The Worn Doorstep

BY

MARGARET SHERWOOD

BOSTON
LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY
1917

Copyright, 1916,
By Little, Brown, and Company.

All rights reserved

Published, September, 1916
Reprinted, October, 1916
November, 1916 (five times)
December, 1916 (five times)
February, 1917

Printers
S. J. Parkhill & Co., Boston, U.S.A.

THE WORN DOORSTEP

August 25, 1914. At last I have found the very place for our housekeeping; I have been searching for days: did you know it, dear? The quest that we began together I had to follow after you went to the front; and, through the crashes of tragic rumours that have rolled through England, I have gone on and on, not running away or trying to escape, but full of need to find the right corner, the right wall against which I could put my back and stand to face these great oncoming troubles. I have travelled by slow trains across quiet country which does not as yet know there is war; I have driven in an old-fashioned stage or post wagon,—you never told me that there were such things left in your country,—past yellow harvest fields in calm August weather; I have even walked for miles by green hedgerows, which wear here and there a belated blossom, searching for that village of our dreams where our home should be, quiet enough for the work of the scholar, green for two lovers of the country, and grey with the touch of time. I knew that now it could be almost anywhere; that it did not matter if it were not near Oxford, and it seemed to me that I should rather have it a bit—but not too far—away from the "dreaming spires." So I went on and on, with just one thought in my mind, because I was determined to carry out our plan to the full, and because I did not dare stay still. There's a great strange pain in my head when I am quiet, as if all the mountains of the earth were pressing down on it, and I have to go somewhere, slip out from under them before they crush me quite.

Often, at a distance, I thought that I had found it; thatched roofs or red tiles, or a lovely old Norman church tower would make me sure that my search was done; but again and again I found myself mistaken, I can hardly tell you why. You know without telling, as you must know all I am writing before I make the letters, and yet it eases my mind to write. At no time did you seem very far as I searched hill country and level lands, watching haystacks and flocks of sheep, sometimes through sunny showers of English rain.

But now I have discovered our village, the very one that I dreamed in childhood, that you and I pictured together, and I know that at last I have come home. I knew it by the rooks, for I arrived late in the afternoon, and the rooks were flying homeward to the great elms by the church,—groups of them, here, there, and everywhere, black against the sunset. Such a chattering and gossiping, as they went to bed in the treetops! Such joy of home and bedtime! I knew it by the grey church tower in its shelter of green leaves, and the ancient little stone church on the top of the gentle hill among its old, old, lichen-covered tombstones.

The village homes, in a straggling row, looked half familiar; the grassy meadow that rolls to the village edge, still more so; and the quaint old Inn, where I spent the night and where I am writing—surely some of my ancestors, centuries ago, slept at that very Inn, for I half remember it all,—low ceilings, latticed windows, stone floor, and great, smothering feather bed. Everywhere, indoors and out, I am aware of forgotten chords of sympathy. Those small boys in short trousers, trudging home on tired legs and little bare feet—"did I pass that way a long time ago?" Did some one back of me in the march of life—my ancestors came from this East country—grow tired and rebel in a village like this and run away to America? In some way, by memory, by prophecy, all seems mine; the worn paths; the hollowed door-stones; the ruddy faces moving up and down the walled streets, and the quiet under the grass in the churchyard. And you are everywhere, interpreting, making me understand, with that insight compounded of silent humour and silent sympathy. I am too tired to do anything to-night but have my tea and bit of toast and egg, and warm my fingers at the open fire, for the evening is chill; but to-morrow I shall go searching for our house, and I know I shall find it, for I have a curious sense that this is not only the place for my home with you, but that some far, far back sense of home broods here.

The grey war-cloud drifts closer and grows darker. Namur has fallen into German hands; there are rumours—God grant that they are not true!—that the French and the English troops are retreating. In spite of the entire confidence of the people here in their island security, there is fear in my heart for England, this England which seems so remote from cruel struggle, as if created in some moment of Nature's relenting, when she was almost ready to take back her fell purpose,—it is so full of fragrances, of soft colours of flowers, of softer green of hedgerows and meadows. There is something in you, you Englishmen of finer type, shaped by this beauty, quiet and self-contained, of hill and dale and meadow. Surely in you too I know this quietness, this coolness, the still ways of the streams.

August 26. Past the grey church, and down the hill, at the edge of the great green meadow, and a bit apart from the village, I found our house, with its wooden shutters and its white front door closed, a quaint old brick cottage, waiting for life to come to it again. It has a brick front walk, and a brick wall stands about it, save at the back, where the stream that skirts the meadow flows at the very garden edge. Can you see it, the wistaria, the woodbine, the honeysuckle over the wee porch, the climbing, drooping, straggling vines that make the whole little house look oddly like a Skye terrier? It is all unkempt; grass grows in tufts between the bricks, and weeds in the neglected grass. The chimney needs repairing; some of the little diamond panes in the latticed windows are broken, alas! I did not venture inside the wrought-iron gate, for the encompassing veneration for property rights is strong upon me; not in the British Isles shall I be caught trespassing! Can you not imagine, as I can, how a dainty order, satisfying even your fastidious taste, could grow out of its present desolation, with a little weeding here, a little trimming there, a nail, a bit of board, a few bricks,—surely we could find a few old weathered ones to match. There must be touches of the new, but careful preservation of all the old, of all the eloquent worn edges that tell of the coming and going of past life.

Something—anything—to keep away the thoughts I refuse to harbour. I can not, I can not even yet, think of the misery of this war. It beats in my ears, like great hard waves; it clangs and clamours, strikes, comes in imagined horrible shrill whistles and great explosions. There is nothing in me that understands war; new tracks will have to be beaten out in my brain before I can grasp any of it. It is a vast, unmeasured pain beyond my own pain.

I have got to have a place of my own in which to face them both, for a little while, a little while, where I may stand and think,—perhaps even pray.

No one was about, except a shaggy pony, grazing in the rich green meadow, with a rough lock of hair over his eyes. I find a little stone bridge across the stream and try to make his acquaintance. He lifts his head and looks at me through his forelock, seems to respond with cordiality to my overtures, whinnies, and even takes a step or two toward me as I draw near; then, when I can almost touch him, gives a queer little toss of his head, kicks up his heels, and dashes off to a rise of ground, where he stands with a triumphant air, his legs planted wide apart, seeming to say: "Such be forever the fate of those who try to catch and harness me!" Then he falls to grazing again, keeping one eye out to see whether I am coming near.

Presently came an old man with a rake, and I made some inquiries about the house, but the haymaker's dialect was as hard for me to understand as mine was for him. I learned only that the little 'ouse belonged to the 'All; that it had been occupied by one of the functionaries at the 'All;—it will be good for you, you Englishman, to live in a little house once inhabited by an unimportant person, good for you to forget caste and class and bend a bit, if need be, at your own front door! Like yourself, young Master went with the first adventurers to the war, the old man said, and the 'All was closed. And he added, with significant gestures with his rake, what he would do to "they Germans", if he once got hold of them. I judged, by the red satisfaction in his face, that the wooden rake in a shaking old hand constituted for him a vision of "preparedness for war."

