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THE THRUSH AND THE JAY 
 
Many of the poems in this volume have already appeared 
 in The Nation and of the prose sketches in that review and 
 in The New Statesman. 
 
THE 
 
 THRUSH AND THE JAY 
 
 / 
 
 SYLVIA LYND 
 
 Author of " The Chorus''' 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 E. P. BUTTON AND COMPANY 
 
 1917 
 

 ^Hpc'^ 
 
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 TO YOU 
 MY DEAR ROBERT LYND 
 
 ^^/^jjx /^ 
 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 The Barber's First Brother 7 
 
 A Young Farmer to an Old Tune .... 12 
 
 Prose: Eat, Drink, AND BE Merry .... 14 
 
 To MY Children, S. and B. J 24 
 
 A Sussex Child 27 
 
 Prose: A DAY IN TOWN 29 
 
 The Fair Persian 40 
 
 Prose: The Guilty Passion 46 
 
 A Holy Man in the Desiert 54 
 
 Prose : The Sixth Act 57 
 
 Helas ! 65 
 
 Hunting Song 66 
 
 Prose : The INTRUDER 68 
 
 A Bathe one Sunday 77 
 
 Prose: OuT OF THE Wind 80 
 
 "The World is a Bridge" 89 
 
vi Contents 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Prose: ADVERSARIES 9^ 
 
 Miss Daly's 102 
 
 Prose: ROMAUNT DE LA Rose 106 
 
 KiNSALE 116 
 
 Evening Music 118 
 
 The Attic Room 119 
 
 Prose: VENGEANCE 121 
 
 The Mower 127 
 
 Prose: WORTH THE MONEV 1 29 
 
 To M. M. R i3f> 
 
 The Daisty Field 137 
 
 Prose: GETTING THE Sack 139 
 
 A Freed Spirit 148 
 
 The Small Daughter 151 
 
 Prose: THE Mulberry Bush 153 
 
 Bethlehem 163 
 
 This and This 165 
 
THE THRUSH AND THE JAY 
 
 THE BARBER'S FIRST BROTHER 
 
 Know, O Prince of the Faithful, that the first (who 
 was named El-Bakbuk) . . . practised the art 
 of a tailor in Baghdad. 
 
 I. 
 
 The window is round. 
 The sky is blue. 
 Two doves sit still 
 On the window-sill; 
 With murmurous sound 
 They coo and coo. 
 
 The window is high 
 Above the ground, 
 I get no sight 
 By day or night, 
 But the blue sky 
 Empty and round. 
 
The Thrush and the Jay 
 
 II. 
 
 I peeped through the lattice 
 
 And saw my love passing. 
 
 How happy the companions 
 
 With whom he went laughing! 
 
 How happy the people 
 
 That walked the same street! 
 
 How happy the stones 
 
 That were pressed by his feet! 
 
 Though I should sit watching 
 
 A year and a day 
 
 How small Is the chance 
 
 He will come the same way I 
 
 Oh, what Is my hope 
 
 In the maze of the hours? 
 
 What hope has one flower 
 
 In a garden of flowers? 
 
 III. 
 
 Could I follow my thought 
 I should find out the place 
 Where, under cool trees, 
 My love takes his ease, 
 Could I follow my thought 
 I should look on his face. 
 
The Barber's First Brother 
 
 Do I stay, do I go, 
 Do I waken or sleep, 
 Do I ripen and rot 
 Like a fruit tasted not, 
 He will care not nor know 
 Though I wither and weep. 
 
 IV. 
 
 I press to the lattice 
 My black brilliant eye. 
 To see in the sunlight 
 My true love go by. 
 As a twig of the willow 
 He is graceful and sleek, 
 He has a round mole 
 On the moon of his cheek; 
 His lips are of scarlet. 
 Of honey his mouth. 
 The perfume he brings 
 Is a wind of the south. 
 He sees not, he turns not, 
 Though close I am pressed, 
 Till the shape of the lattice 
 Is marked on my breast. 
 
lo The Thrush and the Jay 
 
 V. 
 
 Turn, my love, and you will see 
 Hair more black than ebony. 
 Parted lips, more crimson far 
 Than roses of Damascus are. 
 Arched eyebrows, fringed eyes. 
 Like the maids of Paradise, 
 Swooning am I, all outspread. 
 Fallen flower with petals shed! 
 
 VI. 
 
 I stretched forth my hand 
 
 To feed my dove 
 
 Circling out there 
 
 In the blue air. 
 
 Tip-toe did I stand. 
 
 And I thought of my love. 
 
 It was a strange thing 
 I did not understand. 
 Someone caught and kissed 
 My hand and my wrist — 
 While I stood wondering 
 Someone kissed my hand! 
 
The Barber's First Brother n 
 
 VII. 
 
 I sent to the tailor 
 Who stitches and stitches 
 A piece of yellow satin 
 To make me new breeches, 
 A piece of yellow satin, 
 And of red flowered silk. 
 For a jacket to cover 
 My sides white as milk. 
 I know a small door, 
 And I know a small stair. 
 And I know a good hour 
 When my father's at prayer, 
 And I know a wise woman 
 Is honest and old. 
 Has a necklace of pearls, 
 And a purse full of gold. 
 
A YOUNG FARMER TO AN OLD TUNE 
 
 The bearded barley, it grows so high, 
 When the wind comes from the South; 
 And it whispers, whispers close to my ear 
 With the slow, soft voice of my darling : 
 Along the edge of the field I lie. 
 And chew young grasses in my mouth. 
 Oh, it brings the sweetest time of the year, 
 The wind that shakes the barley. 
 
 'Tis good to stretch, and to watch the sky, 
 While waiting for my dear; 
 The birds are moving among the corn. 
 The finch, the crow, and the starling : 
 A thousand times I think she is nigh, 
 Tho' 'tis but rustling stalks I hear. 
 Oh, she's the wind of the summer morn, 
 The wind that shakes the barley. 
 
A Young Farmer to an Old Tune 13 
 
 The barley bends when the wind comes by 
 
 With the swish of silken dresses, 
 
 The rippling fields, far off and near, 
 
 Are laughing like my darling; 
 
 I turn my head, and she is nigh 
 
 To orreet me with caresses. 
 
 Oh, it brings the sweetest time of the year — 
 
 The wind that shakes the barley. 
 
EAT, DRINK, AND BE MERRY 
 
 In her dark green cashmere frock she appeared 
 in the midst of the other children hke a moor-hen 
 among saiHng white-robed swans. But, unhke the 
 moor-hen, she had not scarlet feet as a compensa- 
 tion. All round her she heard clear voices eager 
 to reveal what their owners had discovered : 
 
 " Why, she hasn't a party dress ! That little 
 girl hasn't a party dress! " 
 
 She heard them with an amiable detachment, for 
 she was very young. Her sister's hand, however, 
 suddenly held hers tightly, and she was led up to 
 the hostess. 
 
 " She didn't like being left out," her sister said, 
 " so mother said might I bring her too.-* " 
 
 And there she was. 
 
 Then somebody began playing the piano, and 
 all the grown-up people rushed about calling out 
 to one another, " There are twenty-five — no, there 
 are twenty-six," until they had got a long line of 
 
Eat^ Drink, and be Merry 15 
 
 chairs into the middle of the room, and all the 
 children began running round them. She went 
 and ran round them too. All at once the music 
 stopped, and the other children scrambled into the 
 chairs and sat in them. She was left standing out 
 on the floor with a little girl in pink. Someone 
 began to shout "There's one chair left! there's 
 one chair left! Quick, Margherita, run, run!" 
 And the little girl in pink was seized by some big 
 hand and rushed up the room into the vacant chair. 
 After that someone else came and took her by the 
 hand and led her away from the others, and put 
 her near the wall and said : *' You're out." It was 
 like having been naughty. The music began again, 
 and the other boys and girls went on running round 
 the chairs, and each time the music stopped one or 
 other of them was said to be " out." This went 
 on until only two big girls were left. They were 
 sisters, and the one with spectacles sat the other 
 one on to the floor. 
 
 Then someone said, " Now we'll have dumb- 
 crambo to make us cool "; and again a hand came 
 and moved her, and a voice said, " Out of the 
 way, little girl," and " This game is too * old ' for 
 you." This time she found a chair with padded 
 arms, and she climbed into it and sat enthroned 
 with her legs straight out before her, until an old 
 
1 6 The Thrush and the Jay 
 
 lady with a stick and teeth that snapped funnily in 
 front came and said, " You are a very little girl 
 to have such a big chair! " and she was lifted out 
 of it, and the old lady sat down in her stead, and 
 she had to stand near the wall again for a long, 
 long time. Then the door was flung open, and 
 everyone cried "Tea, tea!" And the other 
 children began jumping up and down, and she 
 began to jump up and down with them. They all 
 trooped into another room, and her sister found 
 her and took her by the hand again; but they were 
 soon separated, and she was seated up to the table 
 on a chair that was much too low. 
 
 The table was a glorious sight. It was covered 
 with all sorts of things that she wanted at once to 
 eat. In the centre was a great white cake, with 
 candles round it and tiny flags all over the top. 
 There were crackers, too, lying about between the 
 plates, and the other children were looking at them 
 and shaking them and wondering what was inside, 
 and all talking at once. " Look, this one has a 
 clown on ! Look, this one has a horseshoe ! Look, 
 this one has a bunch of flowers! " And a little 
 boy said, " I'm not allowed to eat cream things "; 
 and a little girl said, " Oh, 1 may, if they're fresh ! " 
 Then the little boy said proudly, " / mayn't eat 
 nuts." Then another boy said very shrilly, " I 
 
Eaty Drink, and he Merry 17 
 
 mayn't eat Turkish delight." And so on, until the 
 real business of tea began. 
 
 With her wide eyes scarcely higher than the 
 level of the table, she sat and longed for things. 
 She felt she wanted to taste all the deliciousness 
 that she could see, but before she had left her own 
 house she had promised to take what was offered 
 her and say " Thank you "; and some of the things 
 she most wanted never came her way at all. She 
 got bread and butter to begin with, and then brown 
 bread and butter, which was worse, and then a 
 queen cake. None of the pink and white biscuits, 
 or even the sponge fingers, came near her, and 
 once when the chocolate cakes were next door but 
 one, a slim hand, with bright nails and many 
 sparkling rings, pounced talon-like upon the plate 
 and bore it away right out of her view. There 
 was " skin " in her milk too, and there was no 
 spoon with which to fish it out. She sat still at 
 last, with the dry, uneaten half of the queen cake 
 on the plate before her, and it was with difficulty 
 that she kept the tears from overflowing her eyes. 
 
 And now they were cutting the Christmas cake, 
 such splendid slices, coated with white sugar from 
 bottom to top. Then a grown-up voice said : 
 " Oh, those slices are much too big. They'll never 
 get through those! " And they took the knife 
 
 B 
 
1 8 The Thrush and the Jay 
 
 again and cut all the slices in halves horizontally, 
 so that some were nearly all sugar and some had 
 hardly any sugar at all. Then they handed them 
 round. She watched them coming towards her 
 down the table. Some of the children took the 
 top pieces with all the sugar; a few took the lower 
 pieces that had hardly any. She hoped and hoped 
 that one of the top pieces would come to her; but 
 the girl next to her took the sugary bit, and she 
 felt she must take the bit without the sugar, and 
 the plate passed on. 
 
 After that her impressions were a confusion of 
 noises, in which the choking and carrying out into 
 the hall of a small boy in a sailor suit and the 
 pulling of the crackers were inextricably tangled. 
 She found the crackers too frightening to pull her- 
 self, much as she longed for their contents, and she 
 could not bring herself to imitate a neighbour with 
 a round comb, who seized a great many and tore 
 them open single-handed, saying, "This is what 
 / do." She felt that to be a very naughty little 
 girl. So she covered her own ears with her hands 
 to shut out the noise, until one of the children ran 
 to her and put a tall paper cap on her head, and 
 said, "Now you're a dunce!" She was vexed 
 at that, and snatched the cap off and threw it on 
 the ground. 
 
Eat, Drink, and be Merry 19 
 
 After that they were told to wait for the Christ- 
 mas tree. They passed the time in an eager babble 
 of conversation, showing one another the treasures 
 they had found in the crackers (the caps they 
 rather despised), the india-rubber faces that squinted 
 and pushed out their tongues, the little horses, the 
 bracelets, the whistles, the puzzles, the compasses. 
 One of the little girls asked her what she had got, 
 and when she opened her hand and showed a bunch 
 of flowers that came only from the outside of a 
 cracker, the little girl was openly scornful. Gazing 
 down at her from a superior height, she propounded 
 the following questions : 
 
 '* Have you got a scrap-book } " 
 
 " What church do you go to,'' " 
 
 "What chapel, then.? " 
 
 " Don't you go at all, then } " 
 
 *' How many servants do you keep.'' " 
 
 Satisfied as to these points, another group 
 received her attention, and she was soon asking 
 them what size of shoes they took, and why their 
 mothers allowed them to have short sleeves to 
 their party frocks. 
 
 And then they went back into the drawing-room 
 for the Christmas tree. It seemed immensely tall, 
 as tall as any tree that ever grew in a forest. It 
 blazed with countless flames and globes and stars 
 
 B 2 
 
20 The Thrush and the Jay 
 
 and festoons of brightness. Father Christmas 
 himself was there in a red, furred gown powdered 
 over with snow, and the little girl who had torn 
 open the crackers screamed and screamed, and had 
 to be taken home. All the time people were 
 cutting presents ofF the tree and handing them to 
 Father Christmas to give to the children, and when 
 they were all cut ofF someone called out, " Has 
 everyone got a present.'' " and she found herself 
 pushed forward close to the tall tree as a little girl 
 with none. So Father Christmas gave her a parcel 
 too, and then the grown-up people began blowing 
 out the candles on the tree, and one little boy ran to 
 Father Christmas and cried, *' Why, it's Uncle 
 Arthur ! I know it's Uncle Arthur. I know him 
 by his socks! " And Father Christmas pushed 
 back his hood and unhooked his beard, and the 
 little boy wore it for the rest of the evening. 
 
 Then the lights were turned on in the room 
 again, and they were all able to examine their 
 presents. There were dogs that jumped, and eg^s 
 that contained lots and lots of little eggs, and paint 
 boxes, and dolls, and engines, and monkeys, and 
 tea-sets, and all kinds of things. Her present was 
 a clockwork spider that was joined to a fly by a 
 piece of string. She was looking at it when Father 
 Christmas came up. He was quite pleasant with- 
 
Eat, Drink, and be Merry 21 
 
 out his beard, and he said, " Hullo, what have you 
 got?" She handed up the toy to him, and he 
 examined it critically. She stood and gazed at 
 him with steady, trustful eyes. Just then their 
 hostess passed near them, and he called out, " I 
 say, how does this work.^" The hostess looked 
 for a moment and her face became pink. 
 
 "That, oh, that's broken! " she said quickjy, 
 and turned away. 
 
 Father Christmas almost looked embarrassed too, 
 and he said, " I'm afraid this spider has caught 
 cold. He can't run up the string any more," and 
 then, more cheerfully, " Suppose we dance 
 instead.'' " 
 
 So she danced with Father Christmas until she 
 was " fetched," and, secure in gaiters, woolly 
 gloves and scarf, was escorted home safely to her 
 mother. 
 
 "And was it a nice party.'' " She had not con- 
 sidered that idea before, but, of ccAirse, she was 
 sure that it was. It was with astonishment that 
 she heard her sister's voice, taut with suppressed 
 tears : " They said she hadn't a party dress! " She 
 had forgotten all about that. 
 
 It, Ht * * 
 
 And was it a nice party.'' Why, surely it was. 
 
22 The Thrush and the Jay 
 
 She did not doubt it then, and why should she 
 feel now as she did not feel a score (at least) of 
 years ago? Ought she not instead to sympathise 
 rather with the hostess who, by her presence in 
 dowdy everyday clothes, was torn who knows from 
 what garden of illusion, and forced, moreover, to 
 add to the tea table an "odd" cup, and possibly 
 to introduce a chair out of the kitchen ? Well, 
 if she cannot entirely sympathise, she can forgive 
 — at least, she thinks she can; but this is what 
 she says : 
 
 If in the next world there is no other candidate 
 for the post, she will hold up her hand and say, 
 " Please may I be the Patron of the Christmas 
 Parties?" She will go to all the parties, even 
 when they happen on the same day. She will wear 
 no halo, but a rather smart hat, and it is possible, 
 if she has her way, that the pearls in her ears will 
 be the biggest in the room. At tea she will stand 
 behind the chairs of all the children who have no 
 grey-coated nurse or velvet mother to look after 
 them, and she will say into each ear, " Are you 
 high enough, darling one? " and if they are not 
 she will fetch them cushions or books to sit on. 
 She will see that all the cups are filled, and she 
 will put the brown bread and butter away on the 
 sideboard, and when the cakes or the animal biscuits 
 
Eaty Drink ^ and he Merry 23 
 
 come round she will point to the one they want 
 with " I say, have that one," or " Have a rabbit," 
 or "Have a swan; you had a squirrel last time." 
 As to the Christmas cake, I doubt if there will be 
 any halving of slices while she is in the room; 
 but if there is, she will carry round the plate her- 
 self and say, " Please do take the sugary bit for 
 goodness' sake! " 
 
TO MY CHILDREN, S. AND B. J. 
 
