble in order to establish his unquestionedright to smoke in Martha's kitchen, and to pose as a public benefactorwhile so doing, the Boy seated himself on the edge of the table,exactly behind Martha; lighted a fresh "Zenith," and prepared to enjoyhimself.
Martha glanced nervously at the smoke, issuing from cracks and holes onall sides. It gave her a feeling that the house was on fire. Ofcourse she knew it was not; but to _feel_ the house is on fire, is onlyone degree less alarming than to _know_ it is. However, beetles arenasty things; and the condescending kindness and regard for Martha'spersonal comfort, which crawled about after them in white flannels, wasgratifying to a degree.
So Martha turned and gave the Boy one of her unusual smiles. He wasvery intently blowing rings--"bubbles" Martha called them afterwards,when explaining them to Jenkins; but that was Martha's mistake. Theywere smoke rings. It was one of the Boy's special accomplishments. Hewas an expert at blowing rings.
Presently:--"Martha, my duck--" he said suddenly.
Martha jumped. "Bless us, Mr. Guy! What a name!"
"What's the matter with it?" inquired the Boy, innocently. "I considerit a very nice name, and scriptural."
"Oh, I didn't mean m' own name," explained Martha, more flushed thanthe warmth of the fire warranted. "Not but what m' godfathers andgodmothers might well 'ave chosen me a better."
"Oh, don't blame them, overmuch, Martha," said the Boy, earnestly."You see their choice was limited. If you study your catechism youwill find that it had to be 'N' or 'M'--'Naomi' or 'Martha.' Even atthat early age, they thought you favoured 'Martha' rather than 'Naomi';so they named you 'Martha.'"
"Well I never!" exclaimed Mrs. Jenkins. "'N' or 'M'! So it is! Now Inever noticed _that_ before. We live and learn! And Jenkins--sillyman--'as always bin annoyed that they named 'im 'Noah.' But how aboutwhen _you_ was christened, Mr. Guy?"
"Oh," explained the Boy, with a wave of his cigarette, "I waschristened a bit later than you, Martha; and, by that time, Parliamenthad sat in solemn convocation, and had brought in a Bill to the effectthat all needless and vexatious limitations and restrictions in thePrayer Book might for the future be disregarded. The first to go was'N' or 'M.'"
"Well, I never!" said Martha. "I wish they'd ha' done it afore _my_time."
"You see," expounded the Boy, who was enjoying himself vastly, andgetting the conjunction of the goloshes and the Greek play off hismind; "you see, Martha, those progressive Bills, intimately affectingthe whole community, of vital importance to the nation at large, arealways blocked by the House of Lords. If the Commons could have hadtheir own way, you might have been named 'Lucy' or 'Clara.'"
"I don't incline to 'Lucy' or 'Clara,' sir," said Mrs. Jenkins,decidedly; "being, as they always strikes me, sickly story-book sort ofnames; but I _do_ like justice and a free country! I always have feltdoubtful o' them Lords, since I listened to my married niece's husband,a very respectable journeyman tailor but mostly out of work; and ifit's _their_ doing that I'm 'Martha,' well, _I_ shall know what to dowith Jenkins's vote--that's all!"
The Boy slapped his leg and rocked. "Martha, you ought to be put up tospeak at political meetings. That's the whole thing in a nutshell:cause, effect, results, arguments, everything! Oh, my wig!--Yes, theyare a lot of old stick-in-the-muds in the Upper House, aren't they?"pursued the Boy--who had had a long line of dignified ancestors in thatmuch abused place; had an uncle there at the present moment, and wasmore than likely eventually to have to sit there himself--"a rotten lotof old stick-in-the-muds, Martha; but I think they did well by you.I'd give them the benefit of Jenkins's vote. I really would. I amglad they chose 'M,' not 'N.' Naomi was a widow and dismal. She nevermade the smallest effort to buck up. But Martha was a nice person; abit flurried perhaps, and hot-tempered; but well up in cooking, andkeen on it. I like Martha."
The Boy sat and meditated. Why did she read Greek plays with a personwho left goloshes on the mat, and brought out an ancient umbrella witha waist, on an absolutely cloudless day?
"It wasn't m' own name surprised me, Mr. Guy, sir," remarked Martha,coyly; "it was the name you was pleased to _h_add."
