Part 3

"Take it or leave it, but I can't wait-- Jump, mare, jump over Billing's Gate!"

XVI.--LIMEHOUSE AND POPLAR.

I planted a limestone once upon a time, And up came a little wee House of Lime.

I planted a seed by the corner of the wall, And up came a Poplar ninety feet tall.

I settled down for life, as happy as could be, In my little wee Lime-House by my big Poplar-Tree.

* * * * *

THE BIRTHDAY PRESENT.

Late October and a grey morning tinging to gold through the warming mist. A large comfortable dining-room smelling faintly of chrysanthemums and more strongly of coffee and breakfast dishes. In the hearth a great fire, throwing its flames about as with joy of life. The table-cloth, the silver, the dishes, the carpet on the floor, the side-board, the pictures, the wall-paper told of wealth and ease, the fruits of peace, and the arrangement of these things told of the good taste which is so essentially the fruit of long peace.

The room was empty, and the first to enter it that morning was the Mother. She was a tall imposing woman, and her bearing and her little mannerisms were of the kind that the latter-day novelists have delighted to use as matter for their irony. It was the Boy's birthday--his eighteenth birthday, the first he had spent at home since he had been going to his preparatory and his public school. So she departed from the usual routine to place by the side of his napkin the neat little parcels she had brought down with her. Two of them were from her other sons fighting in France. They were a very affectionate and united family--father and mother and the three sons.

After that she went to her husband's end of the table and looked through the heap of letters placed there as usual by the admirable butler. It was understood of old that she opened no letters but those addressed to her, not even the letters from the fighting sons when they happened to write to their father instead of to her.

This time, however, her eye caught at once, between the edges of the others, an official envelope and, lower yet, another. She became rigid and stood for a minute by the table, her mind running vaguely into endless depths. Then she put her hand out and picked the envelopes from the heap and saw that her fears might not be groundless. But they were addressed to her husband, and at that moment she heard his tread and his slight cough as he came slowly down the stairs. Hastily she pushed them back among the others and went to her place. When he came into the room she was busy with the urn.

As usual he was just putting his handkerchief back; as usual he looked out of the window, then walked over to the fire and warmed his hands automatically. All this business of coming down to breakfast had been to him for so many years a leisurely pleasant business in a world free from serious worries, that even the War, with its terrible disturbances, with its breaking up of the family circle, had not succeeded in altering his habits. Everything waited for him--for he was not unpunctual--the letters, the newspaper and the breakfast. But this day was the Boy's birthday and the Father took from his pocket an envelope and placed it with a smile by the side of the little parcels.

Would he never look at his letters? The Mother was on the point of speaking, but long habit, the old habit of obedience to her lord, restrained her. Even now, when she was cold with anxiety, those old concealed forces of habit restrained her. Might she not offend him?

The Father sat down, put on his glasses and began to look at the pile by his side. She noticed the slight start he gave and her eyes met his as he looked up suddenly at her. Deliberately braving Fate, he put those two envelopes aside. It was evident that he meant to read through all the others first, but he was not so strong as he thought. His fingers went again to the official envelopes and he took up the letter-opener placed ready for his use by the admirable butler and slit along the top of one envelope and took the thin paper from it and read.

His head drooped a little, and the Mother came round to his side. Then he opened the other and suddenly sat very still, with his great strong fine hand open on the paper, gazing straight in front of him. His wife bent over him and tried to speak, but her voice had died to a whisper, a hoarse straining sound.

"Dead?" she said at last.

Her husband dropped his head in affirmation.

"Which?"

He did not answer and the Mother understood. "Oh, Harry, not _both_?"

Again his head drooped and he fumbled for the papers and gave them to her, and as he did so a tear rolled suddenly down his cheek and splashed on a spoon. It seemed to be a sign to him, he felt his courage giving way and visibly pulled himself together. Then he turned to take the Mother's hand, rising from his seat. They stood a little while thus, the Mother looking away, as he had done, into unfathomable distances of time and space. Then she too pulled herself together and went to her place at the other end of the table. They heard steps on the staircase, a voice singing. The door opened and the Boy came in late and expecting a comment from his father, His eyes travelled to the parcels beside his plate, then he felt the silence and saw the strained expressions of his mother and father and lastly the official papers. He came forward and spoke bravely.

"Bad news, Dad?"

There was no answer. He had not expected one, for he read the truth on the face that had never lied. He stood very still for a brief moment, his head up--characteristically--his face a little pale. Both brothers! Then he breathed deeply and turned to his father in expectation. The latter knew what was wanted.

"You are eighteen to-day, Boy. You may apply for your commission."

