Chapter 12

"If I believed that you realized the enormity of what you have done, I should write to South America to your father, and tell him that I would no longer undertake the responsibility of three boys so evilly inclined. What do you suppose my sensations were when, at the close of the lecture, the other ladies, the professor, our pastor, and myself adjourned to the garden for tea, to find you three perched, almost nude, on a wall, in such company?"

"Do you know that those people are not respectable? The man, I am told, is a rake, who attends cockfights, and the mother of those children has been seen in the garden--_tight_!"

"Was that the lady in pink satin?" asked Angel, showing interest for the first time.

"I daresay. One would expect to find her in pink satin."

The lecture went on, but I did not hear it; my mind dwelt insistently on thoughts of the lady in pink.

"What did she do, please?" I interrupted, thoughtlessly, at last.

"Who do?"

"The lady. When she was tight."

"So that is where your thoughts were," said Mrs. Handsomebody, angrily, "nice speculations indeed, for a little boy!"

"I should yike a little nushment, please," interrupted The Seraph in his turn.

"Not nourishment, but punishment is what you will get, young man," replied our governess, tartly. "What you three need is discipline at the hands of a strong man. We shall now go upstairs."

V

It was over. The gas was out, and we were in bed. Not snugly in bed, but smartingly; each trying to find a cool place on the sheets, and things very much bedewed by the tears of The Seraph.

"I don't care," said Angel, rather huskily. "It was worth it, I'd do it again like a shot."

"So would I," I assented. "Whatever do you s'pose they're up to now!"

And, indeed, the thought of this spirited family coloured all my dreams. As in dancing rainbows they whirled about my bed: Mops with the hose; Bunny and Bill twinkling on stilts; Simon with all the dogs at his heels; and above all, the lady in pink, presiding like a golden-haired goddess, and very "tight."

We were still in black disgrace at breakfast. Scarcely dared we raise our eyes to the cold face of Mrs. Handsomebody, lest she should read in them some yearning recollection of yesterday's misdeeds. Large spoonfuls of porridge and thin milk made unwonted gurgling noises as they hurried down our throats to our empty young stomachs.

When we had done, and The Seraph had offered thanks to God for this good meal, Mrs. Handsomebody marched us, like conscripts to the schoolroom, where she assigned to each of us a task to keep him busy until her return from market.

But the front door had barely closed upon her black bombazine dress, when we scampered to the head of the stairs, threw ourselves upon the hand-rail, and slid lightly to the bottom, and from there ran to find Mary Ellen in the parlour.

She was sweeping out the sombre room with such listless movements of her plump, red arms, that the moist tea-leaves on the floor scarce moved beneath the broom.

"Sure, I niver see sich a cairpet as this in all me born days," she was saying. "If I was to swape till I fell prostitute, I'd niver git it clane."

"Oh, don't bother about the work, Mary Ellen!" we cried. "Just listen to the adventure we had yesterday!"

"I listened to the hindermost part of it," she returned, "and it sounded purty lively."

"Who cares?" said Angel. "It didn't hurt a bit."

"Not a bit," assented The Seraph, cheerily. "She gets weaker evwy day, and I get stwonger."

We rushed upon Mary Ellen then with the whole story of our new friends, dwelling, especially, upon our visit below stairs, and the rollicking men and maid-servants we found there.

"They were drinking beer-and-gin," concluded Angel, "and the scullery-maid did a breakdown for us in a pair of hunting boots."

"It beats all," said Mary Ellen, leaning on her broom, "what kapes me in a dull place like this, whin there do be sich wild goin's on just around the corner like. I'd give a month's wage to see thim folks."

"Come around with me," suggested Angel, "and I'll introduce you."

"Oh, no, Masther Angel. Misther Watlin, me young man, wouldn't want me to be goin' into mixed company widout him. An it do seem a pity, too, since I have me new blue dress, for if ever I look lovely, I look lovely in blue." And she attacked the tea-leaves with a lagging broom.

Mrs. Handsomebody, when dinner was over, fixed us with her cold grey eye, and said:

"Since you have proved yourselves utterly untrustworthy, you shall be locked in your bedroom, during my absence this afternoon. Mary Ellen, who will be engaged in cleaning the coal cellar, has been instructed to supply you with bread and milk at four o'clock. By exemplary behaviour today, you will ensure a return to your customary privileges tomorrow."