The Boy pulled himself together. "Eh, what? Oh, 'Martha, my duck'? Isee. I hope you don't mind, Martha. It seemed to me rather a suitableand pretty addition to 'Martha.' You see, yours is a name which cannotbe shortened when one feels affectionate. 'Sarah' can be 'Sally';'Amelia' can be 'Milly'; 'Caroline' can be 'Carrie'; but 'Martha'remains 'Martha' however loving people feel. What does Jenkins callyou when he feels affectionate?"
Martha snorted. "Jenkins knows 'is place," she said, jerking the roundlid off the stove, and putting on the kettle.
"Jenkins is a model," smiled the Boy.
Then Martha looked round, her feminine curiosity, and perhaps a touchof jealousy, getting the better of her respectful discretion. She hadseen so much, and heard so little; and she was a very old familyservant.
"What do you call _her_, Mr. Guy?" she asked, in a confidentialwhisper, with a jerk of the head toward the mulberry-tree.
"Her?" repeated the Boy, surprised. Then his whole tone softened. Itwas so sweet to speak her name to some one. "I call her 'Christobel,'"he said, gently.
But Martha wanted to know more. Martha was woman enough to desire anunshared possession of her own. She bent over the fire, stirring itthrough the bars.
"Mr. Guy, sir, I suppose you don't--I suppose you do--that is to say,sir--Do you call _her_ what you've been pleased to call me?"
"Eh, what?" said the Boy, vaguely.
"Oh, I see. 'Christobel, my----' Oh, no, Martha. No, I don't! Noteven when I feel most affectionate." Here the Boy was seized withsudden convulsions, slapped his knee noiselessly, and rocked on thekitchen table. He whispered it, in an ecstasy of enjoyment."'Christobel, my duck!' Oh, lor! 'Christobel, my duck!' I hope Ishall be able to resist telling her. I should have to own I had calledMartha so. 'Christobel, my----'"
Martha, wondering at the silence, looked round suddenly. But the Boyhad that instant recovered, and was sitting gravely on the corner ofthe table.
"Martha, my duck," he said, "to return to the original opening of thisconversation: has Jenkins ever told you what a nice little wisp of hairyou have, behind your left ear?"
"Get along, sir!" retorted Martha, fairly blushing. "You're makinggame of me."
"Indeed, I'm not," said the Boy, seriously. "If you made it into acurl, Martha, and fastened it with an invisible pin, it would be quitetoo fascinating. You ask Jenkins. I say, Martha? What's a placket?"
"A placket, sir," said Martha, on her way to fetch something from ashelf near which hung the kitchen mirror; "a placket, sir, is a thingwhich shows when it shouldn't."
"I see," said the Boy. "Then you couldn't exactly go about in one.Martha, whose goloshes are those, sitting on the mat in the hall?"
Martha snorted. "An old woman's," she said, wrathfully.
The Boy considered this. "And does the umbrella with the waist belongto the same old woman?"
Martha nodded.
"And the Professor's cap and gown, hanging near by?"
Martha hesitated. "'Tain't always petticoats makes an old woman," shesaid, sententiously.
"Martha, you are _pro_-foundly right," said the Boy. "Does theProfessor stay to tea?"
"Thank goodness no, sir. We draw the line at that, 'cept when Miss_H_ann comes too."
"Who is Miss _H_ann?"
"She's the Professor's sister." Martha hesitated; poured hot waterinto the silver teapot; then turned to whisper confidentially, withconcentrated dislike: "She's always a-_h_egging of 'em on!"
"What a curious occupation," remarked the Boy, blowing a smoke-ring."Does Miss _H_ann come often?"
"No, Mr. Guy. Thanks be, she's a _h_invalid."
"Poor Miss _H_ann. What's the matter with her?"
Martha snorted. "Fancies herself too much."
"What a curious complaint. What are the symptoms?"
"Fancies herself in a bath-chair," said Martha, scornfully.
"I see," said the Boy. "Oh, poor Miss _H_ann! I should feel very sickif I fancied myself in a bath-chair. I wish I could meet Miss _H_ann.I should like to talk to her about the _h_egging-on business."
"_You'd_ make her sit up," said Martha, with spiteful enjoyment.
"Oh no, I shouldn't," said the Boy. "That would not be kind to aninvalid. I should see that she reclined, comfortably; and then Ishould jolly well flatten her out."
