Part 3

The practical necessities of life take me, perforce, beyond my own domain. I have made the acquaintance of butcher and baker; that of the candlestick maker is still to come. The passing faces of people in the village street, even of farmers stopping at the Inn, I begin to recognize; the latter look little more concerned about the present crisis than do their stout nags. Life goes quietly on here, as it has always done, I fancy; steps are scrubbed, and brasses of knocker and door latch are polished until you can see your face there. Is this encompassing calm mere apathy, or is it conscious strength? In his little shop the sleepy chemist wakens unwillingly to deal out his wares; the sleepy service goes on as of old in the little church. It is grey with dust; perhaps the caretaker does not think it worth while to dust in war-time, yet I doubt whether he knows there is war. In the bakeshop window day by day are displayed the great clumsy loaves of bread with the foolish little loaf tucked on at one side. Why? There's neither rhyme nor reason nor symmetry in it; the force of custom may be wise and may be merely stupid. Here one gets constantly an impression of the overwhelming power of old habit and has a feeling that unless these people are shocked out of some of their ancient ways, disaster will follow. As I collect my wares, I fall to wondering whether either this nation, which worships its past, or we, who worship our future, is wholly right.

If, at times, a doubt intrudes in regard to this British clinging to the past, it is when the door of the one village shop tinkles at my entrance, and I ask in vain for the common necessities which it is supposed to supply. Here are pictures of Queen Victoria and all the royal family, but no tapes, no trustworthy thread, no pins, at least no pins with points. I brought home a paper of these soft little British crowbars, but alas! fingers cannot drive them in; they but crumple if, in desperation, you urge them too vigorously. How can a nation rule the sea; above all, how can it conquer in a mechanical war when it cannot even make decent _pins_?

My mood softens as I stroll toward home; the glow of the blacksmith's forge fascinates me; there at least is tremendous strength, which is also skill, welding in this most ancient art, blow upon blow, old-fashioned horseshoes, which I am told are the best. Past quaint old doorways my path leads; the sight of these, and of fine old-fashioned faces behind the windowpanes, revives my normal mood of affection. What other people would, in reverence to wishes of those long dead, give out the dole of widows' bread at Westminster, the daily dole at Winchester, or administer the Leicester charity at Warwick in the spirit in which it was meant? What other people would be honest enough to do it? There is a basic honesty here which recalls the old tale of Lincoln and the money he saved for many years, in order to give back the identical coins with which he had been entrusted.

As I enter my own domain, I observe once more that my gate does not latch properly; all this time, when I have found it left open, I have reproached Peter.

"Peter, you did not shut the gate."

"No, Miss," rubbing his forehead with the back of his hand.

"You must be more careful."

"Yes, Miss."

This has happened several times; today I found that no power could make it really latch, and I confided the fact to Peter.

"Yes, Miss, I knew it all along, Miss."

"But why--" there I stopped; I should rather never know why than to try to penetrate the wooden impenetrability of mind of the British serving-man. There are no "whys" in their vocabularies, no "whys" in their minds, only "thus and so." Things are as they are; it has always been so; theirs to stand under the atlas weight of caste and class, prejudice and custom, not theirs to reason why, when they are blamed by their masters for things not their fault; theirs to go on digging, very respectfully digging.

"Peter, will you get some one to fix it, please?"

"Fix it, Miss?" He does not understand Americanese unless he chooses.

"Put it in order." I am quite red and haughty now, and as dignified as Queen Alexandra.

"I'll try, Miss. I expect that was broken a long time ago." Peter half salutes and goes on spading the earth for next year's flowers.

"Peter," I say severely, "the most lamentable thing about you English is that you are always 'expecting' things that have already happened. It's both grammatically and politically wrong to expect things in the past." He has not the slightest idea of my meaning, but of course he assents.

"You were a soldier once, weren't you?"

"Yes, Miss. It's a nasty business."

"Slavery," I venture, "would be worse."

"I can't say, really," answers Peter.

"Sometimes I wonder that you do not volunteer for this war, Peter," I suggest.

Stolid Peter goes on digging.

"There h'isn't any war, Miss!"

"But Peter, what do you mean?"

A fine look of cunning incredulity over-spreads Peter's broad face, as he stops and wipes his forehead, for this October day is warm.

"No, Miss; it is just a scare got up by the 'Ouse of Lords to frighting the common people."

"What for?" I ask stupidly.

"To take their minds off the 'Ouse of Lords; we had threatened their power, 'm, and they wish to keep their seats. It is what you call a roose."

"Peter," I say severely, "day by day we hear through the newspapers of terrible fighting going on all the time; how can you say such a foolish thing?"

"The newspapers, 'm," said Peter, with frightful audacity, "are corrupted, bought by the 'Ouse of Lords. They say what they are hordered to."

