Flower and thorn

Chapter I

“Rain, sun and rain ! and the free blossom blows ;

Sun, rain and sun! and where is he who knows?

From the great deep to the great deep he goes.”

— The Coming of Arthur.

Mrs. Guthrie was paying a stiff price for a month’s sea air on the east coast, and she was not . getting her money’s worth ; lamentable scats of rain had for twenty-four hours beaten against the lodging-house. The lady in question was an invalid ; she had not gone to Felixstowe for enjoyment — she had never at the best of times a faculty for enjoyment — she had gone because her doctor had ordered her to do so. Now she lay like a martyr on her couch, listening to angry bursts of wind and rain that shook at the French window of her sitting-room.

In fine weather she spent whole days on the sands, sallying thither painfully enough on her crutches, to lie listening listlessly to the monotonous drum of the waves. She never read nor sewed; she never occupied herself at all; she spent all the strength she had in “resting.”

Nevertheless, she was an adept at finding employment for those about her. Her niece Jane and her son David were never idle if she could help it. In her gentle way she broke in those youngsters thoroughly. The boy, David, took the weather more philosophically than did his mother.

David was not a rattling, breezy, inconsequent schoolboy. He was quiet, thoughtful, old for his fourteen years. Though he was an only child, he had had no over-share of indulgence. Poor Mrs. Guthrie was far too interested in her hip and her headaches to spare much attention for her son, who was as strong as a horse and as self-contained as his father.

Mrs. Guthrie was in no relation of life a success. No elements of success were in her. She expected a vast deal, but she gave little. In her girlhood she had not been happy; her mother had not come up to her moral standard of what a mother should be.

Though she had fallen in love with great ease, emotion, and frequency, her affections had been easily quelled by disappointment.

Finally her husband had disappointed her; that had been a serious matter for them both. She had none of the vaunted strength of the New Woman, but she had thirstily imbibed all the requirements of those Amazons. The end of it was that neither husband nor wife were broken-hearted when climate finally effected a judicial separation between them, Colonel Guthrie remaining in India to serve his time in the Bengal Cavalry, while Mrs. Guthrie settled in England to see after David’s education, and to have a hand in the boy’s moral development.

She expected a great deal of her son, and though, for his age, he was a model of manners, morals, and consideration, yet David was not quite all her fancy pictured a son should be.

When he was by, he certainly waited on his mother assiduously, but he had a knack of being out of her reach. He would carry her couch to the beach, arrange her pillows, and help her thither, but as soon as she was comfortably established at her post he would be off. “He was selfish,” she said; “heigh-ho, ’twas a most selfish world,”

Now on this wet afternoon David, after having finished his library book, grew restless; he loafed to the window, watching the rain and the grey monotony of sea, listening to the wind that swayed, the ill-grown clump of trees and rustled the untidy bushes of stunted shrubs in the neglected garden of Harland House.

And as he watched, he kicked at the already damaged wainscotting of the window. This carefully reared boy, whose youthful instincts had been disciplined from his birth, was thrown off his balance by a few hours of bad weather.

“Oh, David, have mercy on my head. Dear boy, do something. This is the sort of day on which to get forward with your work. You are not clever, and if you fail for Sandhurst I shall break my heart. Do some mathematics, they will at least keep you quiet.”

David turned away from his window docilely. He was a tall boy, broad-shouldered and leanflanked. His features were good, he was pleasant to look at, but he gave people the impression of being older than his fourteen years: so quiet, so deliberate in action, so slow of speech was he. His mother’s strenuous efforts to put an old head on his young shoulders had taken effect upon him to a certain point.

The boy had only one passion, which was for soldiering. Brain or no brain, he would be a soldier. He would “get through” somehow. He let the games which he loved go to the wall; he worked till his head was woolly and his understanding dim, in the effort to make sure of the awful examination that was looming many and many a month off him still. How often Mrs. Guthrie had quoted his tutor’s opinion, how often she had picked out that small disparaging remark from amongst a modifying environment, and told her son that “he was not clever.”

“He will do better than others with double his wits, Mrs. Guthrie — he means it; but he is not clever. His work, I should rather say, does not come very easy to him.”