 Beloveds, when you smile at me, 
 
 It is the birthday of my soul, 
 
 It is the day of blossoming; — - 
 
 The day of welcome to the sun 
 
 When lambs do play and birds do sing. 
 
 When flowers blow and glad streams run. 
 
 Beloveds, when you smile at me. 
 
 Then am I healed and made whole. 
 
 It is the day of blossoming, 
 
 It is the birthday of my soul. 
 
 The God who loves the Seraphim 
 Will guard my lambs of snowy fleece. 
 Will guard my little singing birds; — 
 Will make them gentle, make them good. 
 Will fill their hearts with merry words. 
 With valour, and with hardihood. 
 The God who loves the Seraphim 
 Will make a mighty shield of peace 
 To guard my little singing birds. 
 My little lambs of snowy fleece. 
 
To My Children, S. and B. J. 25 
 
 And I will travel all the way 
 That you may enter Paradise; 
 May enter by the pearly gate 
 The meadows of the blessed sea. 
 The way that is both long and strait 
 We'll shorten with good company. 
 And I must travel all the way 
 Among the simple and the wise 
 That enter by the pearly gate, 
 That enter into Paradise. 
 
 I that should lead, so will be led 
 
 By small strong hands and wayward feet. 
 
 Because they must not fare forlorn. 
 
 And if I go not who will keep 
 
 Your lips from poison, hands from thorn ? 
 
 And who will lay you down to sleep } 
 
 I that should lead, so will be led 
 
 By careless bonds that are most sweet; 
 
 Because they must not fare forlorn, 
 
 The small strong hands, the wayward feet. 
 
 Under the hawthorns we will play, 
 (As you play now upon the grass). 
 
26 The Thrush and the Jay 
 
 And see new wonders everywhere; — 
 And all the flowers, like stars, will shine, 
 And you shall wear them in your hair, 
 And I will wear some, too, in mine. 
 Under the hawthorns we will play. 
 And watch the stately angels pass. 
 And see new wonders everywhere — 
 As you play now upon the grass. 
 
A SUSSEX CHILD 
 
 A LITTLE wood of becch trees made, 
 
 A flitting light, a flitting shade, 
 
 Wood sorrels bright 
 
 For lips' delight. 
 
 And boughs low hung 
 
 To swing among. 
 
 Beyond, a hill that naked lies 
 Asleep, beneath the changing skies, 
 And gentle sheep 
 Faint converse keep, 
 To the soft knell 
 Of the wether's bell. 
 
 There you may leap and shout and race. 
 
 Or breathlessly lie on your face 
 
 And watch the sea. 
 
 And clouds that flee, 
 
 And larks that shrill 
 
 All about the hill. 
 
28 The Thrush and the Jay 
 
 And carts that crawl from far below, 
 And climb the white road creaking slow;- 
 Or you fly a kite 
 If the wind is right, 
 And you know the way, 
 And it's a holiday. 
 
A DAY IN TOWN. 
 
 Harold had an influenza cold. It was very- 
 vexatious for him to be laid up just then, when 
 they were moving. He was sure himself that he 
 had got it standing about in draughts while he told 
 the men where to put the things. Her part had 
 been to sit quietly on a packing-case and not get 
 in the way, and like a little mouse so had she sat. 
 Harold almost seemed to resent that now. Still, he 
 couldn't deny that he had made the sound repre- 
 sented by "Tush, tush!" when she had come to 
 him with his hat in her hand. Of course it was at 
 an anxious moment. He was deciding where the 
 Sheraton bookcase should go. Well, now he was 
 laid up. 
 
 As she settled herself in the corner seat of the 
 ladies' carriage with her back to the engine 
 (Harold's instructions) she realised that this was the 
 first time she had ever journeyed alone, almost the 
 first time she had been alone in her life. Her child- 
 
30 The Thrush and the Jay 
 
 hood, looked back upon, seemed to have been 
 trotted through with her small hand placed con- 
 fidingly in a large one, her girlhood in walking 
 " double file " with other girls in a variety of coats 
 and skirts and a monotony of sailor-hats with the 
 school riband on them, or in company with mother 
 or governess avoiding the perils between Porchester 
 Gardens and Baker Street, where, unaccompanied, 
 "anything might happen." From her mother's 
 care she had gone to the care of Harold. Perhaps 
 " charge " would be a more accurate word. There 
 was something, she was forced to admit, overtight 
 in Harold's grip of her. It was less suggestive of a 
 courier than of a constable. Yes, that was it : she 
 had been given in charge. 
 
 Harold was fifteen years older than she. When 
 she had met him he was not a young man, but a 
 young bachelor; there is an enormous gulf between 
 the two — and she sometimes wondered if he had 
 ever got over it. Harold was an architect and he 
 knew at least twenty times more about the arrange- 
 ment of a house than she did. Harold must have 
 air, and so they lived in the country. Harold did 
 not care for going out in the evening or, indeed, for 
 any definite pleasure. His father, the distinguished 
 Don, had written a book on the Subjunctive Mood, 
 and in the subjunctive mood they seemed to live. 
 
A Day in Town 
 
 move, and have their being. Time hung a little 
 heavy sometimes. 
 
 The train was slowing down towards Victoria. 
 She hoped Harold's fire was being kept up properly. 
 A porter swung open the carriage door. 
 
 " Any luggage, miss .^" 
 
 She beamed at him. 
 
 " No, thank you." 
 
 It gave her a tiny shock of pleasure to be called 
 *'Miss" again. Everywhere that she went with 
 Harold she was addressed as " Madam." That 
 word had always made her feel overwhelmed and 
 shy, and the first pride of it was over now. She 
 felt very light and free as she stepped on to the 
 platform. She held up her head. She was a 
 slender, pale, elegant young woman, not very tall, 
 with cloudy and appealing blue eyes. In her 
 simple fawn-coloured travelling clothes and plain 
 hat she looked even younger and more unsophis- 
 ticated than she was. She took out the paper 
 Harold had given her and re-read her instructions. 
 
 " Corner, back engine, ladies' carriage." (That 
 was done.) 
 
 " One dozen pure linen handkerchiefs, Army 
 and Navy Stores." (These colds always went so 
 badly to his head. They were the only things that 
 did.) 
 
32 The Thrush and the Jay 
 
 " Taxicab to Cork Street Hotel " (where they 
 had stayed once together) " for lunch. 
 
 " Match curtains in Regent Street. Pay for 
 Cousin Dora's wedding present." (He had selected 
 two pendants provisionally for Dora's final 
 decision.) 
 
 " Tea at Cork Street Hotel. 
 
 " Home by the ^.c^. 
 
 " Take care of the crossine;s." 
 
 Moreover, she was to take taxicabs at every 
 available spot and bid the driver to drive carefully. 
 Her purse bulged with money. Harold was very 
 decent at times. She walked up the platform. 
 
 The handkerchiefs were the first things to be got. 
 
 " And not to leave the parcel behind me any- 
 where," she repeated the parting words. 
 
 Outside the station a woman was selling violets. 
 " Sixpence to you, miss." She bought a large 
 bunch and fastened them into her coat — only then 
 did she remember that Harold never allowed her 
 to buy flowers in the street. Goodness knew where 
 they had been! Curiously enough, the street was 
 for her the place where they seemed most insist- 
 ently attractive. Well, she had bought them now. 
 She need not wear them going home. 
 
 " I want some handkerchiefs for a gentleman, 
 please." 
 
A Day in Town 33 
 
 "Yes, madam; what kind of handkerchiefs?" 
 
 She consulted her hst. 
 
 " Pure linen handkerchiefs, if you please." 
 
 Boxes were shown her. "Or this is very nice 
 if it is for a present, madam .''" 
 
 No, it was not for a present. It was for a bad 
 cold. Yes, those would do and she would take 
 them with her. 
 
 As she wrapped the parcel the girl behind the 
 counter hoped that the young gentleman would 
 soon be better. 
 
 " Indeed, yes, so do I. You see, it's my 
 husband." 
 
 Was it possible that Madam was married ? Well, 
 the girl behind the counter would never have 
 believed that ! 
 
 " Madam " was unreasonably glad. 
 
 Was it unkind to Harold not to wish his exis- 
 tence to be printed all over her ^ 
 
 Outside the stores she hailed a taxicab. 
 
 "And drive slowly, please," she said dutifully; 
 but then, because it was so absurd to make the man 
 think one was afraid when one wasn't, she added : 
 " Because I want to look at the shops." 
 
 She did want to look at the shops. All the same, 
 she felt a little guilty towards Harold. He had 
 meant her to have taught that one taximan at least 
 
34 The Thrush and the Jay 
 
 that there is for some of us a higher sense of public 
 duty than is compatible with scorching through the 
 streets. It struck her that ff Harold were to be run 
 over at any time, he would be even more shocked 
 than hurt. She reached the hotel in Cork Street, 
 and paid, with an addition, her fare. 
 
 " Thank you, miss," said the driver. 
 
 It was very pleasant. 
 
 For lunch she had a sole with mousseline sauce, 
 a cutlet and peas, apricots and junket — ^just the 
 sort of meal she could have had at home. That was 
 the worst of Harold : he did like things to be the 
 same. 
 
 She straightened her hat and sallied out again. 
 So far the day had been uneventful. 
 
 " Shall I call a taxi, miss .^" asked the porter, with 
 the voice of conscience. 
 
 " No, thank you," she said distinctly. " I shall 
 walk." 
 
 She walked all the way up Piccadilly and all the 
 v/ay round Regent Street. The air was filled with 
 sun, the pavement with strolling women in spring 
 hats. She consulted her paper again. It said : 
 " Match curtains." She found the shop and 
 pushed through swing doors into its glowing, 
 many-coloured, chintz-hung recesses. She was 
 greeted by a young man whose baptismal name 
 could only have been " Hyacinth." 
 
A Day in Town 35 
 
 She produced her pattern ; he produced a book of 
 patterns, too. They found the one Harold wanted 
 in the book; but, oh, incredible, that design was no 
 longer in stock ! It was rather staggering. 
 
 " Could I perhaps find you something somewhat 
 similar.'"' asked the beautiful young man. 
 
 " I'm afraid I can hardly decide about another. 
 You see, these curtains are for my husband's study. 
 If it was any other room — -but I don't think I could 
 even then." 
 
 " If you will leave me the pattern, madam, I will 
 ascertain what we have at the warehouse and let you 
 know." 
 
 The blue eyes gazed into his. 
 
 *' But, you see, I promised I would look at the 
 stuff myself " Her voice trailed helplessly. 
 
 " If you care to wait, madam, I will telephone to 
 the warehouse and ascertain." 
 
 She waited. He returned, suave, blond, and 
 graceful. 
 
 Yes, the material was in stock. He had sent for 
 some. It would be here — he consulted the watch 
 on his wrist — in forty-five minutes. She thanked 
 him; she would call again. This parcel, was it 
 hers? Why, yes, it was! She thanked him. She 
 must not forget the handkerchiefs. That would be 
 dreadful. 
 
 c 2 
 
36 The Thrush and the Jay 
 
 Dora's pendant was next on her list. 
 
 She would soon see about that. She saw it 
 packed into a green cardboard box, with the card : 
 
 " Every good wish from Mr. and Mrs. " on 
 
 it, and addressed and stamped and ready to be sent 
 off. 
 
 Then she strolled into the street again. Forty- 
 five minutes. Hyacinth had said. She had another 
 twenty yet to pass. Her eye roved to the windows. 
 She decided to buy a hat; she felt suddenly frumpish 
 in her old one. 
 
 A girl with a powdered nose attended her. 
 
 " Has madam any particular choice as to 
 colour.'"' 
 
 Madam had none. She just wanted, she con- 
 fided suddenly, something very pretty and be- 
 coming. 
 
 They tried on several hats, all of which, irrespec- 
 tive of their merits, the girl pronounced to be 
 charming. Then at last from the v/indow she with- 
 drew a little black gauzy one with a single large 
 white rose in it. 
 
 " A very pretty thing and a design that will be 
 worn all the summer." 
 
 They tried it on. Yes, it was irresistible. 
 
 " But the question is whether this isn't too 
 young.'' Does it make me look a married 
 woman?" 
 
A Day in Town 37 
 
 "Oh, no, madam; indeed it doesn't," said the 
 white-nosed girl; " but then you are not, are you?" 
 
 " I am indeed." 
 
 Exclamations, wonderings ! At the end of them, 
 of course, she bought the hat. 
 
 She turned again to the shop of the cretonnes. 
 Hyacinth was busy with an old lady among the arc 
 serges. It was tiresome of him. 
 
 The shopwalker approached her. 
 
 " Shall I jfind someone else to serve you, madam, 
 or would you rather — wait.^" 
 
 She said she would wait, and then to her horror, 
 before his significant smile, she found herself blush- 
 ing, actually blushing, about a young man in a 
 shop! What was the matter with her.^* What 
 would Harold think "^ That wouldn't bear con- 
 sidering at all. She steadied herself. 
 
 Yes, the material had come. Languidly did 
 Hyacinth cut the strings of the parcel. He hoped 
 she had not been kept waiting too long. 
 
 " Oh, no," she smiled. " I've been buying a 
 hat." 
 
 So he saw, he said. They laughed together. 
 
 With what graceful nonchalance Hyacinth twit- 
 tered his scissors! How swiftly he mastered the 
 brown paper ! How firm his knots were ! Never, 
 in all her life, should she be as capable as that. 
 
38 The Thrush and the Jay 
 
 In the street again she saw what time it was — 
 past four o'clock ! No time for tea at that old hotel. 
 She did not want to eat Genoa cake, in any case; 
 who, save in the last necessity, ever did? She 
 found a tea-shop and ate an eclair and another cake 
 shaped like a mushroom and a small brown frilled 
 one that was flavoured with liqueur. Catching 
 sight of herself in a mirror on her way to the door, 
 she admitted that Harold would not like the hat. 
 It made her too obviously pretty. " Cheap," he 
 called it. He liked her to be just not plain. She 
 walked to the Circus and waited for a 'bus. Harold 
 was very decent about money; still, the hat was an 
 extravagance, especially as she might never be let 
 wear it again. So she stood slim and poised with 
 the large bag containing her old hat in her hand, 
 and the violets at her breast, looking, she told 
 herself gaily, like a little milliner. The 'bus sidled 
 to the edge of the pavement and she got into it. 
 At the same moment she realised that she had just 
 time for her train, and that she had lost the hand- 
 kerchiefs. As the 'bus charged the traffic she 
 wondered with flickering anxiety where she had 
 left them. She had meant to be so careful. 
 What would Harold say.-* He would never for- 
 give her. He would feel he had been forgotten : 
 mat she had gone buying herself hats when he was 
 
A Day in Town 39 
 
 suffering. It had a look of the grossest negligence. 
 He would never believe that she had thought of 
 him all day, as she had in one way or another. Oh, 
 dear! 
 
 Once in the train, she dropped the violets out of 
 the window and put on her original hat. The new 
 one she would reserve for a more propitious occa- 
 sion. She sighed softly as she stepped out of the 
 station fly and rang at her front door. (Only 
 Harold had a key. She might lose one. He was 
 quite right.) 
 
 She put down her parcels on the hall table, they 
 were heavy as lead. A knife was brought from the 
 kitchen, and she began to cut ruefully through the 
 fair string of Hyacinth's lattice-work. 
 
 " How has the master been .^" 
 
 " Much the same, I think, ma'am." 
 
 She spread out the cretonne. In the midst of its 
 exotic folds was a small parcel — the handkerchiefs, 
 the pure linen handkerchiefs ! Hyacinth had saved 
 her. Dear Hyacinth! Without a word, without 
 the least puckering of an eyebrow ! There was tact, 
 resource, sympathy, understanding! 
 
 She ran upstairs with a laugh. 
 
THE FAIR PERSIAN 
 
 (Then Enis-el-J alls took the Lute. 
 
 *' // she sing not well^ O Ja'far^^'' said the Kalifeh, 
 
 " / will have her^ and all who listen to her, 
 
 crucified.^^) 
 
 I. 
 
 Wine has set music to my tongue, 
 
 I will sing, O my beloved, I will sing, 
 
 I will praise the time that we were young 
 
 And dwelt in your father's house in pleasure : — 
 
 This is no sorrowful measure. 
 
 Yet the tears to my eyelids spring, 
 
 And I weep ere the song has been sung. 
 
 Music has stirred wisdom in my breast, 
 
 It rises in my throat and takes wing, 
 
 I know that the present time is best. 
 
 And lament not for the days that are over : — 
 
 Have I not you, O my lover. 
 
 You unsurpassed by anything. 
 
 Have I not love for my guest ? 
 
The Fair Persian 41 
 
 11. 
 
 They took what you gave 
 
 And went away, 
 Only I, your slave, 
 
 Was left on a day, 
 
 I, and the wind crying 
 
 Between floor and rafter, 
 Desolate sighing 
 
 In the house of laughter. 
 
 Gone the sweet singing, 
 Feasting and fine raiment. 
 
 No footfall ringing 
 On the bare pavement. 
 
 In the midnight house 
 
 No taper peeping, 
 Only the scratching mouse. 
 
 And a young slave, weeping. 
 
 III. 
 
 Separation is bitterer than death, 
 
 Loneliness more wretched than the grave ! 
 
 Your arms were my funeral wreath 
 
 Clasping, while I bade you farewell : — 
 
 Your tears on my bosom fell, 
 
 No other jewels you gave. 
 
 No perfumes but the sobbing of your breath. 
 