At that moment a shadow fell across the sunny window. Miss Charteris,her guest having departed, passed down the garden steps, and movedacross the lawn.
The Boy sprang to his feet. At sight of her, his conscience smote himthat he should have thus gossiped and chaffed with old Martha. Hesuddenly remembered why he had originally found his way to the kitchen.
"Martha," he said; "I want you to let me carry out the tea-tray thisafternoon. She doesn't know I am here. She will think it is you orJenkins, till she looks round. Let me carry it out, Martha, there's aduck!"
"As you please, sir," said Martha; "but if you want her to think it'sJenkins, you must put it down with a clatter. It takes a man to beclumsy."
The Boy walked over to the window. The mulberry-tree was not visiblefrom the kitchen table.
"Don't go there, Mr. Guy!" cried Martha. "Miss Christobel will seeyou, sir. This window, and the pantry, show from the garden. If youwant to 'ave a look at her, go through that door into the storeroom.The Venetian blind is always down in there. There is one crack throughwhich I----"
Martha stopped short, disconcerted.
"One crack through which you think I could see? Thank you, Martha,"said the Boy, readily. "Hurry up with the tray."
He went into the store-room; found Martha's chink, and realized exactlywhat had been the extent of Martha's view, during the last two days.
Then he bent his hungry young eyes on Christobel.
She was seated in a garden chair, her back to the house, her facetowards the postern gate in the old red wall at the bottom of thegarden. The rustic table, upon which he would soon deposit thetea-tray, was slightly behind and to the left of her. The sun shonethrough the mulberry leaves, glinting on the pure whiteness of hergown. She leaned her beautiful head back wearily. Her whole attitudebetokened fatigue. He could not see her face; but he felt sure hereyes were open; and he knew her eyes were on the gate.
The Boy's lips moved. "Christobel," he whispered."Christobel--beloved?"
She was waiting; and he knew she was waiting for him.
Presently he dropped the lath of the Venetian blind, and turned to go.But first he took out his pocket-book and fastened the lath whichlifted most easily, to those above and below it, with halfpenny stamps.He knew old Martha would take a hint from him. There must be no eyeson the mulberry-tree to-day.
In the kitchen the tray was ready; tea freshly made, thinbread-and-butter, cucumber sandwiches; hot buttered-toast inperfection; cornflour buns, warranted to explode; all the things heliked most; and, best of all, cups for two. He grasped the tray firmlywith both hands.
"Martha," he said, "you are a jewel! I give you leave to watch me downthe lawn from the kitchen window. But when I have safely arrived, turnyour attention to your own tea, or I shall look up and shake my fist atyour dear nice old face. And, I say, Martha, do you ever writepostcards? Because, if you want any ha'penny stamps, you will findsome on the storeroom blind. Only, _don't want them_, Martha, tillthis week is over, and I am gone."
Whereupon the Boy lifted the tray, and made for the door.
Down the lawn he bore it, and set it safely on the rustic table. Hewas very deft of movement, was the Boy; yet, remembering hisinstructions, he contrived to set it down with something of a clatter.
Miss Charteris did not turn her head Her eyes, half closed beneath thelong lashes, were on the postern gate.
"Jenkins?" she said.
"Yes, ma'am," replied the Boy, in excellent imitation of the meek tonesof Jenkins.
"Should any one call this afternoon, Jenkins, please remember that I amnot 'at home.'"
"Hip, hip, hurrah!" said the Boy.
Then she turned--and her face was all, and more than all, he had hopedit might be.
"Oh, Boy," she said. "Oh, Boy dear!"
* * * * *
After that, it was a very happy tea. Neither had been quite natural,nor had they been really true to themselves, the day before; so thedelight of meeting seemed to follow a longer parting than the actualtwenty-four hours. The Boy's brown eyes rested in tenderness on thehand that filled his cup, and she did not say "Don't"; she merelysmiled indulgently, and added the cream and sugar slowly, as if to lethim do what he willed.
The hum of bees was in the garden; a sense of youth was in the air.The sunbeams danced among the mulberry leaves.
The Boy insisted upon carrying back the tray, to do away at once withthe possibility of interruption from Jenkins. Then he drew theirchairs into the deeper shade of the mulberry-tree, a corner invisiblefrom all windows. The Boy had learned a lesson while looking throughthe storeroom blind.
