As I enter the club smoking-room
you are to conceive David vanishing
into nothingness, and that it
is any day six years ago at two
in the afternoon. I ring for
coffee, cigarette, and cherry
brandy, and take my chair by
the window, just as the absurd
little nursery governess comes
tripping into the street. I always
feel that I have rung for her.
While I am lifting the coffee-pot
cautiously lest the lid fall
into the cup, she is crossing
to the post-office; as I select
the one suitable lump of sugar
she is taking six last looks
at the letter; with the aid of
William I light my cigarette,
and now she is re-reading the
delicious address. I lie back
in my chair, and by this time
she has dropped the letter down
the slit. I toy with my liqueur,
and she is listening to hear
whether the postal authorities
have come for her letter. I scowl
at a fellow-member who has had
the impudence to enter the smoking-room,
and her two little charges are
pulling her away from the post-office.
When I look out at the window
again she is gone, but I shall
ring for her to-morrow at two
sharp.
She must have passed the window
many times before I noticed her.
I know not where she lives, though
I suppose it to be hard by. She
is taking the little boy and
girl, who bully her, to the St.
James's Park, as their hoops
tell me, and she ought to look
crushed and faded. No doubt her
mistress overworks her. It must
enrage the other servants to
see her deporting herself as
if she were quite the lady.
I noticed that she had sometimes
other letters to post, but that
the posting of the one only was
a process. They shot down the
slit, plebeians all, but it followed
pompously like royalty. I have
even seen her blow a kiss after
it.
Then there was her ring, of
which she was as conscious as
if it rather than she was what
came gaily down the street. She
felt it through her glove to
make sure that it was still there.
She took off the glove and raised
the ring to her lips, though
I doubt not it was the cheapest
trinket. She viewed it from afar
by stretching out her hand; she
stooped to see how it looked
near the ground; she considered
its effect on the right of her
and on the left of her and through
one eye at a time. Even when
you saw that she had made up
her mind to think hard of something
else, the little silly would
take another look.
I give anyone three chances
to guess why Mary was so happy.
No and no and no. The reason
was simply this, that a lout
of a young man loved her. And
so, instead of crying because
she was the merest nobody, she
must, forsooth, sail jauntily
down Pall Mall, very trim as
to her tackle and ticketed with
the insufferable air of an engaged
woman. At first her complacency
disturbed me, but gradually it
became part of my life at two
o'clock with the coffee, the
cigarette, and the liqueur. Now
comes the tragedy.
Thursday is her great day.
She has from two to three every
Thursday for her very own; just
think of it: this girl, who is
probably paid several pounds
a year, gets a whole hour to
herself once a week. And what
does she with it? Attend classes
for making her a more accomplished
person? Not she. This is what
she does: sets sail for Pall
Mall, wearing all her pretty
things, including the blue feathers,
and with such a sparkle of expectation
on her face that I stir my coffee
quite fiercely. On ordinary days
she at least tries to look demure,
but on a Thursday she has had
the assurance to use the glass
door of the club as a mirror
in which to see how she likes
her engaging trifle of a figure
to-day.
In the meantime a long-legged
oaf is waiting for her outside
the post-office, where they meet
every Thursday, a fellow who
always wears the same suit of
clothes, but has a face that
must ever make him free of the
company of gentlemen. He is one
of your lean, clean Englishmen,
who strip so well, and I fear
me he is handsome; I say fear,
for your handsome men have always
annoyed me, and had I lived in
the duelling days I swear I would
have called every one of them
out. He seems to be quite unaware
that he is a pretty fellow, but
Lord, how obviously Mary knows
it. I conclude that he belongs
to the artistic classes, he is
so easily elated and depressed;
and because he carries his left
thumb curiously, as if it were
feeling for the hole of a palette,
I have entered his name among
the painters. I find pleasure
in deciding that they are shocking
bad pictures, for obviously no
one buys them. I feel sure Mary
says they are splendid, she is
that sort of woman. Hence the
rapture with which he greets
her. Her first effect upon him
is to make him shout with laughter.