42 The Thrush and the Jay 
 
 A thousand pieces of gold 
 
 Is the splendid price of your slave. 
 
 Soon shall she be withered and old, 
 
 Shrunken, without longing or regretting: — 
 
 A little while and comes forgetting. 
 
 And knowledge all the beauty she shall have, 
 
 And a heart grown tranquil and cold. 
 
 Rest, my beloved, be at rest, 
 Another will be pleasanter than I. 
 You shall know again merriment and jest. 
 Your house and your garments shall be hand- 
 some : — 
 I would give my soul as a ransom, 
 Shall I not offer willingly 
 My lips and my arms and my breast ? 
 
 IV. 
 
 " Here's a slave girl to entice 
 
 Luxury from avarice. 
 
 Black of eye and white of skin, 
 
 With a mole upon her chin, 
 
 Sleek and smooth from hair to shoon. 
 
 Like a willow ! Like a moon ! 
 
The Fair Persian 43 
 
 See the way she lifts her head ! 
 See her lips a scarlet thread ! 
 She can dance and play right well, 
 She can horoscopes foretell. 
 Like the angels she can sing, 
 This perfect thing! " 
 Stroking his beard the old Vizier 
 Drew near. . . . 
 
 V. 
 
 I saw the minaret 
 In its slenderness 
 
 Against the morning set 
 Companionless. 
 
 Away from all distress 
 
 So quiet there, 
 Held in the soft caress 
 
 Of the bright air. 
 
 Shadows of amethyst 
 Brushing its white, 
 
 Gentle as eyelids kissed 
 At end of night. 
 
44 The Thrush and the Jay 
 
 Seeing: the minaret 
 
 Companionless, 
 How should my soul forget 
 
 Your tenderness? 
 
 VL 
 
 Together, O beloved, together we will go 
 
 Past the crooked vineyards where the round grapes 
 
 grow, 
 Where the flashing lizards like green jewels run, 
 Where the twisted serpents lie basking in the sun. 
 For a robe of honour all the changing hours 
 Shall cover us with sunlight and stars and scented 
 
 flowers. 
 The sands of the desert. shall be our secret bed, 
 The wide sky of midnight shall shield us overhead. 
 You shall pluck the zither and I will sing a tune 
 To set young feet dancing to the round white 
 
 moon, 
 And when the dance is ended, for a coaxing tale 
 The sheikhs shall pay us silver to peep beneath 
 
 my veil. 
 
 VII. 
 
 There is a garden 
 
 With a fair pavilion, 
 It has a warden 
 
 With a nose vermilion. 
 
The Fair Persian 45 
 
 He has drunk no wine 
 
 For fifty years, 
 But now his Hmp locks twine 
 
 About his ears. 
 
 Enis-el-Jalis 
 
 Is singing to a lute 
 In the fair palace 
 
 Of the garden of fruit. 
 
 There is an old man 
 
 Silly as a calf. 
 Try as he can 
 
 He is forced to laugh. . . . 
 
 {Here the Kalifeh announces his identity.) 
 
THE GUILTY PASSION 
 
 She stood at the dressing-table, and questioned 
 with her eyes the puzzled eyes in the looking-glass. 
 It seemed to her as if the figure there were another 
 woman sharing her bewilderment, a woman eager to 
 sympathise with her, but empty of help. 
 
 " That it should have happened to me," she 
 thought. " That it should have been this! " 
 
 She drew a chair to the table and sat down, with 
 her chin propped upon her hands. 
 
 " I must think it out," her brain kept repeating; 
 " I must try to understand it from the beginning." 
 
 But at once her thought ceased and she found 
 herself sitting still and considering the appearance 
 of the woman before her. It was an interesting, 
 attractive face, but not beautiful enough to compel 
 love. Its flaws tormented her. He had said, so 
 once she had heard him, that he admired black 
 hair. The hair in the mirror was a dusty sort of 
 brown. No help there. She got up and walked 
 about the room. 
 
 46 
 
The Guilty Passion 47 
 
 For a whole fortnight now, waking and sleeping, 
 she had known her unhappiness. It was as if a 
 blight had settled upon her, hiding all the zest and 
 amusement of life. Her daily doings seemed like 
 fretting waves on a grey sea of boredom. How 
 dull she felt ! Her gaiety before this disaster was 
 as incomprehensible to her as the comforts of Eden 
 must have seemed after the Fall. It was useless to 
 disguise it from herself— she was in love. It had 
 happened quite suddenly, and there was no reason 
 for it. That was what made her so helpless. She 
 had started awake one night in the small hours and 
 heard his voice speak twice her Christian name; 
 that was all. She had liked him always, of course, 
 and is not liking itself perhaps, if there be any 
 warmth in it, a promise, a foreshadowing, a point- 
 ing of the path at least toward love } She could not 
 have loved him if she had not liked him. Should 
 she have gone about, as so many women seem to 
 do, disliking everyone a little.'' Should she have 
 kept away from temptation.'' But she did not 
 know it was temptation till she had yielded to it. 
 Above all, she did not know she could be so silly. 
 She raged at herself. 
 
 He was not half as nice as her husband, but she 
 loved everything about him. He was not so hand- 
 some, or so kind, or, she could even concede, so 
 
48 The Thrush and the Jay 
 
 clever. He could give her nothing. He was caus- 
 ing her a great deal of suffering. A scandal pre- 
 sented neither the charm of need nor of originality. 
 Above all, he was not in the least in love with 
 her. 
 
 It was to that fact chiefly, indeed, that her un- 
 happiness was due. It made the whole affair 
 humiliating. It was not even a becoming subject 
 for friendly, horrifying confidences. No one could 
 pity or excuse her. She could not pity or excuse 
 herself. She was ridiculous. Her heart must be 
 bruised in secret. She saw the future stretching 
 before her, a drab expanse of self-control and self- 
 repression, and she was by nature a communicative 
 woman. 
 
 She wished, in spite of the role being sadly out of 
 date, that she could have played at femme incom- 
 prise. She found herself watching her husband 
 with the hope that he would be rough or gross at 
 times. But he was persistently the best and kindest 
 of men. He gave her no justification. He 
 thought she must be having headaches. At night 
 when she cried a little in her corner over the hate- 
 fulness of everything, he would ask gently (was it 
 with calculated stupidity.'') : — 
 
 " Have you a cold ?" 
 
 And she would answer, " No." 
 
The Guilty Passion 49 
 
 Then he would say, " You're not crying, are 
 you?" 
 
 And she would answer stubbornly, " No." 
 
 Then would come silence, a long, choking 
 silence, in which he seemed to lie in ambush waiting 
 for her to blow her nose. 
 
 When she thought him asleep she would pull out 
 her handkerchief and snuffle softly into it, but it 
 was an unsatisfactory way to weep, quietly like this, 
 without big noisy sobs. Her state needed the ex- 
 pression of sobs. She wondered, angrily, how he 
 could lie there and doze so calmly, turning an in- 
 different shoulder, when his whole life lay ruined 
 at his side. 
 
 She longed for a place of her own to indulge her 
 grief, but she could not make herself a separate bed- 
 room without a fuss (the spare room was the nur- 
 sery now), and without explanations that would put 
 a grimness of reality on her absurd fancy. She 
 wanted everything to remain unreal. She wanted 
 to love her husband. She had to live with him for 
 ever, and their life could be so happy. It was her 
 duty to be happy. Her relations expected it of her. 
 *' I must be cheerful," she thought, " or people 
 will get tired of me." She had been so fortunate, 
 and though she had believed that she could not go 
 scot-free, she had hoped that small worries, debts, a 
 
 D 
 
5© The Thrush and the Jay 
 
 risk of measles in the nursery, the fear and anxiety 
 when the child was born, would placate destiny. It 
 was so unfair. Any other misfortune could have 
 been shared and so lightened, but this one was to 
 be borne in solitude, in public solitude. 
 
 At first it had been her sin that troubled her. It 
 was so base a treachery to the glad ordering of her 
 life, and she had prayed to be freed from it. In the 
 bath-room she had prayed, as that wa!s the one place 
 in the house secure from interruption, and her 
 prayer had, in a sense, been answered, for after it at 
 any rate she had found peace and joy in her heart, 
 and an expectation of seeing the beloved at a tea 
 party on the morrow. 
 
 In the end she had prayed that he might love her. 
 It seemed incredible that she should be so miser- 
 able, and he be indifferent. Could she not believe 
 that he was not indifferent } When she met him, 
 could she not pretend he had come to meet her.? 
 If he picked up her table-napkin at a dinner party, 
 might she not translate it to affectionate attentive- 
 ness } So many women flattered themselves that 
 way. If he loved her, she thought it would draw 
 the poison from her own wound. It did not com- 
 fort her to know how little she must really care if 
 she could thus contentedly anticipate his suffering. 
 She prayed that she might see him often. . . . 
 
The Guilty Passion 51 
 
 She crossed to the window, and looked down into 
 the quiet street. The hot sunlight exposed its 
 barrenness. She did not know when she should be 
 seeing him again. It was nearly five days 
 
 Downstairs in her household, afternoon stillness 
 reigned. The ornaments on the drawing-room 
 mantelpiece had been dusted, the new shade covered 
 for the lamp. She was supposed to be lying on her 
 bed, resting from these exertions. Her nurse, 
 flushed and pushing the perambulator, turned the 
 street corner. She was bringing Miss Baby in to her 
 tea. The mother let the curtain fall stealthily, and 
 stepped back into the room. She did not want to 
 seem glad just then. Lately, when the thought of 
 her child came, another thought came too : " If it 
 were not for you, everything would be so simple." 
 She heard the bustle in the hall subside, and her 
 daughter being carried past her door, with loud 
 " hushings," and a whispered '' Don't wake 
 mammy." Then she returned to the window. She 
 leaned her forehead against the sash and placed her 
 hands one on each side of her waist. Standing so, 
 she felt like those old women who survey life 
 perpetually from darkened rooms through the 
 slanted modesty of their lace curtains. The blank- 
 ness of such lives seemed smothering her; she felt 
 in prison. Far up the street, on the opposite side, 
 
 D 2 
 
52 The Thrush and the Jay 
 
 she saw the postman coming — the postman, who 
 brings to the suburbs invitations and bazaar notices 
 at four o'clock. In her present mood, the zig-zag 
 progress of his approach had the excitement of a 
 mihtary band. Next door he came, then over the 
 road. " He will go by," she thought. " He will 
 go by." For an intense moment she prayed that 
 he might not pass her. Even a bill would be better 
 than nothing. He had passed the gate. She hated 
 him. No, he was coming in. Rat-tat ! 
 
 As a precaution against curiosity, she kicked ofF 
 her shoes, and lay down on the bed. The maid 
 brought up her letter. The crisp envelope was 
 familiar to her fingers, familiar, and how dear ! 
 
 " Draw the curtains, please," she said to the 
 maid, in a creaking, indifferent voice. It was hard 
 to hide her eagerness. 
 
 The curtain-rings rang upon the poles, and 
 yellow light flooded the room. Not till the door 
 had shut did she behold her treasure. It was 
 addressed in small, vertical, spasmodic handwriting 
 — the usual handwriting of young men. She held 
 it against her throat. It was from him. 
 
 He invited her to dine with him, and go to a 
 theatre that night. Clang ! clang ! went the joyous 
 cymbals in her brain. The shortness of the notice 
 must mean that someone else had failed him, but 
 
The Guilty Passion 53 
 
 she did not trouble about that. She should see him. 
 Her time of uncertainty was, for the present, over. 
 For a moment her tedious orbit would brush the 
 butterfly dance of his. Her cheeks became pink. 
 Her eyes sparkled. She ran to romp with the baby. 
 Laughter enveloped her. Her husband, caught in 
 the whirlwind of her gaiety, circled, in the intervals 
 of dressing, her body with his arms. She kissed his 
 neck with warmth and enthusiasm. She loved all 
 the world. She loved even her wretched thoughts 
 for providing so extravagant a contrast to her hap- 
 piness. They had helped, at any rate, to gtt rid of 
 the afternoon. 
 
 Here was another chance of re-capturing her 
 liberty. If she could make him love her, then 
 surely she would be free. She sought out her 
 prettiest gown. She fastened a flower in her hair. 
 She felt lovely and adorable. She was following a 
 singing star. The woman in the mirror, mimicking 
 her brightness, seemed to dismiss her to prosperity, 
 as if she were again a bride, with smiles of approval 
 and encouragement. 
 
A HOLY MAN IN THE DESERT 
 
 I. 
 
 My thoughts are pallid moths that flit and flit 
 About my soul's small upward-thrilling flame; 
 Their hovering wings do near extinguish it, 
 And in the heavy dark I sink in shame. 
 I want you not, uncalled to me you came. 
 Moth thoughts, soft thoughts, do not destroy my 
 
 soul, 
 It is my lamp, my life, my happy whole. 
 It burned so calmly to the sacred name. 
 
 Kut now you were a host of golden bees 
 In that light gilded and emblazoned. 
 Returning laden from the airy seas 
 With piled-up sweet and treasure harvested; 
 Your homing wings were decked and perfumed 
 With secret buds and raptured flowers' embrace, 
 With swaying boughs that stroke the heavens' face, 
 And all the honey that the winds have shed. 
 
A Holy Man in the Desert 55 
 
 The pale wings fall like petals on my breast, 
 I cannot brush them hence, I cannot strive. 
 They make a murmuring as they lie at rest 
 Sweeter than bee song in the summer hive. 
 They are more strong than I, more, more alive, 
 My light is quenched, yielding and dumb I hear 
 Stirring the dark, invincibly draw near 
 Thoughts that from out my heart I cannot drive. 
 
 II. 
 
 Dawn ! And a clean air and a wind that blows 
 
 Cool as spring water in a hidden well 
 
 Through my dulled veins until the quick blood 
 
 glows. 
 Dawn! And the new sun whitening my cell. 
 I, of my soul the vanquished sentinel. 
 With sudden gladness as new washed of sin. 
 Fling wide the door and all athirst drink in 
 The quiet world, the dew-drenched morning smell. 
 
 Bright and hard-fleshed am I as polished stone. 
 Clear as a cup of crystal without stain, 
 I stand upright and joy to stand alone, 
 And feel myself unmastered once again. 
 
56 The Thrush and the Jay 
 
 " Unmastered ! " God forgive me! 'tis in vain 
 I seek to bow my head, for the old pride 
 Is obdurate and will not be denied 
 When under foot I think to have it slain. 
 
 Pardon me, O my God, for Thy good light 
 
 It is that puts repentance from my soul, 
 
 I cannot weep because the evil night 
 
 Is stripped from me and I am safe and whole; 
 
 I am my own thanksgiving, need not dole 
 
 To Thee tears and self-'braidings. Here I stand 
 
 Happy before the wonders of Thy hand, 
 
 The radiant morning and the long hill's roll. 
 
THE SIXTH ACT. 
 
 The room was a panelled one, and the panelling 
 had been painted white. Its milky surface gave 
 back an uncertain glimmering to the ghostly, sun- 
 less daylight. It was a late afternoon at the slow 
 end of winter. 
 
 In the deep-set window a woman was sitting. She 
 was leaning against the glass, so that through her 
 sleeve she could feel its chill upon the soft flesh of 
 her arm, and through her thick hair it was cold 
 upon her forehead. Her round, pretty head looked 
 black against the pane. At her sides her hands lay, 
 palm upwards, trailing, with fingers lightly curled, 
 and her whole posture suggested an infinity of 
 lassitude and sadness. 
 
 So she had been sitting all day, looking down 
 into the street, or across the square to where the 
 gaunt plane trees rattled their inky balls, until with 
 her strained eyes she could see the dusk descend- 
 ing. Veil after blackish veil seemed to be 
 lowered across the house-tops, to be dipped, to be 
 
58 The Thrush and the Jay 
 
 withdrawn, to be lowered again a little further. 
 Her heart felt as if it would burst with the dull 
 fatigue of idlene&s. 
 
 Everything changed, and everything was the 
 same. Often she had sat like that in her old home 
 before she was married, felt so waking, sleeping, 
 cried out to herself in soft, despairing voice, *' How 
 many more times am I going to see that pattern of 
 twigs out of my window, that church spire against 
 the sky.'"' and then she had thought, " O God, if I 
 should never see anything else all my life!" and 
 her heart had contracted until she felt sick with 
 anguish. Just such an anguish was stifling her 
 now. 
 
 How much happier everyone else seemed than 
 herself. She had only to catch a glimpse of them 
 through the window to be sure of that. Children 
 rolling hoops, nurses gossiping as they jogged the 
 handles of perambulators, a servant girl smart in 
 cap and apron with letters for the post, messenger 
 boys, greengrocers, bakers, milkmen, even the lady 
 from the corner house with the dyed hair and the 
 lap-dog — all, all were happier than she. Most 
 achingly she noticed the young women so like her- 
 self, only that they were busy, hastening home 
 with flowers in their arms or cardboard boxes with 
 cakes in them. And those fire-lit interiors, those 
 
The Sixth Act 59 
 
 warm rooms, to screen which she could see the cur- 
 tains even now being drawn, how she longed to be 
 walking into one of them, part herself of the order- 
 liness, the cheerful glow ! What did it feel like to 
 tread confidently a familiar hall, fling wide a door 
 and cry, " Well, how has everything been?" 
 