There they sat and talked, in calm content. It did not seem to mattermuch of what they spoke, so long as they could lie back facing oneanother; each listening to the voice which held so much more of meaningin it than the mere words it uttered; each looking into the eyes whichhad now become clear windows through which shone the soul.
Suddenly the Boy said: "How silly we were, the other day, to talk ofthe relative ages of our bodies. What do they matter? Our souls arethe real you and I. And our souls are always the same age. Some soulsare old--old from the first. I have seen an old soul look out of theeyes of a little child; and I have seen a young soul dance in the eyesof an old, old woman. You and I, thank God, have young souls,Christobel, and we shall be eternally young."
He stretched his arms over his head, in utter joyful content with life.
"Go on, Boy dear," said Christobel. "I am not sure that I agree withyou; but I like to hear you talk."
"At first," he said, "our bodies are so babyish that our souls do notfind them an adequate medium of expression. But by and by our bodiesgrow and develop; after which come the beautiful years of perfection,ten, twenty, thirty of them, when the young soul goes strong and gaythrough life, clad in the strong gay young body. Then--gradually,gradually, the strong young soul, in its unwearied, immortal youth,wears out the body. The body grows old, but not the soul. Nothing canage that; and when at last the body quite wears out, th
e young soulbreaks free, and begins again. Youthful souls wear out their bodiesquicker than old ones; just as a strong young boy romps through a suitof clothes sooner than a weakly old man. But there is always life moreabundant, and a fuller life farther on. So the mating of souls is theall-important thing; and when young souls meet and mate, what does itmatter if there be a few years' difference in the ages of their bodies?Their essential youthfulness will surmount all that."
Christobel looked at him, and truly for a moment the young soul in herleapt out to his, in glad response. Then the other side of thequestion rose before her.
"Ah, but, Boy dear," she said, "the souls express themselves--theirneeds, their delights, their activities--through the bodies. Andsuppose one body, in the soul-union, is wearing out sooner than theother; that is hard on the other--hard on both. Boy--my Little BoyBlue--shall I tell you an awful secret? I suppose I sat too closelyover my books at Girton; I suppose I was not sufficiently careful aboutgood print, or good light. Anyway--Boy dear--I have to use glasseswhen I read." She looked wistfully into his bright eyes. "You see?Already I am beginning to grow old." Her sweet lips trembled.
In a moment he was kneeling by the arm of her chair, bending over her,as he did on the first day; but as he did not do yesterday. Suddenlyshe realized why she had felt so flat yesterday, after he was gone.
He lifted her hand and kissed it gently, back and palm. Then he partedthe third finger from the rest, with his own brown ones, and held thatagainst his warm young lips.
She drew her hand slowly away; passed it over his hair; then let itfall upon her lap. She could not speak; she could not move; she couldnot send him away. She wanted him so--her little Boy Blue, of long ago.
"Old, my Beloved?" he said. "You--old! Never! Alwaysperfect--perfect to me. And why not wear glasses? Heaps of mere kidswear glasses, and wear them all the time. Only--how alarmingly cleveryou must look in spectacles, Christobel. It would terrify me now; butby and by it will make me feel proud. I think one would expect glassesto go with those awe-inspiring classical honours. With my barelyrespectable B.A., I daren't lay claim to any outward marks oferudition." Then, as she did not smile, but still gazed up at him,wistfully, his look softened to still deeper tenderness: "Dear eyes,"he murmured, "oh dear, dear eyes," and gently laid his lips on each inturn.
"Don't," she said, with a half sob. "Ah, Boy, don't! You know youmust not kiss me."
"Kiss you!" he said, still bending over her. "Do you call thatkissing?" Then he laughed; and the joyous love in his laughter wrungher heart. "Christobel, on the seventh day, when the gates fly open,and the walls fall down; when the citadel surrenders; when you admityou are my own--_then_ I shall kiss you; _then_ you will know whatkissing really means."
He bent above her. His lips were very near to hers. She closed hereyes and waited. Her own lips trembled. She knew how fearfully ittempted the Boy that her lips should tremble because his were near; yetshe let them tremble. She forgot to remember the past; she forgot toconsider the future. She was conscious of only one thing: that shewanted her Little Boy Blue to teach her what kissing really meant. Soshe closed her eyes and waited.