VI

The prison door was locked. The gaoler gone.

Thus our Saturday half-holiday!

Angel and I threw ourselves, face downward, on the bed. Not so The Seraph. Folding his arms, which were almost too short to fold, he stood before the single window, gazing through its grimy glass at the brick wall opposite, as though determined to find something cheerful in the outlook.

Aeons passed.

Familiar faces began to leer at me from the pattern in the wall-paper. Angel was despondently counting out his money on the counter-pane, and trying to make three half-pennys and a penny with a hole through it, look like affluence.

Suddenly there came a rattling of hard particles on the pane. As we stared at each other in surprise, another volley followed. It was a signal, and no mistake! Already The Seraph was tapping the window in response. A moment of violent exertion passed before we could get it open. Then, thrusting out our heads we discovered Simon standing in the passage below, his upturned face wearing an anxious grin.

"Thought I'd never get you," he whispered hoarsely. "I saw the Dragon go out, so I fired a handful of gravel at every window in turn. Come on out."

"We can't. We're locked in!" we chorused dismally.

"I'll try to catch you if you jump," he suggested. "I would break the fall, anyway."

But the way looked long, and Simon very small.

Then: "There's a ladder," cried The Seraph, gleefully, "better twy that."

With his usual clear-sightedness, he had spied what had escaped his seniors. Our neighbour, Mr. Mortimer Pegg, had been having some paper hung, and, surely enough, the workmen had left a tall ladder propped against the wall of the house. Without a second's hesitation, Simon flung himself upon it, and with one splendid effort, hurled it from that support to the wall of Mrs. Handsomebody's house. Then, with the strength of a superman, he dragged it until it leaned just below our window, and stood gasping at its base.

"Good fellow," said Angel, and began to climb out.

"Now, you hand me The Seraph," he ordered, "and I'll attend to him."

I had some misgivings as I passed his plump, clinging little person through the window, and watched him make the perilous descent, but, in time, he reached the ground, and then I, too, stood beside the others, and the four of us scampered lightly down the street with no misgivings, and no fears.

Before the door of our own grocer, Simon made a halt.

"Must have somethin' wet," he gasped. "Ladder nearly floored me."

He took us in and treated us with princely unconcern to ginger beer and a jam puff apiece. As we sucked our beer through straws, I smiled to think of Mary Ellen, doubtless preparing bread and milk at home.

Once more we entered the garden through the creeper-hung door. We visited the rabbits, and unchained one of the fox-terriers, which had been tied up, Simon told us, as a punishment for eating part of a lace curtain. Bill appeared then and said that his mother desired us to go to her in the drawing-room, and, as it was beginning to rain, Simon agreed that it wasn't a bad idea. We might even find something to eat in there.

As we trooped past the basement window, I lingered behind the others, and peered for a space into the lawless region below. What met my gaze almost took my breath away: for there was our own Mary Ellen, who should have been at that moment cleaning the coal cellar, sitting at one end of the long table, in her new blue dress, and plumed hat, a gentleman in livery on either side of her, and on the table before her, a mug, which, without doubt, contained gin-and-beer!

I waited to see no more. Enough to know that all the world was run amuck! With a glad whoop, I sped after the others, and only drew up when I stood on the threshold of the drawing-room.

Like the servants' hall, it was a large apartment, and, like it, was bewildering in its colour and movement, to eyes accustomed to the grey decorum of Mrs. Handsomebody's establishment.

Though it was summer, there was a fire on the hearth, which played with changeful constancy on the vivid chintzes, silver candle-sticks, and many mirrors of the room, but most of all, on the golden hair and satin tea-gown of the lady in pink.

She was speaking in a loud, clear voice to Simon's father, who was leaning against the mantelpiece smoking.

"Why the devil," she was saying, "should you smoke expensive cigars? Why don't you smoke cigarettes as I do?"

She angrily puffed at one as she spoke, and threw herself back among the black and gold cushions of the divan, where she was sitting. Her fair brow cleared, however, as her glance rested on The Seraph.

"Adorable little toad!" she cried, drawing him to her side. "What is your name?"

"Alexander," replied our youngest, "but they call me The Seraph. I'm not a pampud pet."