That had been the tutor’s judgment, from which Mrs. Guthrie extracted the nucleus, “You are not clever.” It did not do for a soldier to be a coward, but David was afraid of his own stupidity. He turned to his mathematics dutifully; every duty on earth, save the duty of happiness, had been impressed on the boy. How soberly his grey eyes looked out on the neutral-tinted world around him.

He had settled down to his work and a silence would have reigned in the room, such as Mrs. Guthrie required for “resting,” had not the upstairs lodgers defied decency by a sudden outburst of revelry in their precincts overhead. Feet pattered, laughter rang, diversified by war-whoops and warlike outbursts of din and tumult.

David smiled at the sounds, but his mother groaned. The boy was naturally affectionate and sympathetic, so when the uproar heightened, his smiles died, and he looked round anxiously at the invalid.

“Ring the bell, David, I cannot bear this. I spoke this morning to Mrs. Browne; I told her that those new people were insufferably noisy. I told her that unless she could keep them quiet I should most certainly leave this house. People are so inconsiderate, so selfish.” She spoke fretfully; fretfulness was a sign of weakness which touched her son.

An over-worked maid, with an impassive, anaemic face, answered the bell at her leisure, and perhaps did not hurry herself to deliver Mrs. Guthrie’s message, begging for a cessation of tumult; for the upstairs lodgers continued the pandemonium, increasing rather than modifying the pace.

Tears filled Mrs. Guthrie’s eyes.

.“Mrs. Browne says there is but one child and a governess in those rooms. Do you hear that pounding, that earthquake, that avalanche? Oh, David, my head throbs, I cannot bear it. It must be stopped. Go yourself, dear boy. Jane is shopping for me in the town, or I would have sent her. Go up to the room yourself. Tell them your mother is an invalid, that the doctors forbid noise. Please go, David; perhaps you are shy, but that is foolish, and you must get over it.”

David was too little self-conscious to be overwhelmed by shyness; moreover, ever since his legs could carry him, he had been constantly employed in his mother’s service, and many a tough job against the little lad’s grain had he accomplished. A selfish mother is so excellent and wholesome a discipline, turning out such creditable offspring, that ’tis a pity there are not more of them. David did not hesitate to obey Mrs. Guthrie, though he did not like the business.

He ran upstairs and rapped at the offending lodger’s door. The tumult hushed at once. A dog growled. A child’s voice cried, “Mademoiselle, here is tea.”

Simultaneously with the words the door was opened from the inside, and a little girl and a great black dog bounced out against the incomer.

An elderly lady with untidy hair sat at a table by the window, reading. Her head was supported by her hands; against the lobe of either ear she had pressed an index finger. The little girl ran over to her, touching her hand.

“Here’s that boy,” she cried. “Mademoiselle, he comes up from downstairs to see us.”

“Entrez,” said mademoiselle, turning her book upside down, with a bow of abstracted politeness; “we are very happy to see the young gentleman.”

“I came with a message,” said David. He was an orderly youth; his mother was, and prided herself upon being, scrupulously, primly neat; the disorderly aspect of this room was terrible indeed. “My mother is an invalid, and to-day she has a headache. We have rooms below yours. I came up to ask whether you would mind being quiet; the doctors say noise is bad for my mother’s nerves, and we hear all the movement up here quite plainly.”

Mademoiselle listened, then she looked about her. Losing her air of abstraction, she brought elbows, eyebrows, shoulders and voice to bear upon the situation.

“Valerie is indefensible, incorrigible, irreclaimable,” she cried, pointing at her pupil. “I beg a thousand pardons, monsieur, of your afflicted mama. I had but closed the ear for a short space. I was most deeply engaged in my study of the literature; I heard nothing.” By a deft movement she covered the title-page of her very French, French novel with her work-bag. “In the future all precautions for peace I will myself undertake, and your mama shall not again be disquieted.”

Suddenly her parchment-like skin, which had lain in lines of studied amiability, broke into wrinkles and puckers of fierce displeasure, as she turned upon the little girl, who stood silent and demure, listening.

“Valerie, what desolation is this that you have brought into this apartment?”

