Mary's poor pretentious babe
screamed continually, with a
note of exultation in his din,
as if he thought he was devoting
himself to a life of pleasure,
and often the last sound I heard
as I got me out of the street
was his haw-haw-haw, delivered
triumphantly as if it were some
entirely new thing, though he
must have learned it like a parrot.
I had not one tear for the woman,
but Poor father, thought I; to
know that every time your son
is happy you are betrayed. Phew,
a nauseous draught.
I have the acquaintance of
a deliciously pretty girl, who
is always sulky, and the thoughtless
beseech her to be bright, not
witting wherein lies her heroism.
She was born the merriest of
maids, but, being a student of
her face, learned anon that sulkiness
best becomes it, and so she has
struggled and prevailed. A woman's
history. Brave Margaret, when
night falls and thy hair is down,
dost thou return, I wonder, to
thy natural state, or, dreading
the shadow of indulgence, sleepest
thou even sulkily?
But will a
male child do as much for his
father? This remains
to be seen, and so, after waiting
several months, I decided to
buy David a rocking-horse. My
St. Bernard dog accompanied me,
though I have always been diffident
of taking him to toy-shops, which
over-excite him. Hitherto the
toys I had bought had always
been for him, and as we durst
not admit this to the saleswoman
we were both horribly self-conscious
when in the shop. A score of
times I have told him that he
had much better not come, I have
announced fiercely that he is
not to come. He then lets go
of his legs, which is how a St.
Bernard sits down, making the
noise of a sack of coals suddenly
deposited, and, laying his head
between his front paws, stares
at me through the red haws that
make his eyes so mournful. He
will do this for an hour without
blinking, for he knows that in
time it will unman me. My dog
knows very little, but what little
he does know he knows extraordinarily
well. One can get out of my chambers
by a back way, and I sometimes
steal softly--but I can't help
looking back, and there he is,
and there are those haws asking
sorrowfully, "Is this worthy
of you?"
"Curse you," I say, "get your
hat," or words to that effect.
He has even been to the club,
where he waddles up the stairs
so exactly like some respected
member that he makes everybody
most uncomfortable. I forget
how I became possessor of him.
I think I cut him out of an old
number of Punch. He costs me
as much as an eight-roomed cottage
in the country.
He was a full-grown dog when
I first, most foolishly, introduced
him to toys. I had bought a toy
in the street for my own amusement.
It represented a woman, a young
mother, flinging her little son
over her head with one hand and
catching him in the other, and
I was entertaining myself on
the hearth-rug with this pretty
domestic scene when I heard an
unwonted sound from Porthos,
and, looking up, I saw that noble
and melancholic countenance on
the broad grin. I shuddered and
was for putting the toy away
at once, but he sternly struck
down my arm with his, and signed
that I was to continue. The unmanly
chuckle always came, I found,
when the poor lady dropped her
babe, but the whole thing entranced
him; he tried to keep his excitement
down by taking huge draughts
of water; he forgot all his niceties
of conduct; he sat in holy rapture
with the toy between his paws,
took it to bed with him, ate
it in the night, and searched
for it so longingly next day
that I had to go out and buy
him the man with the scythe.
After that we had everything
of note, the bootblack boy, the
toper with bottle, the woolly
rabbit that squeaks when you
hold it in your mouth; they all
vanished as inexplicably as the
lady, but I dared not tell him
my suspicions, for he suspected
also and his gentle heart would
have mourned had I confirmed
his fears.
The dame in
the temple of toys which we
frequent thinks I want
them for a little boy and calls
him "the precious" and "the lamb," the
while Porthos is standing gravely
by my side. She is a motherly
soul, but over-talkative.
"And how is the dear lamb to-day?" she
begins, beaming.
"Well, ma'am, well," I
say, keeping tight grip of
his collar.
"This blighty
weather is not affecting his
darling appetite?"
"No, ma'am, not at all." (She
would be considerably surprised
if informed that he dined to-day
on a sheepshead, a loaf, and
three cabbages, and is suspected
of a leg of mutton.)
"I hope he
loves his toys?"