So there it stands, on the edge of a great estate that sweeps out to eastward; low-lying lines of green in the west mean forest, and that soft look of sky and cloud in the east means the sea. It is absolutely the place for which we looked so long and will satisfy the home sense, so strong in both of us. I wonder at my good fortune in finding it, as I carried on the search alone, and I refuse to entertain the idea that I may not have it for my own. The roof droops low over the windows; there is a tall poplar by the wrought-iron gateway; the brick wall, vine-covered in places, will shut us away from all the world, belovèd. Within we shall plant our garden, and light our fire on the hearth, and live our life together, you and I, just you and I.

August 27. But can I get it? I am in a prolonged state of suspense. Nobody in the village seems to know anything, but everybody is of firm conviction that somebody higher up knows everything, and that all is well. I appealed to my landlady; she very pleasantly informed me with an air of great wisdom that it might be I could 'ave it, it might be I couldn't; nobody could say. No, she could not tell me to whom to apply, with the 'All closed, as it was, 'm, and the Squire away. Standing—there was barely standing-place—in her own over-furnished sitting room, filled to its low ceiling with bric-a-brac, whatnots with unshapely vases, tall glass cases with artificial flowers or alabaster vases under them, porcelain figures,—one a genuine purple cow,—she seemed, as many a more imposing person on this side of the water and the other seems, a victim of property.

"An' I do 'ave difficulty, Miss, in gettin' about," she said, as her apron knocked a Dresden china shepherdess and a Spanish guitar player off an over-crowded table; "but I don't quite know what to do about it."

"A broom!" I suggested.

"Broom? Oh, it's nicely swept, and everything dusted regularly once a week, 'm," she assured me. Oh, for one German bomb!

Luncheon time, and no solution of my problem; a futile visit to the postmistress, who informed me that I should have to wait until the war was over, and Master came home to the Hall. I was meditating an inquiry at the vicarage, though that involved more audacity than I can easily summon, when my landlord came riding home on a big bony steed and had a conference with his wife in the kitchen. He, it seems, is temporarily agent for the property; he has the keys to the little red house and to my future destiny. I try hard to think what will be pleasing to so huge and so important a personage, as I walk down the village street at his side, two steps to his one. An unfortunate conjecture about the retreat of the British brings forth the emphatic statement that the British never retreat. With a train of thought of which I am, at the time, unconscious, I tell him that I am an American; he listens indifferently. I tell him that my uncle is at the head of an important New York banking house; he at once becomes responsive and respectful. We go through the little iron gate and up the brick walk; out of a vast pocket he takes an old wrought-iron key and unlocks the white front door.

As we entered, I had a curious sense that you were inside; I never draw near a closed door without a feeling that it may open on your face. Instead, there was only the blankness and the empty odour of a house long closed, and yet it seemed hospitable, as if glad to have me come. I examined every inch of it, peered into each corner, and explored every nook and cranny. It is just as it should be, with low ceilings, old brown rafters, and brick fireplaces,—the one in the kitchen has a crane. The little dining room is panelled, the living room wainscoted; I like the dull old oak woodwork and the solidity of everything, which seems to belong to an elder, stable order, not to this earth-quakey world of to-day. The living room, facing the south, and thus the meadow and the brook, is sunny, but not over-light, with its window seats and casement windows, diamond-paned. The stairs are narrow and a bit cramped, but my landlord of the Inn gives me permission—ah, I forgot to say that he tells me I may have the house and grounds for fifty pounds a year; fifty pounds for all this and a running stream too!—permission to make a few changes which I hesitatingly suggested, and for which I shall pay, as the rent is low. There must be a bathroom—perhaps water can be piped from the stream; a partition is to be knocked down, and the stairs will then go up from the living room, not in the little box wherein they are at present enclosed. Where can I find an old stair rail and newel post suitable for the old house? Mine host will himself attend to the roof and the chimneys; and he says that there are some discarded diamond-paned windows lying in an outhouse at the Inn, from which glass may be taken to replace those that are broken, if any one can be found to set it properly.

He was amused that I wanted them, amused by my pleasure in the old and quaint. If he had his way, large new panes of glass should go into all windows wheresoever; he would like everything shiny and varnishy. Naturally I did not confess, when he apologized for the lack of this and that, that I was glad of the inconveniences, glad of relief from the mechanical and tinkling comforts of our modern life; he would never understand! To speak of an old-fashioned American would be to him a contradiction in terms; yet in some ways we are one of the most conservative people on earth, holding certain old ways of thought most tenaciously. It is only our muscles that are modern! I am very like a Pilgrim mother in my convictions of right and wrong.

There is some deep reason why many Americans care so profoundly for old buildings, old furnishings, old habits which we find here; they typify inner characteristics which we must not forget in a young land where changes come too swiftly. There is a steadfastness about it all; these old stone houses wear a look as if they had been built for something more immutable than human life. Never as in these recent wanderings have I had this sense of England, innermost England, of that enduring beauty of spirit best expressed in Westminster and the old Gothic churches; that England of ancient faiths and old reverences. Delicate carving and soft tinted glass bear witness to the richness of inherited spiritual life and make visible the soul of a people grown fine, old, and wise. Old shields, grey with hoary dust, still hang on the tombs of those who have fought and conquered, or have been defeated; a sense of old sacredness lingers at Oxford's heart,—and yours. There is something here which not all the sins and shortcomings and decadences of contemporary life can change; not the luxury and the selfishness of titled folk whose high glass-guarded walls shut miles of green land away from common people; not the mistakes—and they are many—of the government. Back of all this, and beyond, is a something which means keeping, as no other nation keeps, the old and sacred fire, safeguarding civilization from the over-new, the merely efficient, the unremembering.

My new abode is lowly and cozy, with a fine simplicity in the antique furniture, carved chest, and plain chairs. The fundamental things are here; you should see the walnut table in the living room, with its deep glow of red-brown colour. There must be some new things, of course, fresh chintzes, linen, kitchen utensils, but for the most part only oil and turpentine and a pair of good red sturdy English arms are needed to remove a certain dinginess.

So I've a home of my own, though earth crashes and kingdoms fall and a comet strikes against us and puts us out. For a little I have a fortified spot wherein to defy the worst that time can do. I am a householder, on my own plot of ground, crossing and re-crossing my own threshold; and the big wrought-iron key is in my hand. There are ashes still upon the hearth,—from whose fire? New flame shall go up from the old grey ashes,—the central spark of home shall be rekindled here; and that is the whole story of human life.

How fortunate, and how unusual, in so small a house, that the hall leads all the way through from green to green! We shall get all the breezes that blow, for the house faces the west, as all houses should face; and always and forever we shall hear the stream. There's a step there at the back, down to the garden walk, that you must remember, you who are so absent-minded.

—I keep forgetting that you are dead.

September 6. I have been away for a week, a week in which I have not dared leave one moment unoccupied. To keep my sanity, I must be busy all the time; life cannot be cut short in this way. When great forces have begun to stir within you, like the gathering of all waters far and near, you cannot safely stop them all at once; I must have, in the weeks to come, some outlet for this surging energy.

London is quiet, and awful with the self-control of great tension. The war-terror mounts, though few speak of it; the Germans have crossed the Marne; the French government has moved to Bordeaux, and all the world seems tottering. Back in my charmed village, I wait and listen. They would not take me at the front; did you know that, the day after you left, I made an attempt to follow? No training, and physically unfit, was the verdict. I thought that I could perhaps prove to you in act that of which I could not convince you by argument in our dispute the day we walked to Godstow,—that women have the kind of courage possessed by men.