This sent the lady into a gale of laughter. She hugged him closer and turned to me.

"And what is your name, Sobersides?" she demanded.

"John," I replied, "and my father is David Curzon, and he is an engineer in South America, but he's coming back to England some day, and, I expect then we shall go to school. We just live with Mrs. Handsomebody."

As I talked, her expression changed. She leaned forward, searching my face eagerly.

"Is it possible?" she said, in a tragic voice. "Is it possible? David Curzon. His son. The very spit of him!" Abruptly she broke into gay laughter, which, somehow, I did not quite like: and turning to her husband, she said: "Do you remember Davy Curzon? He was such a silly old pet. Lor'! I'd quite forgot him!"

"Lucky Davy," said the gentleman, smiling at me.

"And he was so ridiculously poor," she went on, "I remember he ruined himself once to buy me a pair of cream-coloured ponies, and a lapis-lazuli necklace. And I daresay he's _fat_ now!"

"He is not," I retorted stoutly. "He's thin. He's had the fever."

"Again?" she cried. "He had it when I knew him--badly too. Who did he marry?"

"A Miss Vicars," replied her husband. "Good family. A screaming beauty too. Other two boys look like her."

But the lady had now, it seemed, no interest in the other two boys. The Seraph was deposed from his place on the divan to make room for me; and the lady begged me to give her a kiss, just for old times' sake. Yet, somehow, I did not quite like it, for I felt that she was making fun of my father, the hero of my dreams.

Meanwhile, the other children, unchided, were making things lively in their own way. Mops and the boys were eating dates from a bowl and pelting each other with the stones, while a new member of the family, a seemingly sexless being in a blue sash and shoulder knots, called "Baby," galloped up and down the room with a battledore and shuttlecock.

VII

No servant announced her name. I felt no warning tremor of solid Earth beneath my feet. Yet there she was, in full equipment of bombazine dress, hard black bonnet, reticule, and umbrella, gripped like an avenging sword. Oh, that some merciful cloud might have swept us, like fair Iphigenia to the abode of the gods, and left three soft-eyed hinds in our stead!

Yet, there we were, gazing at her, spellbound: and presently she enunciated with awful distinctness:

"I am come to apologize for the intrusion of my wards upon your privacy, and to remove them instantly."

"Oh, bless you," said the lady in pink, cheerily, "three or four more don't matter to us. Won't you sit down? And children--please let the lady's things be, d'you hear?" for these intrepid children had gathered around Mrs. Handsomebody as though she were a dancing bear; and "Baby" had even pulled her umbrella from her hand substituting for it the battledore which Mrs. Handsomebody unconsciously held, with an effect of ferocious playfulness.

"I thank you," replied Mrs. Handsomebody. "I shall remain standing."

"Let me make you acquainted with my husband," pursued the lady, "he's Lord Simon de Lacey, second son of the Duke of Aberfalden. Please excuse him smokin'!"

The effect of these simple words on Mrs. Handsomebody was startling. She brandished the battledore as though to ward off the approaching Lord Simon, and repeated in a trembling voice:

"Lord Simon de Lacey--Duke of Aberfalden. Surely there is some mistake."

"I'm afraid not," said Lord Simon, shaking her hand. "In me you behold the traditional, impecunious younger son, and--"

"But it will not always be so," interrupted Lady Simon, shouting to make herself heard, "for, you see, my husband's older brother is an invalid who will never marry, so we shall inherit the dukedom and estates one day. This child--" pointing to young Simon--"is a future duke."

"He has a lovely brow," said Mrs. Handsomebody, beaming at him.

Indeed, an astounding change had come over our governess. No longer was her manner frigid; her face, so grey and hard, had softened till it seemed to radiate benevolence. She beamed at Bill and Bunny playing at leap-frog before her chair; she beamed at "Baby," galloping astride of her umbrella; she beamed at Mops, trying to force a date into the mouth of a struggling fox-terrier; she even beamed at me when I caught her eye.

"I trust that your father, the Duke, keeps well," she said to Lord Simon.

"Great old boy," he replied. "Never misses a meet. Been in at the death of nearly four thousand foxes."

"Ah, blood will tell," breathed Mrs. Handsomebody.