There was a cry, quickly stifled, from the Mother, and the Boy said very quietly, "Thank you, Dad; of course I must go now." Then he went to his mother and kissed her and was not ashamed to cry.

It was his father who broke the silence.

"May God grant you many returns, many happy returns of the day!"

* * * * *

THE SORROWS OF WILSON.

(_With humble apologies to THACKERAY._)

WILSON had a love for Charlotte That impelled him to address her (Charlotte was a town, and WILSON Was a famous ex-Professor).

So upon the War in Europe He delivered an oration, Darkly hinting at the problems Calling for elucidation.

As reported in the papers, He discussed the situation With Olympian detachment And conspicuous moderation.

But the wireless WOLFF discovered In his words a declaration Of his laudable intention To proceed to mediation.

Thus the speech, which cost good WILSON Many hours of toil and trouble, From a sober cautious statement Turned into a Berlin bubble.

Charlotte, having heard the lecture, Ignorant of what was brewing, Like a well-conducted city Went on innocently chewing.

* * * * *

"The water in the South-West Norfolk Fens has now subsided about 6 in. Two 6 ft. openings have been cut in the river bank near the Southery engine to let the water flow into the river. Two temporary slackers have been put in the openings, so that they can be closed when the tide is higher in the river."

_Provincial Paper._

They might just as well have been put into the trenches.

* * * * *

* * * * *

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

(_By Mr. Punch's Staff of Learned Clerks._)

Herr HERMANN FERNAU's _Because I am a German_ (CONSTABLE) is a sort of postscript to the widely-outside-Germany-circulated _J'accuse!_, that vigorous indictment by an anonymous German of the Prussian clique as the criminal authors of the War. Herr FERNAU summarises the argument of _J'accuse!_ and if anyone cares to have at his finger-tips the essential case against the enemy he could not do better than absorb the six pages in which twenty-four questions put by the anonymous author to the directors of his unhappy country's destiny are most skilfully compressed. Four attempted German answers are shown by our author to have in common an amazing reluctance to deal with any single definite point at issue; and a most unjudicial appeal to popular hatred of the traitor critic. Of course it is a cheap line to welcome as a miracle of wisdom every German who takes a pro-Ally view. But I honestly detect no shadow of pro-Ally bias in this book, and it is certainly no tirade against Germany. What bias there is is that of the extreme republican against his autocratic government. "I have read," says Herr FERNAU in effect, "this perfectly serious and definite indictment lucidly drawn in legal form. I hope as a German (not afraid to sign my name) there is an answer. But whereas the Entente Powers have supported their official case by documentary evidence we are asked to accept mere asseveration in the case of Germany. That is the less allowable as the obvious (though not necessarily the true) reading of the facts is against her. Silence and vigorous suppression of the indictment look rather like signs of guilt." Yes, emphatically a book for members of the Independent Labour Party.

* * * * *

_Beatrice Lovelace_ belonged to a family that had come down in the world, and were now Reduced County. So far reduced, indeed, that _Beatrice_ lived with her cross aunt _Anastasia_ and one little maid-of-all-work in a tiny house in a very dull suburb, where the aunt would not allow her to be friends with the neighbours. However, one fine day two things happened. _Beatrice_ got to know the young man next door, and the little servant (whose name, by a silly coincidence which vexed me, happened to be _Million_) was left a million dollars. So, as the house was already uncomfortable by reason of a row about the young man, _Beatrice_ determined to shake the suburban dust from her shapely feet and take service as maid to her ex-domestic. That is why the story of it is called _Miss Million's Maid_ (HUTCHINSON). An excellent story, too, told with great verve by Mrs. OLIVER ONIONS. I could never attempt to detail the complicated adventures to which their fantastic situation exposes _Beatrice_ and _Million_. Of course they have each a lover; indeed, the supply of suitors is soon in excess of the demand. Also there is an apparent abduction of the heiress (which turns out to be no abduction at all, but a very pleasant and kindly episode, which I won't spoil for you), and a complicated affair of a stolen ruby that brings both heroines into the dock. It is all great fun and as unreal as a fairy-tale. For which reason may I suggest that it was an error to date it 1914? Such nonsensical and dream-like imaginings are so happily out of key with the world-tragedy that its introduction strikes a note of discord.