 Or — the lonelier way, that had been her way, 
 and was also very good and perhaps more dis- 
 tinguished — to ring a bell, and say : 
 
 *' Bring me some tea-cakes, please. Be quick! " 
 She missed the entry of the maid with tea. In 
 Cambridge Terrace her dullest days had held some 
 such small mercy. How pleasant her housemaid's 
 smile had been, sympathetic for the loneliness of a 
 young wife, as she set out the table and made up 
 the fire and drew the curtains (just as those house- 
 maids were doing over the way), and left the tea- 
 urn singing. Her tea urn ! (A hard gulp of tears 
 arose in her throat.) She remembered so well the 
 first time she had seen it. It was in a Chelsea shop, 
 sedate and comely against a background of old 
 shawls, lace, china, and mahogany. She had 
 coveted at once its silvery roundness, the little ring- 
 holding lions' mouths at its sides, the green-stained 
 bone at the tap. She had known at once that she 
 should enjoy making her tea with the help of it, and 
 her husband had bought it for her. Ah ! there was 
 
6o The Thrush and the Jay 
 
 a wonderful joyousness about everything in those 
 days. It was silly to cry for a tea-urn, but all the 
 same it was the little things, the things that ought 
 not to count, that tormented you when you hadn't 
 them. One could not go on pretending all one's 
 life that a mere roof over one's head was a thing 
 to be thankful for. She jerked her foot pettishly. 
 
 The fire had sunk down in the grate, but she 
 had no will to rise and put coal on it. Let it go 
 out. It would only be another pebble on her 
 mountain of discomfort. It did not matter. Here 
 nothing mattered. One could sit for hours in the 
 same place without any fear of people " talking," 
 of giving an impression that something was 
 " wrong." 
 
 Her thoughts wandered to the street again. 
 Would none of them look up, those passing people, 
 and see the dark-eyed woman who sat so still there 
 in the window.'' Her isolation felt colder than 
 the glass. If they would but look they might guess 
 at her story; but, no, they hurried by, self-absorbed, 
 unheeding. They had no time as she had to brood 
 and speculate. Ah, why should they ? It was all 
 very old and stale. Even her friends had probably 
 forgotten her. Did they ever mention her name .'' 
 A year ago it had made piquant sauce for many a 
 stodgy conversation ; but nobody could go on being 
 
The Sixth Act 6i 
 
 shocked for ever. Like love (she thought bitterly, 
 but enjoying the contemptuous shape the thought 
 gave to her mouth) one could not keep it up. If 
 they were not shocked, she knew that they were 
 not interested; then why should they speak of her.'' 
 She was lost, out of sight, gone headlong as a 
 stone into a well. A hope strained within her that 
 sometimes they might at least abuse her. Did 
 the dead feel so.'' 
 
 She shivered lightly, and then a pink flush 
 sprang into her cheeks. Oh, those old times ! The 
 intrigue, the excitement, the letters, the stealthy 
 walks in the park! Those mornings when every- 
 thing she saw seemed full of a hidden meaning, a 
 divine elation. A secret ! Most satisfying treasvire 
 in the world. It was her prize of prizes. How 
 she had gone about hugging herself! She could 
 picture herself now, rising up from tea-parties, 
 from luncheons, the "Must you really go.''" of 
 her hostess and her own sweetly resolute " Yes, 
 really," with a roll of the eyes that implied miracles. 
 And then the furtive journeying, the side streets, 
 the bland word of explanation for chance en- 
 counters, the steep staircase, the opening door, the 
 strong arms to draw her inside it, her murmured 
 " Just for a minute, a little minute," and at last 
 the warm darkness, the dear intimacy of his room, 
 
62 The Thrush and the Jay 
 
 his little white panelled room — where she was 
 now! 
 
 She moved one hand in deprecating gesture. 
 Could such a thing be possible ? The flush faded 
 from her face. She had asked for stolen kisses 
 and they gave her a divorce suit. Her husband 
 had been so ready to get rid of her. She 
 had shown him only her bored, discontented side 
 after the first happy days, so how could he love her } 
 He had given her everything she had asked for, 
 including her freedom. Ah, but she had not 
 wanted that. He should have refused her. That 
 would have kept some colour, some interest in 
 life. Harsh finger-marks upon one's arm, staccato 
 curses, breath that hissed in the nose, these at any 
 rate would have been interesting. Even if he 
 longed for her a little still, what a triumphant 
 haven her panelled room would be. But to be 
 cast off, to be let pack and go, bag and baggage 
 (or, at least, a little of the baggage), out of his 
 house and his life and his thoughts! To have 
 gone without leaving even a regret behind — it was 
 humiliating. Worse, it was flat. 
 
 And now if she were not careful it would all 
 happen over again. Not yet, not for a long time 
 perhaps, for her lover was still wholly her lover, 
 but some day, some sudden day might not he, too. 
 
The Sixth Act 63 
 
 tire of her unrest, her peevishness? Already, she 
 knew, her caprices bothered him. He wanted to 
 take her to his friends, to theatres, picture galleries, 
 concerts. To make plain and permanent their 
 relation. But she shrank from reminders of her 
 former world. She did not, in very truth, much 
 care to be seen about with him. She could not 
 endure the defeat of going to the pit, where 
 formerly her place had been the stalls, of a gown 
 less fashionable, of a tell-tale, unradiant face. 
 
 Nerves, he called it, nerves, nerves, nerves. He 
 would lose patience — some day. Horrors were 
 outside in the darkness and confronted her. She 
 had always been an inexpert fool. Where were 
 her daring, her high spirits, her grace, her sharp 
 tongue } She must keep them and him. 
 
 Instinctively she made a movement to get up 
 and mend the fire; but she checked herself and 
 sank back into inaction. She must not be servile. 
 After all, perhaps, it would not be he who would 
 tire first. 
 
 She gave a stiff little yawn. To have given up 
 everything for love, that was magnificent, but to 
 have to keep on doing it, it was always against 
 this frigid monotony that she had struggled. She 
 would not let her thoughts be monotonous, any- 
 how. It was a principle. A little snap and sparkle 
 
64 The Thrush and the Jay 
 
 came into her eyes. She turned her back to the 
 window and leaned her head more comfortably. 
 She was not heroic, perhaps, not so like Iseult and 
 Guinevere as she had fancied; but what could she 
 do ? If she had been born a lighl: woman she would 
 have to endure it. It was no use quarrelling with 
 fate. She gave her shoulder-blades the smallest 
 possible shrug. Already she felt happier. The 
 future had several possibilities left. She reviewed 
 them for a moment. A smile came upon her lips 
 and stayed there. Perhaps, after all, the leaves 
 would be green again, the air golden. 
 
 Far down in the house she heard the thud of 
 a closing door. Sitting quite still she listened to 
 the eager step mounting the stairs. 
 
HELAS! 
 
 Ah ! little tree, that shone in May 
 With glistening leaves and blossoms gay. 
 How show you now the bitter air 
 Of time has stripped your branches bare ? 
 
 You that I loved and praised as one 
 That seemed a nursling of the sun — 
 What the bleak soil, what harsh wind blew, 
 Thus to deform and wither you ? 
 
 Apparelled in the robe of Spring, 
 You bloomed so fresh and fine a thing; 
 Was that most joyous canopy 
 But a disguise, my little tree ? 
 
 I loved the blossoms and the green, 
 The coloured, carved, intricate screen : 
 Enchanted by the sight of them. 
 How should I mark the crooked stem? 
 
 65 TP 
 
HUNTING SONG 
 
 The hunt is up, the hunt is up, 
 
 It sounds from hill to hill. 
 
 It pierces to the secret place 
 
 Where we are lying still, 
 
 And one of us the quarry is, 
 
 And one of us must go 
 
 When through the arches of the wood 
 
 We hear the dread horn blow. 
 
 A huntsman bold is Master Death, 
 
 And reckless does he ride, 
 
 And terror's hounds with bleeding fangs 
 
 Go baying at his side. 
 
 And will it be a milk-white doe 
 
 Or little dappled fawn. 
 
 Or will it be an antlered stag 
 
 Must face the icy dawn .'' 
 
 Or will it be a golden fox 
 Must leap from out his lair. 
 Or where the trailing shadows pass 
 A merry romping hare ^ 
 
 66 
 
Hunting Song 67 
 
 The hunt is up, the horn is loud 
 By plain and covert side, 
 And one must run alone, alone, 
 When Death abroad does ride. 
 
 But idle 'tis to crouch in fear. 
 
 Since Death will find you out. 
 
 Then up and hold your head erect 
 
 And pace the wood about. 
 
 And swim the stream and leap the wall 
 
 And race the starry mead, 
 
 Nor feel the bright teeth in your flank 
 
 Till they be there indeed. 
 
 For in the secret hearts of men 
 
 Are peace and joy at one. 
 
 There is a pleasant land where stalks 
 
 No darkness in the sun. 
 
 And through the arches of the wood 
 
 Do break like silver foam 
 
 Young laughter and the noise of flutes 
 
 And voices singing home. 
 
 E 2 
 
THE INTRUDER 
 
 He was tall and very thin and he stooped a little. 
 About his mouth a nervous smile flickered con- 
 tinually. It gave him an appearance of restlessness, 
 and his hands, too, were restless. That was since 
 his smoking had been stopped. It was only for a 
 tinie, of course, and of course it was worth while 
 to be careful; but it left him ill at ease. To be 
 without a cigarette added to the strangeness of 
 walking by the edge of a lake in bright sunshine, 
 while at home they were putting up umbrellas and 
 shivering in the north-east wind. He was lucky 
 to be out of it, wasn't he.'' He wished, though, 
 that he could have had another chap with him, not 
 a miserable specimen like himself, but someone 
 big and strong and to be relied on, someone who 
 did not have to stop and rest every fifty yards, 
 someone who didn't scan his face in the glass every 
 morning as if he expected to see — what was it he 
 expected to see there.? 
 
 The young man turned his thoughts abruptly 
 
 63 
 
The Intruder 69 
 
 from the question. He leaned his elbows on 
 the balustrade and watched the swans moving 
 on the water. How much at ease they were, and 
 how untroubled ! His fingers journeyed mechanic- 
 ally to his breast pocket, and then, as he remem- 
 bered that there were no cigarettes in it, withdrew 
 and fell to his side. He resumed his walk under 
 the chestnut trees. 
 
 After all, the risk was very slight. He did not 
 feel the smallest stir of anxiety about himself. 
 There was no reason why he should not live for 
 fifty years, the doctors had told him that, if he 
 took proper care of himself. Well, he was taking 
 care. Why should he be anxious .'' One gave — 
 that was it ? — a year or two of one's life to getting 
 well, after that one might scale the Himalayas. 
 What idiotic phrases the doctors had used! He 
 had not the least desire to scale the Himalayas. 
 But he should like to be out in a boat again in 
 a choppy sea, where the salt stung your eyes and 
 the wind took your breath away, and not crawling 
 everlastingly between a wall of hills and a slopping 
 puddle of lake-water. 
 
 He sat down on a seat and watched the sun 
 beginning to set. The lake looked like silk. He 
 thought again of his imaginary companion. It 
 would be pleasant to hear him say, " You know, 
 
70 The Thrush and the Jay 
 
 old man, you're simply walking me off my feet. 
 Let's sit down for a bit." Was he too hopeful? 
 Optimism was part of the disease he had always 
 heard. He supposed he ought to dread it like 
 haemorrhage. The sun disappeared and the hills 
 became lead-coloured. It was time to go to his 
 hotel and eat his dinner. " Big meals, plenty of 
 good fresh air " — as he ate his thoughts grew lively 
 again. After all, if he were really a " malade," he 
 would never have been admitted to this select 
 pension. They had a printed postscript on the tariff 
 to that effect. He exaggerated, he frightened 
 himself, he ought to keep remembering that the 
 risk was very small. He felt elated. He longed 
 for gaiety, for the hum of crowds. He decided 
 that he would go to the Kursaal. 
 
 "Will the weather keep fine, do you think .f* " 
 he asked the concierge. 
 
 " Impossible to say. Monsieur," was the 
 answer. But the young man would not let his 
 mood be shattered. He waved his hat merrily. 
 How pretty the town was with its lights. They 
 sent tinsel streams of gold and silver down into 
 the smooth depths of the lake, and the surrounding 
 hills had crowns of light upon them, and the car- 
 riages of the funicular, moving through the dark- 
 ness, were like little golden mice. The air was 
 
The Intruder 71 
 
 loaded with the scents of lilac and wistaria. He 
 passed through the swing doors into the Kursaal. 
 A hubbub of sounds rushed to meet him, a medley 
 of fiddles, of voices, of feet ringing on the paved 
 floor, of clapping hands from the music hall. At 
 once, in the throng, his self-confidence began to 
 fade from him. He stood at the top of the steps 
 uncertain which way to turn. He moved hesi- 
 tatingly to the " Jeu de Bal." Round the door- 
 way stood a crowd of eager spectators, townsmen 
 forbidden by a fatherly council to take part in the 
 sport, gazing in silent fascination while their 
 visitors were corrupted inside. The young man 
 elbowed a way through them. 
 
 " Le Dix," snarled the man with the ball. The 
 croupier manipulated his silver rake. No one was 
 smiling. An old woman with many bracelets added 
 a franc to her increasing store. It was rather a 
 grim game. 
 
 The young man wriggled himself into the front 
 row of those standing at the table. Every seat was 
 occupied. He pulled out a franc and tossed it on 
 to the space marked 5. The ball ran round and 
 round. The silver coins had an exposed and naked 
 air upon the dark green cloth. " Rien de plus," 
 cried the nasal voice. The ball ran slower and 
 slower. The people round the table watched it 
 
72 The Thrush and the Jay 
 
 as cats watch birds. It began to waver, it swung 
 across, it rolled back, it rocked from pocket to 
 pocket. The silence was keen. 
 
 " Le Six," came the harsh cry. 
 
 The silver rake clawed the young man's franc 
 into the croupier's heap. The young man threw 
 down another. The ball ran round and round. 
 The silence settled. He was not exactly gay. Still, 
 he was out for a merry evening. Had he not 
 waved his hat to the concierge? He lost seven 
 francs. On the whole, he was glad that he did 
 not win. Good luck there would have been 
 frightening. He preferred to have his fortune in 
 another way. He thought he would try for amuse- 
 ment in the music hall. 
 
 It was quite full when he went in, so he stood 
 for awhile looking at the lighted stage. A man 
 with a tall hat on his head was doing a burlesque 
 dance. As his feet battered on the boards his face 
 grimaced comically. 
 
 " La Gioconda," he cried, folding his arms and 
 grinning, " toujours la sourire"; or " Le Roi 
 d'Espagne " — he turned sideways, jutting out his 
 lower lip in an ugly fashion. The audience 
 applauded him. The orchestra stopped playing for 
 a moment. " Rahdy addle addle," went the feet 
 on the boards. 
 
The Intruder 73 
 
 " Pom, pom, pom," came in the orchestra again. 
 
 That was not very amusing either. Besides, the 
 hall was very hot. The young man left it and 
 went into the restaurant. There were still the 
 pleasures of the Cinema and Winter Gardens un- 
 tasted. Meanwhile, he ordered himself a " bock." 
 While he waited for it he amused himself by 
 watching the people. 
 
 Beside him in the corner four Frenchmen were 
 playing cards. Sometimes they grew angry, some- 
 times they chaffed one another. Near the door 
 some young Americans were taking drinks. 
 
 " I count that my stay here," one of them was 
 saying, " will be worth a hundred dahllars a day 
 to me. When a man has lived four years in a 
 place people rackon he knows something about it. 
 In Los Angeles " 
 
 On the right a very pretty little girl was talking 
 much too fast to two most unpretty little men. 
 
 Further along the wall a couple of decent mad- 
 chens were eating ices, protected by an ancient 
 cavalier. 
 
 At the table opposite the young man's a woman 
 in a black satin gown was sitting. She was without 
 a hat, and her fair hair was rippled fashionably all 
 over her head. Her hands, with their highly- 
 polished nails, were clasped beneath her chin, and 
 
74 The Thrush and the Jay 
 
 she leant forward talking with fierce animation to 
 a grey-haired man who seemed very still beside 
 her. Her youthful face glistened with the rapidity 
 of her speech. She laughed and chattered so 
 much that she made herself cough. She had to 
 lean back in her chair for a moment to recover 
 herself. 
 
 Then, while the young man watched her, she did 
 an extraordinary thing. She turned away from 
 her companion, and with a furtive movement 
 thrust her hand into the folds of the cloak that 
 was thrown across the back of the chair. Still 
 quietly and furtively she drew out a small black 
 flask, which the young man supposed to be a bottle 
 of smelling salts, and held it close to her face. 
 He saw how deadly pale she was. Was she going 
 to faint, he wondered .'' Then he saw a thing that 
 made the restaurant, with its tables and crowd and 
 noise, seem to rise up round him in a black vortex. 
 From the young woman's mouth into the flask had 
 crawled a something that was thick and white — 
 a thing like a white snake. 
 
 The young man gripped the sides of his table. 
 The room grew steady again. The young woman 
 had restored the black flask to her pocket, and 
 was talking, laughing, ridiculing, with her former 
 furious gaiety. The young man watched her 
 
The Intruder 75 
 
 with wretched eyes. His moist hand clasped the 
 glass before him. He thought : 
 
 " I cannot drink this. I must go home." 
 Then he thought : " After all, it may happen to 
 anyone at any minute. It is only a matter of years 
 or days or hours, and what is the difference of those 
 in the flood of time.? There were a few things 
 that I should have liked to do, but what do they 
 matter .-^ Children pretend to be heroes, and isn't 
 that the happiest of all games.'' Doing things .f* 
 Better to lie in bed with one's eyes shut — one will 
 be as happy as the greatest man that ever lived. 
 And, after all, happiness or unhappiness are all 
 one. Whatever happens is over before one has 
 time to taste it. It's no use being afraid. We all 
 have to pass by the same way. W^hy," his eyes 
 began to shine at his own valour, " the only way 
 to enjoy life is to be careless of it. To hold it as 
 lightly as a feather on one's palm." 
 