He laughs suddenly haw from an
eager exulting face, then haw
again, and then, when you are
thanking heaven that it is at
last over, comes a final haw,
louder than the others. I take
them to be roars of joy because
Mary is his, and they have a
ring of youth about them that
is hard to bear. I could forgive
him everything save his youth,
but it is so aggressive that
I have sometimes to order William
testily to close the window.
How much more deceitful than
her lover is the little nursery
governess. The moment she comes
into sight she looks at the post-
office and sees him. Then she
looks straight before her, and
now she is observed, and he rushes
across to her in a glory, and
she starts--positively starts--as
if he had taken her by surprise.
Observe her hand rising suddenly
to her wicked little heart. This
is the moment when I stir my
coffee violently. He gazes down
at her in such rapture that he
is in everybody's way, and as
she takes his arm she gives it
a little squeeze, and then away
they strut, Mary doing nine-tenths
of the talking. I fall to wondering
what they will look like when
they grow up.
What a ludicrous difference
do these two nobodies make to
each other. You can see that
they are to be married when he
has twopence.
Thus I have not an atom of
sympathy with this girl, to whom
London is famous only as the
residence of a young man who
mistakes her for someone else,
but her happiness had become
part of my repast at two P.M.,
and when one day she walked down
Pall Mall without gradually posting
a letter I was most indignant.
It was as if William had disobeyed
orders. Her two charges were
as surprised as I, and pointed
questioningly to the slit, at
which she shook her head. She
put her finger to her eyes, exactly
like a sad baby, and so passed
from the street.
Next day the same thing happened,
and I was so furious that I bit
through my cigarette. Thursday
came, when I prayed that there
might be an end of this annoyance,
but no, neither of them appeared
on that acquainted ground. Had
they changed their post- office?
No, for her eyes were red every
day, and heavy was her foolish
little heart. Love had put out
his lights, and the little nursery
governess walked in darkness.
I felt I could complain to
the committee.
Oh, you selfish young zany
of a man, after all you have
said to her, won't you make it
up and let me return to my coffee?
Not he.
Little nursery governess, I
appeal to you. Annoying girl,
be joyous as of old during the
five minutes of the day when
you are anything to me, and for
the rest of the time, so far
as I am concerned, you may be
as wretched as you list. Show
some courage. I assure you he
must be a very bad painter; only
the other day I saw him looking
longingly into the window of
a cheap Italian restaurant, and
in the end he had to crush down
his aspirations with two penny
scones.
You can do better than that.
Come, Mary.
All in vain. She wants to be
loved; can't do without love
from morning till night; never
knew how little a woman needs
till she lost that little. They
are all like this.
Zounds, madam, if you are resolved
to be a drooping little figure
till you die, you might at least
do it in another street.
Not only does she maliciously
depress me by walking past on
ordinary days, but I have discovered
that every Thursday from two
to three she stands afar off,
gazing hopelessly at the romantic
post-office where she and he
shall meet no more. In these
windy days she is like a homeless
leaf blown about by passers-by.
There is nothing I can do except
thunder at William.
At last she accomplished her
unworthy ambition. It was a wet
Thursday, and from the window
where I was writing letters I
saw the forlorn soul taking up
her position at the top of the
street: in a blast of fury I
rose with the one letter I had
completed, meaning to write the
others in my chambers. She had
driven me from the club.
I had turned out of Pall Mall
into a side street, when whom
should I strike against but her
false swain! It was my fault,
but I hit out at him savagely,
as I always do when I run into
anyone in the street. Then I
looked at him. He was hollow-eyed;
he was muddy; there was not a
haw left in him. I never saw
a more abject young man; he had
not even the spirit to resent
the testy stab I had given him
with my umbrella. But this is
the important thing: he was glaring
wistfully at the post-office
and thus in a twink I saw that
he still adored my little governess.
Whatever had been their quarrel
he was as anxious to make it
up as she, and perhaps he had
been here every Thursday while
she was round the corner in Pall
Mall, each watching the post-office
for an apparition. But from where
they hovered neither could see
the other.
I think what I did was quite
clever. I dropped my letter unseen
at his feet, and sauntered back
to the club. Of course, a gentleman
who finds a letter on the pavement
feels bound to post it, and I
presumed that he would naturally
go to the nearest office.
