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.”
The Major’s tender heart was troubled, but he would not offer his friend any consolation,—he knew that the least said the soonest mended in such cases,—and he saw that Miss Letty was just then too vexed and grieved to bear many words even from him. So he went in to Boy, and wound up his clockwork ‘merry-go-round’ for him, and told him fabulous stories of giants,—giants who, though terrible enough to hold the world in awe, were yet unable to resist the fascinations of “hasty pudding,” and killed themselves by eating too much of that delicacy in an unguarded moment. Which remarkable narratives, in their grotesque incongruity, conveyed the true lesson that a strong or giant mind may be frequently destroyed by indulgence in one vice; though Boy was too young to look for morals in fairy legends, and accepted these exciting histories as veracious facts. And so the morning passed pleasantly after all,—though now and then a wistful look came into Boy’s eyes, and a shadow crossed the placid fairness of “Kiss-Letty’s” brow when either of the two chanced to think of the coming parting from each other. Boy however did not imagine it so much of a parting as Miss Letty knew it would be; he had a firm belief that though he was going home to “Muzzy” he should still see a great deal of his “Kiss-Letty” all the same. She on the contrary knew enough of Mrs. D’Arcy-Muir’s obstinate disposition to be quite certain of the fact that because a hint had been thrown out by Major Desmond as to the advantages of her adopting Boy, she would be forced to see less of him than ever. Strange it is, and in a manner terrible, that the future of a whole life should be suspended thus between two human wills!—the one working for pure beneficence, the other for selfishness, and that the selfish side should win the day! These are mysteries which none can fathom; but it too often happens that a man’s career has been decided for good or evil by the amenities or discords of his parents, and their quarrels or agreements as to the manner of his education.
It was with a sad and sinking heart that Miss Leslie took Boy accompanied by the faithful “Dunny” back to the home of his progenitors that afternoon. He had more luggage to carry away than he had arrived with—a brown paper parcel would not hold his numerous toys, nor the pretty little suits of clothes his kind hostess had presented him with. So Major Desmond bought him an astonishingly smart portmanteau, which fairly dazzled him, and into this most of his new things were packed by Margaret, who was sincerely sorry to lose her little charge. The ‘merry-go-round,’ being a Parisian marvel of clockwork, had a special case of its own, and “Dunny”!—well, “Dunny” was a privileged Cow, and Boy always carried it in his arms. And thus he returned, Biblically speaking, to the home of his fathers,—the house in Hereford Square, and his large “Muzzy” received him with an almost dramatic effusiveness.
“You poor child!” she exclaimed. “How badly your hair has been brushed! Oh dear!—it’s becoming a perfect mop! We must have it cut to-morrow.”
Miss Leslie’s cheeks reddened slightly.
“Surely you will not have his curls cut yet?” she began.
“My dear Letitia, I know best,” said Mrs. D’Arcy-Muir with an irritating air of smiling condescension. “A boy—even a very young boy—looks absurd with long hair. You have been very kind and nice to him, I am sure,—but of course you don’t quite understand——”
Miss Leslie sat down opposite her with a curiously quiet air of deliberation.
“I wish to speak to you for a few minutes,” she said. “Is your husband at home?”
“No. He has gone into the country for a few days. I am quite lonely!” and Mrs. D’Arcy-Muir heaved a lazy smile. “I felt I could not possibly be a day longer without my son in the house.”
The extraordinary air of grandiloquence she gave to the words “my son in the house,” applied to a child of barely four years old, would have made Miss Leslie laugh at any other time, but she was too preoccupied just now to even smile.
“I think,” she went on in a methodical way—“I think Major Desmond did me the kindness to mention to you and Captain D’Arcy-Muir an idea I had concerning Boy——”
“Oh yes, a most absurd idea,” interposed Mrs. D’Arcy-Muir, with quite a solemn reproach in her voice. “Pardon me for saying so, Letitia, but I really am surprised at you. A preposterous idea!—to separate my boy from me!”
“You mistake,” answered Miss Leslie; “I had no wish to separate you. You would have seen quite as much of Boy as you see now, or as you will see when in the natural course of things you send him to school. My sole desire in the proposition I made, and which I asked Major Desmond to explain, was to benefit your dear little child in every possible way. I am all alone in the world——”
“Yes, I know! So sad!” put in Mrs. D’Arcy-Muir in a tone of commiseration that was almost an insult.
“And I have a large fortune,” pursued Miss Letty with unruffled composure: “when my time comes to die, I shall probably leave more than one-hundred-thousand pounds——”
“No! You don’t say so! Really, Letitia, you are indeed fortunate! Why ever don’t you marry? There are lots of poor fellows who would only be too delighted.”
“We can pass that question,” said Miss Leslie patiently. “What I wish to point out to you is that I am what the world calls a fairly wealthy woman, and that if you could see your way to letting me adopt Boy and educate him, everything I possessed would be his at my death.”
“Oh, I don’t wonder at all,” said Mrs. D’Arcy-Muir expansively, “that you have taken such a fancy to my boy! That’s quite natural. And really, Letitia, if you don’t know how to dispose of your fortune otherwise, I cannot imagine anything more pleasant for you than to make him your heir. But to adopt him for the purpose of educating him according to your notions! Oh dear no! It would never do!”