 He took a Bifr drink of the beer. The woman 
 in the black satin gown got up from her chair and 
 with her companion disappeared in the throng of 
 the corridor. The young man lost sight of them. 
 Flushed and excited he sat sipping, gazing before 
 him proudly. The risk was such a small one. No 
 decent man was going to snivel about it. One had 
 only to brace one's shoulders and it was gone. He 
 
76 The Thrush and the Jay 
 
 felt as he had felt an hour ago when he had waved 
 
 CD 
 
 his hat to the conciers^e. 
 
 All round him was the noise of voices, of fiddles, 
 of promenading feet scraping the pavement, of 
 corks being drawn, of glasses jingling upon plates, 
 they merged about him into a great full-throated 
 roll of sound, and then — outside in the corridor 
 — someone had begun to cough. The fair-haired 
 woman became individualised in the crowd, strug- 
 gling to free herself, to get back to her seat. The 
 young man did not wait for her return. He did 
 not want to finish his beer. It was all very fine 
 to talk about the common lot and to set your jaw 
 squarely, but that chokiness, that horror, that 
 loathsome little black flask 
 
 He got upon his feet and grasped hurriedly for 
 his hat. The doors of the Kursaal swung to in 
 mercy behind him. The night air felt cold. 
 Buttoning his jacket he walked, very upright, to 
 the Hotel. 
 
A BATHE ONE SUNDAY 
 
 The cornfields shone like glass, 
 
 Each ear a rainbow was, 
 
 The brambles were more full of bees 
 
 Than of purple blackberries, 
 
 On every emerald leaf there stood 
 
 A ladybird like a drop of blood, 
 
 And little flowers like mirrored sky 
 
 Rose up and flew as we came by. 
 
 No sound of wheel, no song of bird^ 
 No grasshopper his fiddle stirred; 
 Almost the chewing of the cows 
 Sounded o'er seven fields — a house 
 With boarded windows, silent, shut,, 
 Like a dead mole in a rut ! 
 
 The air was full of thistledown, 
 Phantoms by the light wind blown,, 
 
 . [77 
 
78 The Thrush and the Jay 
 
 In the grass the seeking stream 
 Made a brown translucent gleam : 
 Easily, it seemed, as they, 
 We, too, went upon our way. 
 
 What they sought, that sought we 
 Under many an arching tree. 
 Into shadows deep and cool 
 As a tawny fishing pool, 
 Over meadows on whose breast 
 Yellow sunshine lay at rest. 
 What they sought, that sought we- 
 Waiting splendour of the sea. 
 
 There at last before our feet 
 Loveliness is made complete, 
 Earth and sea a crystal cup 
 Rounded, perfect, brimming up! 
 Down the cliff, a golden stair. 
 To where the blessed waters are. 
 Lipping, kissing the warm stones. 
 Lapping benedictions. 
 Sweet as music, clear as light. 
 Turquoise, silken, clinging, bright. 
 Now must we our bodies dress 
 In this garment's loveliness. 
 
A Bathe One Sunday 79 
 
 Barnes's bull is safe in shed 
 
 Far away and tethered, 
 
 Barnes and neighbours far away 
 
 On their knees do pray : 
 
 Standing, loud they sing, and yet 
 
 Whom they worship makes them sweat. 
 
 Whom we worship lets no eye 
 Come our bathing to espy, 
 Whom we worship lets the sea 
 In gentleness our playmate be, 
 Whom we worship, shuts us in 
 His blue garden without sin — 
 Praise we him who makes us part 
 Of the summer's heart. 
 
OUT OF THE WIND 
 
 On the pier-head we were watching four little 
 boats, tail-end of some irrelevant regatta, tacking 
 round about a couple of buoys that showed 
 crimson flags in the seaway. The air was sunny, 
 the waves blue and slapping briskly, the wind 
 came due east from a clear sky. Some of us were 
 talking " strikes," some in tweed coats were talk- 
 ing " fishing," some, no doubt, were flirting enjoy- 
 ably with the brown-cheeked maidens of the 
 watering-place; but I, because an east wind makes 
 me cower and seems to thrust cold fingers into 
 the very marrow of my bones, slipped quietly 
 shorewards to where, halfway down the pier, a 
 glass screen was raised with seats on either side 
 of it, a sturdy barrier between hostile weather 
 and the comforts of the sunset. There I chose 
 my seat and opened my paper and stretched my 
 toes out to warm at the westering blaze. Then 
 the first voice reached me. It was American and 
 went with a level swing — " Eelectricity," it said, 
 
 " is not a thing to play about with. My maid 
 
 80 
 
Out of the Wind 8i 
 
 used to stand one side of me and the rays got 
 on to her by mistake, and, would you believe it, 
 that girl was par^-lysed for two hours? I had to 
 fasten my dress myself. She got the full current. 
 You can stand these things when you are ill, 
 but you can't stand them when you are well. 
 I had nine doctors and three nurses for an entire 
 year " 
 
 People passing made a resounding clatter on the 
 wooden boards of the pier, that curious stammering 
 tramp of feet stepping out of time together. As 
 the noise became distant the voice penetrated to 
 me again — swift, nasal, taking all hedges without 
 altering its stride. 
 
 "They wanted to break my arm," it said; 
 " that's your English method. I know, for I had 
 all the big men seeing me, I was a very special 
 case; the Paris doctor disagreed with them. * Well, 
 look here,' I said, ' something has to be done about 
 this. I can't go about all my life with one arm 
 fat and the other arm thin.' It looked so odd 
 in evening dress. Then the Swiss spec-i-alist said 
 he would take me over and cure me " 
 
 I lost it. 
 
 " Eelectricity," it resumed, " is not a thing you 
 can play about with. I had three nurses for over 
 a year, two in the daytime and one at night. I 
 
 F 
 
82 The Thrush and the Jay 
 
 know what it is to be ill. When I take off my 
 clothes I have a pattern all over me like a damask 
 table-cloth. A sort of Iris pattern " 
 
 It had gone again. 
 
 Clatter, clatter on the wooden floor and another 
 voice, shrill and insistent of attention. 
 
 " I said as soon as I saw him, ' That dog isn't 
 as fit as he should be, his eyes are dull and his 
 nose is hot and dry ' " 
 
 Strophe and antistrophe. The American lady 
 took up the tale. 
 
 " She was cleaning gloves with a big basin of 
 petrol and I said, ' Get my bath ready,' and she 
 turned round " 
 
 "Oh, sulphur! But this morning when I felt 
 his nose " 
 
 " The whole thing flared up! And, would you 
 believe it, that girl walked straight out of the 
 room and shut the door ! Oh, she lost her nerve, 
 that was it, she lost her nerve " 
 
 " He wagged his tail and I said, ' Feeling better, 
 old fellow '" 
 
 " I told them straight out : ' I can't go about 
 like this all my life with one arm fat and the other 
 arm thin ' " 
 
 " And his nose was so nice and cold and quite 
 moist." 
 
Out of the Wind 83 
 
 The second voice was s:ettinor the best of it. 
 I had hoped to hear more about the Iris pattern. 
 I did not care for the dog so much (even when 
 he rejected his biscuit), and when I knew I was 
 going to hear about the time he was sick 
 in her bedroom I got up and moved to a seat 
 lower down. 
 
 There were only two people near me, a middle- 
 aged clergyman and an old lady in black. We were 
 still more sheltered from the wind, and I settled 
 myself to read again when I heard yet another 
 voice. Such a voice! A maddening, infamous, 
 diabolical voice. A flat voice, a voice with no 
 ups and downs or quickenings or slurrings in it, 
 a persistent tediously emphasising voice, a voice 
 to make you scream and wring your hands and 
 break things. It was inexorable, unescapable, 
 without a period — " Of course when one has all 
 the heavy luggage ," it was saying. 
 
 I looked round at her. She must have been 
 seventy years old, and her black bonnet had tilted 
 a little to one side. Her eyes were black, too, 
 and her brows heavy, her nose was hooked, and 
 her mouth increased beyond the intention of 
 Nature by the way she drew the ends of it into 
 the corners of her jaws, and kept them there. In 
 her hand, covered with black kid gloves, she had 
 
 F 2 
 
84 The Thrush and the Jay 
 
 a black sunshade; it was closed, but she held it 
 upright between her and the sunset, as if it were 
 a loaded gun or the correcting rod of a dominie. 
 Her calm was terrible. 
 
 " Of course, when one has had all the heavy 
 luggage one cannot help feeling a little tired. But 
 one does not expect to feel tired for a whole week 
 even when one has had all the heavy luggage." 
 
 Every word had its weight. She did not hurry 
 herself. She was stating, simply stating. 
 
 I looked at her companion. He was a florid man 
 with a big face and rather thin hair, brushed back 
 from a high forehead. His nose was shapely and 
 crowned with eye-glasses, his calves were shapely 
 too, and one day would possibly display them- 
 selves to great advantage in gaiters. His boots 
 were thick and suggested a country parsonage, his 
 jacket of alpaca was much crumpled at the back, 
 his straw hat he held upon his knee, on his finger 
 was a gold seal ring. A comely man, a comfort- 
 able man, why did he endure this persecution ^ 
 
 " Two pounds seven," the voice was saying for 
 the third time; "if it had been two guineas I 
 should have borne it patiently, but two pounds 
 seven " 
 
 Evidently some weekly bill at a boarding-house 
 was in dispute. 
 
Out of the Wind 85 
 
 " Well, it would have been two guineas," said 
 the clergyman with a faint show of spirit, " if you 
 hadn't come and turned me out." 
 
 "I turn you out? I did not turn you out. I 
 simply said I preferred to have my usual room. 
 At St. Clare's or St. Hilda's they would have taken 
 you for thirty-five shillings, or at St. Ermyn- 
 trude's " (the saints, I perceived, have still some 
 ascetic influences left). I missed his exclamation. 
 
 " St. Ermyntrude's is not at all a low place. 
 Lots of University men go there. They would 
 have taken you for two guineas. I should not have 
 minded two guineas, but two pounds seven " 
 
 Why did not he strangle her and throw the body 
 into the sea.^ I should not have told. I flashed 
 a sympathetic eye towards him. What bondage 
 was this ? What consideration on earth could keep 
 him in such durance.'' Could they be married.^ 
 Surely, if she was only a parent he must long ago 
 have fled and slammed the door. But clearly she 
 was his mother. 
 
 He had exclaimed a trifle testily. 
 
 She said : " It is done, yes, I know it is done, 
 you need not tell me that. I know it is done, to 
 my cost I know it is done, and not the first time 
 either. Expenses and expenses, throwing money 
 into a ditch ever .since your University days " 
 
86 The Thrush and the Jay 
 
 " I went to Oxford to please you." 
 
 " I am not talking about that. I am not com- 
 plaining. I am saying that throwing money into 
 
 a ditch " She said it a great number of times. 
 
 He leant back with folded arms and yawned 
 elaborately. There was a silence. 
 
 Presently the voice addressed his profile. 
 
 " This is a very pleasant place." 
 
 It waited. " Yes," came the response after a 
 minute. 
 
 " You meet a number of quite nice people here." 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " You have met four or five University men 
 here that you knew, haven't you."^ " 
 
 After the sour the sweet. She waited for him. 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 "This is a very pleasant place, isn't it-f*" 
 
 *' Yes," a little quicker that time. 
 
 It was bullying. That was it. Bullying! It 
 was making a small boy blubber and confess him- 
 self a fool. How could he suffer it.^* What tie 
 other than a Heavenly forbearance — clearly there 
 was none of earthly love — could so restrain 
 him.f* 
 
 A bath chair crept past us. In it was what 
 appeared to be a skeleton covered with old parch- 
 ment. Rugs enveloped it. It wore a fur cap on 
 
Out of the Wind 87 
 
 its head. On its hands, still as wooden things, 
 gloves had been drawn. It was a horrid sight. 
 
 "There goes old Mr. Dodd," said the voice; 
 " a wonderful old man. Must be ninety-six at 
 least. His daughter was at school with me. The 
 Dodds are very nice people. One used to meet 
 a great many University men at their house." 
 
 (O careless boys in blazers, is this your ultimate 
 end.?) 
 
 And, as if some stealthy sense of the tragedy 
 of life had touched her for a moment, a desire to 
 gather roses while she might, she said to her son, 
 almost with cordiality, as if he were a stranger — 
 
 " Would you like to go up to London for a few 
 
 days and see " (she named the worst stage play 
 
 to be found in that city). 
 
 Here was his opportunity. Now for a crowded 
 hour of glorious life. The bath chair was still 
 menacingly in my eyes. " ' Vita Brevis,' Univer- 
 sity man." I hung upon his words, I held my 
 breath. 
 
 This is what he said : 
 
 '* I think we have everything here. That would 
 be throwing money away, if you like." 
 
 He settled himself more firmly upon his 
 haunches. He had chosen. 
 
 The sun went behind a cloud. 
 
88 The Thrush and the Jay 
 
 Feeling " chilly," Mamma thought it was time 
 they *'were getting back." She would take his 
 arm up the hill. One could not help feeling a 
 little tired when one had had all the heavy luggage. 
 
 I watched them go. I hoped I should never 
 see them again. I got up and walked in the wind, 
 its vigour filled me with a glow, an exhilaration. 
 Behind its tumult a round moon was rising, rose- 
 coloured as a lamp-shade, in a sky of dimmest 
 lavender. Somewhere a clock struck seven. Peace 
 settled upon the waters like a cloud. But in my 
 mind I could hear only that voice settling its blight 
 upon the boarding-house dinner- table : " Surely 
 it is not necessary for the soup to be quite cold.'' " 
 
THE WORLD IS A BRIDGE 
 
 The world is a bridge^ pass over it^ but do not 
 build upon it. 
 
 "Not to build a house on a Bridge? " said she, 
 
 "What place could be pleasanter to my mind? 
 
 'Twixt water and air, apart, aloof, 
 
 With four white towers and a silver roof, 
 
 A house that would sway at the push of the wind — 
 
 A house on a bridge my house shall be. 
 
 " Out of a window I shall lean 
 
 On a glorious banner wide outspread, 
 
 'Broidered by prodigal hands of old 
 
 With silk and jewels and threads of gold, 
 
 Green and blue and purple and red, 
 
 Fit for a queen and I a queen. 
 
90 The Thrush and the Jay 
 
 " There I shall sit in the rain or shine. 
 
 And watch the river or grey or blue. 
 
 While the maids as they sew will chatter and sing 
 
 Of a demoiselle and the son of a king, 
 
 But the fairest will only sing of you. 
 
 Friend, sweet friend, and lover of mine. 
 
 " And when the wind is warm from the south. 
 
 And river and sky are blue together, 
 
 A marvellous barque will sail our way 
 
 With a crew of the gallant, the bold, the gay, 
 
 And I'll know you by the peacock's feather, 
 
 And you'll know me by the rose in my mouth." 
 
 Ah, bridge from the unborn into the grave! 
 Ah, headlong flight of the shining hours! 
 Ah, Time, ah, river that flows and flows 
 Over the peacock and over the rose. 
 The silver roof and the snow-white towers. 
 What drowned hopes you have! 
 
ADVERSARIES 
 
 He was airing his socks in the dressing-room. 
 The gas fire gilded his bare shins as he stood, a 
 sock depending hmply from either hand, his flannel 
 shirt whisking a scant drapery about his lizard-like, 
 obtrusive spine. At intervals he took a sip of 
 pinkish liquid from a glass that was on the mantel- 
 piece, and, tilting back his head, emitted a pro- 
 longed bubbling sound — he was gargling. 
 
 All his life he had been delicate; but his Uncle 
 Bullivant, though handicapped like himself, had 
 contrived to live to the number of eighty years 
 chiefly, it was reported, through airing his socks, 
 not only on the comparatively rare occasion of 
 the return from the weekly wash, but every day. 
 Though, as he sometimes murmured, "alas! not 
 a strong man," there was yet sufficient tenacity 
 of purpose in him to insist upon the daily perform- 
 ance of this — almost religious — rite. Presently he 
 knew he should hear his wife come whirring up the 
 stairs — she always mounted two steps at a time — 
 and her knock at his door. This was her share 
 
 91 
 
92 The Thrush and the Jay 
 
 of the ritual. She was uneasy until he came down, 
 partly, perhaps, because she wanted her breakfast. 
 Whatever the cause, however, the note of anxiety 
 in her voice was soothingly delicious to him as 
 she asked : 
 
 " Are you all right ? " 
 
 She was so seldom anxious. 
 
 "Exceptionally robust persons," his soft voice 
 droned with pathetic fortitude in his mental ear, 
 " are sometimes a trifle insensitive." 
 
 He stepped to one side of the fire, which v/as 
 beginning to scorch him, and the socks now hung 
 leg downwards. 
 
