The Forerunner Part 53

He stared at her, large-eyed, revolving the language. Language was so interesting. "Don't" he knew well, and "touch" and "that" and "again."

"If you do" was harder. He was not at all sure about "if." And "whip"--that was quite new. He puckered his soft mouth and made a little whispering sound, trying to say it.

"Yes, Whip!" said the Presence. "Now you be good!" He knew "be good,"

too. It meant not doing anything. He couldn't be good very long--any more than the Proverbial Indian.

In the course of his growing he soon learned "Whip." It was very unpleasant. The busy brain, receiving, sorting, arranging, re-arranging, stored up this fierce experience without delay.

"Whipping--Pain and Insult. It happens when you break anything. It is a Consequence."

The brain was kept very busy re-arranging this Consequence. "It happens when you spill the milk--when you soil your dress--when you tear it (dresses must be sacred!)--when you 'meddle'--when you run away--when you get wet--when you take sugar--when"--(this was a great discovery), "when Mama is Angry." He was older now, and found that the Presence varied a good deal. So the brain built up its group of ethical impressions.

And then--one memorable day--this neat arrangement of ethics, true, received a great shock.

There was the sugar--in easy reach--and sugar is All Good to the young body. Remembered pleasure, strong immediate desire, the eye's guidance, the hand's impulse--all urged to perform the natural act of eating.

Against it,--what? The blurred remembrance of promiscuous pain, only by main force to be a.s.sociated with that coveted, visible pleasure; and the dawning power of inhibition. To check strong natural desire by no better force than the memory of oral threat, or even of felt pain, is not easy always for adults.

He ate the sugar, fearing yet joyous. No one else was present. No one saw the act, nor learned it later.

He was not whipped.

Then rose the strong young brain to new occasion. It observed, deduced, even experimented, flushed with the pleasure of normal exercise. It established, before he was five years old, these conclusions:

"'Naughty' is a thing you're punished for doing--if you're not punished it isn't naughty.

"Punishment is a thing that happens if you're found out--if you're not found out you're not punished.

"Ergo--if you're not found out you're not naughty!"

And the child grew up to be a man.

WHAT DIANTHA DID

CHAPTER V.

When the fig growns on the thistle, And the silk purse on the sow; When one swallow brings the summer, And blue moons on her brow--

Then we may look for strength and skill, Experience, good health, good will, Art and science well combined, Honest soul and able mind, Servants built upon this plan, One to wait on every man, Patiently from youth to age,-- For less than a street cleaner's wage!

When the parson's gay on Mondays, When we meet a month of Sundays, We may look for them and find them-- But Not Now!

When young Mrs. Weatherstone swept her trailing crepe from the automobile to her friend's door, it was opened by a quick, soft-footed maid with a pleasant face, who showed her into a parlor, not only cool and flower-lit, but having that fresh smell that tells of new-washed floors.

Mrs. p.o.r.ne came flying down to meet her, with such a look of rest and comfort as roused instant notice.

"Why, Belle! I haven't seen you look so bright in ever so long. It must be the new maid!"

"That's it--she's 'Bell' too--'Miss Bell' if you please!"

The visitor looked puzzled. "Is she a--a friend?" she ventured, not sure of her ground.

"I should say she was! A friend in need! Sit here by the window, Viva--and I'll tell you all about it--as far as it goes."

She gaily recounted her climax of confusion and weariness, and the sudden appearance of this ministering angel. "She arrived at about quarter of ten. I engaged her inside of five minutes. She was into a gingham gown and at work by ten o'clock!"

"What promptness! And I suppose there was plenty to do!"

Mrs. p.o.r.ne laughed unblus.h.i.+ngly. "There was enough for ten women it seemed to me! Let's see--it's about five now--seven hours. We have nine rooms, besides the halls and stairs, and my shop. She hasn't touched that yet. But the house is clean--_clean_! Smell it!"

She took her guest out into the hall, through the library and dining-room, upstairs where the pleasant bedrooms stretched open and orderly.

"She said that if I didn't mind she'd give it a superficial general cleaning today and be more thorough later!"

Mrs. Weatherstone looked about her with a rather languid interest. "I'm very glad for you, Belle, dear--but--what an endless nuisance it all is--don't you think so?"

"Nuisance! It's slow death! to me at least," Mrs. p.o.r.ne answered. "But I don't see why you should mind. I thought Madam Weatherstone ran that--palace, of yours, and you didn't have any trouble at all."

"Oh yes, she runs it. I couldn't get along with her at all if she didn't. That's her life. It was my mother's too. Always fussing and fussing. Their houses on their backs--like snails!"

"Don't see why, with ten (or is it fifteen?) servants."

"Its twenty, I think. But my dear Belle, if you imagine that when you have twenty servants you have neither work nor care--come and try it awhile, that's all!"

"Not for a millionaire baby's ransom!" answered Isabel promptly.

"Give me my drawing tools and plans and I'm happy--but this business"--she swept a white hand wearily about--"it's not my work, that's all."

"But you _enjoy_ it, don't you--I mean having nice things?" asked her friend.

"Of course I enjoy it, but so does Edgar. Can't a woman enjoy her home, just as a man does, without running the shop? I enjoy ocean travel, but I don't want to be either a captain or a common sailor!"

Mrs. Weatherstone smiled, a little sadly. "You're lucky, you have other interests," she said. "How about our bungalow? have you got any farther?"

Mrs. p.o.r.ne flushed. "I'm sorry, Viva. You ought to have given it to someone else. I haven't gone into that workroom for eight solid days.

No help, and the baby, you know. And I was always dog-tired."

"That's all right, dear, there's no very great rush. You can get at it now, can't you--with this other Belle to the fore?"

"She's not Belle, bless you--she's 'Miss Bell.' It's her last name."

Mrs. Weatherstone smiled her faint smile. "Well--why not? Like a seamstress, I suppose."

"Exactly. That's what she said. "If this labor was as important as that of seamstress or governess why not the same courtesy--Oh she's a most superior _and_ opinionated young person, I can see that."

"I like her looks," admitted Mrs. Weatherstone, "but can't we look over those plans again; there's something I wanted to suggest." And they went up to the big room on the third floor.