_ I used to stay at Battersby for a day or two sometimes, while my
godson and his brother and sister were children. I hardly know why
I went, for Theobald and I grew more and more apart, but one gets
into grooves sometimes, and the supposed friendship between myself
and the Pontifexes continued to exist, though it was now little more
than rudimentary. My godson pleased me more than either of the
other children, but he had not much of the buoyancy of childhood,
and was more like a puny, sallow little old man than I liked. The
young people, however, were very ready to be friendly.
I remember Ernest and his brother hovered round me on the first day
of one of these visits with their hands full of fading flowers,
which they at length proffered me. On this I did what I suppose was
expected: I inquired if there was a shop near where they could buy
sweeties. They said there was, so I felt in my pockets, but only
succeeded in finding two pence halfpenny in small money. This I
gave them, and the youngsters, aged four and three, toddled off
alone. Ere long they returned, and Ernest said, "We can't get
sweeties for all this money" (I felt rebuked, but no rebuke was
intended); "we can get sweeties for this" (showing a penny), "and
for this" (showing another penny), "but we cannot get them for all
this," and he added the halfpenny to the two pence. I suppose they
had wanted a twopenny cake, or something like that. I was amused,
and left them to solve the difficulty their own way, being anxious
to see what they would do.
Presently Ernest said, "May we give you back this" (showing the
halfpenny) "and not give you back this and this?" (showing the
pence). I assented, and they gave a sigh of relief and went on
their way rejoicing. A few more presents of pence and small toys
completed the conquest, and they began to take me into their
confidence.
They told me a good deal which I am afraid I ought not to have
listened to. They said that if grandpapa had lived longer he would
most likely have been made a Lord, and that then papa would have
been the Honourable and Reverend, but that grandpapa was now in
heaven singing beautiful hymns with grandmamma Allaby to Jesus
Christ, who was very fond of them; and that when Ernest was ill, his
mamma had told him he need not be afraid of dying for he would go
straight to heaven, if he would only be sorry for having done his
lessons so badly and vexed his dear papa, and if he would promise
never, never to vex him any more; and that when he got to heaven
grandpapa and grandmamma Allaby would meet him, and he would be
always with them, and they would be very good to him and teach him
to sing ever such beautiful hymns, more beautiful by far than those
which he was now so fond of, etc., etc.; but he did not wish to die,
and was glad when he got better, for there were no kittens in
heaven, and he did not think there were cowslips to make cowslip tea
with.
Their mother was plainly disappointed in them. "My children are
none of them geniuses, Mr Overton," she said to me at breakfast one
morning. "They have fair abilities, and, thanks to Theobald's
tuition, they are forward for their years, but they have nothing
like genius: genius is a thing apart from this, is it not?"
Of course I said it was "a thing quite apart from this," but if my
thoughts had been laid bare, they would have appeared as "Give me my
coffee immediately, ma'am, and don't talk nonsense." I have no idea
what genius is, but so far as I can form any conception about it, I
should say it was a stupid word which cannot be too soon abandoned
to scientific and literary claqueurs.
I do not know exactly what Christina expected, but I should imagine
it was something like this: "My children ought to be all geniuses,
because they are mine and Theobald's, and it is naughty of them not
to be; but, of course, they cannot be so good and clever as Theobald
and I were, and if they show signs of being so it will be naughty of
them. Happily, however, they are not this, and yet it is very
dreadful that they are not. As for genius--hoity-toity, indeed--
why, a genius should turn intellectual summersaults as soon as it is
born, and none of my children have yet been able to get into the
newspapers. I will not have children of mine give themselves airs--
it is enough for them that Theobald and I should do so."