I live at the Inn during these days while my house is being put in order. A glazier has been found who can re-set the old diamond panes; carpenter and plumber are hard at work. The hideous wall-papers in the chambers have been scraped off; they were so ugly that they actually hurt. You always told me, you remember, that I minded too much the things that make for ugliness, that my eye was too sensitive to evil-coloured and unshapely things, and that I must live more in the world of thought. The contrast between these, in their wicked purples and magentas, and the wonderful cottage itself with its dim beauty of old brick and dusky panelling, makes one wonder at the potential depravity of the heart of modern man or woman! There's a shop in London,—I was going to take you there,—where they have reproductions of quaint old papers, the kind made a hundred years ago, with little landscapes, and sheep and shepherds, and odd flower designs. I chose three of these, and they are going on at this minute; I must go to see that they piece the two bits of the shepherdess together neatly and do not leave her head and her beribboned hat dangling several inches above her embroidered bodice. It is a relief to escape from the purple cow and the hundred and one china abominations in this sitting room.

My landlady, fingering her black alpaca dress apron, assures me as I go, that the best of news, 'm, has come from the front; that the Germans are in full retreat, and the French and the British are nearing Berlin! If only this insular confidence that for Britons there is no defeat be not too rudely broken!

Don went with me; I went to Oxford to get him during my week away. I am so glad, so very glad that you let me have him when you went to war. He potters along behind me or runs ahead, with all his questing little fox-terrier soul in his eyes, sure, like myself, that around some corner, or on some blessed rise of ground, we shall meet you. At each fresh disappointment he turns to me with that look of perfect trust in his eyes that I, some day when it seems fit, will give you back to him. Within five minutes, at his first visit to the little red house, he had sniffed every corner, and he dropped with a deep sigh of content on the warm brick walk, knowing the place for his own.

The cloistered Oxford gardens, with their incredibly smooth grass, were unchanged, but the immemorial quiet is broken. Your Oxford is a new Oxford, awake, struggling, suffering, nursing the wounded, while the noblest of her sons follow you to the war. Thinking of all these things as I walk, I decide not to go to the house, after all; there is a sound of hammering and an air of disquiet. I cross the little stone bridge and follow the stream; this, like the pony, is a new neighbour with which I must become acquainted, and it proves more friendly than that other. There is a touch of September gold everywhere, of autumn perfectness in things, that belies wrong anywhere upon the earth. And all the old days float down the stream; something, the way of the water with the grasses, the ripple of the water, brings back May, and my first English spring, and you.

Do you remember that my very first glimpse of you was at the Union? You were debating, very convincingly, on the subject of disarmament, and proved the possibility, the practicability, of peace among nations. I was idly interested in you; Gladys had whispered that you were one of her friends. That night,—but never again,—you were just one of a type to me, with the fine, lean, English look of race, the fine self-control of every nerve and emotion and muscle. I noticed that you were already beginning to have a touch of the scholar stoop, and that you were a shade, just a shade, too slender. It was quite a surprise, and something of a blow to me, to find you English men not, on the whole, so stalwart as the men in America. All our lives we have read of the hale and hearty John Bull, yet our first glimpse of you makes us think that John Bull and Uncle Sam will have to change places in the caricatures if this transformation keeps on.

The hardest thing in the world for me to understand is that the great things of life may hang on mere trifles. If I had not, acting on a moment's impulse, promised to go into lodgings with Gladys in Oxford because she would go there to study Celtic, Icelandic, and Greek, I should never have known you, never have walked with you in glory through an English spring, never have picked crocuses in Iffley meadows and anemones in Bagley wood, never have known that green rippling beauty of Oxford stream and meadow and the piercing joy of life and love that came with you. And now——

The vastness of my loss I can not even grasp; my world is swept away from under my feet, and I am alone, with nothing to stand on, nothing to reach in space. Dying myself could hardly mean such utter letting go; I am aware only of a great blankness. I have not even tried to measure my disaster, to understand. I shall have all the rest of my life to learn to understand; I come of a long-lived race.

That which comes more often than my sense of loss is the sense of my part in letting you go, making you go! You remember that August afternoon when we drifted down the river, for you even forgot to row; the trailing willow branches ruffled our hair and gently took off my hat. It was a lazy, sunshiny, misty afternoon, such a happy afternoon, except for the war-cloud beyond the peace and the exquisite grey and green calm of Oxford. You were wondering, idly enough, about war; how was it to be justified? What right had England, with her love of peaceful enlightenment, to take this swift plunge into the awful horror? And you went, my Lord Hamlet, with that deepening look which showed a soul drawn far within, into a long philosophic discussion as to whether war is ever justifiable; no one could adjust philosophic niceties of thought better than you. Could a man of ethical conviction, without outrage to his better self, go into that barbaric hell? All the time that your intellect was balancing, weighing, and deciding "no!" old impulses were stirring, old heroic fingers were tugging from their graves, old simple-minded forebears were alive and awake, impelling you.

The green, lovely banks grew dim; the shadows lengthened across the rippling water, and sunset flushed the western sky beyond the overhanging branches, while you fought it out. When you turned and asked me squarely, what could I say? It had seemed so piteously, cruelly simple to me from the first, so simple and so great! Of course, I come of the practical American race. Back of me lie generations of ancestors who have had to act and act quickly without exhausting the ultimate possibilities of thought on any subject. I do not mean that they have done unjustifiable things, but that they have had to take life at the quick. When the Indian brandished his tomahawk inside the door at the baby in the cradle, some one had to shoot and shoot instantly, without stopping to ask any authority whether shooting was wrong. That actually happened in my family; it was a little great-great-great-great-great-grandmother of mine. Her Pilgrim father was quite right. Even if his mind told him that it was wrong, which I judge was not the case, there was something in him deeper down and farther back than mere intellect; he did the right thing and did it instinctively, Lord Hamlet. Of course, in reality, his intellectual problem had been settled when he loaded his gun.

All life is transition, and always has been. As I understand it, with one's ancestor one has to load one's gun with one hand, while reaching forward with the other to one's descendant for the pipe of peace. One has to keep collected, centered, ready to do one's utmost in any need; the luxury of the last shade of reasoning is denied us as yet: our task is not to fail at the crisis.

What could I say, when you asked me, except the cruelly hard thing which I did say? Back of me, as back of you, lie the same fighting, plucky ancestors. The same heroic impulses that stirred their dust stir mine, and yours,—alas that it has but feminine dust to stir in me! To me, as to you, there is but one answer in the world to a question like that. There had never been any real doubt in my mind as to what you would do; I think that there had never been any real doubt in your own mind. In the great moments, life seems neither right nor wrong, but something greater; it seems inevitable.

Poor Belgium and the baby in the cradle come back to my mind together, the highly "efficient" tomahawk replaced by the highly "efficient" siege guns. But even apart from the high justice of this issue, England was in trouble, England was fighting. What was there for you to do but help? I said only the one word "go," and even now I can recall the stillness and the wash of the ripples against our boat and through the grasses. The silence of perfect beauty rested on sky and tree and water, and the river no longer seemed a little inland stream flowing softly through grassy meadows with retarding locks, but a flowing passageway to some great sea.

