Part 8

"And now," said Baffin, "it is time to leave off playing. Sit up, like a good girl, and keep quiet. Get rid of that bull's-eye."

"Yes," said Prudence. And the lollipop was "got rid of" of by a simple and effective means. "I _should_ laugh if someone was to tread on it," observed Prudence. "If my mother was to see---- Oo-er, Mr. Baffin, down't 'oller at me, please, Mr. Baffin. I _will_ be good, I will; on'y, if you look like that I shall cry, 'Cos you frighten me."

Silence reigned for a little space, whilst Prudence, with clenched hands, maintained an attitude of strenuous repose. Baffin's actions alternated between brief and seemingly motiveless dabs at his canvas, and a critical inspection of his model, for the purposes of which he spread out his legs and wagged his head--slowly and pensively, from side to side--like an elderly cockerel surveying the domestic landscape. This proceeding terminated in a sigh that had all the eloquence of a shout, and Baffin pounced, as it were, upon his canvas.

Prudence selected this moment in which to throw up both her hands, and wail with sorrow. "Ooh," she moaned, "ooh, I am a bad gel, I am. Ooh, what will my mother say when I go 'ome? She give me a letter to powst, she did, an' I never powsted it, an' it's a letter for our landlord, it is, an' I promised faithful to put it into the first box I come to. An' now I've fogot it, I 'ave, an' my mother 'll be cross. An' I love my mother, I do, an' she's got a bad place on her arm, an' I am a bad, wicked gel to tease an' trouble 'er, I am. Oo-er, I must get up and go out, Mr. Baffin. I must, 'cause I fogot to powst my mother's letter."

Baffin did the philosophic thing: put away his canvas, and put on the kettle, and invited his sitter to unsit and rejoice. That young person responded to this invitation by sitting wonderfully silent--strangely still--for ten minutes. It was only at the very end of this unique performance that we perceived her to be shedding tears. Real tears, this time.

It was possible in that moment to realise that Prudence had passed her twenty-second year. Baffin touched her shoulder, and she shrank from him and shuddered. She spoke, and her voice was the voice of a woman. "Lemme alone: lemme alone. You donnow what a un'eppy gel I am. You--you----"

It finished in a gurgle.

Then, with the laudable motive of clearing the air, Baffin referred in a tone of banter to the still visible presence of red flannel. The success of his experiment amazed us both. All in a moment the whims and capers of infancy possessed her again, and she succumbed to an ecstasy of wriggles.

"Ooh, 'ere, 'ere, Mr. Baffin; 'ere, I say, what do you think some man 'as done? Some man 'as sent me a--a something: a underneath something, all white. Yes, reely!"

"An' my mother says it didn't 'arf cost somethink, neether. But ain't 'e got a cheek to do it? 'Cos it ain't right for a man to send presents like that to a gel when she's grown up: 'cos my mother says it's takin' a liberty. Whoever sent me it, 'e must 'a' been a artist because of the tasty yoke. My mother says as I'm a grown-up gel now, an' I got to be very pertickler.

"Oo, it is pretty, though, I tell you: pink ribbon on the shoulders, an' my mother says 'ooever 'e is 'e oughter be ashamed of 'isself, an' all my gel cousins from Catford are comin' on Sunday to 'ave a look, an' when I find out 'oo it is, my mother says I can tell 'im what I think of 'im."

Stimulated and cheered by the thought of this exciting prospect, Prudence fell upon the muffins. Her appetite, at any rate, was thoroughly grown up, and, having performed a veritable gastronomic feat, she curled herself up on the musty old curtain which carpeted Baffin's "throne" and--went to sleep.

Whereupon, the unauthorised kittens--they crawled everywhere--you found them in the milk jug--promptly employed the skirts of Prudence as a playground.

"Move those kittens away, like a good chap," Baffin called out to me. "They'll worry Prudence when she wakes up. Hates the silly beggars, you know."

But to our surprise, when Prudence did wake up, she stretched forth a foot, and began to tease the plumpest of them with the point of her shoe.

"Funny objec's, ain't they, when they're fat and soft, like this?" said Prudence. "Breakable, ain't they? No strength in their legs. On'y fit to lie on their backs an' be tickled."

And Prudence stooped down, and lifted the plump one into her lap.

