CHAPTER XV.
MOTHER COMES TO SCHOOL.
You will have noticed ere this what a dear old soul my mater is. How tender her love! How trusting in all things! To an artist she is a dream-picture. So quaint, yet so dignified; so innocent, yet so human. When dressed in black brocade, with white collar and cuffs, with her silver-haired ringlets hanging on each side of her head, she looks a charming Victorian. Just the sort of old lady you see stepping out of an ancient picture-gallery. She is of the past—the beautiful past—when life was slow, yet kind and true.
She lives in a rustic manor in sleepy old Berks. There she is sheltered from the storms. Her four interests in life are The Times, the Tory Party, her Wyandottes, and—ME. Whatever our modern Delanes say, my mater endorses with emphasis. When Lloyd George was appointed Premier, she had no sleep for four nights; and had it not been for the reassuring leader in The Times, the mater might have been tempted to stuff a bomb in a highly flavoured dead Wyandotte and send it to 10 Downing Street. However, I did my best to assure her that David was thoroughly respectable, and that his Conservative colleagues would look after him. That ended all opposition.
She has implicit faith in me. I am the idol of her heart. This devotion is really embarrassing. I am not worthy of it. At school I had learnt more than the classics. Now, the mater loathes liquor, and she has a dread of girls. Her boy must be kept from the hussies at all costs. In this age—indeed, in all ages—that has been impracticable. But it made me a sort of hypocrite, for I would not have shattered that dear old lady’s illusions for all the wealth of Carnegie. Yet, somehow, I also felt that her sweet faith always kept me within bounds. A man could not be a bounder with a mother like Mrs John Brown. Still, like all youths, I was having my ‘fling,’ and out of your ‘fling’ comes strength or ruin. Life is a series of temptations. The man who can taste and leave them goes forward. The man who is ensnared is damned.
We have all got to go through the mill.
As I have said, the mater is innocent in affairs of the world, especially in military matters. She mixes things up. For example, an ‘offensive’ she thought was a nasty smell at the Front. One day she inquired, ‘John, when are they going to make Douglas Haig a sergeant-major? I am sure he deserves it. Don’t you think I should write to The Times?’
‘You mean a field-marshal, mater.’
‘What’s that?’