Part 17 (1/2)
Veronica claimed that the inspiration had been hers.
”I can easily believe it. And was he anxious to steal the gunpowder and put it on the fire, or did he have to be persuaded?”
Veronica admitted that in the qualities of a first-cla.s.s hero he was wanting. Not till it had been suggested to him that he must at heart be a cowardy cowardy custard had he been moved to take a hand in the enterprise.
”A lad, clearly,” I continued, ”that left to himself would be a comfort to his friends. And the story of the robbers-your invention or his?”
Veronica was generously of opinion that he might have thought of it had he not been chiefly concerned at the moment with the idea of getting home to his mother. As it was, the clothing with romance of incidents otherwise bald and uninteresting had fallen upon her.
”The good child of the story. The fact stands out at every point. His one failing an amiable weakness. Do you not see it for yourself; Veronica? In the book, you, not he, would have tumbled over the mat. In this wicked world it is the wicked who prosper. He, the innocent, the virtuous, is torn into rags. You, the villain of the story, escape.”
”I see,” said Veronica; ”then whenever nothing happens to you that means that you're a wrong 'un.”
”I don't go so far as to say that, Veronica. And I wish you wouldn't use slang. d.i.c.k is a man, and a man-well, never mind about a man. You, Veronica, must never forget that you're a lady. Justice must not be looked for in this world. Sometimes the wicked get what they deserve.
More often they don't. There seems to be no rule. Follow the dictates of your conscience, Veronica, and blow-I mean be indifferent to the consequences. Sometimes you'll come out all right, and sometimes you won't. But the beautiful sensation will always be with you: I did right.
Things have turned out unfortunately: but that's not my fault. n.o.body can blame me.”
”But they do,” said Veronica, ”they blame you just as if you'd meant to go and do it.”
”It does not matter, Veronica,” I pointed out, ”the opinion of the world.
The good man disregards it.”
”But they send you to bed,” persisted Veronica.
”Let them,” I said. ”What is bed so long as the voice of the inward Monitor consoles us with the reflection-”
”But it don't,” interrupted Veronica; ”it makes you feel all the madder.
It does really.”
”It oughtn't to,” I told her.
”Then why does it?” argued Veronica. ”Why don't it do what it ought to?”
The trouble about arguing with children is that they will argue too.
”Life's a difficult problem, Veronica,” I allowed. ”Things are not as they ought to be, I admit it. But one must not despair. Something's got to be done.”
”It's jolly hard on some of us,” said Veronica. ”Strive as you may, you can't please everyone. And if you just as much as stand up for yourself, oh, crikey!”
”The duty of the grown-up person, Veronica,” I said, ”is to bring up the child in the way that it should go. It isn't easy work, and occasionally irritability may creep in.”
”There's such a lot of 'em at it,” grumbled Veronica. ”There are times, between 'em all, when you don't know whether you're standing on your head or your heels.”
”They mean well, Veronica,” I said. ”When I was a little boy I used to think just as you do. But now-”
”Did you ever get into rows?” interrupted Veronica.
”Did I ever?-was never out of them, so far as I can recollect. If it wasn't one thing, then it was another.”
”And didn't it make you wild?” enquired Veronica, ”when first of all they'd ask what you'd got to say and why you'd done it, and then, when you tried to explain things to them, wouldn't listen to you?”