 He remembered his first meeting with his wife. 
 He had every reason to remember it. She was 
 the first woman who had ever attracted his atten- 
 tion. Other women went past him like the in- 
 visible air; but she had brought him, almost with 
 a physical shock, to a realisation of her existence. 
 Looking back upon it, and forward along its in- 
 evitable path also, he concluded that " attract " was 
 not the right word to apply to his sensations at all; 
 rather she had " affected " him. She had, as a 
 matter of fact, affected him most unpleasantly. He 
 remembered the occasion very well; it was at the 
 Opera. Her " motif," had he only realised it, was 
 made plain in the nervous ten minutes that he spent 
 
Adversaries 93 
 
 after he reached his seat, in wondering who would 
 occupy the empty place at his side, whether who- 
 ever it might be would come in time, and finally 
 in the certainty that whoever it might be would 
 not. He was in no mood for listening to music 
 when, with the first pitch darkness and triumphant 
 crash of chords from the orchestra, she had stumbled 
 against himx and dropped into the vacant chair. 
 She kept surprisingly still after her effort, and 
 seemed, from the tranquil warmth her nearness 
 shed around him, to be listening with heart-whole 
 enjoyment. It was unconscionable. For him the 
 mood of concentration had to be difficultly built 
 up, and it was now altogether broken. He fumed, 
 he ground his teeth, he thought of biting things 
 to say. The overture and act were interminable. 
 His irritation, indeed, was in danger of expending 
 itself, when, on drawing a hard breath through 
 his nose in a final paroxysm, " Shsh ! " came lightly 
 from her. It was an infamy. 
 
 Illumination revealed his tormentor. She was a 
 low-browed, dark-haired, bright-eyed creature, and 
 the music had brought a glow into her cheeks. She 
 flung back the cloak from her broad shoulders and 
 surveyed the house. Was there no way of indicat- 
 ing his hatred and contempt '^ There was. He 
 could not find his programme. His head, craned 
 
94 The Thrush and the Jay 
 
 and bobbing in a variety of exaggerated searchings, 
 at length attracted her attenfion. 
 
 "Are you looking for something?" she asked 
 him with a full glance from careless eyes. 
 
 "My programme" — his voice came strangled; 
 " I think you are sitting on it." 
 
 " Oh, I'm sure I'm not." 
 
 He fought for self-control. " Excuse me, but I 
 laid it on that chair. You came late " 
 
 She was on her feet in a moment. 
 
 " Oh, please don't remind me of all my faults 
 at once! I'm so sorry! " She was full of silly 
 laughter. On her chair was the programme. 
 Doubly convicted of gross behaviour, she might 
 have humbled herself now; but she lacked such 
 grace. 
 
 " If that is your programme, by the way," came 
 her next remark, "what has become of mine f I 
 had it in my hand when I sat down." 
 
 She rose again and searched elaborately. No 
 second programme was to be found. 
 
 " You know, I think that must really be my 
 programme I've given you." (" Given " was 
 good.) " Do you mind if I look at it for a 
 
 moment."^ I hadn't a chance, coming late " 
 
 There was her character in a nutshell. She 
 acknowledged her fault and was not bowed down 
 
Adversaries 95 
 
 by it. He had had to yield the fruit of his vic- 
 tory. Certainly he remembered the affair too well. 
 
 She had not remained long in quietness after 
 that. Her roving eye had soon discerned friends 
 across the balcony, and out she must plunge to 
 talk to them. He found that he knew them too. 
 In less than a minute they were all coming towards 
 him, and his tormentor was laughing noisily while 
 she proclaimed : 
 
 " Do introduce us! We've been having a back- 
 street row about a programme." 
 
 How coarse was her phraseology! Even while 
 they were engaged her voice had never pleased him. 
 It put him in mind of the red-faced men that slap 
 comrades on the back in the street with the adjura- 
 tion, "Cheer up, old blighter! You're not dead 
 yet." Her casual tone had the same offensive 
 exuberance about it. He never heard it without 
 a desire to draw his shoulder-blades together. 
 Fortunately for her, she was unobservant of these 
 things. 
 
 " Exceptionally strong people," the inward voice 
 droned, " are seldom really observant of detail." 
 All the same, he wished he could hear her voice 
 and knock at that moment. He missed the morn- 
 ing observance; it was the happiest thing in his day. 
 
 He completed his dressing, and, having risen 
 
96 The Thrush and the Jay 
 
 two or three times on the balls of his feet " to rest 
 the spine," applied his pince-nez to his nose, and 
 went downstairs. 
 
 The clock in the hall struck ten as he went into 
 the dining-room. 
 
 His wife was there. She was reading the paper 
 in the full flood of air and sunlight from the open 
 garden door. 
 
 "Hullo!" she said, not without friendliness, 
 " I thought you were never coming. I went on." 
 She indicated the scooped egg-shells that flanked 
 her plate, the stained cup, the toast-crumbs — she 
 had breakfasted without him. It was unpre- 
 cedented. 
 
 " I have become accustomed to hearing your 
 knock," he said very gently. " I fell into a 
 reverie." 
 
 He cleared his throat with a sudden self-con- 
 sciousness. 
 
 " I'm afraid the cofi^ee is cold," said his wife, 
 laying a large hand on either side of the cofi^ee- 
 pot. "Shall I ring for more.?" 
 
 " If you please," he said, wrinkling his lips. 
 
 Her conduct, so lacking in refinement, so preg- 
 nant with reproachful criticism of himself, should 
 not receive the encouragement of a counter- 
 demonstration. 
 
Adversaries 97 
 
 "What a delicious morning! " he said. 
 
 " It was, an hour ago. It's clouding over now." 
 
 He ate in silence. 
 
 Presently the open window aroused his notice. 
 He could see the bright wind lift the little front 
 locks of his wife's hair. He would appeal to her 
 better nature. He shivered slightly and turned up 
 the collar of his coat. 
 
 " Do you feel cold.^ " came her voice, solid and 
 committal as a town crier's. 
 
 "Not at all. Nothing to speak of. A trifle. 
 Pray do not close the garden door on my account." 
 
 It was closed menacingly without a slam. He 
 wished she had slammed it. It would have been 
 more like her. He turned down the collar of his 
 coat. He would try again. 
 
 " Is there anything of interest in the paper this 
 morning.'' " 
 
 She held it towards him at once. 
 
 " Nothing whatsoever," she said. 
 
 He folded the paper into a convenient shape 
 with several sharp little taps. What a rummage 
 she always made of it! Just as he was preparing 
 to read a paragraph aloud to her, she got up and 
 said : 
 
 " Thanks so much, but I've read that already. 
 I'm going out." 
 
 G 
 
98 The Thrush and the Jay 
 
 She went towards the door. Half-way she 
 paused and, turning, said with an air of sudden 
 resolution : 
 
 " Do you intend to play this game for ever? " 
 
 " I beg your pardon ? " 
 
 " I asked if you meant to play this game for 
 ever? " 
 
 "What game? " 
 
 *' This game, playing at being polite when we're 
 hating each other really. I'm sick of it ! " 
 
 " I'm sorry that you find my manners offensive." 
 
 "Offensive!" She grew suddenly noisy; she 
 was bound, he supposed, sooner or later, to make 
 a noise. 
 
 "Offensive!" she cried. "It's unspeakable, 
 it's infamous, it's murderous, it's brutish ! You're 
 strangling and stifling me. I thought when I 
 married you it'd be like looking after a child, 
 helping and mothering you and cheering you up. 
 But it's not, it's not. Do you know what it's like ? 
 It's like being tied to a spancelled goat, a sick, 
 bleating, limping, spancelled goat. He won't 
 jump and he won't let me jump. You're loath- 
 some, you're horrible, you ought never to have 
 been let loose on a healthy world! I am going 
 to get some fresh air. Perhaps I'll never come 
 back! " 
 
Adversaries 99 
 
 She flung out of the room with amazing 
 violence. 
 
 He was not quite sure that she caught his 
 " Really, you seem a little odd in your manner 
 this morning! " 
 
 "Brutish? Loathsome? Spancelled goat?" 
 He repeated them to himself. She was absurd. 
 
 He finished — he felt he owed it to himself to 
 finish — his breakfast. He went into his study. 
 As usual, she had bothered him for the day. 
 
 " It's impossible, impossible," he said, as he 
 always said. " I can't settle to anything." 
 
 This time, strangely, he found that such was 
 indeed the case. Her threat kept ringing alter- 
 nating peals in his brain. Did she mean it? Did 
 she not mean it? Would she come back as if 
 nothing had happened? Would she not come 
 back ? If not, was he glad or sorry ? If so, was 
 he sorry or glad ? It bothered him all the morning. 
 
 At lunch-time she had not returned. The meal 
 was laid soberly for one. He did not like to dis- 
 play his ignorance to the parlourmaid by asking 
 when "the Mistress" was expected. 
 
 He returned to his study. Again the agonising 
 doubts repeated themselves. Ding-dong, ding- 
 dong. It was maddening. He opened the door 
 and listened to the silence of the house. He wished 
 
 G 2 
 
loo The Thrush and the Jay 
 
 he could have heard her distant humming and 
 have shut the door smartly on it with an air of 
 being disturbed, as he had done the day before. 
 He felt unaccountably restless. What ought he 
 to do about her.? 
 
 He found himself padding through the house. 
 He looked out of the window and wished 
 that he could see her coming, advancing up the 
 street, flowers in her arm, looking towards the 
 window and meeting his eyes, and at the identical 
 moment stepping into the road to avoid walking 
 under a ladder placed by painters against the 
 wall. How he would have enjoyed now moving 
 back with a frown into the room and saying to 
 her quietly afterwards, " It would be better for 
 you to chew your food properly than to avoid 
 going under ladders." 
 
 A strange unaccustomed sense of isolation began 
 to creep upon him. He thought he would take his 
 tonic. He was not sure what he would do. It 
 was most inconsiderate, " most inconsiderate " — 
 he repeated it aloud — of her to go off in this sen- 
 sational way. He would do his breathing exercises. 
 He went into the dressing-room and locked the 
 door. 
 
 It was nearly tea-time when his wife came home. 
 The house seemed strangely quiet to her. She put 
 
Adversaries loi 
 
 her sunshade into the hall stand with sudden fur- 
 tiveness, as if she feared to make a noise. She was 
 filled with vague apprehensions. What a bad- 
 tempered beast she had been, flouncing out of the 
 house like that! Had he been terribly hurt and 
 lonely all by himself .'' After all, he had never been 
 strong. 
 
 She should have come back sooner. The vague 
 anxieties that tormented her in the mornings came 
 crowding upon her. Was he all right ? The house 
 seemed much too still. 
 
 She tiptoed to the drawing-room. No sign of 
 him there. The study then. She called softly. 
 No answer. How he did keep things up! She 
 tried with the thought to stifle the alarm within her 
 breast. She raced upstairs. On the landing she 
 called him. There was no reply. She knocked 
 at the dressing-room door. Still only silence. 
 She turned the handle. The door was locked. 
 Trembling, she stood pressed close against the 
 frame. She tried to quiet the drumming of her 
 heart, to listen, only to listen! She held her 
 breath. 
 
 Through the shut door at length a small strange 
 sound came to her. A prolonged bubbling sound. 
 He was gargling. 
 
MISS DALY'S 
 
 There was a room I used to know, 
 Ever so many years ago, 
 In a draggled street of a shattered town; — 
 A room that was neither grey nor brown, 
 But all dismally warped and worn, 
 Broken and propped and frayed and torn, 
 A room to which the sun never came 
 Save a finger's touch on the window frame 
 Where grew nasturtiums coloured like flame. 
 
 Over the way was a public-house. 
 
 Where laymen and red-coats used to carouse, 
 
 (A hushed murmur that swelled to a roar 
 
 As each new-comer passed the swing door), 
 
 And at eleven each night to the chime 
 
 The potman would indicate closing time, 
 
 By their coat collars and his own knee, 
 
 Flinging them very riotously 
 
 Out of their splendour into the street. 
 
 And they, as soon as they found their feet, 
 
 Would turn and batter the door in heat. 
 
Miss Daly^s 103 
 
 But on warm nights while the town was still 
 
 I would sit and lean on the window-sill, 
 
 And feel the softly caressing air. 
 
 And smell the nasturtiums growing there, 
 
 (A peppery unforgettable smell), 
 
 And think the thoughts I could not tell, 
 
 And hear a tram pass the end of the road 
 
 With a hum like a bee with a honey load. 
 
 While round the lamps little moths together 
 
 Danced like snowflakes in gusty weather. 
 
 Those nights I'd jump at the noise of it 
 
 When I heard men clearing their throats to spit. 
 
 Where at a corner in a crowd 
 
 They talked in whispers and laughed out loud ; — 
 
 But I felt the wind caress my face, 
 
 And the world still seemed a beautiful place — 
 
 The world still seemed a beautiful place. 
 
 Ah^ nights of dreams and of youth^s surprise 
 
 When all is strange to enchanted eyes; 
 
 And every echoing sound a barque 
 
 To bear rich cargo out of the dark, 
 
 Out of the shadows to one a-wait 
 
 With parted lips and heart elate; 
 
 When the crowded roofs and the sky above 
 
 Hide worlds of glory and worlds of love; 
 
I04 The Thrush and the Jay 
 
 And night that circles to dawn mayhap 
 
 Will cast a miracle in your lap ! 
 
 So did I sit and hear the hours 
 
 Fall sombrely from the city's towers. 
 
 Above the hidden nasturtium flowers. 
 
 And then Miss Daly would bring the lamp, 
 And a loaf of bread that was new and damp. 
 And a dish of jam that was sweet and rosy. 
 And a pot of tea in a dusty cosy, 
 And leave me at last to sup alone. 
 And to know that my dreams were done and 
 done. 
 
 Could I, the now and present I, 
 The dim streets at night pass by. 
 And glancing through a window see 
 That slender self that once held me. 
 Sitting solitary there 
 With the lamplight on her hair. 
 Drinking tea and eating bread, 
 Bending o'er a book her head, 
 When she should have been in bed — 
 
 Should I press close to the pane 
 Eager to be young again, 
 Yearning for some hidden truth. 
 All impatient of my youth .f* 
 
Miss Daly's 105 
 
 No; ah, no; ah, no! I'd cry, 
 
 " Hold your fortune ere it fly, 
 
 Speeding time your dreams will rive. 
 
 Dreaming is to be alive. 
 
 This your golden hour of play. 
 
 This your shining break of day. 
 
 This your April is and May." 
 
 Still into the dark I look^ 
 Still must think some secret nook 
 Holds complete felicity, 
 And some day will give it me. 
 Foolish, nay^ for well I know 
 Dreaming things can make them so. 
 All the wonders time has wrought 
 Wore the tender wings of thought. 
 Hush, the wings are everywhere 
 Filling the night-clouded air. 
 As they filled it long ago 
 In the room I used to know; 
 Filling it as once they came 
 At the open window frame. 
 Where the spiced nasturtiums grew 
 With their flowers of hidden flame. 
 Filling it with thoughts of you, 
 Dearer than can e'er come true. 
 
ROMAUNT DE LA ROSE 
 
 Galatea, it was, who told me. 
 
 She came into my room one bedtime, as girls 
 do when they are staying in a house together. It 
 seems to be the most prolific hour for confidences. 
 Possibly dressing-gowns and unbound hair have 
 something to do with it. 
 
 Not that there is anything particularly con- 
 fidential about this story. It might have been told 
 in any leisured place, on a slowly attained summit, 
 or over muffins by the fire; but somehow the edge 
 of a bed and Galatea the teller gives the perfection 
 of appropriateness. Of course that is chiefly on 
 account of Galatea. She is an entirely pleasant 
 thing to look at in firelight and a kimono, and 
 she aims her little shafts so accurately that they 
 never glance aside and prick the hearer as others, 
 less accomplished, do. She makes one feel slow- 
 witted and amiable by contrast, so uncompromis- 
 ingly does she view her fellows, and all the while 
 she is charming in accent and gesture, and graceful 
 as a bird. She accompanies her criticism too with 
 a wide smile that belongs to her alone, a smile so 
 
Romaunt de la Rose 107 
 
 utterly devoid of considered malice, hidden 
 thought, as to deserve, almost, the exclusively 
 masculine epithet — grin. 
 
 We had not met for several months, and the 
 tale of the summer's campaign was still far from 
 completion, when I saw Galatea's mouth begin- 
 ning to stretch sideways in the manner I have 
 described. 
 
 '' Oh, and I must tell you about Lai's," she said. 
 
 We both knew Lai's. I had even gone so far as 
 to have been at school with her. She was a rather 
 fat, soft-voiced girl in those days, with blue, dark- 
 fringed eyes, and pitch-brown hair, 
 
 " Chubby as ever.'' " I inquired. 
 
 "Chubbier," said Galatea. 
 
 She grew thoughtful for a moment, then she 
 said — 
 
 "It is a mystery to me what men can possibly 
 see to attract them in a girl like that." 
 
 Speculations of that kind, Tiowever, have always 
 bothered Galatea. 
 
 "We cannot all be perfection, can we? " I ask 
 her nicely. 
 
 " We can at least approach it," she replies. 
 
 Encouraged, I go over and sit beside her. 
 
 This then is the story. 
 