The days that followed I count off on my fingers as one counts a rosary; there were not many, not so many as our prayers. Such little scraps of them, mere fragments, come to me, shining fragments which I treasure and shall always treasure like bits of priceless jewels: in all my mental store there is nothing quite so precious. I was busy every minute, trying to console your mother and your sister, who thought you ought not to go; trying to make them see. It is as if the sun were still illuminating those days, making them forever radiant. It seemed enough to live, to try, to give one's all, not knowing; it was not hard then; nothing could be hard in moments of exaltation like those.

They were full too of homely toil; such queer things we had to do in getting you ready, dear. Of course you were not a trained soldier; how to become a trained soldier in a week of short days is a harder problem than many a one in philosophy. When you decided that you would be a despatch bearer and join the motorcycle brigade, because thus you could go to the front sooner, I am proud that I did not say one word of protest, though I knew that it was the most dangerous task of all. Being a despatch bearer seemed a fitting service for an intellectual leader.

How we laughed as you practised riding! Lord Hamlet on a motorcycle, with no time for thought, no time for scruple! How we searched out rough bits of road and watched you try to cross a newly-mown meadow, where late poppies, I remember, were blossoming in the stubble. Once you struck a stone and fell, and your mother amazed you by crying out. I laughed and horrified her; but I kissed its handles before you went. The motorcycle had been to me the most hateful of modern inventions, inexcusable, unmentionable. And here it became a symbol of dauntless courage and highest service; beyond the bravery necessary for a charge in battle is the bravery needed here; this evil, roaring, puffing thing might turn into the chariot that would carry you over the borders of the sun.

That one brief hour that we found to steal away to Bagley wood lingers yet. The anemones were gone, but all about was the soft midsummer murmur, and the ripe fulness of August life. What practical things we talked about! I think that we sent you out fitted up as well as any German soldier of them all. Who, in the Kaiser's army, had a more complete or smaller sewing kit? Who had thread wound off on very diminutive bits of cardboard to save the space that spools would take,—white linen and black linen and khaki coloured, all very strong? What Teuton could challenge you on the score of buttons? It was good, it was very good, in your mother to let me help.

You thought I never wavered; when you were doubting, I was sure; when you were sure,—you never knew that I wrote you a note that last night and took back my decision, saying that thinkers had their own separate task, and that you should stay. I burned it…. I would not have you back, dear, if it meant giving up that inmost you I knew in those glorified few days. You have fulfilled yourself.

September 15. Who is going to keep house for me—that is the problem? Somebody there must be to cook and clean and polish; a staff composed of one British female is what I need, for I can do many, very many things myself.

Mine host and my landlady took counsel; I let them do a great deal of thinking for me, for their minds are rusty from disuse; you can actually hear a kind of creaking when they try to make them go. They finally decided that I was to drive in a pony cart to a village off to eastward, to consult Madge and Peter Snell, man and wife, both from a different part of the country, lately employed at the Hall as under-cook and gardener, now out of work because the Hall is closed. I readily agreed; yes, I was used to driving, and the directions—first turn at the left, then a bit of road and a turn at the right, 'm, and then a long stretch across a dike to a stone bridge and a stream and a village spire—seemed clear enough.

But when my equipage is drawn up at the Inn door, whom do I see but my wayward friend of the meadow, harnessed to an absurd little basket-cart as diminutive as he. I am delighted to see him; is the pleasure mutual? He gives me one look out of his eyes that seems to say he will be even with me yet; Don leaps to a place of honour in the cart, and we go flying down the village street with sparks flashing from the iron-shod little hoofs. Drive? Yes, I am accustomed to driving horses, but not Pucks, not changelings; I never, never drove a mischievous kitten fastened to a baby carriage! And that little "trap" was a trap indeed! What breed my pony is, as mortals reckon things, I do not know; he is too big for a Shetland, too little for a horse; perhaps he is an Exmoor pony, or the product of some northern heath. We go gaily to the left, somewhat perilously near a corner at the right, and we are out racing over a long dike built across what was once a low-lying sea-meadow. Don looks up at me with vast enjoyment in his eyes, and that little quiver of the face that means a fox-terrier smile.

About half-way across we come to a gate; there is nothing to do but for me to get out to open it, and this I do. Swift as a flash, my Puck whirls about and goes dashing for home; holding tightly to the reins, I run also, laughing as I have not laughed for days. Don, with his paws on the edge of the cart, barks furiously. Pulling and dragging with all my might, at length I stop the pony. The little wretch looks at me almost respectfully as I turn him about, and he trots meekly back; he was only trying me out, to see of what stuff I was made. He stood as firmly as the Tower of London as I shut the gate and climbed into the cart. Then came the stream and the stone bridge and the village spire; and a row of small garden plots with yellow, late summer things blossoming in them, and Madge and Peter standing by a garden gate.

I knew at first glance that they must both come; now that I think of it, I have quite a garden, though it will seem little to one who has worked at the 'All; there are always heavy things to be done about the kitchen, and Peter knows more than he will admit about the drudgery necessary to sustain human life. Peter, it seems, has been a soldier, has served in the South African war, and is a time-expired man who has beaten his sword into a ploughshare,—or is it a pruning hook? But none of his accomplishments is my real reason; the half-belligerent affection on the face of husband and wife shows me that they should not be separated.

Madge, the look of anxiety already lifting from her smooth and comely face,—one sees that look here in many of the unemployed,—looks questioningly at Peter when I extend my invitation. I assure him that I need a man to look after the garden and the pony; at this Puck pricks up his ears and gives me a half glance. Yes, I have decided to have him, if I may, for my very own. There is a remote something in Peter's gait and bearing that suggests the soldier, but it is the soldier whose long leisure re-acts against the discipline.

"But perhaps you were thinking of going to the war?" I ask.

"No, Miss," said Peter, "I weren't."

He spoke so emphatically that I may have raised my eyebrows; perhaps I shook my head. I shall be afraid of borrowing unconsciously some of the pony's gestures; these strong personalities always leave their impress.

"War," said Peter firmly, "is against my principles. I am a socialist."

"It's a fine way to keep from serving King and Country, being a socialist," said Madge unkindly. Madge is evidently not progressive.

"My fellow man," said Peter, striking the gate post with a heavy fist, "is more to me than King or 'Ouse of Lords."

"Or fellow woman, either," murmured Madge, thinking that I did not hear.

From these advanced radical theories Madge and I turn back, as women will, to the old and homely needs of human life. She fingers her apron.

"I'm sure, Miss, if the laundry could be put out——"

"Yes."

"And a charwoman for the rough scrubbing——"

"Yes."

"And if you wouldn't mind me knowing little about waiting at table——"

"With but one person in the family, that isn't very complex," I say reassuringly. Don looks reproachfully at me; was I forgetting him?

I watched Don to see how he would take them; his manner was perfection,—polite but distant, refusing any intimate advances, but refraining from growling. There was a certain approving condescension in his air, as if he thought they were quite well in their way. He never for a moment forgets that he is a gentleman's dog, and his flair for social distinctions is as fine as that of any of his fellow Oxford dons. That delicate snobbery showed to-day in his air of connoisseurship while he weighed the matter with daintily snuffing nose and then assumed an air of invitation to these two to come and keep their place.

I was delighted when they said that they would come, and we trotted merrily home to the shining companionship of the hearth fire, flickering on pewter pots and copper pans as on my landlady's red cheeks; to the comfort—ah, that I, a twentieth-century American, dare confess it—of a feather bed!

