VI
A CORNER IN TREACLE
I could not help smiling as I rang Mrs. Kit Carmichael's bell. It wanteda good hour to calling time, and I was sure to arrive in thatembarrassing period of the afternoon when morning attire is beingexchanged for the tea-gown, and the indiscreet visitor is left tomeditate on the hollowness of social obligations in an emptydrawing-room. It is an hour I take a peculiar delight in. I like to seethe piano before Schubert's songs have replaced the thumbedexercise-book, and to divine midday practisings, scarcely over, by youngladies lanky in stocking, with surreptitious chewing-gum in theirpockets. It has still the charm that "going behind" had for me in myearly theatrical days.
I had made some masculine pretext for leaving Carrie behind, and she wasto follow later. I had a small reason of my own for wishing to see Mrs.Kit alone.
Mrs. Kit's maid admitted me. That young person always seems inclined tolaugh when she sees me. I swear I have never encouraged her.
The drawing-room door was opened to me, but I walked past it, beckonedby a distant sound of childish romping, and a young mother's call of"Come here, Chris." I made all the noise in my approach that pretendedstealth demanded; I am delicate in my freedom.
Now, that is a part that needs a nice discrimination in the trueperforming of it. Intimacy has no severer test. Show me the indiscreetbachelor friend whose title falls short, be it only by a syllable, ofthe full warranty, and I will show you a man who shall wait forinvitations, and to whom the fiery sword of "not at home" shall bedisplayed. The young wife in particular is apt to be touchy.
My approach had been heard, and a subdued scuffling subsided as Ientered the half-open nursery door. Mrs. Kit had a maid, and had at onetime kept a nurse; but the nurse had gracefully relinquished theengagement on finding she had _two_ children in charge, the grown-up onescarcely more manageable than the chubby little imp who bore hisfather's name. Consequently, Master Christopher occupied a good deal ofhis mother's time, and was in a fair way for being spoiled.
This young gentleman of four hailed me with a shout, and childish gleein his scantiness of garment; while his mother, rosy and bright withromping, did her best to look crossly on my intrusion. Mrs. Carmichaelalways keeps up an appearance of formality, even with me.
"Mr. Butterfield, how dare you come into my nursery!"
"Mrs. Carmichael," I replied, "I came to have a talk with your son inthe matter of a certain giant in whom we are both interested. Perhapsyou yourself would care----"
"Chris shall not hear any story till he has his pinafore on. It is aswell you are a bachelor, Mr. Butterfield. You would spoil the best childin the world."
"Unless I am mistaken, Mrs. Kit," I answered, "you yourself were playingthe part of a bear when I entered. Does one hunt bears without apinafore?"
"I am his mother, and have to amuse him--judiciously!" returned Mrs.Carmichael. "You don't know what a responsibility children are, Mr.Butterfield."
"I appreciate your feelings, madam," I replied. "I remember in my youthI kept white mice. Now, white mice----"
"White fiddlesticks," said Mrs. Kit. "A bachelor has absolutely no ideaof what trouble children are. They take the whole of your time--they areconstantly to be watched--you never know what mischief they are up to."
"I kept _four_ white mice, Mrs. Carmichael, with power to add. You haveonly one----"
"Oh, but Chris _is_ so mischievous! He's so full of spirits. Scarcely anhour since he _nearly_ broke his neck trying to climb a handrail, underthe impression it was a beanstalk--that was one of _your_ stories, Mr.Butterfield,--and last night he managed to get Simple Simon into hisprayers."
I shook my head.
"An inherited irreligious tendency," I replied. "He's probably got thatfrom his father. I remember Kit----"
"Rubbish! It's just pure animal spirits. Chris is getting so big andstrong--_and_ noisy," she added, as Chris broke away with the shout ofpagan infancy.
"In that case, Mrs. Carmichael," I answered, "a reducing diet ofcinder-tea, judiciously administered----"
"Cinder-tea? What do _you_ know about cinder-tea?--Chris, put your armthrough here--a bachelor talking about cinder-tea!"
The arrogance of these young married ladies! They are all alike. You mayhave seen scores of such pretty innocents installed in their firstestablishments. You may have known their existences from the time theyplayed peg-top with their brothers to their perky airs over their firstlong frocks. You may have given them away amid rice and slippers at therate of two a year, when their bridal blushes almost made your tasksuperfluous. You may have known them from teething-ring to trousseau,from measles to marriage; and yet in the first wonder of a new baby lifeyou will be told that you are an ignorant old bachelor, and that youknow nothing of household affairs!