 Galatea and La'is were staying down at Lis worth 
 
io8 The Thrush and the Jay 
 
 together for some charity theatricals. I can see 
 the house clearly, the wide shadowed rooms, flecked 
 here and there with yellow splashes of sunlight, I 
 can all but hear the voices and the lisp of muslin 
 frocks, the interjected laughter. Almost I can 
 smell the tobacco. I picture the boys and girls, 
 on the long sofas and Persian rugs, intent for a 
 few brief mornings upon belts of straw and ivy 
 buds, busy with coloured paper, reels of wire, 
 scissors, laurel boughs, everybody in high spirits, 
 eyes bright, lips carmine, the atmosphere of chaff 
 and flirtatiousness that is called for other reasons 
 Pastoral Plays. 
 
 It had been clear from the cast that there would 
 be more than enough young men to go round. 
 
 " So that," as Galatea put it, '' one did not have 
 to over-exert oneself. Though anyhow," she 
 added with a sigh, " undergraduates are getting 
 too young for me." 
 
 (For a moment I feared that we were going to 
 digress fatally among those favoured others who 
 have made haste to be born in time, but Galatea 
 had herself well in hand.) 
 
 Outside the cool house summer held the world 
 entranced. On the downs the cornfields were 
 steeped in it. In the garden the flowers stood 
 subdued beside their pallid shadows. In the still 
 
Romaunt de la Rose 109 
 
 warmth the leaves were breathless, the plum ripened 
 and did not fall. It was wonderful, a spell binding. 
 
 In the evenings after tea when rehearsals were 
 over, Lais, Galatea, and the others used to walk 
 on the downs, " as luckily the weather was too 
 hot for tennis." 
 
 Their walk led them by the old coach road above 
 the chalk pit. I remember it well, a dyke with 
 sides grass-coated and banked with green, that 
 scars the smooth round shoulder of the down, and 
 arrives in final extremity, I believe, at Portsmouth. 
 By its side, but higher up the slope, for a little 
 way accompanying it, as a foal might run beside 
 a post-horse, is a much smaller track whitened by 
 the feet of countless sheep, a narrow precipice- 
 bordered path half circling a beech wood and 
 vanishing at last in the delicious short turf of the 
 hill-top. 
 
 " You know the little path.-^ " said Galatea. 
 
 Above it the brambles have woven a wall for 
 cautious skirting. Below it the briars are wreathed 
 in dangerous profusion, in June a galaxy of shell- 
 like blossoms, but in August only the leaves are 
 left — and the thorns. 
 
 " Still rose bushes, even when the roses are dead, 
 have a delicate peppery savour, a spice, haven't 
 they.''" I suggested. 
 
no The Thrush and the Jay 
 
 Galatea hugged herself; but she refused to be 
 hurried. 
 
 " Possibly Lais thinks so," she said. 
 
 And Lais — well, while the rest of the girls filed 
 by nimbly, holding their muslin skirts close about 
 their ankles, Lais chose to walk very slowly on 
 the edge of the green abyss. Lais had perforce to 
 linger. It was no place for hurrying, if two 
 were to pass that way abreast, and Lais had found 
 a companion. 
 
 Galatea described him to me. 
 
 He was a fresh-complexioned young man, Cam- 
 bridge, of course, with full-moon spectacles, and 
 hair that shone like a new pair of tan leather boots. 
 He wore grey flannel trousers and a dark blue coat. 
 Bion, Galatea, called him, because he reminded her, 
 she said, of the parsley that withers in the garden. 
 
 Long after they had reached the top of the hill 
 and had seen the long evening shadows barring 
 the fields and the island shimmering afloat in 
 the haze, they would see Lais and the young man 
 coming quietly, he hatless with hands in pockets, 
 she perhaps with a small branch in her hand. The 
 others did not torment them. Galatea could lay 
 a pretty hand on her heart and say that. They did 
 not wait for them, or stay with them, or con- 
 spicuously avoid them, not from the Charity in- 
 
Romaunt de la Rose iii 
 
 deed that might be remembered upon Judgment 
 Day, but simply because they were all at the time 
 fully occupied with affairs of their own. " As a 
 matter of fact we did not notice them." 
 
 I do not know exactly when it was that they 
 did begin to notice. I can imagine with some 
 accuracy, however, the arch eyes and puckering lips 
 that emphasised the discovery. Galatea was at once 
 impatient of it. She disliked the intrusion among 
 her trivialities of what has been called a deeper, 
 sweeter, but in her opinion was simply a less 
 irradiant strain. 
 
 " Think of falling in love with a stray young 
 man on a holiday! The prosiest thing ! " 
 
 (I tried not to sympathise with Lai's, for I knew 
 that that would spoil the story for me.) 
 
 At first the affair did not seem serious. They 
 were all doing the same thing more or less. It 
 was not important that when Lais went gathering 
 myrtle to make the nymphs their garlands the 
 brown-haired undergraduate went with her to carry 
 the basket. It did not matter who sat by whose 
 side for " Up Jenkins," or who went in the motor 
 and who walked, but when it was a division, a 
 subtraction without variation ! 
 
 At night, too, when Galatea went to sit on Lais's 
 bed (as she was now sitting on mine) to enumerate 
 
112 The Thrush and the Jay 
 
 the compliments for the day, annotated, as is 
 fitting, with mocking laughter, Lai's would remain 
 grave and dreamy, aloof, positively superior. It 
 made things a little dull for Galatea to have no 
 one to listen to her. Lais had been her hope. 
 The other girls were unable to laugh properly at 
 any time, it seemed. 
 
 (I felt doubly flattered by her presence.) 
 
 " It was not that I minded her trailing him 
 about with her," Galatea explained. " That was 
 all right; but for her to be in the same mawkish 
 condition! " 
 
 " But, my dear Galatea," I expostulated. " Even 
 young women must fall in love some day! " 
 
 Galatea, however, would not allow that poor 
 Bion was necessity. She had never dreamed that 
 Lais was anything but amused and interested. 
 Very much amused and mildly interested. That, 
 according to Galatea, is the only possible attitude. 
 
 It was the last evening at Lisworth that opened 
 Galatea's eyes to reality, and several other pairs 
 of ejes too, she feared, in a startling and unpleasant 
 way. 
 
 " If it's scandal, Galatea," I admonished her, 
 " it isn't fair to tempt me to listen to it." 
 
 " You precious humbug," said Galatea. 
 
 The play was over, it had been a great success, 
 
Romaunt de la Rose 113 
 
 and to celebrate the triumph they had a Httle dance, 
 an informal affair, just with lanterns in the garden 
 and ices in the conservatory. Galatea was sitting 
 out some dances, in the hammock, " because it 
 was the most comfortable seat," when one of the 
 dancers came up, looking for his partner. 
 
 " Well, it isn't me, surely .-' " said Galatea, with 
 bad grammar and a good conscience. (" For you 
 know I think cutting dances rotten.") 
 
 No, it was Lais he was looking for. 
 
 The dark garden swallowed him. 
 
 A different music floated from the drawing- 
 room and another white shirt-front grew distinct 
 in the gloom. (" I don't know why they should 
 all have made for the hammock.'*" "Instinct," 
 I said.) 
 
 " Have you seen Lais anywhere.''" 
 
 Galatea was presently consoling three shirt- 
 fronts. 
 
 "And has anyone seen Bion.'' " 
 
 "Have they been missed in there.''" Galatea 
 indicated with her voice the lighted windows of 
 the drawing-room. They supposed not yet, any- 
 how. Galatea decided to stay in the garden to 
 keep Lais in countenance when she did come back. 
 She smoked several cigarettes to keep herself warm 
 and 
 
114 ^^^ Thrush and the Jay 
 
 " I dare say those boys thought I was staying 
 there to flirt with them." 
 
 It was getting very late and Galatea was getting 
 really anxious when a red spark and a ghostly 
 shape beside it implied the approach of a couple 
 over the grass. 
 
 "Hullo!" said Bion, "we've been up the 
 downs to look at the moon. No end of a night 
 up there. Clear as daylight." 
 
 He was most communicative. 
 
 Lai's murmured to Galatea, "Is it very late.''" 
 
 " Not too frightfully," said the consoling one. 
 
 " I say, come with me, will you, Galatea.? " 
 
 Scenting danger Galatea slipped an arm through 
 hers and they walked into the house together. She 
 noticed that Lais held her gown close-twisted. 
 They found their room without encounters. 
 
 Then Lais revealed herself. She opened her 
 hand and the gown, or what was left of it, fell 
 round her. It was torn to ribbons, to shreds, to 
 flitters, and her arms were lacerated, scratched, and 
 bleeding till they " looked like the plan of a railway 
 terminus." 
 
 "Good heavens, Lais, what has happened .f* 
 Have you been fighting with a wild cat } " 
 
 "You know the little path up the downs .f*" 
 said Lais. 
 
Romaunt de la Rose 115 
 
 Galatea knew it. 
 
 Lais had fallen off it vertically, plumb through 
 a rose-bush ! 
 
 " We were an hour pulling the thorns out of 
 her," said Galatea. " They were like quills upon 
 the fretful porpentine." 
 
 *' And what did Bion do ? " she asked. 
 
 " Oh, he came and picked me up," said Lai's. 
 
 Galatea could come at no earlier doing. Poor 
 Lais on the narrow path ! 
 
 " Bion thought I was killed," she said. " I felt 
 myself falling and I put up my arms to save my 
 face." 
 
 (Mercifully!) 
 
 She landed quite softly spread out upon the 
 grass, and looking up — saw yards and yards of, 
 white stuff tangled inextricably among those de- 
 testable bushes. Detestable } But they saved her 
 life all the same. She was distinctly plucky. In 
 a little while she was smiling about it. Bion had 
 thought she was killed ! 
 
 " You know, Galatea," I said rather sternly, 
 " if he had had his arm round her waist that 
 wouldn't have happened." 
 
 But Galatea scorned me. 
 
 "Such a place to choose! " she said. 
 
 H 2 
 
KINSALE 
 
 Sing of a day of splendour, 
 
 A day that you and I 
 
 Lay on a mighty headland 
 
 Between the sea and sky; 
 
 Soft on the heather, 
 
 On the warm hill-side. 
 
 In the shining weather, 
 
 Lay and talked together. 
 
 Talked and laughed and watched the sea;- 
 
 Where gulls with faint sad voices. 
 
 Cries of battle in a dream, 
 
 Hovered by the mackerel gleam. 
 
 And great porpoises went rolling. 
 
 Sleek and black in the blue tide. 
 
 Blue and blue. 
 
 Gold and white, 
 
 I and you 
 
 In the floods of light 
 
 On the heather lolling; — 
 
Kinsale 
 
 Clouds sailing high, 
 
 Brisk waves splashing, 
 
 Jewelled wings 
 
 Of wild bees flashing, 
 
 You and I 
 
 Glad and gay as the summer sea, 
 
 The open sea! 
 
 How my heart rejoices. 
 
 How my heart sings, 
 
 To remember the faint voices. 
 
 The white wings! 
 
 II' 
 
EVENING MUSIC 
 
 Under the alder trees 
 With their gold tassels, 
 
 Under the slender trees 
 There I build castles. 
 
 Silver the alder trees 
 
 Silently sway, 
 Where the still water is 
 
 Quiet and grey. 
 
 Quiet the alder trees, 
 Hush'd the winds pass, 
 
 Gold, from the silver trees, 
 Powders the grass. 
 
 Under the alder trees 
 In the still evening, 
 
 Under the slender trees 
 There I walk dreaming. 
 
THE ATTIC ROOM 
 
 My room is high above the trees, 
 The ash leaves brush my window-sill. 
 The breezes blow, the curtains fill 
 Like sails of ships upon the seas. 
 
 So out I sail across the boughs, 
 Nor fear the dread abyss below. 
 Where meriry sparrows, to and fro, 
 Flutter and chirp and break their vows. 
 
 I see beyond the earth's far rim 
 The round sun sinking in the West, 
 The winds of twilight are at rest. 
 And all the whispering world grows dim. 
 
 I, and the stars, and none beside 
 To journey till the dawn grows red. 
 World upon world above my head 
 Wheeling through space with tireless stride. 
 
120 The Thrush and the Jay 
 
 And watching them no course I keep 
 Nor care which way my vessel goes, 
 Forward or back, who cares? who knows? 
 Not I, for I am fast asleep. 
 
VENGEANCE. 
 
 All her life, it seemed to her, she had been 
 dogged by small misfortunes. 
 
 She was one of those pale women with long noses 
 and grey eyes set close together at the top of them. 
 Her fair hair was not really thin, but she had never 
 been able to make it look pretty. She still wore it 
 woven into the sort of knob that had been fashion- 
 able when she first left school. She had tried since, 
 many times, to alter it; but it had always refused 
 to " go," or else her husband had ridiculed. That 
 was one of the misfortunes. Other women were 
 able to slide from one way of hairdressing into 
 another, casually, becomingly, and without causing 
 remark. Often when her arm, tired with long 
 brushing, had fallen aching to her side, she had 
 clenched her teeth in a very fury of disappointment. 
 
 Then there were other things. 
 
 At dinner parties the woman seated at her part- 
 ner's left contrived always to be talkative and 
 
122 The Thrush and the Jay 
 
 merry. She tried to persuade herself that she had 
 a finer dignity and reserve, but that did not really 
 console her for having to sit quietly, an island of 
 silence in the midst of the chatter, while on either 
 side of her she was aware of white collar and bur- 
 nished head, red ear and thick jaw, munching. She 
 seemed never to see the men's faces at all except 
 when they leant back to laugh, and they never 
 laughed with her. 
 
 Even servants showed a want of consideration, in 
 spite of her expensive gowns. It was always the 
 jelly that was handed to her first or the fruit salad, 
 never the creamy thing, and she had to help herself 
 without demur. She loathed, she so envied, the 
 woman further down the table who was saying 
 composedly, " I'll have cream, please." She knew 
 that if she sent a dish away she would get nothing, 
 or some stupid accident would happen to irritate 
 everybody. Once she had been the first to assail an 
 ice-pudding, and it had ended in her lap ! There 
 was also the question of coffee-cups. The other 
 women's disappeared inconspicuously. Hers 
 remained awkwardly in her hand, and she never had 
 the courage to rise and put it down. Better to give 
 up taking coffee altogether. 
 
 Her aloofness oppressed her. Her funny story, 
 if she ever dared to begin one, was cut short ere its 
 
Vengeance 123 
 
 prime by some provoking incident; — the fire-irons 
 would fall into the grate, or the dog imagine rats 
 in the waste-paper basket; — the door would open 
 to admit a telegram or the men up from dinner. 
 Something — anything. Nobody listened to her. 
 Sometimes she found herself wondering if she really 
 did exist at all. Certainly she did not exist in 
 other people's memories or imaginations. Her 
 husband, a big florid man, jocular, bald, and well- 
 liked, was not important enough for her to be 
 favoured for his sake. His name, however, was 
 familiar to everyone; yet she, who also bore it, had 
 often to say it twice before it was understood, and 
 it sounded a noisy, ridiculous name when it was 
 spoken without confidence. Even her hostess once 
 had stopped half-way through an introduction, and 
 tightening a grip upon her arm, had said : 
 
 "My dear, forgive me, but what is your name .f*" 
 and then, '' Do you know, dear, I sometimes cannot 
 even remember my own!" 
 
 She distrusted that explanation. No wonder she 
 was diffident. 
 
 At parties she could be seen on the outskirts of 
 every group, just beyond the orbit of distinguished 
 guest, or game, or gossip, a little smile hanging 
 its transparent veil over the pathos of her mouth. 
 That was long ago. She is not like that now. 
 
124 ^^^ Thrush and the Jay 
 
 It was some such series of small things, trifles, 
 insignificant humiliations, and defeats, that accu- 
 mulated a flood of stinging bitterness within her, 
 and made out of what had originally been amiable, 
 if vague, an aggressive and shattering self-assertion. 
 Philip Montmorency Brown it was who precipitated 
 the crisis. Philip, as you know, has been excep- 
 tionally fortunate. He used to be an interesting, 
 dreamy, cadaverous boy, with a resonant voice, and 
 eyes like a pheasant's. He never had been able 
 to remember people unless they were famous or 
 likely to be of use to him. Invariably he failed 
 to remember this pale, long-nosed lady with the 
 pathetic smile, and she felt no resentment, she 
 acquiesced, she did not desire to be scuffling with 
 Fate, for, oh, a long, long while. Philip, however, 
 was too much even for her. This is what happened. 
 
 It was at a party near Campden Hill that they 
 had the famous encounter. She had been ignored 
 all the evening by everyone, of course, and by none 
 more completely, radically, and thoroughly than by 
 Philip Montmorency Brown. All the same, it had 
 been a nice party, and she had enjoyed it in a 
 practical, if not very exuberant way. The refresh- 
 ments were good; she had found a chair early, and 
 managed to retain it (to be left " standing about " 
 was the epitome of horrors), and she had seen how 
 
Vengeance 125 
 
 kind everyone was to Philip Montmorency, and 
 what a delightful time he had had. She saw, too, 
 how it had pleased him, and how his face wore 
 an expression as satisfied as a pug-dog's after a 
 meal. 
 
 When she and her husband had said good-bye, 
 and she was putting on her cloak in the hall, Philip 
 Montmorency came out from the drawing-room, 
 where he also had been making his adieus, and 
 came bouncing down the stairs humming a little 
 tune to himself, as if he had been bored up there 
 and was happy to escape. 
 
 It was the tune that did it. The ingratitude! 
 The scorn of fortune's bounty! The lack of 
 vision! But she did not express it to herself as 
 that. To her this was with suddenness merely a 
 very conceited young man, a man who wore his 
 vanity upon his sleeve, and with an unwavering 
 resolve she swooped upon him. 
 