September 29. Here I live in mine own hired house, like the gentleman in the Bible,—who was it,—Paul? I hope only that he had one half the sense of entire possession that is mine. I look at Madge and Peter, busy in kitchen and garden, at Don, guarding the little iron gate, at the pony grazing beyond the stream, and I feel like a feudal lord. Especially do I feel so when we rout out the utensils in the kitchen,—knives, forks, skillets. Some of them surely antedate the feudal era; they were probably left by the cave men; their prehistoric shape, in its ancient British clumsiness, looks as if it might have archæological, if not practical, value. I shall use them for gardening; the forks will be a great help in wrestling with mother earth.

Wrestle I do, indoors and out; I dare not be idle, and besides, I like to do these things. The Vicar's lady, passing, is shocked to see me scraping the putty off of my new-old diamond-paned windows; but somebody had to get it off; Madge couldn't, so why not I? Madge watches me working about, torn between her old attitude of maid at the Hall, with its fixed ideas as to what the gentry should do, and a something new that is slowly creeping into her mind. Throughout England, I am told, the gentry are doing things they used not to do,—for economy, for possible service to the country in its day of need. And it is slowly dawning on us all that its need is great. The Germans have been halted on the Marne, and we breathe more easily, but it is rumoured that they have brought their great siege guns up to Antwerp, and the poor Belgians are flocking over here in hordes.

Madge, as she sees me toiling over my chintz curtains, and sees the bothersome things come down to my undoing, wants to know why I wished to come, quite by myself; why I didn't take lodgings somewhere,—it would be far less trouble. She doesn't understand in the least when I tell her that I cannot endure the irrelevance of lodgings, the antimacassars, the hideous bric-a-brac, the rooms packed full of horrors, where I cannot collect my mind. A home of your own is worth while, if only to keep it bare of human clutter; bad pictures intimidate me; ugly upholstery defeats my soul. Of provincial England I could say, if it weren't profane, all thy tidies and thy ugly reps have gone over me. The publicity of hotel or boarding house I cannot endure, nor the kind of tissue-paper life that one must live there. Not among gilt cornices but beside meadows and running waters I choose my lot. Your relatives are kindness itself in inviting me to stay with them, but just now I cannot bear kindness; I want people to be as cruel as God! Was I not lonely enough, after my own family had vanished into the silence; why did you come into my life only to leave me more alone?

This is my apologia pro domicilio meo, but why, after all, should I need to explain a longing for my own rooftree, my own hearth, my own pathway leading to my own front door? I must have come into the world with a belief that for every woman born was intended a little nook or corner or cranny of her own. So here is mine, a quarter of a mile from the village, not many miles from the sea, seventy odd miles from London, and how far from that heaven where you are? Can you tell me the way and the length of the road? Sometimes it seems set on the very edge of eternity, and I keep expecting to see stray cherubim, seraphim, and angels stop to ask the rest of the way.

I haven't begun on the garden; in a way I haven't let myself see it, there has been so much to do in the house; but, if you will believe it, and of course you will, being an Englishman, a plum tree and a pear tree are espaliered on the sunny southern wall of the house, branching out a bit over one of the windows. There are two apple trees, a clump of holly, ferns in a corner, rosebushes, and climbing roses. I shall not know all the colours until next summer, though some of them bloom late; I have discovered white ones, and pale yellow, and one of a deep and lovely red. The garden is neglected, weedy, and grass-grown, but I find hollyhocks, foxglove, larkspur, and a forgotten violet bed. A small kitchen garden borders my lady's garden, and Peter shall till this. Don walks up and down the paths with a step so exactly fitted to your old pace in the college gardens that I feel always a little shock of surprise in not seeing you, as of old, just ahead.

Scraps of conversation drift to me from Madge and Peter when they happen to work together; upon the invincibility of the British they agree, and upon the fact that no foe will ever dare set foot upon the British isles, but in matters of social opinion they are hopelessly at variance. Madge is a conservative, standing staunchly by the Church, the 'All, the 'Ouse of Lords; Peter is an extreme radical, a "hatheist", as he solemnly informed me, eager for anything new in word or thought, and usually misappropriating both. He reads American paper-covered novels, and a touch of transatlantic slang creeps now and then into his conversation, or a queer abstract phrase from some socialist lecturer whom he doesn't understand but accepts entire. Many a bit of stubborn debate comes to me through open door or window, as Peter defends his rights as man and scoffs at the social system.

"Wy 'im at the 'All? Wy not me?" was the last I heard.

"You!" said Madge scornfully. "You couldn't even stand up on the floors, they are that shiny and polished."

With the fragrance of ripening fruit, and the warmth of the brick wall about me,—September is September everywhere,—I sit here upon my own threshold, a worn old threshold made wise by the coming and going of life through unnumbered years. There is something comforting about a place where many lives have been lived; the windows have a strange air of wisdom, as if experience itself were looking out. I am tired, physically tired, with all the work, but I am well content with it: are you? All within is nearly finished. Your books, for your mother gave me many of them, are in a set of shelves I had made by the fireplace; my own in a low case that runs all across one side of the room. The window seats have chintz cushions; two easy chairs flank the fireplace; the old walnut table with reading lamp is placed where it can command either the flame of the hearth or the sunset flame: do you like all this, I wonder? In the little dining room a stately armchair stands ready for you always, as befits the master of the house, and your place at table shall be always set, the cover laid. So begins our divine housekeeping, you on your side, I on mine—alas!—of the universe and life and time.

Last night I laid a scarf of yours, which I had been wearing, across your chair; Don sniffed at it and whimpered, then jumped up into the chair and whined piteously. No, do not be afraid! I shall not whine, even if my heart break. I shall come to you smiling, belovèd, and whatever wrinkles are on my face shall not be worn by tears. Everybody is game in England now; I will be game too! There are no cowards among those who go to fight, or those who are left at home: my battlefield lies here. You need not think I am going to mourn in loneliness; I shall not let you go, though you are dead; I am going to live my life in and for you, and every least wish I ever heard you express shall be carried out. After dinner Don and I sat on the rug in front of the fire and talked about you; it is sorry comfort for both of us, but it is all we have. For him, as for me, I think, the sense of you comes more strongly in favoured nooks and corners, by the fire on the hearth, or by the living room windows in the sunshine. He knows you better than anybody else does, except me, and I sometimes feel,—at least, he remembers farther back than I can, and I am envious of him and of every one else who knew you first. He has chosen his permanent abiding-place, for he went close to the right side of the hearth, sat down, wagged his tail beseechingly, and held up one paw as he does when he is begging for things.

So I have closed my little iron gate,—Madge, Peter, Don, and I inside, and all the world shut outside. Perhaps I am moved by the instinct of the hurt animal to go away by itself and hide. It cannot be wrong—now; henceforth I must live in the past; the dropping of the latch will be the signal, and the old days will slip back one by one over the brick wall. I shall establish a blockade; haven't I a right? The pain, at times, is more than I can bear, and every face I see recalls the sight of happy people, the sight of wretched people alike. Safe, with my sorrow, inside these walls; and outside, the surge of great sorrows, anguish, perplexity.