"Ooh, my! 'is little pores ain't 'arf soft!" She spoke in the woman's voice that we had heard but once before. "'Is little pores ain't 'arf soft; you could bite 'em."

She kissed a paw.

"Ain't 'e got a funny morsel of a nose. Sich a cheeky nose; such a teeny one. You could bite it. You--you----"

She lifted the absurd little animal to her face, and rubbed her cheek against his cosy side, and she kissed his impertinent nose.

"Oo's a precious, then!" continued Prudence. "Oo's a sleepy precious. My, 'e's a sleepy little 'elpless little lump of fat! Ain't you, boy? What price a see-saw, fat boy?"

She held him so that he hung by his shoulders in an attitude that was not suggestive of dignity. And she dandled and bounced him in a manner with which kittens are not familiar. She lifted him to her face again, and made as if to kiss the nose once more.

But the lips, half bunched for that purpose, parted suddenly, as if with pain--as if with wonder--as if with horror. The kitten slipped from her fingers, and fell with an indignant mew into the soft, warm haven of her lap. And Prudence's hands went up to her startled face, and her hair fell over her like a shroud, and she sobbed as women sob.

"Oh, Gawd!" she cried; "its eyes, its eyes! Its little, winkin' eyes! Oh, mother, _mother_!"

*XXV*

*A TALK WITH JAMES*

I had extinguished the flame of the doctor's gas-stove, and was warming myself on the lid, when James burst in and interrupted me.

"Come off it, like a dear, and listen," said James. "I've had a proposal!"

I wondered, for a moment, whether this flippant manner of stating a serious fact did not call for some form of fatherly rebuke. But all that I actually said was: "Well, I hope you think you've started soon enough."

"Started!" echoed James, regarding me with an air as of dignified amazement. "My dear young man, I _started_ years ago. Why, Baffin was my third; and Baffin began to woo me before I was eleven."

"How long ago was that?" I meekly inquired.

"Don't you be rude," said James. "I take a grown-up size in almost everything. If Baffin perseveres, I suppose I shall really have to accept him--if it's only to make him leave off wearing those New Art ties. But, really and truly, I'd rather not be married at all. I don't believe I've got a married mind. I'm much too fond of rats."

"But," I ventured to point out, "people have been known to combine the two interests."

"Not successfully," asserted James. "Rats require a fearful lot of attention. Another thing about Baffin is his hands. I really _couldn't_ be married to them."

"Why 'another' thing?" I inquired. "You haven't stated any firstly."

"I daresay my grammar isn't quite correct, but I haven't noticed that yours is perfect," rejoined James. "And, anyhow, my ideas are sound even if my grammar is weak. Of course, one could _train_ him to take care of his nails; but with rats you have more to show for your trouble. He really was most touching."

"Baffin has a fine vein of sentiment," I admitted.

"Why Baffin?" demanded James. "I was talking about Mr. Grimsdick."

"Pardon me," I said. "You think so rapidly, and my hands are cold. Who is Mr. Grimsdick?"

"The one I was telling you about," explained James. "He's our grocer."

"But you never were telling me about him," I protested. "He is quite a new character."

"Nonsense," cried James. "Why, the very first thing I said to you was that Mr. Grimsdick had proposed to me. At least, I take it as a proposal. He held my hand and----"

"Excuse me," I ventured to observe, "but do you think it quite correct in the daughter of a respected family physician that she should go about the country holding hands with grocers? Now had it been----"

James cut short my speech with characteristic impatience. "Mr. Grimsdick," she said, "has been holding my hand for years."

"Does he sell lard?" I inquired.

"He is a very religious man, and when his wife died, when I was about seven, he used to give me raisins and pat my head to comfort himself. And this afternoon, when he gave me my change, he held my hand and he said, 'R! Miss, I expect we shall soon see you round yere shopping on your own account. How time do fly, to be shaw. You'll be having your hair up soon. And yet it don't seem no time since the days when you used to sit on the cheese barrels and swing your little legs and heat my raisins. 'E'll be a lucky young fellar whoever 'e is. They'll 'ave to 'urry up, miss, some of 'em--what? I on'y wish I was a young man--_I'd_ give some of 'em a lead.'

"So I said, 'Never mind, Mr. Grimsdick. I shall always come to you for my soap and tea.'