"The poor Belgians are pouring into this country," I say in wrath.

"Beg parding, Miss, but I haven't seen a Belgian," answers doubting Peter.

"Day by day we hear of recruits going by hundreds to the recruiting stations----"

"I'm not denying that they may be making up the army, 'm, and that there may be war some day; but that a war is on, I deny, 'm."

So this is what happens when the British lower classes begin to think! There really ought to be some better way of bridging the gulf between their old, automatic habits and the new working of their minds.

"They are carrying soldiers across the Channel by thousands," I say indignantly.

"All bunkum, if you'll kindly excuse the word, Miss. Did Robinson Crusoe really happen? We 'ear of these things going on, but do _you_ know of anybody who has actually been killed, 'm?" asks Peter.

I looked at him, but I could not speak. Where are you lying, dear, in that awful field of death?

October 11. I was pruning and tying up rose vines, by my wrought-iron gate that stands ajar, when I heard a noise,--first, a skurrying of feet, and a shout, then a rush of something small and swift. The tiniest grey kitten imaginable had dashed in through the opening and was trembling in a corner under my rosebush. I picked it up and went quickly to the gate; there was a red-faced urchin waiting, his mouth open, a stone in one hand ready to throw at the kitten if it came out, but shy of entering,--the British respect for a gate! Neither my pleas nor my scolding brought a shade of expression to his face; it was as guileless, as soulless, as a jack-o'-lantern. I give the boy tuppence, and tell him to go away, and to be kind to animals; the kitten curls itself about my neck and purrs, as I work in the earth. Of course I shall keep it; I am glad that the latch will not hold, and I shall not even try to have it repaired. Perhaps my garden may serve as a refuge for small hunted things, suffering things. I might have a ring put on my gate; you remember the ring upon the cathedral door at Durham to which a fugitive could cling? All the village criminals--I wonder who the village criminals are? Probably the ones who look least so!--could cling to it, and Peter could rescue them, and Madge and I could give them tea.

And now to help on the millennium a bit by establishing an intimacy between the refugee kitten and snobbish little Don. In his heart I think he wants to make friends; but when a common kitten, with no pedigree and no Oxford training, spits at him, what is he to do? He looks piteously at me as I bid him be gentle; sniffs in half friendly fashion, and keeps his delicate nose well away from the claws. Meanwhile, how can I teach the kitten _noblesse oblige_? I shall name it the Atom, because, it being (so much of the time) invisible, like the scientists I am unable to tell whether or not it exists; and because at moments it seems only a "mode of motion."

Not long after came a little squeal, as of a tiny pig; my flower beds! I hurry down; the gate is farther open, and there is a huge baby, a gingerbread baby,--no, it is alive, but it has the shape of gingerbread babies in the shops, and it has the motions of a gingerbread baby,--not a joint in its body; "moving all together if it move at all." Its round blue eyes, its round red mouth look frightened in Don's presence and mine; then, with another little squeal, it flings itself upon Don, who draws away, looks at me inquiringly, with that questioning paw uplifted, shivering a little, all his class-consciousness astir: must he make friends with _this_?

It is a solid British lump, but friendly beyond belief. In feeling that it would further the _entente cordiale_ between the two peoples, I find myself making a playhouse, with tiny pebbles. The infant Briton is not so phlegmatic, after all; it shouts with delight, flings itself upon my knees, and embraces them so suddenly and so lustily that I nearly fall over.... I must find out its name and send to London for a Teddy bear and some toys. My gate is wide open, ever since Peter started to escort home my uninvited guest....

It proves quite a day for adventure, and yet I have not been beyond my garden wall. As I sit on my threshold to watch the sunset, I see, pausing at that open gate, a tired-looking woman, with her baby in her arms. She starts to move away, but I speak to her, and she enters; at first glance I know that she is neither tramp nor beggar and half divine her errand. Yes, she is a soldier's wife; he is going in a few days to the front, and she is walking a good part of the way from the north of England to his training camp at Salisbury Plain, to let him see and say good-bye to the baby on whom he has never set his eyes; it is only seven weeks old and was born after he volunteered. She had money enough to come only a certain distance by train.

The mother is a north-country woman, with a touch of Scotch about her, clean and sweet, though a bit dusty with the long road. Of course I take her in for the night; we have a wee guest-chamber. Don and the kitten and I try to make friends with the baby, but it merely howls. Madge wanted to keep the travellers in the kitchen, but I would not permit this and said that my soldier's wife must dine with me. I forgot to say, I took it for granted that Madge would know enough to lay another cover at table and was not prepared to see the stranger in your place. Naturally, though I winced, I could not make any change, and there she sat, a bit awed; probably she would have been happier in the kitchen with the baby; but she brightened up and told me some of the border legends, when she found that I already knew some. My desire to take her out of your chair lasted through the soup and half-way through the modest roast; when we reached the salad, there was a hurt sense somewhere within me that it was right. I had become a Christian by the time the dessert came on, and in the afterglow by the fire, while she sang her baby to sleep most enchantingly with an old north-country song, I resolved to do just this: keep your chair for wandering guests, fugitives from these highways and hedges. Your intense present life with me, your subtle nearness needs, after all, no help from outer object or material thing. Alas for my blockade!... Forts are proving useless, the war news says.

