She bent over Boy’s bed and carefully adjusted the coverlet to keep him warm, then lowering the light, left him sleeping peacefully with “Dunny” on guard.
CHAPTER V
It is a trite axiom, but no less true than trite, that we are always happiest when we are most unconscious of happiness,—when the simple fact of mere existence is enough for us,—when we do not know how, or when, or where the causes for our pleasure come in, and when we are content to live as the birds and flowers live, just for the one day’s innocent delight, untroubled by any thoughts concerning the past or future. This is a state of mind which is generally supposed to vanish with early youth, though there are some few peculiarly endowed natures, sufficiently well poised, and confident of the flowing in of eternal goodness everywhere, to be serenely joyous with all the trust of a little child to the very extreme of old age. But even with men and women not so fortunately situated the days when they were happy without knowing it remain put away in their memories as the sweetest time of life, and are recalled to them again and again with more or less poignancy, when pain and disappointment, deceit, cruelty, and harshness unwind the rose-coloured veil of romance from persons and things and show them the world at its worst. Boy, in the house of Miss Letitia Leslie, was just now living the unconscious life, and making for himself such a picture gallery of sweet little souvenirs as were destined to return to him in years to come sharpened with pain, and embittered by a profitless regret. Every morning he rose up to some new and harmless delight, among surroundings of perfect sweetness and peace,—order, cleanliness, kindness, good-humour and cheerfulness were the hourly investiture of the household,—and after he had been with “Kiss-Letty” two or three days Boy began dimly to wonder whether there really was such an individual as “Poo Sing,” or such a large lady as “Muzzy,” in the world. Not that the little fellow was forgetful of his parents,—but the parents themselves were of so hazy, and vague, and undeterminate a character that the individuality of the servant Gerty was far more real and actual to the infant mind of their son than their distinguished personalities. It is to be feared that Boy would have been but faintly sorry had he been told he was never to see his “kind good Muzzy” any more. This was not Boy’s fault by any means; the blame rested entirely with the “kind good Muzzy” herself. And probably if Boy had felt any regrets about it they would have been more for the parting from the “Poo Sing” gentleman who was so often ill. For the delusive notion of chronic illness on the part of “Poo Sing” had got firmly fixed into Boy’s little head,—he felt the situation to be serious,—he was full of a wistful and wondering compassion, and he had a vague idea that his Dads did not get on so well without him. But this he kept to himself. He was for the present perfectly happy, and wished for no more delightful existence than that which he enjoyed in the company of “Kiss-Letty.” He was going through some wonderful experiences of life as well. For instance, he was taken for the first time to the Zoo, and had a ride on an elephant,—a ride which filled him with glory and terror. Glory that he could ride an elephant,—for he thought it was entirely his own skill that guided and controlled the huge beast’s gentle meanderings along the smoothly rolled paths of the gardens, and terror lest, skilful and powerful though he was, he should fall, deeply humiliated, out of the howdah in which he was proudly seated. Then he was taken to Earl’s Court Exhibition, and became so wearied with the wonders there shown to him from all parts of the world,—there were so many wonders—and the world seemed so immense,—that he fell fast asleep while going round a strange pond in a strange boat called a Venetian gondola, and Major Desmond took him up in his arms, and he remembered nothing more till he found himself in his little bed with Margaret tucking him up and making him cosy. Then there were the days when he was not taken out sightseeing at all, but simply stayed with Miss Letty and accompanied her everywhere, and he was not sure that he did not like these times best of all. For after his dinner in the middle of the day, and before they went for their drive, “Kiss-Letty” would take him on her knee and tell him the most beautiful and amazing fairy stories,—descriptions of aerial palaces and glittering-winged elves, which fascinated him and kept him in open-mouthed ecstacy,—and somehow or other he learned a good deal out of what he heard. Miss Leslie was not a brilliant woman, but she was distinctly cultured and clever, and she had a way of narrating some of the true histories of the world as though they were graceful fantasies. In this fashion she told Boy of the discovery of America by Christopher Columbus,—and ever afterwards the famous navigator remained in Boy’s mind as a sort of fairy king who had made a new world. Happy indeed were all those first lessons he received concerning the great and good things done by humanity,—sweet and refining was the influence thus exerted upon him,—and if such peaceful days could have gone on expanding gradually around his life the more that life needed them, who can say what might not have been the beneficial result? But it often seems as if some capricious fate interfered between the soul and its environment; where happiness might be perfect, the particular ingredient of perfection is held back or altogether denied,—and truly there would seem to be no good reason for this. Stoic philosophy would perhaps suggest that the fortunate environment is held back from the individual in order that he may create it for himself, and mould his own nature in the struggle,—but then it so often happens that this holding back affects the nature that is not qualified either by birth or circumstances to enfranchise itself. A grand environment is frequently bestowed on a low and frivolous character that has not, and never will have, any appreciation of its fortunate position, while all rights, privileges, and advancements are obstinately refused to the soul that would most gladly and greatly have valued them. And so it was fated to be with Boy. The happy days of his visit to Miss Letty came, as all happy days must do, to an end; and one morning, as he sat at breakfast eating a succulent slice of bread-and-jam, he was startled to see “Kiss-Letty’s” blue eyes brimming over with tears. Amazing grief and fear took possession of him,—he put down his bread-and-jam and looked pitifully at his kind friend and hostess.
