Part 1 (2/2)

”I didn't fink it would make you angry,” she said rather piteously. ”It was just that big oven door in the Kersultin' Room. Me and Pip wanted to know so much, and there wasn't n.o.body to ask, exceptin' Mr.----”

Here Father, much to Pipette's surprise and embarra.s.sment, suddenly hugged her to his breast, murmuring the while to himself. Then he kissed her twice,--as a rule she kissed him once,--shook hands solemnly with Pip, and despatched them to bed.

The children had no nurse. The last holder of that position had left soon after their mother's death, and Cook had begged so hard to be allowed to take care of the ”little dears” herself, that Father, who was too deeply sunk in the apathy of grief to desire to haggle over questions of domestic management, listlessly agreed. Since then Pip and Pipette had been washed, dressed, fed, and bedded by a syndicate composed of Cook and her myrmidons, who brought them up according to their own notions of respectability. Emily, the kitchen-maid, for instance, made no objection to Pip stirring his tea with the handle of his knife; but what shocked her ideas of etiquette and deportment was the fact that he insisted on doing so with his left hand. Somehow Pip's left hand was always getting him into trouble. It was so officious; it was constantly usurping the duties and privileges of its fellow, such as cleaning his teeth, shaking hands, and blowing his nose,--literal acts of _gaucherie_ that distressed Emily's genteel soul considerably.

After the children had gone Father sat staring at his untasted dinner.

Occasionally his gaze travelled to the opposite end of the table, where some one used to sit,--some one who had been taken from him by an inscrutable Providence five years before. Had she lived, Pip would not have referred to the kitchen-maid as ”one of the girls,” nor would Pipette be calling the butler ”Mr. Evans.” All these years he had been trying to hide his desolation by burying himself in his work, with the result that he now found himself busy,--overworked, in fact,--rich, and famous, a man at the head of his profession. _Cui bono?_ His children, whom he had promised his dying Dorothea to love and cherish, were learning to venerate the butler and to converse in the jargon of the scullery!

So the Oven Door had to remain an unsolved mystery, and Pip and Pipette were compelled to comfort themselves with the Talking-Hole. This was a most absorbing affair, and, thank goodness! it was no mystery.

The Talking-Hole was carefully plugged with a whistle; and whenever a visitor came to see Father,--they came in shoals between one o'clock and three,--Mr. Evans would uncork a similar hole in the wall of the hall, and after blowing up it vigorously, would murmur the name of the visitor; and his words, owing to the fact that the Talking-Hole in the hall was in some mysterious way connected with the Talking-Hole in the Consulting Room, were conveyed to Father's ear. The conversation as a rule was of a formal and fragmentary nature, limited on Mr. Evans's part to the announcement of the visitor's name and some such remark as ”Special appointment,” or ”No appointment,” and occasionally, ”Urgent case,”--always concluding with ”Very good, sir.” After that Mr. Evans would conduct the visitor up the three carpeted stairs which led to the Consulting Room.

Pip and Pipette loved the Talking-Hole. It was almost their only toy, and it was the more precious to them because they could not use it except when Father was out and Mr. Evans taking his afternoon siesta.

Their one child-friend, Tattie Fowler, who was occasionally brought to spend the afternoon with them when her nurse had made arrangements to spend it elsewhere, was always regaled with a full-dress performance whenever she came.

The method of procedure was invariably the same. The children knew every move by heart. The moment that Mr. Evans, having closed the front door on Father, had closed his bedroom door upon himself, Pip would stalk with much majesty into the Consulting Room, shutting the door carefully behind him.

After an interval of about one second, Tattie, endeavouring faithfully to imitate Mr. Evans's stately tread,--have you ever seen a kitten trying to walk like an elephant, reader?--would approach the Talking-Hole in the hall, uncork the tube, and despatch an excited hurricane on its way to the Consulting Room. The following dialogue would then ensue:--

_A gruff voice down the tube._ Well?

_Tattie_ [_reading from an imaginary card_]. Mr. Henry Hatkins, sir! (This, by the way, happened to be the name of Tattie's nurse's ”young man.”)

_The Voice._ Any appointment?

_Tattie._ None, sir.

_The Voice._ What's the matter wiv him?

_Tattie._ Infruenza, _he_ thinks, sir.

_The Voice._ Send him up.

_Tattie._ Very good, sir.

Then Tattie would cork up the tube and conduct Pipette, who had been sitting patiently in the Waiting Room, up the three stairs to the Consulting Room. Here she abruptly dropped the role of Mr. Evans, and announced firmly--

”Now, Pip, it's my turn to be Father!”

(Tattie had no father of her own, and imagined that the term merely implied a large, silent man who lived in a room full of fascinating playthings, opening Oven Doors and blowing down Talking-Holes.)

After that Pip would be the patient, Pipette Mr. Evans, and Tattie Father, and the performance was repeated _in extenso_. Pipette, as the youngest, succeeded to the proud position of ”Father” last of all.

Each of them played the leading part in different fas.h.i.+on. Pip, enjoying every moment of his impersonation, always sat solemnly in the big swivel-chair at the table until the whistle blew, when he would lounge across to the Talking-Hole and conduct the conversation as deliberately as possible. Pipette, on the other hand, possessed none of this artistic restraint, and was always standing on a chair, with her small ear ecstatically pressed against the mouth of the tube, by the time that Pip, in the character of Mr. Evans, was ready to converse with her.

Consequently his withering blast, when it arrived, impinged straight upon Pipette's eardrum, frequently knocking her off her chair and invariably dulling her hearing for the afternoon.

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