October 8. Of course I take long walks day by day, yet nothing more intensifies my sense of loss, perhaps, because we walked so much together. The country is as green as it was that July day when we stopped and helped the haymakers in the Oxford meadows, and they jeered good-naturedly at our way of raking. I have found relief in watching the harvesting and the gathering of the fruit; looking resolutely at field and stream, centering mind and soul there, my grief softens and grows more kind. Everywhere I see the picturesque and finished charm of English life.

As I climb the hill past the church, the old, old woman who lives in the little house by the lych gate,—the churchyard gate, the gate of the dead,—and sells gingerbread, biscuit, and ginger ale, is putting out her wares. She is so old, so much a part of the other world, she lives so near the edge of this, that I half suspect her, as I catch a glimpse of the green mounds through the rusted wrought-iron bars, of ministering to those we cannot see. None but the English would think of selling gingerbread at heaven's gate! Over the soft gurgle of ale from the stone jars we exchange greetings; she is only another of your daring and delightful incongruities, seen in the gargoyles on your cathedrals, the jokes in your tragedies, and the licensed mischief of your Oxford students on Commemoration Day.

The practical necessities of life take me, perforce, beyond my own domain. I have made the acquaintance of butcher and baker; that of the candlestick maker is still to come. The passing faces of people in the village street, even of farmers stopping at the Inn, I begin to recognize; the latter look little more concerned about the present crisis than do their stout nags. Life goes quietly on here, as it has always done, I fancy; steps are scrubbed, and brasses of knocker and door latch are polished until you can see your face there. Is this encompassing calm mere apathy, or is it conscious strength? In his little shop the sleepy chemist wakens unwillingly to deal out his wares; the sleepy service goes on as of old in the little church. It is grey with dust; perhaps the caretaker does not think it worth while to dust in war-time, yet I doubt whether he knows there is war. In the bakeshop window day by day are displayed the great clumsy loaves of bread with the foolish little loaf tucked on at one side. Why? There's neither rhyme nor reason nor symmetry in it; the force of custom may be wise and may be merely stupid. Here one gets constantly an impression of the overwhelming power of old habit and has a feeling that unless these people are shocked out of some of their ancient ways, disaster will follow. As I collect my wares, I fall to wondering whether either this nation, which worships its past, or we, who worship our future, is wholly right.

If, at times, a doubt intrudes in regard to this British clinging to the past, it is when the door of the one village shop tinkles at my entrance, and I ask in vain for the common necessities which it is supposed to supply. Here are pictures of Queen Victoria and all the royal family, but no tapes, no trustworthy thread, no pins, at least no pins with points. I brought home a paper of these soft little British crowbars, but alas! fingers cannot drive them in; they but crumple if, in desperation, you urge them too vigorously. How can a nation rule the sea; above all, how can it conquer in a mechanical war when it cannot even make decent pins?

My mood softens as I stroll toward home; the glow of the blacksmith's forge fascinates me; there at least is tremendous strength, which is also skill, welding in this most ancient art, blow upon blow, old-fashioned horseshoes, which I am told are the best. Past quaint old doorways my path leads; the sight of these, and of fine old-fashioned faces behind the windowpanes, revives my normal mood of affection. What other people would, in reverence to wishes of those long dead, give out the dole of widows' bread at Westminster, the daily dole at Winchester, or administer the Leicester charity at Warwick in the spirit in which it was meant? What other people would be honest enough to do it? There is a basic honesty here which recalls the old tale of Lincoln and the money he saved for many years, in order to give back the identical coins with which he had been entrusted.

As I enter my own domain, I observe once more that my gate does not latch properly; all this time, when I have found it left open, I have reproached Peter.

"Peter, you did not shut the gate."

"No, Miss," rubbing his forehead with the back of his hand.

"You must be more careful."

"Yes, Miss."

This has happened several times; today I found that no power could make it really latch, and I confided the fact to Peter.

"Yes, Miss, I knew it all along, Miss."

"But why—" there I stopped; I should rather never know why than to try to penetrate the wooden impenetrability of mind of the British serving-man. There are no "whys" in their vocabularies, no "whys" in their minds, only "thus and so." Things are as they are; it has always been so; theirs to stand under the atlas weight of caste and class, prejudice and custom, not theirs to reason why, when they are blamed by their masters for things not their fault; theirs to go on digging, very respectfully digging.

"Peter, will you get some one to fix it, please?"

"Fix it, Miss?" He does not understand Americanese unless he chooses.

"Put it in order." I am quite red and haughty now, and as dignified as Queen Alexandra.

"I'll try, Miss. I expect that was broken a long time ago." Peter half salutes and goes on spading the earth for next year's flowers.

"Peter," I say severely, "the most lamentable thing about you English is that you are always 'expecting' things that have already happened. It's both grammatically and politically wrong to expect things in the past." He has not the slightest idea of my meaning, but of course he assents.

"You were a soldier once, weren't you?"

"Yes, Miss. It's a nasty business."

"Slavery," I venture, "would be worse."

"I can't say, really," answers Peter.

"Sometimes I wonder that you do not volunteer for this war, Peter," I suggest.

Stolid Peter goes on digging.

"There h'isn't any war, Miss!"

"But Peter, what do you mean?"

A fine look of cunning incredulity over-spreads Peter's broad face, as he stops and wipes his forehead, for this October day is warm.

"No, Miss; it is just a scare got up by the 'Ouse of Lords to frighting the common people."

"What for?" I ask stupidly.

"To take their minds off the 'Ouse of Lords; we had threatened their power, 'm, and they wish to keep their seats. It is what you call a roose."

"Peter," I say severely, "day by day we hear through the newspapers of terrible fighting going on all the time; how can you say such a foolish thing?"

"The newspapers, 'm," said Peter, with frightful audacity, "are corrupted, bought by the 'Ouse of Lords. They say what they are hordered to."

"The poor Belgians are pouring into this country," I say in wrath.

"Beg parding, Miss, but I haven't seen a Belgian," answers doubting Peter.

"Day by day we hear of recruits going by hundreds to the recruiting stations——"

"I'm not denying that they may be making up the army, 'm, and that there may be war some day; but that a war is on, I deny, 'm."

So this is what happens when the British lower classes begin to think! There really ought to be some better way of bridging the gulf between their old, automatic habits and the new working of their minds.

"They are carrying soldiers across the Channel by thousands," I say indignantly.

"All bunkum, if you'll kindly excuse the word, Miss. Did Robinson Crusoe really happen? We 'ear of these things going on, but do you know of anybody who has actually been killed, 'm?" asks Peter.

I looked at him, but I could not speak. Where are you lying, dear, in that awful field of death?

October 11. I was pruning and tying up rose vines, by my wrought-iron gate that stands ajar, when I heard a noise,—first, a skurrying of feet, and a shout, then a rush of something small and swift. The tiniest grey kitten imaginable had dashed in through the opening and was trembling in a corner under my rosebush. I picked it up and went quickly to the gate; there was a red-faced urchin waiting, his mouth open, a stone in one hand ready to throw at the kitten if it came out, but shy of entering,—the British respect for a gate! Neither my pleas nor my scolding brought a shade of expression to his face; it was as guileless, as soulless, as a jack-o'-lantern. I give the boy tuppence, and tell him to go away, and to be kind to animals; the kitten curls itself about my neck and purrs, as I work in the earth. Of course I shall keep it; I am glad that the latch will not hold, and I shall not even try to have it repaired. Perhaps my garden may serve as a refuge for small hunted things, suffering things. I might have a ring put on my gate; you remember the ring upon the cathedral door at Durham to which a fugitive could cling? All the village criminals—I wonder who the village criminals are? Probably the ones who look least so!—could cling to it, and Peter could rescue them, and Madge and I could give them tea.