"And he laughed. And he said, 'R! We shan't see much of you round 'ere, I reckon, miss. You'll be marrying into the aristocracy and goin' to live at Herne Bay or Clacton.'

"So then I gave him Fatty's well-known speech about the Idle Rich.

"And he said, 'Oh! If that's your way of thinkin' there's a chance for all of us. Well, miss, there's a empty chair in my parlour and a seat be'ind the cash desk.' _I_ call that a proposal."

"A most definite and unequivocal proposal," I agreed. "What did you say next?"

"Oh," said James, "there was nothing else of importance. We got off on to the subject of Carlsbad plums: they were beauties, but too dear. He wouldn't reduce them."

"Pooh!" I cried. "And he calls himself a lover!"

"_All_ men aren't like Baffin and other people, thank goodness," said James disdainfully. "Mr. Grimsdick thinks about the future. But I'd rather go in for rats, I think. There's Baffin, for instance: he never shuts a door after him."

"Rats don't either," I submitted.

"But cats don't open them," argued James, not without logic. "And then there's always having to be at home on the second Tuesday. Really, I can't decide about my future at all. Most girls haven't any difficulties, because they can make up their minds to be nurses and relieve the sufferings of the poor. But I've been brought up to that sort of thing, and it bores me. Of course, you can always get an opium-eater, or drunkard, or something, and devote your life to reforming him. But then, again, they always smell of it. Really, it's very hard. And Baffin's so irritable. Look at the way men fuss over trifles. And if you get one who is clean and not fussy, and not a grocer, and decently young, he is sure to be ugly and a bore."

I said, "You are referring now, I suppose, to Boag, the Conative Meliorist?"

"No," replied James. "Mr. Boag is a bore, but he isn't downright ugly. As a matter of fact, I was thinking of _you_."

"Oh!" I said.

"Yes," said James. "I know you like one to be frank. Apart from everything else, men make me sick. It will really have to be rats."

*XXVI*

*THE APRIL BARGE*

I set out, sedately enough, one April morning, to rescue James from her aunt at Bayswater. I set out grandly enthroned upon a 'bus.

But I came quite unexpectedly upon this April Barge, and James and her aunt were forgotten.

The April sun had come out sharp to time, you see, and was winking fitfully upon all of us, like the unsettled, rakish fellow that he is. And a girl with two great baskets full of wondering daffodils had come out, too; and some conscienceless vagabond was extracting melody from a cornet. So that even the Regent's Canal, with its sombre vicinage and sulky craft, seemed, as if by some surprising effort, to have taken on an air of sweetness and youth and hope.

You could consider this fact at leisure as our 'bus toiled slowly up the rise of a road which spans the canal. There was a public-house in front of us--the public-house and the cornet seem to be inseparably united in this neighbourhood--but the canal was to one's left, and appeared, somehow, to convey that air of refreshment which the tavern so conspicuously lacked.

As one looked down upon the face of these waters, so strangely heartened by the sunlight, a sort of certainty grew upon him that they would break suddenly into perspective; that their vista would cease to be obscured by coal wharves and cranes and hoardings; that somebody's whisky, commended to your notice in large white letters on a blue-enamelled background, would fade and fade and fade, until it merged with the white clouds and the blue sky behind it. Then need you but sigh and sit back, beholding a silver streak set snugly between hills, and flowing, flowing, flowing to the edge of the world. Instead of which----

Pooh! There was no instead. The April sun kept winking at the daffodils, and the daffodils kept staring at the sun, and the cornet-man made music by the waterside. So that even a poet might have smiled at it all. For here, I'll swear, was none of your mere "waterways," created by syndicates for profit; here was none of your world capitals. Just a little old river, sunning itself gratefully in a little old town that God had made.

And, as if to strengthen this conceit, a woman came up through the hatchway of a barge that I was looking at. She was wearing a sun-bonnet, in accordance with the custom of barge-women, and she stood up gracefully, one hand on her hip, the other before her eyes, to seek out the cornet player.

We are the boys of the bulldawg breed What's made ole Hengland's Nime.

Those were the words which had inspired the melody which the cornet-blower was blowing. The woman tapped her foot in time with the notes.