With my hat on I strolled to
the smoking-room window, and
was just in time to see him posting
my letter across the way. Then
I looked for the little nursery
governess. I saw her as woe-begone
as ever; then, suddenly--oh,
you poor little soul, and has
it really been as bad as that!
She was crying outright, and
he was holding both her hands.
It was a disgraceful exhibition.
The young painter would evidently
explode if he could not make
use of his arms. She must die
if she could not lay her head
upon his breast. I must admit
that he rose to the occasion;
he hailed a hansom.
"William," said I gaily, "coffee,
cigarette, and cherry brandy."
As I sat there
watching that old play David
plucked my sleeve
to ask what I was looking at
so deedily; and when I told him
he ran eagerly to the window,
but he reached it just too late
to see the lady who was to become
his mother. What I told him of
her doings, however, interested
him greatly; and he intimated
rather shyly that he was acquainted
with the man who said, "Haw-haw-haw." On
the other hand, he irritated
me by betraying an idiotic interest
in the two children, whom he
seemed to regard as the hero
and heroine of the story. What
were their names? How old were
they? Had they both hoops? Were
they iron hoops, or just wooden
hoops? Who gave them their hoops?
"You don't seem to understand,
my boy," I said tartly, "that
had I not dropped that letter,
there would never have been a
little boy called David A----." But
instead of being appalled by
this he asked, sparkling, whether
I meant that he would still be
a bird flying about in the Kensington
Gardens.
David knows that all children
in our part of London were once
birds in the Kensington Gardens;
and that the reason there are
bars on nursery windows and a
tall fender by the fire is because
very little people sometimes
forget that they have no longer
wings, and try to fly away through
the window or up the chimney.
Children in the bird stage
are difficult to catch. David
knows that many people have none,
and his delight on a summer afternoon
is to go with me to some spot
in the Gardens where these unfortunates
may be seen trying to catch one
with small pieces of cake.
That the birds know what would
happen if they were caught, and
are even a little undecided about
which is the better life, is
obvious to every student of them.
Thus, if you leave your empty
perambulator under the trees
and watch from a distance, you
will see the birds boarding it
and hopping about from pillow
to blanket in a twitter of excitement;
they are trying to find out how
babyhood would suit them.
Quite the prettiest sight in
the Gardens is when the babies
stray from the tree where the
nurse is sitting and are seen
feeding the birds, not a grownup
near them. It is first a bit
to me and then a bit to you,
and all the time such a jabbering
and laughing from both sides
of the railing. They are comparing
notes and inquiring for old friends,
and so on; but what they say
I cannot determine, for when
I approach they all fly away.
The first time I ever saw David
was on the sward behind the Baby's
Walk. He was a missel-thrush,
attracted thither that hot day
by a hose which lay on the ground
sending forth a gay trickle of
water, and David was on his back
in the water, kicking up his
legs. He used to enjoy being
told of this, having forgotten
all about it, and gradually it
all came back to him, with a
number of other incidents that
had escaped my memory, though
I remember that he was eventually
caught by the leg with a long
string and a cunning arrangement
of twigs near the Round Pond.
He never tires of this story,
but I notice that it is now he
who tells it to me rather than
I to him, and when we come to
the string he rubs his little
leg as if it still smarted.
So when David
saw his chance of being a missel-thrush
again
he called out to me quickly: "Don't
drop the letter!" and there were
tree-tops in his eyes.
"Think of your mother," I
said severely.
He said he would often fly
in to see her. The first thing
he would do would be to hug her.
No, he would alight on the water-
jug first, and have a drink.
"Tell her, father," he said
with horrid heartlessness, "always
to have plenty of water in it,
'cos if I had to lean down too
far I might fall in and be drownded."
"Am I not to
drop the letter, David? Think
of your poor mother
without her boy!"
It affected him, but he bore
up. When she was asleep, he said,
he would hop on to the frilly
things of her night-gown and
peck at her mouth.
"And then she
would wake up, David, and find
that she had
only a bird instead of a boy."
This shock
to Mary was more than he could
endure. "You can
drop it," he said with a sigh.
So I dropped the letter, as I
think I have already mentioned;
and that is how it all began.
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