And now to help on the millennium a bit by establishing an intimacy between the refugee kitten and snobbish little Don. In his heart I think he wants to make friends; but when a common kitten, with no pedigree and no Oxford training, spits at him, what is he to do? He looks piteously at me as I bid him be gentle; sniffs in half friendly fashion, and keeps his delicate nose well away from the claws. Meanwhile, how can I teach the kitten noblesse oblige? I shall name it the Atom, because, it being (so much of the time) invisible, like the scientists I am unable to tell whether or not it exists; and because at moments it seems only a "mode of motion."

Not long after came a little squeal, as of a tiny pig; my flower beds! I hurry down; the gate is farther open, and there is a huge baby, a gingerbread baby,—no, it is alive, but it has the shape of gingerbread babies in the shops, and it has the motions of a gingerbread baby,—not a joint in its body; "moving all together if it move at all." Its round blue eyes, its round red mouth look frightened in Don's presence and mine; then, with another little squeal, it flings itself upon Don, who draws away, looks at me inquiringly, with that questioning paw uplifted, shivering a little, all his class-consciousness astir: must he make friends with this?

It is a solid British lump, but friendly beyond belief. In feeling that it would further the entente cordiale between the two peoples, I find myself making a playhouse, with tiny pebbles. The infant Briton is not so phlegmatic, after all; it shouts with delight, flings itself upon my knees, and embraces them so suddenly and so lustily that I nearly fall over…. I must find out its name and send to London for a Teddy bear and some toys. My gate is wide open, ever since Peter started to escort home my uninvited guest….

It proves quite a day for adventure, and yet I have not been beyond my garden wall. As I sit on my threshold to watch the sunset, I see, pausing at that open gate, a tired-looking woman, with her baby in her arms. She starts to move away, but I speak to her, and she enters; at first glance I know that she is neither tramp nor beggar and half divine her errand. Yes, she is a soldier's wife; he is going in a few days to the front, and she is walking a good part of the way from the north of England to his training camp at Salisbury Plain, to let him see and say good-bye to the baby on whom he has never set his eyes; it is only seven weeks old and was born after he volunteered. She had money enough to come only a certain distance by train.

The mother is a north-country woman, with a touch of Scotch about her, clean and sweet, though a bit dusty with the long road. Of course I take her in for the night; we have a wee guest-chamber. Don and the kitten and I try to make friends with the baby, but it merely howls. Madge wanted to keep the travellers in the kitchen, but I would not permit this and said that my soldier's wife must dine with me. I forgot to say, I took it for granted that Madge would know enough to lay another cover at table and was not prepared to see the stranger in your place. Naturally, though I winced, I could not make any change, and there she sat, a bit awed; probably she would have been happier in the kitchen with the baby; but she brightened up and told me some of the border legends, when she found that I already knew some. My desire to take her out of your chair lasted through the soup and half-way through the modest roast; when we reached the salad, there was a hurt sense somewhere within me that it was right. I had become a Christian by the time the dessert came on, and in the afterglow by the fire, while she sang her baby to sleep most enchantingly with an old north-country song, I resolved to do just this: keep your chair for wandering guests, fugitives from these highways and hedges. Your intense present life with me, your subtle nearness needs, after all, no help from outer object or material thing. Alas for my blockade!… Forts are proving useless, the war news says.

It sets me to thinking, and I sit by the fire long after my guests have gone to sleep. After all, it seems a pity to work so hard over a house and to get it ready, unless you get it ready for something. I don't know how it could be managed in a maiden lady's home, but what if I resolved that all the things that should happen in a house should happen here? In my heart of hearts I know, in spite of this blinding sorrow, that I do not want to be shut off from the main streams of human life. They used to tell me that I have a genius for home; suppose I establish this as a wee home in a warring universe for the use of whomsoever? Not a Home with a large H, but a little home, with a dog and a cat and a singing teakettle. The Lord did not make me for great causes,—not for a philanthropist, nor a leader of men, nor a suffragette. I have no understanding of masses of mankind, and so am lost in this era, and hopelessly behind the times. Life seems to me, as it did to my grandfather, primarily as the conscientious fulfilment of individual obligation, which inevitably reaches out to other lives. The troubles of individual men and women and children I used to understand, to try to help; perhaps I can again. Though it means confessing that I belong to a type of woman rapidly becoming extinct, all my life long I have felt that I should be content with a hearthstone and threshold of my own, with natural relationships and real neighbours. If I can understand and pity and try to help, why am I not doing it now, pig that I am? Birth, and death, and marriage, and hours of common life! Ah, if the little red house could only lend itself once more to all human need!

October 15. My Jeannie Deans is gone; she was in such haste that she could hardly wait for her breakfast. I got mine host to drive her to the station, for I shall not let her walk the rest of the way, and I gave her all the money I could find in the house, including all I could extract from Madge's and Peter's pockets, and from Madge's broken teapot. Unfortunately, it was not so much as I could have wished, but it will provide for a few days. Now we haven't ha'pence in the house; so much the better, if the burglar with whom I am threatened by the boding village gossips should call; but I must drive over to Shepperton, the market town, and call at the Outland and County Bank, and get some of those clean, crisp, dainty notes that are a delight to touch.

It seems lonely without Jeannie; Peter has gone away over hill and dale to get fertilizer for my garden; my house is empty, swept, and garnished—I have been dreading the moment when everything would be done. I carry on Madge's education, for I am trying to teach her English history. Yesterday it was William the Conqueror; she did not believe a word of it, but she very politely said: "Just fancy!" Most of these people know so little of their own history that they scorn the idea that anything unfortunate ever happened to England and scoff at a statement that she has ever been worsted in a fight. It has always been as it is, the King on the throne, the Vicar in the pulpit, the Squire at the Hall, and the island secure from all attack. To butcher and baker and candlestick maker in the village, danger or threatened change is inconceivable; England's past defeats sound to them like fairy stories devised by enemies, though they lend a willing ear to the tale of England's triumphs. Going back to ancient times, I told Madge about the Danes and their landing on this coast, about the burning and pillaging done by these wild folk: all that she remarked was: "How awkward!" I could not get her to entertain for a moment the idea, though we are only a few miles from the North Sea, that the enemy could ever land on English shores. "Hengland rules the seas," and that is all there is to it. Antwerp has fallen, but even this does not shake the prevailing sense of security. Antwerp is not England!

In contemporary matters Madge is quite interested; she thinks great scorn of the suffragettes: "Breaking the windows, 'm, and biting Mr. Hasquith, 'm; it's not for ladies to be taking part in public matters; they 'aven't it in them!" I reminded her of Queen Elizabeth, but she had never heard of Queen Elizabeth, and refused to entertain the idea that any such woman had ever ruled England. Even the tale of the Virgin Queen boxing the courtiers' ears she disbelieved with the rest. She admitted Queen Victoria, but said that it was "so different, 'm, and she a mother and a grandmother."