But I was not disposed to take any such talk from Mrs. Kit Carmichael. Iwas too old a friend of Carmichael's, and could always make her tinglewith curiosity by an artful hint of pre-nuptial reminiscence. Besideswhich, she herself was too much in my power. Distinctly, I had a rightto rebuke her. I leaned back, and questioned her with forensic severity.
"Mrs. Carmichael," I said, "you are young, but that is no excuse foringratitude. Five years ago my advice was not superfluous. Whoseexperience was it selected you this little house, when Kit's mind wastoo full of love to distinguish such details as sanitary arrangements?"
"I believe you gave some advice on the subject, Mr. Butterfield," sheretorted, "and we had workmen about the place for six months."
I waived the thanklessness of the last phrase, and continued withdignity.
"Who put you through an exhaustive course of salads, Mrs. Carmichael?"
"Well, you _were_ rather useful in the matter of salads," she admittedreluctantly.
"Who gave you lessons in the refinements of black coffee?" I continued,warming in a righteous cause.
"My coffee was not bad," Mrs. Kit returned, on her defence.
I magnanimously put aside criticism of her coffee, and went on with awave of my hand.
"To whom did you come for counsel on distemper and wall decoration andtapestry hanging? Who told you to cast on at the bottom in mendingstocking knees? Who explained to you the principle of the chimneydraught, the law of ventilation, and the mechanics of the picture-cord?Answer me, Mrs. Carmichael."
She combed Master Chris's hair vigorously and made no response. I sawthe victory of a just rebuke within my grasp. I made one more thrust.
"And, finally, Mrs. Carmichael, have you made the treacle puffs youpromised for my next visit?"
She yielded.
"Oh, I am _so_ sorry, Mr. Butterfield, but they were a failure. I putthem into the oven, and all the treacle ran, and made, oh, such a mess!"
I leaned back with the magnanimity of a conqueror, and in that momentlost the battle. Carrie stood in the doorway.
"Treacle puffs, Rollo!" she said. "Of course they run if you forget thebread crumbs. I told you that!"
I was betrayed by her I called sister! A light came into Mrs. Kit'seyes.
"Did _you_ give him those recipes, Carrie?" she asked.
"Of _course_ I did, Alice, and told him to be _sure_ to tell you aboutthe bread crumbs. And he _didn't_! Oh, Rollo"--she turned to me--"andyou asked me if they would be sure to run _without_ the bread crumbs!"
I was lost. Mrs. Carmichael rose, and put aside the brush and comb.
"So, Mr. Butterfield," she said. "I begin to see. You laid a trap forme. You got Caroline to coach you in things before coming to see me, andedited the recipes! Let me remember. You told me, did you not, thatbrown sugar improved poached eggs?"
"Mrs. Carmichael----" I began. She silenced me with a gesture.
"You advised me, did you not, that maccaroni should be kept in a darkplace for fear it should sprout?"
"That, Mrs. Carmichael, was on the authority of the _Times_. Yousurely----"
Again the peremptory finger reduced me to dumbness.
/> "And you stepped in after all my blunders, and airily set me right! Mr.Butterfield, you are an unspeakable deception!"
That was my thanks. Carrie and I might conspire to do good by stealth--Imight go out of my way to gather hints on pastry--and because, forsooth,this woman's execution was not equal to the brilliance of the idea, Iwas to be branded as a fraud! The brown sugar was an original notion;and if, forsooth, like the _Great Eastern_, it turned out unmanageablein practice, that did not detract from the boldness of the conception.Women are so conservative; they lack the true inventor's spirit.
I looked helplessly round the room. I was overpowered at the ease withwhich people will impute to one a base motive rather than go out of thebeaten track to find a good one. How they give themselves away!
I turned and apostrophised Master Christopher.
"My poor, unwitting little boy! For you, too, the time shall come wheningratitude shall be your portion. You are a bachelor yourself--youdrink cinder-tea, but the day shall arrive when you shall be told youknow less about it than the hand that pours it out. Play while you can.Your least word is heeded now; but afterwards you shall cry wisdom inthe nursery and shall not be regarded."
Chris saw somehow that he was the subject of remark, and now, trimlytoileted and elaborately combed, was ready for a story grim in giant andspiced with goblin. His mother, laughing at my apostrophe, made a chubbyfleshy fold in the childish cheek that was pressed against her own, andlooked at me in a way that admitted my capacity in fairy lore, if itdiscounted my more practical qualifications.
"Now, Chris," she said, "Mr. Butterfield is going to tell you just ashort story, and I'm going to receive my callers. Don't be long, Mr.Butterfield. Come, Caroline."
She vanished, and I entered the magic land of giants.