"He carries them about with
him everywhere, ma'am." (Has
the one we bought yesterday with
him now, though you might not
think it to look at him.)
"What do you
say to a box of tools this
time?"
"I think not,
ma'am."
"Is the deary
fond of digging?"
"Very partial to digging." (We
shall find the leg of mutton
some day.)
"Then perhaps
a weeny spade and a pail?"
She got me to buy a model of
Canterbury Cathedral once, she
was so insistent, and Porthos
gave me his mind about it when
we got home. He detests the kindergarten
system, and as she is absurdly
prejudiced in its favour we have
had to try other shops. We went
to the Lowther Arcade for the
rocking-horse. Dear Lowther Arcade!
Ofttimes have we wandered agape
among thy enchanted palaces,
Porthos and I, David and I, David
and Porthos and I. I have heard
that thou art vulgar, but I cannot
see how, unless it be that tattered
children haunt thy portals, those
awful yet smiling entrances to
so much joy. To the Arcade there
are two entrances, and with much
to be sung in laudation of that
which opens from the Strand I
yet on the whole prefer the other
as the more truly romantic, because
it is there the tattered ones
congregate, waiting to see the
Davids emerge with the magic
lamp. We have always a penny
for them, and I have known them,
before entering the Arcade with
it, retire (but whither?) to
wash; surely the prettiest of
all the compliments that are
paid to the home of toys.
And now, O Arcade, so much
fairer than thy West End brother,
we are told that thou art doomed,
anon to be turned into an eatinghouse
or a hive for usurers, something
rankly useful. All thy delights
are under notice to quit. The
Noah's arks are packed one within
another, with clockwork horses
harnessed to them; the soldiers,
knapsack on back, are kissing
their hands to the dear foolish
girls, who, however, will not
be left behind them; all the
four-footed things gather around
the elephant, who is overful
of drawing-room furniture; the
birds flutter their wings; the
man with the scythe mows his
way through the crowd; the balloons
tug at their strings; the ships
rock under a swell of sail, everything
is getting ready for the mighty
exodus into the Strand. Tears
will be shed.
So we bought the horse in the
Lowther Arcade, Porthos, who
thought it was for him, looking
proud but uneasy, and it was
sent to the bandbox house anonymously.
About a week afterward I had
the ill- luck to meet Mary's
a husband in Kensington, so I
asked him what he had called
his little girl.
"It is a boy," he replied,
with intolerable good-humour, "we
call him David."
And then with a singular lack
of taste he wanted the name of
my boy.
I flicked my
glove. "Timothy," said
I.
I saw a suppressed
smile on his face, and said
hotly that
Timothy was as good a name as
David. "I like it," he assured
me, and expressed a hope that
they would become friends. I
boiled to say that I really could
not allow Timothy to mix with
boys of the David class, but
I refrained, and listened coldly
while he told me what David did
when you said his toes were pigs
going to market or returning
from it, I forget which. He also
boasted of David's weight (a
subject about which we are uncommonly
touchy at the club), as if children
were for throwing forth for a
wager.
But no more about Timothy.
Gradually this vexed me. I felt
what a forlorn little chap Timothy
was, with no one to say a word
for him, and I became his champion
and hinted something about teething,
but withdrew it when it seemed
too surprising, and tried to
get on to safer ground, such
as bibs and general intelligence,
but the painter fellow was so
willing to let me have my say,
and knew so much more about babies
than is fitting for men to know,
that I paled before him and wondered
why the deuce he was listening
to me so attentively.
You may remember
a story he had told me about
some anonymous
friend. "His latest," said he
now, "is to send David a rocking-
horse!"
I must say
I could see no reason for his
mirth. "Picture it," said
he, "a rocking-horse for a child
not three months old!"
I was about
to say fiercely: "The
stirrups are adjustable," but
thought it best to laugh with
him. But I was pained to hear
that Mary had laughed, though
heaven knows I have often laughed
at her.
"But women are odd," he said
unexpectedly, and explained.