“If he is not educated according to my notions he will certainly not be my heir,” said Miss Letty very firmly. “He is just now at an age when anything can be done with him. Give me leave to take him out of the radius of his father’s unfortunate example, and surround him with all that is healthy and good and useful, and I am sure you will not regret it.”
“Dear me! I am so sorry for you!” and “Muzzy” smiled blandly; “I feel for you with all my heart, and I quite understand your wish to have Boy! It would be delightful for you, but I cannot possibly hear of it! I am his mother,—I could not part with him under any circumstances whatever!”
“You are quite resolved, then?” and Miss Leslie looked at her steadily.
“Quite! I have my own ideas of education, and I could not possibly allow the slightest interference. My son”—and here she swelled visibly with a sense of her own importance—“will have every chance in life!”
“God grant it!” said Miss Letitia fervently. “No one in the world desires his good more heartily than I do. And if ever I can be of any assistance to him in his career, I will. But for the present I will say good-bye,—both to you—and to him.”
“Are you going away?” enquired Mrs. D’Arcy-Muir with but a faint show of interest.
“Yes, I shall go to Scotland for the rest of the summer, and I have arranged to join a party of friends in Egypt this winter. So I shall not be here to interfere”—and Miss Letty smiled rather sadly as she emphasised the word—“with Boy. I hope he will not quite forget me.”
“I hope not,” said “Muzzy” with bland commiseration. “But of course you know children never remember anything or anybody for long. And what a blessing that is, isn’t it?”
Miss Letty made no answer; she was down on the floor kissing Boy.
“Good-bye, darling,” she whispered,—“good-bye! I shall not see you for a while, but you will always love me, won’t you?”
“Alwiz love ’oo!” murmured Boy earnestly, with a vague sense that he was experiencing a very dreadful emotion which seemed quite to contract his little heart—“Alwiz!” and he threw his chubby arms round Miss Letty’s neck and kissed her again and again.
“Dear little man!” she said with almost a half-sob. “Poor little man! God bless you!”
Then she rose, and turning to Mrs. D’Arcy-Muir held out her hand.
“Good-bye!” she said. “If you should ever change your mind about Boy, please let me know at once. I shall be glad to have him at any time between now and till he is seven,—after that it would be no use—as all his first impressions will have taken root too deeply in his nature to be eradicated.”
“How dreadful!” exclaimed “Muzzy” with a wide smile. “You are really quite a blue-stocking, Letitia! You talk just like a book of philosophy or degeneration—which is it?—I never can remember! I always wonder what people mean when they try to be philosophic and talk about impressions on the mind! Because of course impressions are always coming and going, you know—nothing ever remains long enough to make a lasting effect.”
Miss Letty said no more. It was useless to talk to such a woman about anything but the merest commonplaces. The ins and outs of thought—the strange slight threads of feeling and memory out of which the character of a human being is gradually woven like a web,—the psychic influences, the material surroundings, the thousand-and-one things that help to strengthen or to enervate the brain and heart and spirit, all these potentialities were unknown to the bovine female who waxed fat and apathetic out of pure inertia and sloth. She was, as she was fond of announcing, a ‘mother,’ but her ideas of motherhood consisted merely in feeding Boy on sloppy food which frequently did not agree with him, in dosing him with medicine when he was out of sorts, in dressing him anyhow, and in allowing him to amuse himself as he liked wherever he could, however he could, at all times and in all places dirty or clean. A child of the gutter had the same sort of maternal care. Of order, of time, of refinement, of elegance and sweet cleanliness there was no perception whatever; while the Alpha and Omega of the disordered household was of course “Poo Sing,” who rolled in and rolled out as he chose, more or less disgraceful in appearance and conduct at all hours. However, there was no help for it—Miss Letty had held out a rescue, and it had been refused, and there was nothing more to be done but to leave Boy, for the present at any rate, in his unfortunate surroundings. But there were tears in the eyes of the tender-hearted lady when she returned home alone that day, and missed the little face and the gay prattle that had so greatly cheered her loneliness. And after dinner, when the stately Plimpton handed her her cup of coffee, she was foolish enough to be touched by his solemnly civil presentation to her of a diminutive pair of worn shoes set in orderly fashion on a large silver tray.
“Master Boy left these behind him, my lady,” he said,—he always called Miss Letty ‘my lady’ out of the deep deference existing towards her in his own mind. “They’re his hold ones.” Plimpton was fond of aspirating his h’s,—he thought the trick gave an elegant sound to his language.
“Thank you, Plimpton,” said Miss Leslie, with a faint smile. “I will send them to his mother in the morning.”
But she did not send them to his mother. When she was quite alone, she kissed each little shoe tenderly, and tied them up together in soft silk paper with a band of blue ribbon,—and then, like a fond weak creature, put them under her pillow when she went to bed and cried a little,—then slept and dreamed that her “brave true Harry” was alive and wedded to her, and that Boy was her very own darling, with no other “Muzzy” in the world.