"I wired to my husband. You should have seen me going home. I was so nervous,—I was not half as nervous when I read my paper (it was rather a celebrated paper, perhaps you heard of it) to the Royal Geographical Society; it was on Esquimaux marriage songs, and the analogy between them and the Song of Solomon. She was so light, and so wrapped up, and my pince-nez kept dropping off when I stooped over her (I got spectacles after that); and I used to fancy I had dropped her out of the wrappings, and peep under the shawl to make sure [with a sick shiver], to find her sucking her thumb. And I nearly passed my station; and then a valuable book—indeed, it is really a case of Mss., and almost unique—I had borrowed for reference, with some trouble, could not be found, and my husband roared with laughter when it turned up in the cradle. Belinda was at the gate anxious to take her, and he said I did not know how to hold her,—that I was holding her like a book of notes at a lecture; and so I gave her to Belinda. I think the poor little thing found it all strange, and when she puckered up her face and thrust out her under-lip, and two great tears jumped off her lashes, we all felt ready for hanging. But Belinda, though she doesn't know one language, not even her own, for she sows her h's broadcast and picks them up at hazard,—she can talk to a baby. I am so glad for that reason she is bigger now. I couldn't manage it: I could not reason out any system they go on in baby talk. I tried mixing up the tenses, but somehow it wasn't right. My husband says it is not more odd than salmon taking a fly that is certainly like nothing they ever see in nature. Anyway it answered splendidly. Belinda used to say (I made a note of some of them): 'Did-sum was denn? Oo did! Was ums de prettiest itta sweetums denn? Oo was. An' did um put 'em in a nasty shawl an' joggle 'em in an ole puff-puff? Um did; was a shame! Hitchy cum, hitchy cum, hitchy cum hi, Chinaman no likey me!' This always made her laugh, though in what connection the Chinaman came in I never could fathom. I was a little jealous of Belinda, but she knew how to undress her. George, that's my husband's name, said the bath-water was too hot, and that the proper way to test it was to put one's elbow in. Belinda laughed; but I must confess it did feel too hot when I tried it that way: but how did he know? I got her such pretty clothes! I was going to buy a pragtbind of Nietzsche, but that must wait. George made her a cot with her name carved on the head of it; such a pretty one!"
"Did you find she made a change in your lives?" I asked.
"Oh, didn't she! Children are such funny things. I stole away to have a look at her later on, and did not hear him come after me. She looked so sweet, and she was smiling in her sleep. I believe the Irish peasantry say that an angel is whispering when a baby does that. I had given up all belief myself, except the belief in a Creator who is working out some system that is too infinite for our finite minds to grasp. If one looks round with seeing eyes, one can't help thinking that after a run of eighteen hundred and ninety-three years Christianity is not very consoling in its results. But at that moment, kneeling next the cradle, I felt a strange, solemn feeling stealing over me: one is conscious of the same effect in a grand cathedral filled with the peal of organ music and soaring voices. It was as if all the old, sweet, untroubled child-belief came back for a spell, and I wondered if far back in the Nazarene village Mary ever knelt and watched the Christ-child sleep; and the legend of how he was often seen to weep but never to smile came back to me, and I think the sorrow I felt as I thought was an act of contrition and faith. I could not teach a child scepticism; so I remembered my husband prayed, and I resolved to ask him to teach her. You see [half hesitatingly] I have more brains, or at least more intellectuality, than my husband; and in that case one is apt to undervalue simpler, perhaps greater, qualities. That came home to me, and I began to cry, I don't know why; and he lifted me up, and I think I said something of the kind to him. We got nearer to each other someway. He said it was unlucky to cry over a child.
"It made such a difference in the evenings! I used to hurry home,—I was on the staff of the 'World's Review' just then; and it was so jolly to see the quaint little phiz smile up when I went in.
"Belinda was quite jealous of George. She said 'Master worritted in an' out, an' interfered with everything; she never seen a man as knew so much about babies, not for one as never 'ad none of 'is own. Wot if he didn't go to Parkins hisself, an' say as how she was to have the milk of one cow, an' mind not mix it!' I wish you could have seen the insinuating distrust on Belinda's face. I laughed. I believe we were all getting too serious; I know I felt years younger. I told George that it was really suspicious: how did he acquire such a stock of baby lore? I hadn't any. It was all very well to say 'Aunt Mary's kids.' I should never be surprised if I saw a Zwazi woman appear with a lot of tawny pickaninnies in tow. George was shocked! I often shock him.
"She began to walk as soon as she got stronger. I never saw such an inquisitive mite. I had to rearrange all my bookshelves, change 'Le Nu de Rabelais' (after Garnier, you know) and several others from the lower shelves to the top ones. One can't be so Bohemian when there is a little white soul like that playing about, can one? When we are alone, she always comes in to say her prayers and good-night. Larry Moore of the 'Vulture,'—he is one of the most wickedly amusing of men; prides himself on being fin de siècle (don't you detest that word?) or nothing; raves about Dégas, and is a worshipper of the decadent school of verse; quotes Verlaine, you know,—well, he came in one evening on his way to some music hall. She's a whimsical little thing, not without incipient coquetry either,—well, she would say them to him. If you can imagine a masher of the Jan van Beer type bending his head to hear a child in a white 'nighty' lisping prayers, you have an idea of the picture. She kissed him good-night too (she never would before), and he must have forgotten his engagement, for he stayed with us to supper. She rules us all with a touch of her little hands, and I fancy we are all the better for it. Would you like to see her?"
She hands me a medallion, with a beautiful painted head in it. I can't say she is a pretty child,—a weird, elf-like thing, with questioning, wistful eyes, and masses of dark hair,—and yet as I look the little face draws me to it, and makes a kind of yearning in me, strikes me with a "fairy blast," perhaps.
The journey was all too short, and when we got to Hull she saw me to my train. It was odd to see the quiet way in which she got everything she wanted. She put me into the carriage, got me a foot-warmer and a magazine, kissed me, and said as she held my hand,—
"The world is small; we run in circles; perhaps we shall meet again. In any case I wish you a white elf."
I was sorry to part with her; I felt richer than before I knew her. I fancy she goes about the world giving graciously from her richer nature to the poorer endowed folk she meets on her way.