A Knight on Wheels Part 7

It is the people who grow up early who do most good in the world, for they find their feet soonest. To others the day comes late,--usually in company with some great grief or loss,--and these are most to be pitied, for we all know that the older we get the harder it becomes to adapt ourselves to new conditions. Many a woman, for instance, pa.s.ses from twenty years of happy childhood straight into twenty years of happy womanhood and motherhood without speculating very deeply as to whether she is happy or not. Then, perhaps, the Reaper comes, and takes her husband, or a child, and she realises that she is grown up. Her life will be a hard fight now. But, aided by the sweetness and strength of Memory, acc.u.mulated throughout the sunny years that lie behind, she too will win through.

There are others, again, to whom the day of growing-up never comes at all. They are the feeble folk, perpetually asking Why, and never finding out. Still, they always have to-morrow to look forward to, in which they are more fortunate than some.

Meanwhile Miss Marguerite Falconer was explaining to the untutored Philip that it is possible for grown-up people to suffer disappointment in two departments of life,--the only two, she might have added, that really matter at all,--Love and Work.

"How was your father disappointed, exactly?" asked Philip.

"He painted a big picture," said Peggy. "He was at it for years and years, though he was doing a lot of other ones at the same time. He called the other ones 'wolf-scarers,' because he said there was a wolf outside on the Heath that wanted to get in and eat us, and these pictures would frighten _any_ wolf away. I used to be afraid of meeting the wolf on the Heath myself--"

"You were quite small, then, of course," put in Philip quickly.

Miss Falconer nodded, in acknowledgment of his tact, and continued:--

"--but Nurse and Mother said there wasn't any wolf really. It was a joke of Father's. He often makes jokes I don't understand. He is a funny man.

And he didn't use the pictures to frighten the wolves with _really_: he sold them. But he never sold the big picture. He went on working at it and working at it for years and years. He began before I was born, and he only finished it a few years ago, so that just shows you how long he was. Whenever he had sold a wolf-scarer he used to get back to the big picture."

"What sort of picture was it?" enquired Philip, deeply interested.

"It was a very big picture," replied Peggy.

"How big?"

Peggy considered.

"Bigger than this gate we are sitting on," she said at last. "It was called 'The Many-Headed.' Father sometimes called it 'Deemouse,'

too,--or something like that."

"What was it like?"

Peggy's eyes grew quite round with impressiveness.

"It was the _strangest_ thing," she said. "It was a great enormous giant, with heads, and heads, and heads! You never saw such a lot of heads."

"I expect that was why it was called 'The Many-Headed,'" observed Philip sapiently. "What sort of heads were they?"

"They were most of them very ugly," continued Peggy. "They were twisting about everywhere, and each one had its mouth wide open, shouting. Dad kept on putting new ones in. There always seemed to be room for one more. Like sticking roses in a bowl, you know, only these heads weren't like roses. After a Bank Holiday he nearly always had two or three fresh ones."

"Why?"

"He used to go out then on the Heath--to study the Ca.n.a.l, he said, and get fresh sketches."

Philip, who was inclined to be a little superior on the subject of London geography, announced firmly that there was no ca.n.a.l on Hampstead Heath.

"Only in Regent's Park," he said. "Besides, why should he sketch a ca.n.a.l?"

It was Peggy's turn to be superior.

"Ca.n.a.l," she explained, "is a French word, and means people--people with concertinas and bananas, who sing and wear each other's hats, and leave paper about. Dad would sketch them when they weren't looking, and then put them into the picture. Oh, I forgot to tell you that the giant had great huge hands, and he was clutching everything he could lay his hands on--castles, and mountains, and live people. He had a real king, with a crown on, between his finger and thumb."

"What about the disappointment?" asked Philip.