Some of this went on while Madge was doing up the guest room; she wanted simply to spread the coverlid over the bed, as it probably would not be used again for a long time. I insisted, however, that the bed be made ready with fresh sheets; some one might stop at any minute, I explained. Madge looked at me with question in her eye; her impression of me up to this point is that I am an amiable lunatic who may at any minute change to violence.

After luncheon I made Peter go and get the pony for me; yes, the pony is now exclusively my own, for as long a time as I wish. He is almost the most interesting personality I have ever known,—wilful, conscientious, full of conviction in regard to what he considers his duty and what he looks upon as his privileges. There are spurts, attended by dashing heels and swishing tail, of strict and spirited performance of his allotted tasks; there is peasant stubbornness, attended by stiffened legs and tenacious hoofs, of resistance to evil. He is British, or Scotch, to the core. Evidently he feels that his ancestors had a hand, a hoof, I mean, in the Magna Charta, and all the liberty that is coming to him he means to have, and all the obligations resting upon him he means to fufil, in his own way, at his own time. Sometimes he will do far more than he is asked, scornful of other people's ideas; has he not his own? He is full of punctiliousness, decency, order, when he feels like it; of utmost freedom, even license also, when he feels like it. Now and then he runs away, purely, I think, on the principle of: "British ponies never shall be slaves." Gentle when you would least expect it, fractious when you are most unprepared, he looks upon whizzing motor cars with calm tolerance, so unlike my own feeling that I may well cultivate his acquaintance in order to learn that wise indifference. It is as if he were disdainful of anything the modern world could invent to frighten him or get in his way; here is an ancient British self-possession, a sense of ownership in the soil. His ancestors were here hundreds of years before these trifling modernisms appeared; William the Conqueror and his Norman steeds were but parvenus and upstarts to them. He will shy at a floating feather, but I doubt if he would shy at a Zeppelin. Like many another staunch character, he takes gallantly the real troubles of life, balking only at the trifles.

"I should like to know," I said meekly, as we started, "whether it is one of my days for obeying you, or one of your days for obeying me? When I find out, I shall conduct myself accordingly." I got no answer, yet I soon discovered. There is really something uncanny about him; he seems to know more than horse or human should know; to have foreknowledge of events. I must not tell his master, or the charges will be raised from five shillings a week perhaps to eight; after all, eight shillings for supernatural wisdom would not be unreasonable! On the other hand, if it was just plain British contrariness, eight shillings would be too much, as there is such an over-supply of the commodity.

I was driving out in the forest to westward, and it is very beautiful with its great oaks and birches, and its loveliness of yellowing fern. In spite of the mellow Octoberness everywhere, I was thinking sad thoughts; all day you can drive here and yet hardly cross one man's possessions; much of the land lies idle, while people starve in England; much of it is preserved,—the poor tame pheasants are as friendly as domestic hens. The tax for charity here is one shilling four pence a pound; as I read this, I thought of London with its starving poor, its ribald poor, and I wondered if this great kingdom will vanish because the people do not pull together better. The blind selfishness of the upper class with their glass-guarded walls is a greater menace than the German siege guns.

I came to a cross road, or cross path, grassy paths both, with creeping green moss among the roots of the trees on either side. It was hard to decide which way to go; I chose the right and pulled the rein; Puck chose the left and started. I tugged at the right and told him to go on; he said he wouldn't; again I told him, and he shook his head, shook himself all over with his head down, until his harness rattled. When I told him a third time, he stamped, kicked, and pulled with all his might to the left. Of course he got his way; some people passed; I was not going to be convicted of inadequate horsemanship, being only an American, so I assumed a calm and masterful British look, as if that were the way I had all along meant to go, and we jogged on. The self-satisfaction in that little creature's air! He turned his head around now and then, trying to see how I was taking it; having had his own way, he went at a jolly pace; he loves to start rabbits and make the pheasants fly up. Presently, at a turn in the road, he shied; he did it quite theatrically, as if he had worked it all out in his mind and had achieved the intended effect. He expected me to be startled and to rein him in, fighting to control him, but I did nothing of the kind. I merely let the reins lie loose and watched him; he subsided very suddenly and dejectedly at having lost his fun.

Then I saw what he was shying at and stopped him; I think that he had known all along what he was going to find! There, under a great oak tree, partly hidden by tall bracken, lay a girl with her eyes closed, her hat partly off her head, looking like one who was very tired and had fallen in her tracks to go to sleep. In a minute I was at her side, holding tightly to the reins, for fear of what that little wretch might do, but he was as immovable as Stonehenge.

She was quite young, very wan and pale, fairly well dressed but crumpled looking. Her hair was dark, and her eyes, when she slowly opened them, proved to be dark also.

I do not know yet whether she had fainted, or whether she was asleep from exhaustion; her poor feet showed that she had walked many miles, for the soles of her shoes were worn through. At sight of me she sat up, looking frightened, but, evidently finding that I was not so terrible, at length smiled back,—a faint little smile. I knew enough to be silent at first; this is something that I have learned from animals: there are sympathies, understandings, that antedate words. When I asked her very softly if she were ill, she shook her head, not understanding. I tried French, and, though my French is odd, I know, she brightened, clasped her hands together, giving a great sigh, and then tears began to roll down her face. That villain of a pony looked around now and then as if to say: "Who was right about the road? You would never have found her if I had not had my way."

If he had been commissioned by the government to help in giving first aid, he could not have acted with more sense of responsibility than he did in helping me take her home, standing motionless while she climbed into the cart, so weak with hunger, she confessed, that she could hardly move,—then speeding fast where the road was smooth, and going very slowly where the carters' wheels have left deep ruts in the mossy soil. He really has more than human sense at times! Don, of his own accord, leaped in beside the fugitive; at times I think that his spirit is really becoming more catholic, and that he demands less in the way of credentials and introductions than of old. The girl's pluck interested me, for, though she could hardly hold herself upright, she refused my help. Suddenly, from nowhere, a phrase flashed into my mind, "L'Independence Beige", and I knew—what afterward proved to be true—that she was one of the many Belgian refugees in England, though why she was wandering about by herself in this remote corner of England I did not know until afterward. As we jogged on, over the meadows and through the village street, she held herself so bravely that nobody stared, though she was white to the lips. She even managed to walk into the house, but, once inside, sank down on the couch and fainted quite away. Madge and I worked over her, giving her drops of warm milk with a wee bit of brandy, taking the shoes from her poor blistered feet, and bathing them. You should have heard Madge when I told her that I thought the girl was one of the fugitive Belgians; to take a red-hot poker to the Kaiser seemed to be her lightest wish for vengeance.

When our guest was in bed, all fresh and clean, with her hair brushed smoothly from her forehead, I could see that she was a sweet and wholesome maiden, with a comely, housewifely air, and my heart ached for her sufferings. She ate a little, then lay with her eyes full of tears that she would not let fall; she kept winking her long lashes to keep them back. Don jumped up beside her and snuggled close; she smiled, lifted her hand to his head for a minute, then she went to sleep. Such sleep I never saw,—deep, long, dreamless; hour by hour she lay there, not moving all night long, for I crept in now and then: I could not sleep. Don kept watch until morning.

She did not waken until after ten; there was a flush in her cheeks, and her eyes were starry, but in her face, young as she seemed, was a foreshadowing of the worn look of age and sorrow that the years should bring, not the German army! She wore an air of wistful questioning to which there is no answer, as she lay twisting weakly a simple ring about her third finger.