_THE FLYING LODGER_
FATHER knows a man called Eustace Sandal. I do not know how to expresshis inside soul, but I have heard Father say he means well. He is avegetarian and a Primitive Social Something, and an all-wooler, andthings like that, and he is really as good as he can stick, only mostawfully dull. I believe he eats bread and milk from choice. Well, he hasgreat magnificent dreams about all the things you can do for otherpeople, and he wants to distill cultivatedness into the sort of peoplewho live in Model Workmen's Dwellings, and teach them to live up tobetter things. This is what he says. So he gives concerts in Camberwell,and places like that, and curates come from far and near, to sing aboutBold Bandaleros and the Song of the Bow, and people who have escapedbeing curates give comic recitings, and he is sure that it does everyone good, and "gives them glimpses of the Life Beautiful." He said that.Oswald heard him with his own trustworthy ears. Anyway the people enjoythe concerts no end, and that's the great thing.
Well, he came one night, with a lot of tickets he wanted to sell, andFather bought some for the servants, and Dora happened to go in to getthe gum for a kite we were making, and Mr. Sandal said, "Well, my littlemaiden, would you not like to come on Thursday evening, and share in thetask of raising our poor brothers and sisters to the higher levels ofculture?" So of course Dora said she would, very much. Then he explainedabout the concert, calling her "My little one," and "dear child," whichAlice never would have borne, but Dora is not of a sensitive nature, andhardly minds what she is called, so long as it is not names, which shedoes not deem "dear child" and cetera to be, though Oswald would.
Dora was quite excited about it, and the stranger so worked upon herfeelings that she accepted the deep responsibility of selling tickets,and for a week there was no bearing her. I believe she did sell nine, topeople in Lewisham and New Cross who knew no better. And Father boughttickets for all of us, and when the eventful evening dawned we went toCamberwell by train and tram _via_ Miss Blake (that means we shouldn'thave been allowed to go without her).
The tram ride was rather jolly, but when we got out and walked we feltlike "Alone in London," or "Jessica's First Prayer," because Camberwellis a devastating region that makes you think of rickety attics with thewind whistling through them, or miserable cellars where forsakenchildren do wonders by pawning their relations' clothes and lookingafter the baby. It was a dampish night, and we walked on greasy mud. Andas we walked along Alice kicked against something on the pavement, andit chinked, and when she picked it up it was five bob rolled up innewspaper.
"I expect it's somebody's little all," said Alice, "and the cup wasdashed from their lips just when they were going to joyfully spend it.We ought to give it to the police."
But Miss Blake said no, and that we were late already, so we went on,and Alice held the packet in her muff throughout the concert whichensued. I will not tell you anything about the concert except that itwas quite fairly jolly--you must have been to these Self-RaisingConcerts in the course of your young lives.
When it was over we reasoned with Miss Blake, and she let us go throughthe light blue paper door beside the stage and find Mr. Sandal. Wethought he might happen to hear who had lost the five bob, and return itto its sorrowing family. He was in a great hurry, but he took the chinkand said he'd let us know if anything happened. Then we went home verycheerful, singing bits of the comic songs a bishop's son had done inthe concert, and little thinking what we were taking home with us.
It was only a few days after this, or perhaps a week, that we all beganto be rather cross. Alice, usually as near a brick as a girl can go, wasthe worst of the lot, and if you said what you thought of her sheinstantly began to snivel. And we all had awful colds, and ourhandkerchiefs gave out, and then our heads ached. Oswald's head wasparticularly hot, I remember, and he wanted to rest it on the backs ofchairs or on tables--or anything steady.
But why prolong the painful narrative? What we had brought home fromCamberwell was the measles, and as soon as the grown-ups recognised theGrim Intruder for the fell disease it is we all went to bed, and therewas an end of active adventure for some time.
Of course, when you begin to get better there are grapes and otherluxuries not of everyday occurrences, but while you're sniffling andfevering in bed, as red as a lobster and blazing hot, you are inclinedto think it is a heavy price to pay for any concert, however raising.
Mr. Sandal came to see Father the very day we all marched Bedward. Hehad found the owner of the five shillings. It was a doctor's fee, aboutto be paid by the parent of a thoroughly measly family. And if we hadtaken it to the police at once Alice would not have held it in her handall through the concert--but I will not blame Blakie. She was a jollygood nurse, and read aloud to us with unfatiguable industry while wewere getting better.
Our having fallen victims to this disgusting complaint ended in ourbeing sent to the seaside. Father could not take us himself, so we wentto stay with a sister of Mr. Sandal's. She was like him, only more so inevery way.