It appears that in the middle
of her merriment Mary had become
grave and said to him quite haughtily, "I
see nothing to laugh at." Then
she had kissed the horse solemnly
on the nose and said, "I wish
he was here to see me do it." There
are moments when one cannot help
feeling a drawing to Mary.
But moments only, for the next
thing he said put her in a particularly
odious light. He informed me
that she had sworn to hunt Mr.
Anon down.
"She won't succeed," I
said, sneering but nervous.
"Then it will be her first
failure," said he.
"But she knows
nothing about the man."
"You would
not say that if you heard her
talking of him.
She says he is a gentle, whimsical,
lonely old bachelor."
"Old?" I cried.
"Well, what
she says is that he will soon
be old if he doesn't
take care. He is a bachelor at
all events, and is very fond
of children, but has never had
one to play with."
"Could not play with a child
though there was one," I said
brusquely; "has forgotten the
way; could stand and stare only."
"Yes, if the
parents were present. But he
thinks that if he were
alone with the child he could
come out strong."
"How the deuce--" I
began
"That is what she says," he
explained, apologetically. "I
think she will prove to be too
clever for him."
"Pooh," I said, but undoubtedly
I felt a dizziness, and the next
time I met him he quite frightened
me. "Do you happen to know any
one," he said, "who has a St.
Bernard dog?"
"No," said
I, picking up my stick.
"He has a St.
Bernard dog."
"How have you
found that out?"
"She has found
it out."
"But how?"
"I don't know."
I left him
at once, for Porthos was but
a little way behind me.
The mystery of it scared me,
but I armed promptly for battle.
I engaged a boy to walk Porthos
in Kensington Gardens, and gave
him these instructions: "Should
you find yourself followed by
a young woman wheeling a second-hand
perambulator, instantly hand
her over to the police on the
charge of attempting to steal
the dog."
Now then, Mary.
"By the way," her husband said
at our next meeting, "that rocking-
horse I told you of cost three
guineas."
"She has gone
to the shop to ask?"
"No, not to
ask that, but for a description
of the purchaser's
appearance."
Oh, Mary, Mary.
Here is the appearance of purchaser
as supplied at the Arcade:--
looked like a military gentleman;
tall, dark, and rather dressy;
fine Roman nose (quite so), carefully
trimmed moustache going grey
(not at all); hair thin and thoughtfully
distributed over the head like
fiddlestrings, as if to make
the most of it (pah!); dusted
chair with handkerchief before
sitting down on it, and had other
oldmaidish ways (I should like
to know what they are); tediously
polite, but no talker; bored
face; age forty-five if a day
(a lie); was accompanied by an
enormous yellow dog with sore
eyes. (They always think the
haws are sore eyes.)
"Do you know anyone who is
like that?" Mary's husband asked
me innocently.
"My dear man," I said, "I know
almost no one who is not like
that," and it was true, so like
each other do we grow at the
club. I was pleased, on the whole,
with this talk, for it at least
showed me how she had come to
know of the St. Bernard, but
anxiety returned when one day
from behind my curtains I saw
Mary in my street with an inquiring
eye on the windows. She stopped
a nurse who was carrying a baby
and went into pretended ecstasies
over it. I was sure she also
asked whether by any chance it
was called Timothy. And if not,
whether that nurse knew any other
nurse who had charge of a Timothy.
Obviously Mary suspicioned
me, but nevertheless, I clung
to Timothy, though I wished fervently
that I knew more about him; for
I still met that other father
occasionally, and he always stopped
to compare notes about the boys.
And the questions he asked were
so intimate, how Timothy slept,
how he woke up, how he fell off
again, what we put in his bath.
It is well that dogs and little
boys have so much in common,
for it was really of Porthos
I told him; how he slept (peacefully),
how he woke up (supposed to be
subject to dreams), how he fell
off again (with one little hand
on his nose), but I glided past
what we put in his bath (carbolic
and a mop).
The man had not the least suspicion
of me, and I thought it reasonable
to hope that Mary would prove
as generous. Yet was I straitened
in my mind. For it might be that
she was only biding her time
to strike suddenly, and this
attached me the more to Timothy,
as if I feared she might soon
snatch him from me. As was indeed
to be the case.
|