“Zoo kyin’, Kiss-Letty,” he said: “Where does it hurt oo?”
Miss Letty tried to smile, but only feebly succeeded. She could have answered that “it” hurt her everywhere. “It” was a letter from Mrs. D’Arcy-Muir requesting that Boy might be returned to his home that afternoon. And Miss Letty knew that this peremptory summons meant that her wish to adopt Boy was frustrated and that the cause was lost. She looked tenderly at the sweet little face that was turned so wistfully to hers, and said gently though with a slight quiver about her lips,—
“Muzzy wants you, darling! I am to take you home to her to-day.”
Boy gave no reply. It was the first difficult moral situation of his life, and it was hardly to be wondered at that he found it almost too much for him. The plain fact of the matter was that, however much “Muzzy” wanted him, he did not want “Muzzy.” Nor did he at all wish to go home. But he had already a dim consciousness of the awful “must” set over us by human wills, which, unlike God’s will, are not always working for good,—and he had a glimmering perception that he was bound to submit to these inferior orders till the time came when he could create his own “must” and abide by it. But he could not put these vague emotions into speech; all he did was to lose his appetite for bread-and-jam and to stare blankly at “Kiss-Letty.” She meanwhile put Mrs. D’Arcy-Muir’s letter in her pocket, and tried to assume her usual bright and cheerful air, but with very poor success. For in truth she was greatly disappointed,—and when she lifted Boy out of his chair at the table and set him down on the floor with a very fascinating toy in the shape of a ‘merry-go-round’ moved by clockwork, which however he contemplated this morning with a faint sense of the futility of all earthly pleasures, she was vaguely troubled by presentiments to which she could give no name. The hours wore on languidly—and it was with a sense of something like relief that she heard a sharp rat-tat-tat at the door, and a minute afterwards Major Desmond’s cheery voice in the hall. She went out to meet him, leaving Boy with his toys in her morning-room,—but one glance at his face confirmed all her worst fears.
“It’s no go, Letty!” he said regretfully, as he shook hands. “I’ve done my best. But I’ll tell you where the trouble is. It’s the woman. I could manage D’Arcy-Muir, but not that stout play-actress. When D’Arcy-Muir is sober he sees clearly enough, and realizes quite well what a capital chance it is for the little chap; but there is no doing anything with his jelly-fish of a wife. She bridles all over with offence at your proposition—says she has her own ideas for Boy’s education and future prospects. Nice ideas they are likely to be! Well! It’s no use fretting—you must resign yourself to the inevitable, Letty, and give up your pet project.”
Miss Letty listened with apparently unmoved composure while he spoke,—then when he had finished she said quietly,—
“Yes, I suppose I must. Of course I cannot press the point. One must not urge separation between mother and child. Oh yes, I must give it up”—this with a little pained smile—“I have had to give up so many hopes and joys in life that one more disappointment ought not to matter so much, ought it? Mrs. D’Arcy-Muir has written to me—I am to take Boy back this afternoon.”