"You see," interposed Lady Simon, "the Duke disinherited my husband when he married me. Didn't approve of the Profession. I was Miss Dulcie June, awfully well known. Photographs all over the place. Danced at the Gaiety, y'know."

"I'm sure I have heard of you," said Mrs. Handsomebody.

"Well, the Duke and I ran into each other at a dog show last week, and he was so struck with me, he asked to be introduced, and has asked us all to visit him at Falden Castle. It looks hopeful, don't it?"

"Indeed, yes. But we shall be very sorry to lose you. It is so difficult for me to find suitable companions for my wards, and your children are so--spirited. Of course, blood will tell."

"Just what I say," assented Lady Simon, "for I was a spirited girl, if ever there was one. What with late hours, and toe-dancin' and high-kickin', it's a wonder how I stood it. I think I was like that Sir Galahad chap whose 'strength was as the strength of ten'--"

"Doubtless because your art was pure, my love," put in Lord Simon, with a sly smile.

"I used to know this boy's father in those days," went on Lady Simon. "He was a lamb."

"He was also my pupil in his youth," said Mrs. Handsomebody, and the two talked on in the happiest fashion, till we took our leave, the whole family following us to the door, and "Baby" returning Mrs. Handsomebody's umbrella, and relieving her of the battledore without her having been aware of the negotiation.

So we who had expected to be haled to retribution, as criminals of the deepest dye, floated homeward in the serene light of Mrs. Handsomebody's approval.

No one spoke till the Cathedral came in view. Then Angel said:

"There's a window in the Cathedral in memory of a son of some Duke of Aberfalden. He died about a hundred years ago."

"The very same family," replied our governess, "and, I am sure, from now on, my dear boy, you will regard the window with a new reverence."

"You must have noticed," she proceeded, "the geniality and dignity that emanated from each separate member of that noble family. This is admirably expressed by the French in the saying--'Noblesse oblige'--meaning that nobility has its obligations. Repeat the phrase after me, David, that you may acquire a perfect accent."

"Knob-less obleedge," repeated Angel, submissively; and The Seraph also repeated it several times, as though storing it away for future use.

When Mrs. Handsomebody rang the door-bell, I trembled for Mary Ellen, remembering where I had last seen her, but the admirable girl promptly opened the door to us, clad in the drabbest of her cellar-cleaning garb, a smudge of soot on her rosy cheek.

Mrs. Handsomebody ordered sardines for tea, and had the silver tea-pot brought out. She also dressed for the occasion, adding a jet bracelet, seldom seen, to her toilet.

All went well, till, at bedtime, The Seraph could not be found. Becoming alarmed, Mrs. Handsomebody, at last, opened the door of the forbidden parlour, Angel and I peering from behind her, hoping, yet fearing, to discover the recreant.

Truly the gods had a mind to The Seraph. His was ever the cream of every adventure. There he was, lolling at ease, in a tasselled velvet chair, just beneath the portrait of Mr. Handsomebody. Lolling at ease, and smoking a gold-tipped cigarette, which, he afterwards confessed, he had got from Bill, in trade for a piece of India-rubber.

Like an old-timer he handled it, watching the smoke-wreaths above his head with the tranquil gaze of an elderly club-man.

"Merciful Heaven!" screamed Mrs. Handsomebody, clutching Angel and me for support. "Are you demented, Alexander? Do you realize what you are doing?"

The Seraph drew a long puff, looking straight into her eyes, before he replied: then, in a tone of gentle seriousness, he said:

"Knob-less obleedge."

_Chapter IX: The Cobbler And His Wife_

I

Bootlaces had become of immense importance to us, since a lack of them always meant a visit to the cobbler to buy new ones. They were comparatively easy to break, or to tie in knots that even Mary Ellen's strong fingers could not undo. Then there were tongues. One could always dislocate a tongue. At any rate, the boots of one of the three were always needing attention.

"Bless me!" our governess would exclaim, wrathfully, "Another heel off! One would think you did it purposely. And boots such a price! Just think of your poor father in South America, working day in and day out to provide you with boots, which you treat with no more consideration than if they were horseshoes--well, to the cobbler's then--and tell him to mind his charges. It should cost no more than sixpence."

The cobbler lived in the tiniest of a group of tiny houses that huddled together, in a panicky fashion, in a narrow street behind Mrs. Handsomebody's house. From an upper window we could look down on their roofs, where the plump, Cathedral pigeons used to congregate to gossip and sun themselves.