The journey was very joyous. Father saw us off at Cannon Street, and wehad a carriage to ourselves all the way, and we passed the station whereOswald would not like to be a porter. Rude boys at this station puttheir heads out of the window and shout, "Who's a duffer?" and thingslike that, and the porters _have_ to shout "I am!" because Higham is thename of the station, and porters have seldom any H's with which toprotect themselves from this cruel joke.
It was a glorious moment when the train swooped out of a tunnel and welooked over the downs and saw the grey-blue line that was the sea. Wehad not seen the sea since before Mother died. I believe we older onesall thought of that, and it made us quieter than the younger ones were.I do not want to forget anything, but it makes you feel empty and stupidwhen you remember some things.
There was a good drive in a waggonette after we got to our station.There were primroses under some of the hedges, and lots of dog-violets.And at last we got to Miss Sandal's house. It is before you come to thevillage, and it is a little square white house. There is a big oldwindmill at the back of it. It is not used any more for grinding corn,but fishermen keep their nets in it.
Miss Sandal came out of the green gate to meet us. She had a soft, drabdress and a long thin neck, and her hair was drab too, and it wasscrewed up tight.
She said, "Welcome, one and all!" in a kind voice, but it was too muchlike Mr. Sandal's for me. And we went in. She showed us thesitting-rooms, and the rooms where we were to sleep, and then she leftus to wash our hands and faces. When we were alone we burst open thedoors of our rooms with one consent, and met on the landing with a rushlike the great rivers of America.
"_Well!_" said Oswald, and the others said the same.
"Of all the rummy cribs!" remarked Dicky.
"It's like a workhouse or a hospital," said Dora. "I think I like it."
"It makes me think of bald-headed gentlemen," said H.O., "it is sobare."
It was. All the walls were white plaster, the furniture was whitedeal--what there was of it, which was precious little. There were nocarpets--only white matting. And there was not a single ornament in asingle room! There was a clock on the dining-room mantel-piece, but thatcould not be counted as an ornament because of the useful side of itscharacter. There were only about six pictures--all of a brownish colour.One was the blind girl sitting on an orange with a broken fiddle. It iscalled Hope.
When we were clean Miss Sandal gave us tea. As we sat down she said,"The motto of our little household is 'Plain living and high thinking.'"
And some of us feared for an instant that this might mean not enough toeat. But fortunately this was not the case. There was plenty, but all ofa milky, bunny, fruity, vegetable sort. We soon got used to it, andliked it all right.
Miss Sandal was very kind. She offered to read aloud to us after tea,and, exchanging glances of despair, some of us said that we should likeit very much.
It was Oswald who found the manly courage to say very politely--
"Would it be all the
same to you if we went and looked at the sea first?Because----"
And she said, "Not at all," adding something about "Nature, the dear oldnurse, taking somebody on her knee," and let us go.
We asked her which way, and we tore up the road and through the villageand on to the sea-wall, and then with six joyous bounds we leaped downon to the sand.
The author will not bother you with a description of the mighty billowsof ocean, which you must have read about, if not seen, but he will justsay what perhaps you are not aware of--that seagulls eat clams andmussels and cockles, and crack the shells with their beaks. The authorhas seen this done.
You also know, I suppose, that you can dig in the sand (if you have aspade) and make sand castles, and stay in them till the tide washes youout.
I will say no more, except that when we gazed upon the sea and the sandwe felt we did not care tuppence how highly Miss Sandal might think ofus or how plainly she might make us live, so long as we had got thebriny deep to go down to.
It was too early in the year and too late in the day to bathe, but wepaddled, which comes to much the same thing, and you almost always haveto change everything afterwards.
When it got dark we had to go back to the White House, and there wassupper, and then we found that Miss Sandal did not keep a servant, so ofcourse we offered to help wash up. H.O. only broke two plates.
Nothing worth telling about happened till we had been there over a week,and had got to know the coastguards and a lot of the village peoplequite well. I do like coastguards. They seem to know everything you wantto hear about. Miss Sandal used to read to us out of poetry books, andabout a chap called Thoreau, who could tickle fish, and they liked it,and let him. She was kind, but rather like her house--there wassomething bare and bald about her inside mind, I believe. She was very,very calm, and said that people who lost their tempers were not livingthe higher life. But one day a telegram came, and then she was not calmat all. She got quite like other people, and quite shoved H.O. forgetting in her way when she was looking for her purse to pay for theanswer to the telegram.