“It’s so dull when it rains,” said the child, addressing David. “Kaiser and I were only steeplechasing; he can jump over the card-table, but I can only vault.”

“But steeplechasing is not for girls, or the house. It is pounds and pounds your mama will have to pay for the destruction of these articles. Here is a table-leg shaken, and here is wood cracked. Perhaps this very amiable young gentleman will help me to replace these many things you have disordered. I have no strength of wrist; the dust lies everywhere an inch thick. It is a sin of you, Valerie; such tricks of monkeys are incomprehensible. You are, of all my pupils ever I had, the most savage.”

Valerie laughed, she never took her eyes off David.

lO

“There was nothing to do; it rained, it was dull. Kaiser liked romping, and I liked it also. I had no book, and you, mademoiselle, you were reading.”

The upstairs lodgers talked fast and with gesticulation. David helped to set things to rights, mademoiselle’s French touch soon tweaked the chaos around into order. Valerie stood watching, she did nothing; Kaiser had flopped down at her feet and fallen asleep.

For the past few days David had interested himself in the upstairs lodgers. The child was pretty, unusually pretty. He had never seen such soft brown eyes as hers, such burnished hair, such a laughing mouth about which its baby arch still lingered. Her bright hair contrasted strangely with her great dark eyes. It was conspicuous hair; in fact, to be candid, it was not altogether natural; its pristine fairness had been artificially preserved by the forethought of her mother, who understood such arts in all perfection.

David had watched Valerie at play on the sands, Kaiser and she indulging unchecked in their love of water, whilst the elder mademoiselle was engaged in her study of literature. He had watched with an indulgent smile the inconsequent gambols.

I the inexhaustible spirits and gaiety of those irresponsible friends, Kaiser and Valerie.

The room was in order now, David had delivered his message. He felt that he had no excuse to stay, though he wanted to further his acquaintance both with the dog and child. The little girl was of his mind.

“Don’t go,” she said, when he was about to leave her. “Please stay. Please stay and talk to me.” She slid a hot little hand into his. “I have no one here to play with me. At home I have lots of friends.” Then she looked up at him, her eyes laughing. She knew he would laugh, too, at her forthcoming remark; people always laughed at the sentiment. “But I like boys best,” she said. David did not smile, he liked boys best himself, and was not surprised at her taste, but he looked at mademoiselle. He was a respecter of persons. Authority, though it was French, impressed him.

“Might I stay?”

Mademoiselle also liked boys best.

“But certainly, you may stay, monsfeur,” said she graciously, “if your afflicted mama permits it. Valerie is used to companions, she is triste without the young. There is no world here. But for Kaiser she would pine. We lead a gay life always, but not here.”

With the gracious ease of a society damsel, the triste Valerie took David at once into her confidence.

“Thank you. I am so glad you will stay. I am friends with lots of boys, some of them quite as big as you are. I miss mummy, she takes me everywhere, but now she has gone away. She has gone to Germany to get thin, and my new dad has gone with her. He is not quite so kind as he used to be. I don’t care for him very much, no more, I think, does mother. Our clothes cost a lot of money, you see, and he scolds sometimes.” Valerie held out a gossamer skirt which was sadly torn, fingering the rent pensively. “Kaiser did that. He’s pretty rough. You see, he’s puppyish, and gets wild.” She stopped to tenderly pat the offender’s beautiful coat. “We have only had him a few months. He is a lovely dog. He has such a lot of fathers and grandfathers. One of the officers gave him to me. I do love him so, and he loves me.”

Kaiser opened his sagacious eyes, and thumped upon the floor with his tail,

“How well he swims,” said David. “I have often watched him.”

“And I’ve seen you, and I wanted to play with you before, but mademoiselle said your mummy looked particular, and would not let me speak to her, or to you. Will you play with me to-morrow?”

“When I have done my work.”

“Work!” her mouth fell. “I hate work; it always gets in the way everywhere.”

When Jane, David’s cousin, came back from the town, she was surprised to find Mrs. Guthrie alone.

“Where is David?”

“David took a message from me to those people upstairs. He has not come back. Please put those things down, Jane, and get off your wet clothes. You are splashed to the waist.”