She did not know, poor woman, that the true greatness wears an
invisible cloak, under cover of which it goes in and out among men
without being suspected; if its cloak does not conceal it from
itself always, and from all others for many years, its greatness
will ere long shrink to very ordinary dimensions. What, then, it
may be asked, is the good of being great? The answer is that you
may understand greatness better in others, whether alive or dead,
and choose better company from these and enjoy and understand that
company better when you have chosen it--also that you may be able to
give pleasure to the best people and live in the lives of those who
are yet unborn. This, one would think, was substantial gain enough
for greatness without its wanting to ride rough-shod over us, even
when disguised as humility.
I was there on a Sunday, and observed the rigour with which the
young people were taught to observe the Sabbath; they might not cut
out things, nor use their paintbox on a Sunday, and this they
thought rather hard, because their cousins the John Pontifexes might
do these things. Their cousins might play with their toy train on
Sunday, but though they had promised that they would run none but
Sunday trains, all traffic had been prohibited. One treat only was
allowed them--on Sunday evenings they might choose their own hymns.
In the course of the evening they came into the drawing-room, and,
as an especial treat, were to sing some of their hymns to me,
instead of saying them, so that I might hear how nicely they sang.
Ernest was to choose the first hymn, and he chose one about some
people who were to come to the sunset tree. I am no botanist, and
do not know what kind of tree a sunset tree is, but the words began,
"Come, come, come; come to the sunset tree for the day is past and
gone." The tune was rather pretty and had taken Ernest's fancy, for
he was unusually fond of music and had a sweet little child's voice
which he liked using.
He was, however, very late in being able to sound a hard it "c" or
"k," and, instead of saying "Come," he said "Tum tum, tum."
"Ernest," said Theobald, from the arm-chair in front of the fire,
where he was sitting with his hands folded before him, "don't you
think it would be very nice if you were to say 'come' like other
people, instead of 'tum'?"
"I do say tum," replied Ernest, meaning that he had said "come."
Theobald was always in a bad temper on Sunday evening. Whether it
is that they are as much bored with the day as their neighbours, or
whether they are tired, or whatever the cause may be, clergymen are
seldom at their best on Sunday evening; I had already seen signs
that evening that my host was cross, and was a little nervous at
hearing Ernest say so promptly "I do say tum," when his papa had
said he did not say it as he should.
Theobald noticed the fact that he was being contradicted in a
moment. He got up from his arm-chair and went to the piano.
"No, Ernest, you don't," he said, "you say nothing of the kind, you
say 'tum,' not 'come.' Now say 'come' after me, as I do."
"Tum," said Ernest, at once; "is that better?" I have no doubt he
thought it was, but it was not.
"Now, Ernest, you are not taking pains: you are not trying as you
ought to do. It is high time you learned to say 'come,' why, Joey
can say 'come,' can't you, Joey?"
"Yeth, I can," replied Joey, and he said something which was not far
off "come."
"There, Ernest, do you hear that? There's no difficulty about it,
nor shadow of difficulty. Now, take your own time, think about it,
and say 'come' after me."
The boy remained silent a few seconds and then said "tum" again.
I laughed, but Theobald turned to me impatiently and said, "Please
do not laugh, Overton; it will make the boy think it does not
matter, and it matters a great deal;" then turning to Ernest he
said, "Now, Ernest, I will give you one more chance, and if you
don't say 'come,' I shall know that you are self-willed and
naughty."
He looked very angry, and a shade came over Ernest's face, like that
which comes upon the face of a puppy when it is being scolded
without understanding why. The child saw well what was coming now,
was frightened, and, of course, said "tum" once more.
"Very well, Ernest," said his father, catching him angrily by the
shoulder. "I have done my best to save you, but if you will have it
so, you will," and he lugged the little wretch, crying by
anticipation, out of the room. A few minutes more and we could hear
screams coming from the dining-room, across the hall which separated
the drawing-room from the dining-room, and knew that poor Ernest was
being beaten.
"I have sent him up to bed," said Theobald, as he returned to the
drawing-room, "and now, Christina, I think we will have the servants
in to prayers," and he rang the bell for them, red-handed as he was. _