Then she said to Dora--and she was pale and her eyes red, just likepeople who live the lower or ordinary life--"My dears, it's dreadful! Mypoor brother! He's had a fall. I must go to him at _once_." And she sentOswald to order the fly from the Old Ship Hotel, and the girls to see ifMrs. Beale would come and take care of us while she was away. Then shekissed us all and went off very unhappy. We heard afterwards that poor,worthy Mr. Sandal had climbed a scaffolding to give a workman a tractabout drink, and he didn't know the proper part of the scaffolding tostand on (the workman did, of course) so he fetched down half a dozenplanks and the workman, and if a dust-cart hadn't happened to be passingjust under so that they fell into it their lives would not have beenspared. As it was Mr. Sandal broke his arm and his head. The workmanescaped unscathed but furious. The workman was a teetotaler.
Mrs. Beale came, and the first thing she did was to buy a leg of muttonand cook it. It was the first meat we had had since arriving atLymchurch.
HE FETCHED DOWN HALF A DOZEN PLANKS AND THE WORKMAN.]
"I 'spect she can't afford good butcher's meat," said Mrs. Beale; "butyour pa, I expect he pays for you, and I lay he'd like you to have yourfill of something as'll lay acrost your chesties." So she made aYorkshire pudding as well. It was good.
After dinner we sat on the sea-wall, feeling more like after dinner thanwe had felt for days, and Dora said--
"Poor Miss Sandal! I never thought about her being hard-up, somehow. Iwish we could do something to help her."
"We might go out street-singing," Noel said. But that was no good,because there is only one street in the village, and the people thereare much too poor for one to be able to ask them for anything. And allround it is fields with only sheep, who have nothing to give excepttheir wool, and when it comes to taking that, they are never asked.
Dora thought we might get Father to give her money, but Oswald knew thiswould never do.
Then suddenly a thought struck some one--I will not say who--and thatsome one said--
"She ought to let lodgings, like all the other people do in Lymchurch."
That was the beginning of it. The end--for that day--was our getting thetop of a cardboard box and printing on it the following lines in asmany different coloured chalks as we happened to have with us.
LODGINGS TO LET.
ENQUIRE INSIDE.
We ruled spaces for the letters to go in, and did it very neatly. Whenwe went to bed we stuck it in our bedroom window with stamp-paper.
In the morning when Oswald drew up his blind there was quite a crowd ofkids looking at the card. Mrs. Beale came out and shoo-ed them away asif they were hens. And we did not have to explain the card to her atall. She never said anything about it. I never knew such a woman as Mrs.Beale for minding her own business. She said afterwards she supposedMiss Sandal had told us to put up the card.
Well, two or three days went by, and nothing happened, only we had aletter from Miss Sandal, telling us how the poor sufferer was groaning,and one from Father telling us to be good children, and not get intoscrapes. And people who drove by used to look at the card and laugh.
And then one day a carriage came driving up with a gentleman in it, andhe saw the rainbow beauty of our chalked card, and he got out and cameup the path. He had a pale face, and white hair and very bright eyesthat moved about quickly like a bird's, and he was dressed in a quitenew tweed suit that did not fit him very well.
Dora and Alice answered the door before any one had time to knock, andthe author has reason to believe their hearts were beating wildly.
"How much?" said the gentleman shortly.
Alice and Dora were so surprised by his suddenness that they could onlyreply--
"Er--er----"
"Just so," said the gentleman briskly as Oswald stepped modestly forwardand said--
"Won't you come inside?"
"The very thing," said he, and came in.
We showed him into the dining-room and asked him to excuse us a minute,and then held a breathless council outside the door.
"It depends how many rooms he wants," said Dora.
"Let's say so much a room," said Dicky, "and extra if he wants Mrs.Beale to wait on him."
So we decided to do this. We thought a pound a room seemed fair.
And we went back.
"How many rooms do you want?" Oswald asked.
"All the room there is," said the gentleman.
"They are a pound each," said Oswald, "and extra for Mrs. Beale."
"How much altogether?"
Oswald thought a minute and then said "Nine rooms is nine pounds, andtwo pounds a week for Mrs. Beale, because she is a widow."
"HOW MUCH?" SAID THE GENTLEMAN SHORTLY.]
"Done!" said the gentleman. "I'll go and fetch my portmanteaus."
He bounced up and out and got into his carriage and drove away. It wasnot till he was finally gone quite beyond recall that Alice suddenlysaid--
"But if he has all the rooms where are _we_ to sleep?"