"The disappointment? Oh, yes; I forgot. Well, at last the picture was finished and sent away--in a lovely frame. But it came back. One afternoon I went into the studio, and there was Father. He was sitting very quiet and still on a little stool in front of the picture. He never moved, or looked round, or said 'Go away!' when I came in. I was so surprised. For a long time he had been having a lot of bad tempers, so when I saw him sitting so still and quiet I was quite frightened.

"I went and stood beside him, and looked at the picture, too. Then he saw me, and said: 'It has come back, you see, Peggy!' He said it two or three times, I think. 'There are eight years of a man's life in that picture--eight years of a man's body and blood and bones! And it has been sent back--sent back, by a parcel of promoted housepainters who daren't let such a piece of work hang on their walls because they know it would _kill_ every filthy daub of their own within reach!'

"Then he asked me what we should do with it. I said--of course I was _quite_ small then--that I thought if he took it and showed it to the wolf it would frighten him away altogether. That made him laugh. He laughed in a funny way, too, and went on so long that I thought he would never leave off. At last he stopped, and made a queer noise in his throat, and said: 'No, we won't do that. I will show you a more excellent way.' He said that two or three times over, like he did before. Then he got up, and went and pulled a big sword and dagger out of a rack of armour and stuff in the corner, and said: 'Now for some real fun, Peggy!' and we cut up the picture into little bits. Father slashed and slashed at it with the sword, and I poked holes in it with the dagger."

"What fun!" said Philip, the chord of destruction thrilling within him.

"Yes, wasn't it? I remember I cut the king with the crown on right out of the picture, with the giant's finger and thumb still round him. I kept it for a long time, but I lost it at last. When we had slashed the picture all to bits, Dad tore it out of its frame and rolled it up into a bundle and threw it into a corner. Then he went out for a long walk, without his hat. When Mother came home she cried. It was the only time I ever saw her cry. I didn't know till then that grown-up people did. I cried, too. I was little then."

"Has your father painted any more pictures?" asked Philip, diverting the conversation.

"No--never. He only paints wolf-scarers now. I tell him what to paint."

Philip's eyebrows rose, despite themselves.

"Yes, I do!" maintained Miss Falconer stoutly. "The other day he said to me: 'Here, Peggy, you understand the taste of the Hoypolloy'--that's another French word for people--'so give me an idea for a pot-boiler.'

(He calls wolf-scarers 'pot-boilers' sometimes: I don't know why.) And I said: 'Well, I think it would be nice to have a picture of a little girl in a lovely frock with a new doll, showing it round the doll's house and introducing it to all the other dolls.' He laughed, and said: 'That's capital. I bet a sovereign they put that one on the line.' When I asked what line, he said, 'the clothes line.' He is a funny man," concluded Peggy once more.

They sat on for some time, discussing adult peculiarities. Finally Philip announced that he must go, for Uncle Joseph would return at four o'clock and expect him to tea. As they parted, Philip enquired awkwardly:--

"I say, Pegs,--will you tell me? I couldn't help wondering about something just now."

"What was it?" enquired Peggy graciously.

Philip asked his question too bluntly.

Miss Peggy's small frame stiffened indignantly.

"I wasn't ever doing any such thing," she announced in outraged tones.

Philip, whose knowledge of the s.e.x was improving, had the sense to withdraw the imputation and apologise at once. Then he waited.

"Perhaps I was, just a little bit," admitted Peggy presently.

"What was the matter?" asked Philip gently.

"It was Father. He boxed my ears after lunch, for making a noise. I was only singing, but he is in one of his bad tempers just now. He will be all right in a day or two."

Philip, much to his surprise, found himself trembling with indignation.

"Does he do it often?" he asked between his clenched teeth.

"No, not often. Besides, he can't help it. Men are just like children, Mother says. You have to make allowances for them. I always try to remember that. The daily work of half the women in the world is to make allowances for some man or other, Mother says. Good-night, Phil!"

"Good-night, Pegs!"

The little girl ran off through the gathering gloom, turning to wave her hand before she disappeared.