It sets me to thinking, and I sit by the fire long after my guests have gone to sleep. After all, it seems a pity to work so hard over a house and to get it ready, unless you get it ready for something. I don't know how it could be managed in a maiden lady's home, but what if I resolved that all the things that should happen in a house should happen here? In my heart of hearts I know, in spite of this blinding sorrow, that I do not want to be shut off from the main streams of human life. They used to tell me that I have a genius for home; suppose I establish this as a wee home in a warring universe for the use of whomsoever? Not a Home with a large H, but a little home, with a dog and a cat and a singing teakettle. The Lord did not make me for great causes,--not for a philanthropist, nor a leader of men, nor a suffragette. I have no understanding of masses of mankind, and so am lost in this era, and hopelessly behind the times. Life seems to me, as it did to my grandfather, primarily as the conscientious fulfilment of individual obligation, which inevitably reaches out to other lives. The troubles of individual men and women and children I used to understand, to try to help; perhaps I can again. Though it means confessing that I belong to a type of woman rapidly becoming extinct, all my life long I have felt that I should be content with a hearthstone and threshold of my own, with natural relationships and real neighbours. If I can understand and pity and try to help, why am I not doing it now, pig that I am? Birth, and death, and marriage, and hours of common life! Ah, if the little red house could only lend itself once more to all human need!

October 15. My Jeannie Deans is gone; she was in such haste that she could hardly wait for her breakfast. I got mine host to drive her to the station, for I shall not let her walk the rest of the way, and I gave her all the money I could find in the house, including all I could extract from Madge's and Peter's pockets, and from Madge's broken teapot. Unfortunately, it was not so much as I could have wished, but it will provide for a few days. Now we haven't ha'pence in the house; so much the better, if the burglar with whom I am threatened by the boding village gossips should call; but I must drive over to Shepperton, the market town, and call at the Outland and County Bank, and get some of those clean, crisp, dainty notes that are a delight to touch.

It seems lonely without Jeannie; Peter has gone away over hill and dale to get fertilizer for my garden; my house is empty, swept, and garnished--I have been dreading the moment when everything would be done. I carry on Madge's education, for I am trying to teach her English history. Yesterday it was William the Conqueror; she did not believe a word of it, but she very politely said: "Just fancy!" Most of these people know so little of their own history that they scorn the idea that anything unfortunate ever happened to England and scoff at a statement that she has ever been worsted in a fight. It has always been as it is, the King on the throne, the Vicar in the pulpit, the Squire at the Hall, and the island secure from all attack. To butcher and baker and candlestick maker in the village, danger or threatened change is inconceivable; England's past defeats sound to them like fairy stories devised by enemies, though they lend a willing ear to the tale of England's triumphs. Going back to ancient times, I told Madge about the Danes and their landing on this coast, about the burning and pillaging done by these wild folk: all that she remarked was: "How awkward!" I could not get her to entertain for a moment the idea, though we are only a few miles from the North Sea, that the enemy could ever land on English shores. "Hengland rules the seas," and that is all there is to it. Antwerp has fallen, but even this does not shake the prevailing sense of security. Antwerp is not England!

In contemporary matters Madge is quite interested; she thinks great scorn of the suffragettes: "Breaking the windows, 'm, and biting Mr. Hasquith, 'm; it's not for ladies to be taking part in public matters; they 'aven't it in them!" I reminded her of Queen Elizabeth, but she had never heard of Queen Elizabeth, and refused to entertain the idea that any such woman had ever ruled England. Even the tale of the Virgin Queen boxing the courtiers' ears she disbelieved with the rest. She admitted Queen Victoria, but said that it was "so different, 'm, and she a mother and a grandmother."

Some of this went on while Madge was doing up the guest room; she wanted simply to spread the coverlid over the bed, as it probably would not be used again for a long time. I insisted, however, that the bed be made ready with fresh sheets; some one might stop at any minute, I explained. Madge looked at me with question in her eye; her impression of me up to this point is that I am an amiable lunatic who may at any minute change to violence.