"He must be awfully rich," said H.O., "wanting all those rooms."
"Well, he can't sleep in more than one at once," said Dicky, "howeverrich he is. We might wait till he was bedded down and then sleep in therooms he didn't want."
But Oswald was firm. He knew that if the man paid for the rooms he musthave them to himself.
"He won't sleep in the kitchen," said Dora; "couldn't we sleep there?"
But we all said we couldn't and wouldn't.
Then Alice suddenly said--
"I know! The Mill. There are heaps and heaps of fishing-nets there, andwe could each take a blanket like Indians and creep over under cover ofthe night after the Beale has gone, and get back before she comes in themorning."
It seemed a sporting thing to do, and we agreed. Only Dora said shethought it would be draughty.
Of course we went over to the Mill at once to lay our pl
ans and preparefor the silent watches of the night.
There are three stories to a windmill, besides the ground-floor. Thefirst floor is pretty empty; the next is nearly full of millstones andmachinery, and the one above is where the corn runs down from on to themillstones.
We settled to let the girls have the first floor, which was covered withheaps of nets, and we would pig in with the millstones on the floorabove.
We had just secretly got out the last of the six blankets from the houseand got it into the Mill disguised in a clothes-basket, when we heardwheels, and there was the gentleman back again. He had only got oneportmanteau after all, and that was a very little one.
Mrs. Beale was bobbing at him in the doorway when we got up. Of coursewe had told her he had rented rooms, but we had not said how many, forfear she should ask where we were going to sleep, and we had a feelingthat but few grown-ups would like our sleeping in a mill, however muchwe were living the higher life by sacrificing ourselves to get money forMiss Sandal.
The gentleman ordered sheep's-head and trotters for dinner, and when hefound he could not have that he said--
"Gammon and spinach!"
But there was not any spinach in the village, so he had to fall back oneggs and bacon. Mrs. Beale cooked it, and when he had fallen back on itshe washed up and went home. And we were left. We could hear thegentleman singing to himself, something about woulding he was a birdthat he might fly to thee.
Then we got the lanterns that you take when you go "up street" on a darknight, and we crept over to the Mill. It was much darker than weexpected.
We decided to keep our clothes on, partly for warmness and partly incase of any sudden alarm or the fishermen wanting their nets in themiddle of the night, which sometimes happens if the tide is favourable.
We let the girls keep the lantern, and we went up with a bit of candleDicky had saved, and tried to get comfortable among the millstones andmachinery, but it was not easy, and Oswald, for one, was not sorry whenhe heard the voice of Dora calling in trembling tones from the floorbelow.
"Oswald! Dicky!" said the voice, "I wish one of you would come down asec."
Oswald flew to the assistance of his distressed sister.
"It's only that we're a little bit uncomfortable," she whispered. "Ididn't want to yell it out because of Noel and H.O. I don't want tofrighten them, but I can't help feeling that if anything popped out ofthe dark at us I should die. Can't you all come down here? The nets arequite comfortable, and I do wish you would."
Alice said she was not frightened, but suppose there were rats, whichare said to infest old buildings, especially mills?
So we consented to come down, and we told Noel and H.O. to come downbecause it was more comfy, and it is easier to settle yourself for thenight among fishing-nets than among machinery. There _was_ a rustlingnow and then among the heap of broken chairs and jack-planes and basketsand spades and hoes and bits of the spars of ships at the far end of oursleeping apartment, but Dicky and Oswald resolutely said it was the windor else jackdaws making their nests, though, of course, they knew thisis not done at night.
Sleeping in a mill was not nearly the fun we had thought it wouldbe--somehow. For one thing, it was horrid not having a pillow, and thefishing-nets were so stiff you could not bunch them up properly to makeone. And unless you have been born and bred a Red Indian you do not knowhow to manage your blanket so as to make it keep out the draughts. Andwhen we had put out the light Oswald more than once felt as thoughearwigs and spiders were walking on his face in the dark, but when westruck a match there was nothing there.
And empty mills do creak and rustle and move about in a very odd way.Oswald was not afraid, but he did think we might as well have slept inthe kitchen, because the gentleman could not have wanted to use thatwhen he was asleep. You see, we thought then that he would sleep allnight like other people.
We got to sleep at last, and in the night the girls edged up to theirbold brothers, so that when the morning sun "shone in bars of dusty goldthrough the chinks of the aged edifice" and woke us up we were all lyingin a snuggly heap like a litter of puppies.
