Part 17 (2/2)

”Did you simply waste the time?”

”I suppose so.”

”I thought that Colonel Robert Ingersoll says you must be strenuous.”

At the sound of this name he whisked open a little cupboard, and declaring, ”I haven't a moment to spare,” took out of it a pile of ”Clarion” and other reprints, adorned as to their covers with bald or bearded apostles of humanity. Selecting a bald one, he began at once to read, occasionally exclaiming, ”That's got them,” ”That's knocked Genesis,” with similar e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.ns of an aspiring mind. She glanced at the pile. Reran, minus the style. Darwin, minus the modesty. A comic edition of the book of Job, by ”Excelsior,” Pittsburgh, Pa. ”The Beginning of Life,” with diagrams. ”Angel or Ape?” by Mrs. Julia P.

Chunk. She was amused, and wondered idly what was pa.s.sing within his narrow but not uninteresting brain. Did he suppose that he was going to ”find out”? She had tried once herself, but had since subsided into a sprightly orthodoxy. Why didn't he read poetry, instead of wasting his time between books like these and country like that?

The cloud parted, and the increase of light made her look up. Over the valley she saw a grave sullen down, and on its flanks a little brown smudge--her sheep, together with her shepherd, Fleance Thompson, returned to his duties at last. A trickle of water came through the arbour roof. She shrieked in dismay.

”That's all right,” said her companion, moving her chair, but still keeping his place in his book.

She dried up the spot on the ma.n.u.script. Then she wrote: ”Anthony Eustace Failing, the subject of this memoir, was born at Wolverhampton.”

But she wrote no more. She was fidgety. Another drop fell from the roof.

Likewise an earwig. She wished she had not been so playful in flinging her golosh into the path. The boy who was overthrowing religion breathed somewhat heavily as he did so. Another earwig. She touched the electric bell.

”I'm going in,” she observed. ”It's far too wet.” Again the cloud parted and caused her to add, ”Weren't you rather kind to Flea?” But he was deep in the book. He read like a poor person, with lips apart and a finger that followed the print. At times he scratched his ear, or ran his tongue along a straggling blonde moustache. His face had after all a certain beauty: at all events the colouring was regal--a steady crimson from throat to forehead: the sun and the winds had worked on him daily ever since he was born. ”The face of a strong man,” thought the lady.

”Let him thank his stars he isn't a silent strong man, or I'd turn him into the gutter.” Suddenly it struck her that he was like an Irish terrier. He worried infinity as if it was a bone. Gnas.h.i.+ng his teeth, he tried to carry the eternal subtleties by violence. As a man he often bored her, for he was always saying and doing the same things. But as a philosopher he really was a joy for ever, an inexhaustible buffoon.

Taking up her pen, she began to caricature him. She drew a rabbit-warren where rabbits were at play in four dimensions. Before she had introduced the princ.i.p.al figure, she was interrupted by the footman. He had come up from the house to answer the bell. On seeing her he uttered a respectful cry.

”Madam! Are you here? I am very sorry. I looked for you everywhere. Mr.

Elliot and Miss Pembroke arrived nearly an hour ago.”

”Oh dear, oh dear!” exclaimed Mrs. Failing. ”Take these papers. Where's the umbrella? Mr. Stephen will hold it over me. You hurry back and apologize. Are they happy?”

”Miss Pembroke inquired after you, madam.”

”Have they had tea?”

”Yes, madam.”

”Leighton!”

”Yes, sir.”

”I believe you knew she was here all the time. You didn't want to wet your pretty skin.”

”You must not call me 'she' to the servants,” said Mrs. Failing as they walked away, she limping with a stick, he holding a great umbrella over her. ”I will not have it.” Then more pleasantly, ”And don't tell him he lies. We all lie. I knew quite well they were coming by the four-six train. I saw it pa.s.s.”

”That reminds me. Another child run over at the Roman crossing.

Whish--bang--dead.”

”Oh my foot! Oh my foot, my foot!” said Mrs. Failing, and paused to take breath.

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