You went down three stone steps into the cobbler's shop. There he always sat at work by his bench, tapping away at the sole of a shoe, or stitching leather with his strange needle. His hands fascinated us by their coat of smooth oily dirt. Never cleaner, never dirtier, always the same useful, glove-like covering. Did he go to bed with them so? How jolly! we thought. His face, too, was of extraordinary interest. It was so thin that the sharp bones could be seen beneath the dusky skin, and he would twitch his nostrils at the breeze that came in his open window, for all the world like an eager brown hare. His hair curled so tightly over his head that one knew he could never pull a comb through it, and we were sure he was far too sensible to try.

Mrs. Handsomebody said he was half gypsy, and not to be encouraged. Mary Ellen said, God help him with that wife of his.

He bred canaries.

All about the low window their wooden cages hung. Even from the darkest corners of the shop bursts of song leaped like little flames and yellow breasts bloomed like daffodils. When the cobbler tapped a shoe with his hammer, they sang loudest, making a wild and joyous din.

Thus they were all busy together when we entered on this winter morning, carrying Angel's heelless boot, wrapped in a newspaper.

"Good-morning, Mr. Martindale," said Angel, above the din, "you see I've got another heel off, so I'm wearing my Sunday boots, and Mrs. Handsomebody says it shouldn't be above sixpence, please."

The cobbler ceased his tapping, and all the birds stopped to listen:

"Good-morning, little masters," he said, in his soft voice. "What wild things your feet are to be sure. Try as I will, I cannot tame them. You might as well try to keep three wild ponies shod." He undid the parcel and turned the boot over in his hands. "Sixpence, did she say? Nay, tell her a shilling, for the sole needs stitching as well."

"Oh, but you must keep that for another day," said Angel, "so we can come again."

"How she tries to keep you down," said the cobbler. "How old are you now?"

I replied to this. "Angel's ten, and I'm nine, and The Seraph's six."

"Just the brave age for the woods. I wish I had my old van again, and could take you on the road with me. You'd learn something of forest ways in no time. Shall you wait for this?"

Wait for it? Rather. We established ourselves about him; The Seraph climbed beside him on the bench; Angel took possession of his tools, handing them to him as required; while I busied myself in plentifully oiling a strip of leather. The birds chirped and pecked above our heads.

Angel asked: "Did you do much cobbling in the van, Mr. Martindale?"

"Ay, cobbling and tinkering too. The forest birds liked to hear me just the same as those canaries. Especially the tinkering. They'd crowd about and sing fit to burst their throats--wood-thrushes, finches, and all sorts. Then, I used to stop at village fairs and take in a nice bit of silver. For my missus could play the concertina, and I had a cage of lovebirds that could tell fortunes and do tricks."

A strange voice spoke from the passage behind the shop.

"Ay. Comical tricks lovebirds do. And cruel tricks, love. I've been tricked by 'em."

"Better lie down, Ada," said Martindale. "Or make tea. That'll quiet ye." He rose and went to the door, closing it softly. But he had barely seated himself again, when there came a scream from the passage.

"Look what you've did, you villain, you've shut me in the door! Oh! oh! I'm trapped in this comical passage! Loose me quick!"

Martindale sprang to the door, where a strip of red petticoat showed that his wife was indeed caught, and went out into the passage, speaking in a soothing tone, and leading her away.

"I fink I'll go," whispered The Seraph.

"Don't be silly," I assured him, "the cobbler will take care she don't hurt us."

"She's a character, isn't she?" said Angel, borrowing a phrase from Mary Ellen.

Martindale returned then, sat down on his bench, and, smoothing his leather apron, resumed his work with composure.

"I fink," said The Seraph, "I hear Mrs. Handsomebody calling. I better be off."

"Bide a little while," said Martindale, "and I'll tell you a first rate story--about birds too. Then you'll forget your fright, little master, eh?"

The Seraph moved closer to him, and the canaries burst into a fury of song.

"It's wonderful what birds know," he began. "News flies as fast among 'em as wind on the heath, and if you do an injury to one, the others'll never forgive it. For though they may fight among themselves, they'll all join together against one wicked cruel man."

The canaries ceased their singing, and fluttered against the bars.