"Oh, I _am_ so stiff!" said Alice, stretching. "I never slept in myclothes before. It makes me feel as if I had been starched and ironedlike a boy's collar."
We all felt pretty much the same. And our faces were tired too, andstiff, which was rum, and the author cannot account for it, unless itreally was spiders that walked on us. I believe the ancient Greeksconsidered them to be venomous, and perhaps that's how their venominfluences their victims.
"I think mills are merely beastly," remarked H.O. when we had woke himup. "You can't wash yourself or brush your hair or anything."
"You aren't always so jolly particular about your hair," said Dicky.
"Don't be so disagreeable," said Dora.
And Dicky rejoined, "Disagreeable yourself!"
There is certainly something about sleeping in your clothes that makesyou feel not so kind and polite as usual. I expect this is why trampsare so fierce and knock people down in lonely roads and kick them.Oswald knows he felt just like kicking any one if they had happened tocheek him the least little bit. But by a fortunate accident nobody did.
The author believes there is a picture called "Hopeless Dawn." We feltexactly like that. Nothing seemed the least bit of good.
It was a pitiful band with hands and faces dirtier than any one wouldbelieve who had not slept in a mill or witnessed others who had done so,that crossed the wet, green grass between the Mill and the white house.
"I shan't ever put morning dew into my poetry again," Noel said; "it isnot nearly so poetical as people make out, and it is as cold as ice,right through your boots."
We felt rather better when we had had a good splash in the brick-pavedback kitchen that Miss Sandal calls the bath-room. And Alice made a fireand boiled a kettle and we had some tea and eggs. Then we looked at theclock and it was half-past five. So we hastened to get into another partof the house before Mrs. Beale came.
"I wish we'd tried to live the higher life some less beastly way," saidDicky as we went along the passage.
"Living the higher life always hurts at the beginning," Alice said. "Iexpect it's like new boots, only when you've got used to it you're gladyou bore it at first. Let's listen at the doors till we find out wherehe isn't sleeping."
So we listened at all the bedroom doors, but not a snore was heard.
"Perhaps he was a burglar," said H.O., "and only pretended to wantlodgings so as to get in and bone all the valuables."
"There aren't any valuables," said Noel, and this was quite true, forMiss Sandal had no silver or jewellery except a brooch of pewter, andthe very teaspoons were of wood--very hard to keep clean and having tobe scraped.
"Perhaps he sleeps without snoring," said Oswald, "some people do."
"Not old gentlemen," said Noel; "think of our Indian uncle--H.O. used tothink it was bears at first."
"Perhaps he rises with the lark," said Alice, "and is wondering whybrekker isn't ready."
So then we listened at the sitting-room doors, and through the keyholeof the parlour we heard a noise of some one moving, and then in a softwhistle the tune of the "Would I were a bird" song.
So then we went into the dining-room to sit down. But when we opened thedoor we almost fell in a heap on the matting, and no one had breath fora word--not even for "Krikey," which was what we all thought.
I have read of people who could not believe their eyes; and I havealways thought it such rot of them, but now, as the author gazed on thescene, he really could not be quite sure that he was not in a dream, andthat the gentleman and the night in the Mill weren't dreams too.
"Pull back the curtains," Alice said, and we did. I wish I could makethe reader feel as astonished as we did.
The last time we had seen the room the walls had been bare and white.Now they were covered with the most splendid drawings you can think of,all done in coloured chalk--I don't mean mixed up, like we do with ourchalks-
-but one picture was done in green, and another in brown, andanother in red, and so on. And the chalk must have been of some fatradiant kind quite unknown to us, for some of the lines were over aninch thick.
"How perfectly _lovely_!" Alice said; "he must have sat up all night todo it. He _is_ good. I expect he's trying to live the higher life,too--just going about doing secretly, and spending his time making otherpeople's houses pretty."
"I wonder what he'd have done if the room had had a large pattern ofbrown roses on it, like Mrs. Beale's," said Noel. "I say, _look_ at thatangel! Isn't it poetical? It makes me feel I must write something aboutit."
It _was_ a good angel--all drawn in grey, that was--with very wide wingsgoing right across the room, and a whole bundle of lilies in his arms.Then there were seagulls and ravens, and butterflies, and ballet girlswith butterflies' wings, and a man with artificial wings being fastenedon, and you could see he was just going to jump off a rock. And therewere fairies, and bats, and flying-foxes, and flying-fish. And oneglorious winged horse done in red chalk--and his wings went from oneside of the room to the other, and crossed the angel's. There weredozens and dozens of birds--all done in just a few lines--but exactlyright. You couldn't make any mistake about what anything was meant for.