* * * * *

I have just finished reading a distinguished book, _One of Our Grandmothers_ (CHAPMAN AND HALL), by ETHEL COLBURN MAYNE--a book full of a delicate insight and very shrewd characterisation. It probes to the heart of the mystery of girlhood--Irish girlhood in this case. I certainly think that _Millicent_, who was a sort of prig, yet splendidly alive, with her gift of music (which, contrary to custom in these matters, the author makes you really believe in), her temperament, her temper and her limitless demands on life, would have given young _Maryon_, of the Royal Irish Constabulary, a trying time of it; but it would have been worth it. That, by the way, was _Jerry's_ opinion, common, horsey, true-hearted, clean-minded little _Jerry_, who was the father of _Millicent's_ coarse and something cruel stepmother. I have rarely read a more fragrant chapter than that in which this queer, sensitive, loyal little man tries to cut away the girl's ignorance while healing the hurt that a rougher hand (a woman's), making the same attempt, had caused. Perhaps Miss _Mayne_ was really trying to trace to its source the stream of modern feminism. She is a rare explorer and cartographer.

* * * * *

_A Rich Man's Table_ (MILLS AND BOON) is one of those stories that I find slightly irritating, because they appear to lead nowhere. Perhaps this attitude is unreasonable, and mere fiction should be all that I have a right to look for. But in that case I confess to wishing a little more body to it. Miss ELLA MACMAHON's latest novel is somehow a little flat; not even the splintered infinitive on the first page could impart any real snap to it. The rich man was Mr. _Bentley Broke_, a pompous person, who had one child, a son of literary leanings named _Otho_. Perhaps I was intended to sympathise with _Otho_. It looked like it at first; but later, when he left home and married, without paternal blessing, the daughter of his father's great rival, he developed into such a fool--and objectionable at that--that I became uncertain on the matter. Especially as the pompous parent, lacking nerve to carry out a matrimonial venture on his own account, relented and behaved quite decently to the rebellious pair. So the rich man's table would have, as all tables should, more than one pair of legs under it again. Nothing very fresh or thrilling in all this, you may observe. But the characters, for what they are, live, and are drawn briskly enough. And there is some skill in the contrast between a dinner of herbs in Fulham, and a stalled ox, with fatted calf, at the rich man's table in Portman Square. Perhaps this is the point of the story.

* * * * *

So often have I read and admired the novels of "M. E. FRANCIS" that to praise her work has become a habit which it irks me to break. But I am now bound to say that _Penton's Captain_ (CHAPMAN AND HALL) has not added to my debt. And the cause of the trouble--as of so many other troubles--is the War. In her own line Mrs. _Blundell_ is inimitable, but here she is just one of a hundred or a thousand whose fiction seems trivial beside the facts of life and death. Apart from this defect, her story is absolutely without offence, a simple tale of love and misunderstandings and war and heroism, and the curtain falls upon a scene of complete happiness. Her only fault is that she has been tempted, excusably enough in these days of upheaval, to wander from her element, and I am looking forward to the day when she returns to it and I can again thank her with the old zest and sincerity.

* * * * *

As a painstaking study of lower middle-class life _The Progress of Kay_ (CONSTABLE) is to be remarked and remembered. That is not, however, to say that it is exciting, for _Kay's_ progress consisted so much in just getting older that I suspect Mr. G. W. BULLETT's title to be ironical. As a child _Kay_ had some imagination and a sense of mischief; as an adult he would have been all the better for a little military training, and there is no disguising the fact that as a married man and a father he was a dreary creature. I can well believe, from the air of truth which these pages wear, that there are plenty of _Kays_ in the world to-day; and to confess that I was not greatly intrigued by this particular sample when he grew to man's estate is in its way a compliment to his creator. For however much you may like or dislike the mark at which Mr. BULLETT has aimed there is no doubt that he has hit it. Villadom, by his art, takes on a revived significance, and _Kay's_ career encourages reflection touched by a vague sadness.

* * * * *

* * * * *

A Tale for the Horse-Marines.

"_London, Sunday._

"While a British submarine was rescuing the Zeppelin crew in the North Sea, a German cruiser fired at it.

"The Cavalry from Salonika are pursuing the remainder of the Zeppelin crew."--_Egyptian Mail._

* * * * *

"LONDON STOCKS.

REVIVAL IN GUILT-EDGED SECURITIES."

_Manchester Evening Chronicle._

Now we hope our contemporary will coin an equally felicitous description for the pillory.

* * * * *

"Mr. Hughes, the Australian Prime Minister, was carried triumphantly round camp last night after he had addressed nearly two thousand Anzacs on parade. Mr. Hughes was accompanied by Mrs. Hughes, Mr. Fisher, High Commissioner, and Mrs. Fisher. Brigadier-General Sir Newton Moore, Commander-in-Chief of the Australian Forces in England, was also present with Lady Moore."

_Morning Paper._

It is regrettable that General and Lady MOORE could not share the honours, but probably the chair was constructed to carry four only.