Part 12 (1/2)

”It would.”

”But you couldn't care for the poetry, unless you cared for the poet?”

”Oh, I don't know. Poetry's poetry, isn't it, whoever makes it? But what if I did care a little for the poet?”

”Do you mean you do, Angel?”

”Ah, you want to know now, don't you?”

”Tell me. Do tell me.”

”I'll tell you when you read me my poem,” and as Angel prepared to run off with a laugh, Henry called after her,--

”You will really? It's a bargain?”

”Yes, it's a bargain,” she called back, as she tripped off again down the yard.

Mike's _debut_ was as great a success as so small a part could make it; and the main point about it was the excitement of knowing that this was an actual beginning. He had made them all laugh and cry in drawing-rooms for ever so long; but to-night he was on the stage, the real stage--real, at all events, for him, for Mike could never be an amateur. Esther's eyes filled with glad tears as the well-loved little figure popped in, with a baker's paper hat on his head, and delivered the absurd words; and if you had looked at Henry's face too, you would have been at a loss to know which loved the little pastry-cook's boy best.

When Mike returned to his dressing-room, a mysterious box was awaiting him. He opened it, and found Esther's wreath and Henry's sonnet.

”G.o.d bless them,” he said.

No doubt it was very childish and sentimental, and old-fas.h.i.+oned; but these young people certainly loved each other.

As Mike had left the stage, Henry had turned round and smiled at some one a few seats away. Esther had noticed him, and looked in the same direction.

”Who was that you bowed to, Henry?”

”I'll tell you another time,” he said; for he had a good deal to tell her about Angel Flower.

CHAPTER XXIII

THE MOTHER OF AN ANGEL

The Man in Possession was becoming more and more a favourite at Mr.

Flower's. One day Mr. Flower, taking pity on his loneliness, suggested that he might possibly prefer to have his lunch in company with them all down at the house. Henry gladly embraced the proposal, and thus became the daily honoured guest of a family, each member of which had some simple human attraction for him. He had already won the heart of simple Mrs. Flower, few and brief as had been his encounters with her, and that heart she had several times coined in unexpected cakes and other dainties of her own making; but when he thus became partially domiciled with the family, she was his slave outright. There was a reason for this, which will need, and may perhaps excuse, a few lines entirely devoted to Mrs. Flower, who, on her own peculiar merits, deserves them.

Perhaps to introduce Eliza Flower in this way is to take her more seriously than any of her affectionate acquaintance were able to do.

For, somehow, people had a bad habit of laughing at Mrs. Flower, though they admitted she was the hardest-working, best-hearted little housewife in the world. Housewife in fact she was _in excelsis_, not to say _ad absurdum_. No little woman who worked herself to skin-and-bone to keep things straight, and the home comfortable, was ever a more typical ”squaw.” Whatever her religious opinions, which, one may be sure, were inflexibly orthodox, there can be no question that Mr. Flower was her G.o.d, and, as the hymn says, heaven was her home. To serve G.o.d and Mr.

Flower were to her the same thing; and there can be little doubt that a G.o.d who had no socks to darn, or linen to keep spotless, was a G.o.d whom Mrs. Flower would have found it impossible to conceive.

A more complete and delighted absorption in the physical comforts and nourishments of the human creature than Mrs. Flower's, it would be impossible for dreamer to imagine. Such an absolute adjustment between a being of presumably infinite aspirations and immortal discontents and its environment, is a happiness seldom encountered by philosophers. To think of death for poor Mrs. Flower was to conceive a homelessness peculiarly pathetic; unless, indeed, there are kitcheners to superintend, beds to make, rooms to ”turn out,” and four spring-cleanings a year in heaven. Of what use else was the bewildering gift of immortality to one who was touchingly mortal in all her tastes?

Indeed, Henry used to say that Mrs. Flower was the most convincing argument against the immortality of the soul that he had ever met.