And all the things, whatever they were, had wings to them. How Oswaldwishes that those pictures had been done in his house!
While we stood gazing, the door of the other room opened, and thegentleman stood before us, more covered with different-coloured chalksthan I should have thought he could have got, even with all thosedrawings, and he had a thing made of wire and paper in his hand, and hesaid--
"Wouldn't you like to fly?"
"Yes," said every one.
"Well then," he said, "I've got a nice little flying-machine here. I'llfit it on to one of you, and then you jump out of the attic window. Youdon't know what it's like to fly."
We said we would rather not.
"But I insist," said the gentleman. "I have your real interest at heart,my children--I can't allow you in your ignorance to reject the chance ofa lifetime."
We still said "No, thank you," and we began to feel very uncomfy, forthe gentleman's eyes were now rolling wildly.
"Then I'll _make_ you!" he said, catching hold of Oswald.
"THEN I'LL _MAKE_ YOU!" HE SAID, CATCHING HOLD OFOSWALD.]
"You jolly well won't," cried Dicky, catching hold of the arm of thegentleman.
Then Dora said very primly and speaking rather slowly, and she was verypale--
"I think it would be lovely to fly. Will you just show me how theflying-machine looks when it is unfolded?"
The gentleman dropped Oswald, and Dora made "Go! go" with her lipswithout speaking, while he began to unfold the flying-machine. We otherswent, Oswald lingering last, and then in an instant Dora had nipped outof the room and banged the door and locked it.
"To the Mill!" she cried, and we ran like mad, and got in and barred thebig door, and went up to the first floor, and looked out of the bigwindow to warn off Mrs. Beale.
And we thumped Dora on the back, and Dicky called her a Sherlock Holmes,and Noel said she was a heroine.
"It wasn't anything," Dora said, just before she began to cry, "only Iremember reading that you must pretend to humour them, and then getaway, for of course I saw at once he was a lunatic. Oh, how awful itmight have been! He could have made us all jump out of the attic window,and there would have been no one left to tell Father. Oh! oh!" and thenthe crying began.
But we were proud of Dora, and I am sorry we make fun of her sometimes,but it is difficult not to.
We decided to signal the first person that passed, and we got Alice totake off her red flannel petticoat for a signal.
The first people who came were two men in a dog-cart. We waved thesignalising petticoat and they pulled up, and one got out and came up tothe Mill.
We explained about the lunatic and the wanting us to jump out of thewindows.
"Right oh!" cried the man to the one still in the cart; "got him." Andthe other hitched the horse to the gate and came over, and the otherwent to the house.
"Come along down, young ladies and gentlemen," said the second man whenhe had been told. "He's as gentle as a lamb. He does not think it hurtsto jump out of windows. He thinks it really is flying. He'll be like anangel when he sees the doctor."
We asked if he had been mad before, because we had thought he might havesuddenly gone so.
"Certainly he has!" replied the man; "he has never been, so to say,himself since tumbling out of a flying-machine he went up in with afriend. He was an artist previous to that--an excellent one, I believe.But now he only draws objects with wings--and now and then he wants tomake people fly--perfect strangers sometimes, like yourselves. Yes,miss, I am his attendant, and his pictures often amuse me by thehalf-hours together, poor gentleman."
"How did he get away?" Alice asked.
"Well, miss, the poor gentleman's brother got hurt and Mr.Sidney--that's him inside--seemed wonderfully put out and hung over thebody in a way pitiful to see. But really he was extracting the cash fromthe sufferer's pockets. Then, while all of us were occupied with Mr.Eustace, Mr. Sidney just packs his portmanteau and out he goes by theback door. When we missed him we sent for Dr. Baker, but by the time hecame it was too late to get here. Dr. Baker said at once he'd revert tohis boyhood's home. And the doctor has proved correct."
We had all come out of the Mill, and with this polite person we went tothe gate, and saw the lunatic get into the carriage, very gentle andgay.
"But, Doctor," Oswald said, "he did say he'd give nine pounds a week forthe rooms. Oughtn't he to pay?"
"You might have known he was mad to say that," said the doctor. "No. Whyshould he, when it's his own sister's house? Gee up!"
And he left us.
It was sad to find the gentleman was not a Higher Life after all, butonly mad. And I was more sorry than ever for poor Miss Sandal. As Oswaldpointed out to the girls they are much more blessed in their brothersthan Miss Sandal is, and they ought to be more grateful than they are.