She did not hear him go; but presently she knew he was no longer there.
She opened her eyes.
The Boy had walked across the lawn, and stood looking into the goldenheart of an opening yellow rose. His back appeared veryuncompromising; very determined; very erect.
She rose and walked over to him. As she moved forward, with thegraceful dignity of motion which was always hers, her mental balancereturned.
She slipped her hand beneath his arm. "Come, Boy," she said; "let uswalk up and down, and talk. It is enervating to sit too long in thesunshine."
He turned at once, suiting his step to hers, and they paced the lawn insilence.
When they reached the postern gate the Boy stood still. Something inhis look suddenly recalled her Little Boy Blue, when the sand on hissmall nose could not detract from the dignity of his little face, norweaken its stern decision.
He took both her hands in his, and looked into her eyes.
"Christobel," he said, "I must go. I must go, because I dare not stay.You are so wonderful this afternoon; so dear beyond expression. I knowyou trust me absolutely; but this is only the third day; and I cannottrust myself, dear. So I'm off!"
He lifted both her hands to his lips.
"May I go, my Queen?" he said.
"Yes, Boy," she answered. "Go."
And he went.
It was hard to hear the thud of the closing door. For some time shestood waiting, just on the inside. She thought he would come back, andshe wished him to find her there, the moment he opened the door.
But the Boy--being the Boy--did not come back.
Presently she returned to her chair, in the shade of the mulberry-tree.She lay, with closed eyes, and lived again through the afternoon, fromthe moment when the Boy had said: "Hip, hip, hurrah!" There came atime when she turned very pale, and her lips trembled, as they had donebefore.
At length she rose and paced slowly up the lawn. On her face was thequiet calm of an irrevocable decision.
"To-morrow," she said, "I must tell the Boy about the Professor."
* * * * *
In the middle of the night, Martha, being wakeful, became haunted bythe remembrance of the smoke, as it had curled from cracks and keyholesin the kitchen. She felt constrained to put on a wonderful pinkwrapper, and go creaking slowly down the stairs to make sure the housewas not on fire. Martha's wakefulness was partly caused by the unusualfact of a large and hard curl-paper, behind her left ear.
Miss Charteris was also awake. She was not worried by memories ofsmoke, or visions of fire; and her soft hair was completely innocent ofcurl-papers. But she was considering how she should tell the boy aboutthe Professor; and that consideration was not conducive to calmslumber. She heard Martha go creaking down the stairs; and, as Marthacame creaking up again, she opened her door, and confronted her.
"What are you doing, Martha?" she said.
Martha, intensely conscious of her curl-paper, was about to answer withmore than her usual respectful irritability, when the eyes of the twowomen--mistress and maid--met, in the light of their respectivecandles, and a sudden sense of fellowship in the cause of their nightvigil passed between them.
Martha smiled--a crooked smile, half ashamed to be seen smiling. Whenshe spoke, her aspirates fell away from her more completely than in thedaytime.
"'E went crawlin' about the kitchen," she said, in a muffled midnightwhisper; "all in 'is white flannels, puffin' smoke in every crack an''ole to kill the beetles. So kind 'e meant it; but I couldn't sleepfor wonderin' if the place was smokin' still. I 'ad to go down an'see. 'Ow came you to be awake, Miss Christobel?"
"Things he said in the garden, Martha, have given me food for thought.I began thinking them over; and sleep went."
Martha smiled again--and this time the smile came more easily. "'E_'as_ a way of keepin' one on the go," she said; "but we'd best begittin' to sleep now, miss. 'E'll be at it again to-morrow, bless 'is'eart!" And Martha, in her pink wrapper, lumbered upwards.
But the Boy, who had this disturbing effect on the women who loved him,slept soundly himself, one arm flung high above his tumbled head. Andif the sweet mother, who perforce had had to let her dying arms slipfrom about her baby-boy, almost before his little feet could carry himacross a room, saw from above the pure radiance on his lips and brow ashe slept, she must have turned to the Emerald Throne with gladthanksgiving for the answer vouchsafed to a dead mother's prayers.
* * * * *
"_And the evening and the morning were the third day._"
* * * * *
Through the Postern Gate: A Romance in Seven Days Page 3