Jane Blunt was the daughter of Mrs. Guthrie’s dead sister. She had been left without kith or kin, mother or money, at an age when she wanted care most, and Mrs. Guthrie had charitably received her into her household. At seventeen she was repaying her aunt’s charity by definite domestic toil, and had become an inseparable part of that lady’s sufferings. She was a wholesome-minded, wholesome-looking girl, never meeting the daily burdens of an unattractive life half way, but bravely set “upon wresting happiness from fate’s hard hands,” with a thickish skin and an unimpaired digestion to aid and abet her undertaking.

It was not her way to say more, or to feel more than she could help. She put down the bromidia and latest novel of Marie Corelli’s beside her aunt, without reflecting that those commodities might have been dispensed with in this deplorable weather, and she sloshed off upstairs, dripping as she went.

The door of the first-floor sitting-room was wide open. David was there, apparently quite at home, for he knelt on the floor holding a retriever’s collar, whilst a fairy-like little maiden tried to balance a biscuit on the nose of the dog.

When Valerie laughed David laughed, and inquisitive Jane from the threshold laughed too. The laugh of the latter was audible; she intended it to be heard, and it was heard. Mademoiselle looked up from her “literature” staring. The boy was all very well, but who wanted this blunt demoiselle with her downright air, audaciously, ostentatiously English? Mademoiselle fidgetted; her hero, her heroine were interesting her immensely, but politeness must be maintained.

“You are required, monsieur. This young lady fetches you.”

David did not relish “fetching” any more than a gentleman of twice his years would have done.

He liked his cousin Jane; they were good friends, but just now he did not want her, and he frowned.

Jane advanced to the very threshold and stood there, damp, smiling, and good-humoured. A grey-eyed, rosy-cheeked, wide-mouthed girl, ready to meet any friendship or kindness three-quarters of the way, but blind to frowns and small feelings. Mightily practical was Jane for her seventeen years.

“I don’t want David,” said she genially. “I only looked in as I passed by. I am wet through.”

Valerie left the dog and David to examine- the truth of this statement.

“You are wet. I wish mademoiselle would let me out. I love rain. I like a great spattering on my face.”

“You are talking nonsense, aren’t you?”

“Won’t you come in too? And then David can stay.”

“I must go on and change my things.”

“Will you come in by-and-bye? There will be three of us then; we could play ‘Old Maid.’ That is my favourite game of cards.”

“Valerie, you are most presumptuous. You have always the idea that all the whole earth should play with you. Here comes your tea. Do not presume to trespass more upon the time of this young monsieur. He is amiable, we know, but you are but a small child, and what is a game to you is ennui to him. Adieu, monsieur, and you, mademoiselle, if you do value health, quickly get into the dry clothes. At the seaside one is always cold catching.”

Eyebrows, elbows, and shoulders, as well as words were brought to bear upon mademoiselle’s companions. David went, and so did Jane, whilst Valerie bemoaned herself using some terms of impoliteness to her commander-in-chief.

“You are indulged beyond all things, Valerie. Life was not made for you, nor are your fellowmen; in time you will learn so for yourself. At present there is but one thing in all the world, and the one thing is your desire. This time you will not get it. There is no one with whom to play that pitiable nonsense of cards, ‘Old Maid.’ ”

Before an hour had passed, before the lengthy ceremonial of Guthrie tea was quite over, a light rap sounded on the panels of the Guthrie sitting-room, and Valerie glided like a sprite into the room. By a happy instinct she addressed herself to the mistress of the chamber, her voice and manner softened into an ingratiating and plaintive softness.

“I have come,” said she, “to see if I may play here? It is a quiet game, but I cannot play it alone.” She held out her hands. Between her little palms was a pack of cards; she shook back the clouds of burnished hair from her face, and looked beseechingly at Jane. “Can you play ‘Old Maid?’ It is easy to learn; it is so interesting, and I would teach you.”

Mrs. Guthrie smiled, and then the thing was done. Everyone wanted something to do, and even that “pitiable nonsense of cards, ‘Old Maid,’ ” as a way of filling time, was not to be despised.

“Poor child, it is dull for her. Aunt Carrie. Shall we play?”