Her husband came up then, accompanied by tobacco clouds and a baby. He seemed to be a fortunate sort of husband, for I noticed that the woman laughed appreciatively at some joke which he made.

Then the man's eye wandered to the canal-side, and he caught sight of the daffodil-girl, who was standing there. And what must the fellow do but throw kisses to her, which gallantry was reciprocated by the flower-girl. The barge-woman laughed at this new jest with even more good humour (if that were possible) than that which she had shown before. The man shouted some message or other to the flower-girl, and she replied, whereupon he handed the baby to his wife, saying, "Catch 'old, Fatty!"--an utterance which I heard without hearing, as one can when an April sun is shining on men's hearts. And, advancing to the side of the boat, the man held out his arms, and the girl threw daffodils towards him.

The first bloom fell into the water, and the second; the third he caught. One more poor daffodil was drowned, and he caught the two next. So that there was one for his cap, and one for the missus, and one for the baby, who, being now safely delivered from the paternal arms (which were not built for cradling babies), needed but the additional stimulus of a yellow thing to marvel at ere it smiled as largely as any of them.

And upon my word I smiled, too, and could, indeed, have laughed outright. But I sat in awe of a fat man on the adjacent seat. He did not belong to that order of lunatics who laugh for nothing in the sunshine. "What we want," he was saying to his companion, "what we want," he said, with his eyes fixed tight upon this April barge, "what we want is a total _change of Government_. Nothin' won't ever be right again till we get it."

I had a heavy parcel of books on my knee, and to drop them heavily upon his foot had been, as it were, the accident of a moment. But the sweet temperance of springtime had stolen into my blood, and I forbore. Besides which there were the barges and the daffodils, and they were better worth a man's consideration than this fool.

So I looked over the side again, and saw that the barge-man had turned his attention to the cornet-blower, with whom he was exchanging highly flavoured sarcasms. With a view, probably, of adding zest to his humours, and because a springtime madness was upon him, he had changed headgear with his wife, and stood there in her sun-bonnet, grimacing and laughing. He had a long barge-pole in his hand, and somehow--I don't quite know how it happened--in assuming to hurl that weapon at the cornet-blower, he overbalanced himself, and fell sideways into the water, striking his head as he fell against the side of another barge, which was moored close to his own in that jumble fashion which is peculiar to barges.

He came up again almost directly, looking queer in his wife's sun-bonnet (for he had tied the tapes beneath his chin), and then immediately sank again. The nerveless ineptitude of it all made one angry with the man: it seemed to be wilful.

As for the wife, she looked wonderingly over the side, and realisation came to her so slowly that a laugh still flickered faintly on her face when he came up again. Even then, the sound which she uttered was as much like a chuckle as a cry. And when words came to her, they were few enough. "Oh, my pore man!" she moaned. "Oh, my pore man! Oh, my pore man!"

And the baby lay on its back, and chuckled knowingly into the petals of a dishevelled daffodil.

Our 'bus had made the bend of the canal bank by this time, and now was parallel with the water, and exactly opposite to this barge. Under the united stimulus of instinctive curiosity and instinctive horror, the driver pulled up sharp; and so the 'bus stood still, and we passengers sat there, gaping at that funny thing in the sun-bonnet as it came up for a second time and sank again.

"Oh, my pore man! Oh, my pore man!" moaned the wife.

And the cornet-blower, pale with horror, still applied himself automatically to the cornet. He had changed his tune since first I heard him, and the aquatic feats of the man in the sun-bonnet were conducted to music, the strains of which, being interpreted into words, ran as follows--

Hi! Hi! clear the road For the rowdy, dowdy boys.

It came up again for the third time, and the woman on the barge grabbed frantically at nothing, and tore her arm in the effort, so that a crimson splash mingled with the eddying waters as he sank again.

And then the cornet-blower remembered himself, and dropped his cornet hastily, as though it burned him. And, of all queer things for a cornet-blower to do, he blubbered weakly, like a woman found out.

And the mischievous sun cast his shadow upon the water, and caused it to dance joyously thereon, so that you would have deemed it to be the shadow of one consumed with joy.

"Oh, my pore man!" cried the wife. "Oh, my pore man! Oh, my pore man!"

And the fat person from the next seat said to his friend, "I saw it comin'. The giddy fool was larkin' about like a ape." And, in the meantime, the giddy fool did not come up again.