After luncheon I made Peter go and get the pony for me; yes, the pony is now exclusively my own, for as long a time as I wish. He is almost the most interesting personality I have ever known,--wilful, conscientious, full of conviction in regard to what he considers his duty and what he looks upon as his privileges. There are spurts, attended by dashing heels and swishing tail, of strict and spirited performance of his allotted tasks; there is peasant stubbornness, attended by stiffened legs and tenacious hoofs, of resistance to evil. He is British, or Scotch, to the core. Evidently he feels that his ancestors had a hand, a hoof, I mean, in the Magna Charta, and all the liberty that is coming to him he means to have, and all the obligations resting upon him he means to fufil, in his own way, at his own time. Sometimes he will do far more than he is asked, scornful of other people's ideas; has he not his own? He is full of punctiliousness, decency, order, when he feels like it; of utmost freedom, even license also, when he feels like it. Now and then he runs away, purely, I think, on the principle of: "British ponies never shall be slaves." Gentle when you would least expect it, fractious when you are most unprepared, he looks upon whizzing motor cars with calm tolerance, so unlike my own feeling that I may well cultivate his acquaintance in order to learn that wise indifference. It is as if he were disdainful of anything the modern world could invent to frighten him or get in his way; here is an ancient British self-possession, a sense of ownership in the soil. His ancestors were here hundreds of years before these trifling modernisms appeared; William the Conqueror and his Norman steeds were but parvenus and upstarts to them. He will shy at a floating feather, but I doubt if he would shy at a Zeppelin. Like many another staunch character, he takes gallantly the real troubles of life, balking only at the trifles.

"I should like to know," I said meekly, as we started, "whether it is one of my days for obeying you, or one of your days for obeying me? When I find out, I shall conduct myself accordingly." I got no answer, yet I soon discovered. There is really something uncanny about him; he seems to know more than horse or human should know; to have foreknowledge of events. I must not tell his master, or the charges will be raised from five shillings a week perhaps to eight; after all, eight shillings for supernatural wisdom would not be unreasonable! On the other hand, if it was just plain British contrariness, eight shillings would be too much, as there is such an over-supply of the commodity.

I was driving out in the forest to westward, and it is very beautiful with its great oaks and birches, and its loveliness of yellowing fern. In spite of the mellow Octoberness everywhere, I was thinking sad thoughts; all day you can drive here and yet hardly cross one man's possessions; much of the land lies idle, while people starve in England; much of it is preserved,--the poor tame pheasants are as friendly as domestic hens. The tax for charity here is one shilling four pence a pound; as I read this, I thought of London with its starving poor, its ribald poor, and I wondered if this great kingdom will vanish because the people do not pull together better. The blind selfishness of the upper class with their glass-guarded walls is a greater menace than the German siege guns.

I came to a cross road, or cross path, grassy paths both, with creeping green moss among the roots of the trees on either side. It was hard to decide which way to go; I chose the right and pulled the rein; Puck chose the left and started. I tugged at the right and told him to go on; he said he wouldn't; again I told him, and he shook his head, shook himself all over with his head down, until his harness rattled. When I told him a third time, he stamped, kicked, and pulled with all his might to the left. Of course he got his way; some people passed; I was not going to be convicted of inadequate horsemanship, being only an American, so I assumed a calm and masterful British look, as if that were the way I had all along meant to go, and we jogged on. The self-satisfaction in that little creature's air! He turned his head around now and then, trying to see how I was taking it; having had his own way, he went at a jolly pace; he loves to start rabbits and make the pheasants fly up. Presently, at a turn in the road, he shied; he did it quite theatrically, as if he had worked it all out in his mind and had achieved the intended effect. He expected me to be startled and to rein him in, fighting to control him, but I did nothing of the kind. I merely let the reins lie loose and watched him; he subsided very suddenly and dejectedly at having lost his fun.

Then I saw what he was shying at and stopped him; I think that he had known all along what he was going to find! There, under a great oak tree, partly hidden by tall bracken, lay a girl with her eyes closed, her hat partly off her head, looking like one who was very tired and had fallen in her tracks to go to sleep. In a minute I was at her side, holding tightly to the reins, for fear of what that little wretch might do, but he was as immovable as Stonehenge.

She was quite young, very wan and pale, fairly well dressed but crumpled looking. Her hair was dark, and her eyes, when she slowly opened them, proved to be dark also.

I do not know yet whether she had fainted, or whether she was asleep from exhaustion; her poor feet showed that she had walked many miles, for the soles of her shoes were worn through. At sight of me she sat up, looking frightened, but, evidently finding that I was not so terrible, at length smiled back,--a faint little smile. I knew enough to be silent at first; this is something that I have learned from animals: there are sympathies, understandings, that antedate words. When I asked her very softly if she were ill, she shook her head, not understanding. I tried French, and, though my French is odd, I know, she brightened, clasped her hands together, giving a great sigh, and then tears began to roll down her face. That villain of a pony looked around now and then as if to say: "_Who_ was right about the road? You would never have found her if I had not had my way."