Valerie went close to the couch and addressed its occupant. Her ways were irresistible. “Will it tire you? The table could be put quite close.”

She used no wiles upon David, she was sure of him; he was a friend.

And it came to pass that when mademoiselle had finished her novel, and had awakened to the fact that Valerie had disappeared, the little lady had played cards until she had tired of “Old Maid,” and was at the dreaded hour of bed-time sitting with the downstair lodgers, entertaining them with her glib tongue, telling them her history and the hisi8 tory of many friends at Leigh, and showing vast interest in everything pertaining to her new comrades.

Even Mrs. Guthrie forgot her headache, and allowed herself to be entertained by the quaint child, with her innocent acuteness, her babyish worldliness, her gracious prattle, and perhaps above all by the attraction of her expressive little face. The wistful beauty of the dark eyes, the laughing lips, the conspicuous hair, were fair to see. And then Mrs. Guthrie liked all things and all people who were new. Everything fresh was good and to be believed in, until the inevitable time came when its mere humanity became apparent.

When the conclave was finally broken up by a torrent of ejaculation and apology from mademoiselle, and Valerie was marched, still smiling and unrepentant, off to bed, the Guthries sighed. The womenkind discussed their uninvited guest when the door had closed upon her, dissecting her ways and looks and words, as the sex will. David, manlike, listened, but held his tongue.

“Will you play with me to-morrow?” the little intruder had asked him as she left.

And he had answered, civilly and readily, that he should be at her service.

CHAPTER II. “All my life long

I most have prized the man who knew himself And knew the ways before him, rough or smooth,

And from them chose, not blindly brave.

But with considerate courage, and calm will,

And having chosen with a steadfast mind Pursued his purposes.”

A FORTNIGHT had passed: the day preceding the Guthries’ departure from Felixstowe had arrived. The holidays were nearly over.

In the eye of the noon-day sun, stretched at full length on the warm sand, lay studious David, with a book in his hand.

The busy sea heaving to the horizon, and breaking in hurried uneven waves upon the slanting shore, did not disturb him. He did not lift his eyes to see the white-sailed boats that went scudding briskly by in the breeze. Hard by him low rocks, overgrown by fragrant seaweed, newly laid bare by the receding tide, on which bare-legged children roamed at will, did not attract him over-much. In the briny, redolent, fresh, clear, invigorating air he lay, and worked his best.

“David,” said a dear little voice, which though subdued was persistent, “you don’t allow me here. I didn’t mean to come, but I have come. I know you are working” — her pursed-up lips were close to his ear — “but I want you, dreadfully, I want you.”

Ever since their introduction, for two frolicking weeks, David had been this small speaker’s servitor. She had encroached upon his good nature, and he had made no attempt to evade her encroachments.

But though in some ways he had been slavish, he had maintained his superiority up to a point, inasmuch as during his two hours’ daily work Valerie had found that she and her requirements must go to the wall. She had learned with tears that this decree of the boy’s was absolute. The child was all very well, but soldiering was paramount. Books, here, led to battle, through pen to sword. David could be firm.

“Let me say it,” in an earnest whisper; “just one word.”

David put a finger upon a spot on the open page before him, and looked up, a fog of mental obscurity between him and the longing face.

“All right, one word. Fire away.”

“A circus.”

“I don’t understand. What circus?”

“The procession goes through the town at one. It is nearly one now. I want to see it.”

“Well?”

“Mademoiselle won’t come, she’s reading. She says she is tired. Will you” — the voice broke with a fervency of desire — “take me, David?”

David was dreamy, his brain woolly. Personally he would have liked to cease his labour ; though the spirit was willing the flesh was weak. So he had himself to discipline, and he answered gruffly :

“Rubbish, Valerie. It will be a wretched show, not worth seeing. Lots of riff-raff. I must do my work. You go,” more gently, “you go and dig.”

Close by Mrs. Guthrie lay on her couch, half asleep. Beside her sat her niece Jane, stitching in the shade of the Guthries’ tent. Close to the sea mademoiselle and her book were ensconced; to her right and left frisked a flock of happy children.

That very afternoon Valerie’s mother was to arrive at Felixstowe, when mademoiselle’s study of "^litterature^* would be interrupted. Mademoiselle made her hay whilst the sun shone, her eyes and thoughts safely glued to her book.