Suddenly the flower-girl spoke. "My Gawd!" she screamed, struggling feverishly to disentangle herself from her shawl and the straps of her basket and her fringe; "my Gawd! where's all the blarsted men got to? What's 'appened to you? For Christ's sake find a _man_, you fools!"

The 'bus emptied itself, and men ran into each other along the roadway, and somebody ran for a policeman. So that there was a great deal of noise and bustle shorewards. But at the same time certain male persons of a much more silent and effective character made their appearance upon the barges adjacent to the April barge. They did not shout, and they did not run about much. They fetched poles and produced ropes, and one of their number climbed into the water at the end of one; and presently, after much probing and searching and jerking (and not a little swearing), they brought him up at the end of a barge-pole, with a slime concealing all of him except the sun-bonnet, which had slipped upon one side, and looked more comical than ever.

"Oh, my pore man!" cried the barge-woman, who by now was surrounded by a stimulating coterie of other barge-women.

"_E's_ done for!" said my fat neighbour, and spat contentedly.

And the baby snatched at its mother's head, which was still covered with her husband's hat, from which a single daffodil was dangling.

In the meantime, they laid him down upon the deck of a barge, and relays of men, acting under the direction of a policeman, jerked at his arms, and pulled his legs, and pummelled his chest. But, as the fat man had said, _he_ was done for, and these exhausting efforts only made the baby laugh. So they lifted him hurriedly, with a change of manner, as befitted a changed burden, and conveyed him to the shore, where he was placed upon an ambulance and deported.

The fat man formed himself into an impromptu committee of inspection. He returned to his friend (and my side) after a lengthy dalliance by the ambulance, and spoke as one well pleased.

"Crack in 'is 'ead as long as my 'and. 'Orrible! Never noted afore that blood 'ad such a salty smell to it. Quite sickly, ain't it? To think of it, poor fool! ... And on a day like this, too!"

And he took off his hat and sunned himself. "I'm for a drink arter all that," he added; and, his companion agreeing with him, he walked over to the tavern, in company with many other of the 'bus passengers, and the driver and conductor of that vehicle, and most of the barge-men.

They took the cornet-blower with them, and somebody collected a store of coppers in that musician's interest, with which he was presented upon the understanding that he should "bite off a yard o' somethink lively" to cheer the mourning host withal.

So while the woman on the barge was being carried below deck by her sympathisers; whilst faint gurgles issued from the daffodil-girl, standing over her baskets by the water-side; whilst the sun winked down upon all of us--the cornet-blower threw out his chest with an air something at variance with the muddy tears upon his cheek, and blared out a song of mourning.

Leave off tickerlin', leave off tickerlin', Leave off tickerlin', Jock!

sang the mourners; and the jolly young sun must have winked itself into a headache.

By the time our 'bus went on again every note of tragedy save one had departed from the scene. That solitary note was supplied by the daffodil-girl, who stood by her garden dabbing disconsolately at her nose and eyes with an apron-end.

Nought was stirring on the April barge, save one plump little figure, which squatted all by itself in the centre of the deck. They had forgotten the baby in this coil. But the baby was quite happy--happier than any of them. For it sat there, eating its father's cap, and smiling amiably at the sunshine, as who should know that there is a benign and beautiful purpose in everything, even unto the falling of a sparrow.

The daffodils upon the waterside, pressing each other close within their baskets, stared up into the heavens more wonderingly than ever.

*XXVII*

*THE CASE OF MRS. ROPER*

"Beg pardon, young fellar," said Mrs. Roper, "but ain't you the young fellar from the doctor's?"

Mrs. Roper is a sullen-eyed lady with very many chins. She is, _vide_ her shop sign, a dealer in antiques, and, to quote the same authority, old metal, old teeth, old glass and china, and every variety of new and second-hand wearing apparel are bought and sold by her. She is not the cleanest woman in London, nor is her shop the cleanest in Bovingdon Street. But there is charm in the variety and abundance of Mrs. Roper's assets, which are the working parts, as it were, of our complex civilisation, amongst which tokens Mrs. Roper is always sitting, silently, mournfully, by day and night, like a lonely widow on a coral reef, surrounded by mementoes of a shipwreck.