Standing with Kaiser’s black nose in her palm.

the little maiden, Valerie Talbot, halted and looked at David, looked at hard-hearted, kind-faced David. Her intuition was precocious, feminine; she understood he was not the sort of boy who changes his mind.

At last she turned away from him with a sigh; he was no good at all. She shook some sand off her serge skirt, settled her shady hat on her conspicuous hair, and, with Kaiser at her heels, she turned her back on the sea-shore. Slipping behind the Guthries’ tent, she mounted the few steps leading to the road; gliding rapidly away over the sandy track that led along the beach, she made her way up the hill, past the big hotel, to the heart of the town.

The noon-day was red-hot. Valerie’s short legs had many a step to make before she reached the corner of the street, whence she intended to see the sight that drew her thither; but she was an excitable child, feeling neither heat nor weariness so long as she was amused.

The circus procession had attracted a great crowd of sightseers. Valerie only laughed at the jostling she received, and held her place steadily in the front rank of the people, whilst she strained her eyes to admire the lumbering by of gaudy vehicles.

the ambling of curbed steeds, the glitter of tinsel, the attraction of paint and fluttering garments. Open-eyed, open-mouthed, she absorbed all the wonders of the pageant.

The fun, such as it was, was over all too soon. The circus procession had passed. The crowd melted away, leaving Valerie free on the narrow pavement to come or go at her liking.

Just then a clock overhead struck the hour of two, startling the truant in earnest. The show had gone, it was over. Valerie had had her way. The piper must be paid, mademoiselle must be faced. Making every allowance for lodging-house unpunctuality, the school-room dinner would be stone cold by this time. Valerie knew it.

“Kaiser ! Kaiser !”

The child till this moment had forgotten Kaiser. Now he was out of sight.

“Kaiser! Kaiser!”

She shouted his name till she was hoarse, but Kaiser did not come. He had disappeared. A terrier looked curiously at her in passing, an unpleasant-looking man stared, but Kaiser had gone.

The streets were no longer full; Valerie could see far and near. In the distance a concourse of people marked the route of the departing procession. In that direction she fixed her eyes. Amongst legs and petticoats she fancied that she espied a busy black object, which might prove to be the hind-quarters of the lost dog.

“Kaiser! Kaiser!” Valerie loved Kaiser better than she loved anything in the world.

“Have you lost your dog, little missy?”

The speaker had an odd voice, and a face from which Valerie hastily averted her gaze; it was unprepossessing in the child’s fastidious eyes. But in her present helpless condition she was even more ready than usual to make a friend.

“Yes,” she answered eagerly, “I have lost my dog. I can’t go back without him. I think I see him following the show.”

“What sort of a dog, little lady?”

“A retriever, wavy-coated. He’s called Kaiser. He never follows very well. He is young. Look there, just at the corner. I think,” nodding her head quickly, “I see him there.”

A lady passing looked hard first at the speaker, and then at the man.

“I’d run after him, missy, and call to him,” said the nasty-looking sympathiser, hastily. “I expect it’s him.”

Valerie was glad to follow any advice. She hurried off in the direction the speaker indicated, and he, quickening his slouching paces, followed her.

♦ * * * * * No frivolity was introduced into the sober meals of the Guthries. Mrs. Guthrie ate to live, she nibbled wholesome food with a display of her lack of appetite. The case was different with her son and Jane. Under protest, as it were, they satisfied vast sea-side capacities for stoking steadily; they were aware of offending fastidious taste, but preferred offence to hunger.

Luncheon that day was silent and earnest as usual, the cheese and biscuit superfluities of the meal were drawing the ceremony to a close, when the Guthries were unexpectedly disturbed by the advent of mademoiselle. Poor mademoiselle, who burst into the room in an agitation which was infectious from its very sincerity.

“Mille pardons. This intrusion is unwarrantable, but I am distracted. Davide,” with a motion towards “Davide’s” mother, ‘T trusted, might perhaps help me in my trouble.” She laid her expressive nervous hand upon the boy’s arm. “I can find Valerie nowhere. I have sought her far and near.