 " You don't remember me," she said, " but it's 
 so long since I saw you that I feel like an old 
 friend of the family." 
 
 Philip, who was groping for his overcoat among 
 the pile on a table, lifted his auburn head, and 
 looked at her with his sweet and winning smile, he 
 expected one of the kindly phrases that strewed his 
 path like flowers. Standing so in the light, he had 
 
126 The Thrush and the Jay 
 
 the air of a sleek Apollo. She surveyed him calmly, 
 and finished her remark. 
 
 " You are fatter," she said, " and your hair is 
 not so red as it used to be." 
 
 " Why ?" said Philip Montmorency. <' Why .?" 
 
 She left him gaping. 
 
 Her husband was thunderstruck. 
 
 " What possessed you ?" he asked, as the taxicab 
 moved away with them. 
 
 '■'■ He'll remember me next time," she said, very 
 straight-lipped and upright. 
 
 "Remember you! I should think so! He'll 
 get under the table!" 
 
 That was the striking of the hour. It became 
 for all time an example of her method. She is not 
 ignored now, she is avoided; and she finds it no 
 lonelier, and much more amusing. 
 
THE MOWER 
 
 The rooks travelled home. 
 The milch cows went lowing, 
 And down in the meadow 
 An old man was mowing. 
 
 His shirt rank with sweat, 
 His neck stained with grime; 
 But he moved like the cadence 
 And sweetness of rhyme. 
 
 He moved like the heavy-winged 
 Rooks, the slow cows. 
 He moved like the vane 
 On the roof of the house. 
 
 The foam of the daisies 
 Was spread like a sea. 
 The spikes of red sorrel 
 Came up past his knee. 
 
128 The Thrush and the Jay 
 
 The poppies, the clover, 
 The buttercups gold — 
 A man that was dirty 
 And twisted and old — 
 
 But again and again 
 Like an eddy he was, 
 He moved like the wind 
 In his own tasselled grass. 
 
WORTH THE MONEY. 
 
 When he first caught sight of her she was 
 standing among the palms at the edge of the 
 gallery and trying, with both hands pressed upon 
 the rail, to look into the restaurant below. Her 
 dainty figure, and the little rosette of flowers under 
 the brim of her hat, enchained his eyes, as the 
 strains of the band, a-swim on a popular valse tune, 
 entranced his ears. He was lapped in a warm sea 
 of well-being. 
 
 It was seldom that he spent eighteenpence on 
 a luncheon. They gave him a sense of luxurious 
 indulgence, these rare occasions when the bottle- 
 glass doors of Soho swung behind him. He did 
 not often dare such extravagances. 
 
 " But after all," he would argue with a " pal," 
 "what do all your scrapings amount to.^ Not 
 more than nine-three saved in a week." 
 
 Life was a tight fit whatever way you went 
 about it. A man ought to burst out now and then; 
 it did him good. Besides, he'd tried the a la carte., 
 and you didn't save anything by it. Might just 
 
130 The Thrush and the Jay 
 
 as well take the whole thing through. He knew 
 them all — Potage, Raie au beurre noire, cotelette 
 de veau, creme au chocolat — it was as good as 
 travelling on the continent. One-and-six and a 
 twopenny tip, and then for the "metch" at The 
 Oval. It was worth the money. 
 
 The girl, leaning now her elbows on the rail 
 in contemplation of the scene below, was an added 
 luxury. 
 
 " Pretty cool ' chep,' keep a girl like that wait- 
 ing," he thought. He eyed her admiringly. 
 
 She glanced petulantly at her watch. 
 
 " She don't half like it," he thought. 
 
 She was obviously restless. 
 
 From time to time she craned far over, to see 
 the entrance door. Returning to her easier pose 
 from one of these gymnastics, her eyes met his, 
 and she frowned slightly. 
 
 He was embarrassed at once. " Looks like the 
 real thing," he thought. He tried to take no 
 notice of her. 
 
 " Don't want her coming after me," he en- 
 couraged himself. He propped up his paper and 
 ate rapidly. When he looked up again he thought 
 at first that she was gone. His eyes soon found 
 her, however. She had left the railing and 
 appeared to be seeking a seat. She was clearly 
 
Worth the Money 131 
 
 ill at ease. Again his eyes met hers, and this time 
 she neither frowned nor looked away; instead, to 
 his consternation, she came straight towards him. 
 
 " Do you mind if I sit here.f* " she said, sliding 
 into the chair opposite his. 
 
 " Not at all. Pray take a seat. Delighted," 
 he gabbled in his astonishment. 
 
 Sitting half-turned away from him, she con- 
 tinued to survey the room. An officious waiter 
 holding a wine list turned towards them. Taking 
 the menu card from beside the mustard-pot, he 
 thrust it before her. What did Madame choose .f" 
 
 " Thank you, but I am waiting for somebody," 
 said the girl with dignity. 
 
 The waiter withdrew. 
 
 A silence settled upon the table. The young 
 man wondered if he might pick his teeth. He 
 decided not. 
 
 She drummed fingers on the cloth. At last he 
 ventured a remark — 
 
 "Not chused to waiting about, I suppose.'*" 
 he asked. 
 
 She glanced near him. 
 
 " No, indeed," she said in a smooth little voice. 
 
 " I should think not," he agreed quickly, too 
 quickly. 
 
 The conversation promised to die again. 
 
 I 2 
 
132 The Thrush and the Jay 
 
 " I'm waiting for my husband," she said 
 suddenly. 
 
 "No! Reelly!" cried the young man. He 
 had not thought of her as having a husband. 
 
 " You don't suppose, do you," said the girl, 
 with an air of amused indignation, " that I should 
 wait for anyone else.'' " 
 
 The young man was suffused with blushes. He 
 had not anticipated that his speculations about her 
 would thus accumulate and explode as it were upon 
 his head. 
 
 "Why, I hardly " he began. " I beg your 
 
 pardon. I'm sure I never — " 
 
 But she was not offended. She laughed. 
 
 " I meant that you didn't suppose I should let 
 anyone but my husband keep me waiting, did 
 you.f" " 
 
 He laughed, too. 
 
 " Rather not," he said enthusiastically. 
 
 " He isn't usually as late as this," the girl went 
 on. "I was a tiny bit late myself. I'm afraid he 
 may have been and gone away again." 
 
 " Oh, come," said the young man, earnestly 
 concerned, " he wouldn't do a thing like that." 
 
 " He might," said the girl. " If I'd twopence," 
 she added unexpectedly, " I'd ring him up and 
 find out." She became suddenly expansive. " It's 
 
Worth the Money 133 
 
 the stupidest thing. I've lost my purse. When I 
 got out of the 'bus, I missed it. I don't know 
 whether it was snatched or simply that I dropped 
 it. It's too ridiculous. I made sure my husband 
 would be here when I arrived. I can't think what 
 can have kept him. If I weren't so anxious, I'd be 
 glad he was late. His lateness against my purse, 
 you know. It makes it fairer. But really, it's too 
 tiresome," she drummed her fingers. " I haven't 
 a penny. I'm helpless." 
 
 "Look 'ere," said the young man, "don't you 
 worry. I should be only too 'appy to advance you 
 the twopence if it'd be of any assistance to you." 
 
 " Oh, thank you," said the girl warmly; "but 
 I couldn't dream of letting you." 
 
 " Only too 'appy to oblige you in any way." 
 
 " Oh, but I mustn't." Her fluttering hesitancy 
 was pretty to behold. 
 
 " Don't be proud," he admonished her. " It 
 won't make no difference to me, reelly. You can 
 pay it back when you like." 
 
 She shook her head. 
 
 The waiter hovering with his bill reminded him 
 of the time. 
 
 " Hullo," he said, " I'll be late for the ' metch » 
 if I don't look out. I must be getting on." 
 
 He unhooked his threadbare overcoat from the 
 
134 ^^^ Thrush and the Jay 
 
 stand and struggled into it. Then he came back 
 to where she sat. 
 
 " I say," he said, *' what are you going to do .f* " 
 
 *' Oh, I'll just have to sit and feel hungry," she 
 said. 
 
 He couldn't bear that — the pangs of hunger 
 rending that dainty frame while he had gorged 
 himself! He would "chuck" the " metch." 
 
 He took out his only silver coin (he had no 
 gold ones) and laid it upon the table. 
 
 "Look here," he said, "take two bob. Then 
 you can 'phone and 'ave your lunch, and a cup 
 of cawfFee and what you like. Do?'' 
 
 He pushed it towards her. 
 
 "Oh, I couldn't," exclaimed the girl; "it 
 wouldn't be fair." 
 
 " That's all right," said the young man. " I'll 
 never miss it." 
 
 " Oh, but I'll send it back to you! " her fingers 
 touched the coin. 
 
 " That's all right," said the young man. " Any 
 time you're passing." 
 
 " Thank you most awfully," said the girl. 
 
 " You're welcome," said the young man. 
 " You're welcome, straight, you are." 
 
 He hesitated for a moment; then leant across 
 the table and said, in a burst of confidence — 
 
Worth the Money 135 
 
 " I'd rather 'ave talked to you than 'ave gone 
 to the Oval any day. Straight I would." 
 
 His eyes met hers. At the same moment he 
 became aware of a big man with a menacing scowl 
 who was threading a path towards them among 
 the tables. The young man became upright. He 
 had decided to wait no longer. " Good after- 
 noon," he said. 
 
 He fitted his bowler hat on and made for the 
 stairs. He heard her hailing the new-comer. 
 
 " I've been waiting hours for you," she cried. 
 " I've had nothing to eat. How could you be so 
 late } I lost my purse coming here, and I've had 
 such a miserable time." (The young man had dis- 
 appeared round a bend of the stairs.) — " Oh, and 
 I've borrowed two shillings from an absolute 
 stranger! " 
 
 " The deuce you have," said her husband, 
 sitting down in the young man's chair. " You 
 ought to be a company promoter! " 
 
 " And I don't know his name and address. I 
 forgot to ask him. Do run after him, quick, and 
 give him his two shillings back." 
 
 " I'm damned if I do," said her husband. " I 
 want my lunch." 
 
 He picked up the menu card, and the waiter 
 advanced with the wine-list. 
 
TO M. M. R. 
 
 There stands a willow by a stream 
 In pensive green and silver grace, 
 
 Quiet she stands, as in a dream; 
 
 But when the breezes dart and chase 
 
 The ripples, and the rushes quiver. 
 She stoops and kisses her own face 
 
 Reflected in the flowing river. 
 
 So when you turn your eyes our way. 
 Moved by a little thoughtful wind. 
 
 You see about you every day 
 The dawnlit Eden of your mind 
 
 Where many lovely shadows pass. 
 Since you in us your beauty find : 
 
 The world is but your looking-glass. 
 
 136 
 
THE DAISY FIELD 
 
 A FIELD of daisies white and green, 
 
 The fairest thing my eyes have seen, 
 
 A field of daisies that the sun 
 
 In silence lays his lips upon. 
 
 It is a pleasant place to play 
 
 From dawn till dark on a summer's day. 
 
 Till the mower with a frown 
 
 Comes and cuts the daisies down. 
 
 O happy daisies! Men have sung 
 
 A thousand years your fields among. 
 
 Have looked and loved and longed and dared 
 
 While you their joys and secrets shared, 
 
 Nor you nor they have turned to see 
 
 The mower toiling ceaselessly! 
 
 Come, my beloved, it is day, 
 The mower still is far away. 
 
138 The Thrush and the Jay 
 
 Fear not; but though we wander far 
 To lands where many wonders are, 
 To lands that only lovers see, 
 The mower strides as fast as we. 
 
 Fear not! For we shall dreaming lie 
 'Neath daisies, 'neath a summer sky, 
 Hearing Life's murmur overhead 
 (Who knows what is it, to be dead?) 
 Talking of all that we have seen 
 Up in the world of white and green, 
 And maybe with a bated breath 
 Saying, " 'Tis Life we fear, not Death." 
 
GETTING THE SACK 
 
 She was wearing a pink silk hat — unvarying 
 formula of feminine Aveakness — and the pointed 
 chin that I caught sight of beneath it proffered no 
 contrary evidence of strength. I judged from her 
 general air that she was pretty — pretty and dark. 
 Her companion, seated opposite to her, with elbows 
 resting on the little table, was a bulky man, with 
 promise of exceptional corpulence in the strained 
 back of his prosperous city coat. On his forehead 
 he wore a curl, a curl that might have been beauti- 
 ful in another place, a curl like an upturned shell; 
 but which made, as it was, an entirely ludicrous top- 
 knot for his cropped head and bulging neck. He 
 was not what one would call attractive. 
 
 So much I took note of in the necessarily rather 
 conscious stare with which one surveys a tea-shop 
 in search of a seat. 
 
 My choice was finally of the table next to theirs, 
 for it was the only vacant one beside a wall, and as 
 
140 The Thrush and the Jay 
 
 I moved to my place, the wearer of the pink hat 
 looked up for a moment, and I perceived that she 
 was crying. 
 
 It gave me a feeling of keen discomfort to see a 
 grown-up person crying in public — crying, there- 
 fore, with a grief that had gone beyond control. I 
 was glad for her that she had a friend. A man so 
 fat as that, I thought, cannot but be kind. I felt 
 that it was in his power to comfort her. 
 
 " What am I to do.f* " she was saying. " What 
 am I to do.f* " Her voice was husky with tears. 
 Through the light clatter of the tea-shop I heard 
 the voice of her friend, subdued also, and very 
 steady. 
 
 " You should have done what I told you," he 
 said. 
 
 " But it was impossible. I assure you, it was 
 impossible." There was something agonised in 
 the stifled voice. 
 
 " You could have come if you had wanted to," 
 he said. 
 
 I glanced over my shoulder for another look at 
 him. The need for secrecy — or at least for quiet- 
 ness — seemed to have taken the responding 
 emotion from his voice. Anyhow, I missed the 
 consoling note. I wondered what the relationship 
 was between them. Clearly the bond was a close 
 
Getting the Sack 141 
 
 one; I could tell that from the way he leaned on his 
 elbows. He seemed to be putting all his weight, 
 physical as well as mental, into what he had to say 
 to her. He was certainly in grave earnest. Prob- 
 ably, I thought, he has always loved her and she 
 seeks him, when things go badly with her, for 
 advice, and the courage to go on living that, when 
 life is hateful, only admiration can give. Perhaps, 
 with his strength, he does not need to make his 
 emotion articulate. Perhaps the rock-likeness of 
 him is consolation in itself. All the same, I wished 
 he would be a trifle agitated, grip her hands and 
 say, "Don't cry, my darling, for God's sake don't 
 cry." I fancied she would be glad of the outburst 
 too. I waited for it hopefully. 
 
 The gentle sniffing went on. 
 
 " You don't know w^hat a position you're placing 
 me in. You don't know what it means to me." 
 
 " You should have thought of that before," 
 
 It came to me, with an ugly shock, that I had 
 been quite wrong. There was not a particular 
 kindness about the man. There was, on the con- 
 trary, a something sinister and deadly in the 
 enforced quiet of his voice. 
 
 " I suppose you know what will become of me."* 
 Pve got to make a living somehow." 
 
 " That's none of my business." 
 
142 The Thrush and the Jay 
 
 " You don't want to give me a chance." 
 
 "That's not true." 
 
 " Yes, it is; yes, it is. (There was nothing com- 
 bative in these contradictions, only the dreary repe- 
 tition of a fact.) " You know I shan't be able to go 
 on with my lessons now. You don't want me to 
 get on. You don't care. You never did." 
 
 Still the quiet, incessant tears. 
 
 " Yes, I did. Didn't I pay for you } " 
 
 (A sniff.) 
 
 " Didn't I arrange everything.'' " 
 
 (A sniff.) 
 
 " Listen to me. I don't think you will get on, 
 and for a very good reason," 
 
 " He said I had talent," came through the 
 pocket-handkerchief. 
 
 "Talent! " He blew contemptuously. "That's 
 not the point. If you want to get on, my girl, 
 you've got to work. It doesn't matter what it is, 
 music or dancing, it's just the same as business. 
 If you're going to succeed you've got to stick at it. 
 You've got to concentrate, see.^* " 
 
 " How can I concentrate when you keep wo-rry- 
 ing me.? " 
 
 " I've never worried you." 
 
 " You have wo-rried me," the word came 
 
Getting the Sack 143 
 
 shakily. " Why last night " (she took the hand- 
 kerchief from her face with a quavering animation) 
 " there I was dressed nicely and looking nice and 
 able to get on; but if I'd thought about you for a 
 moment I couldn't have got on. I'd have gone to 
 pieces. I couldn't have sung a note." 
 
 There came a pause, and I wondered if they were 
 verging on a peace. Presently the man's voice 
 resumed. 
 
 " You're not straight, are you."* " 
 
 The level remark was as astonishing to me as 
 it was meant to be insulting to her. 
 
 " What do you mean .'' " 
 
 *' I mean what I say. You're not straight, are 
 you? " 
 
 " I don't under-stand." 
 
 " Yes, you do. I'm telling you you're not 
 straight." 
 
 I fancied there was satisfaction in the voice. 
 
 *' What time did you get that telegram.'' " 
 
 " I've told you before, I got it at ten past 
 six." 
 
 " That's funny. It was delivered at the house 
 at ten past five." 
 
 " I didn't get it till six." 
 
 " You weren't in the house when it came, then." 
 
144 ^^^^ Thrush and the Jay 
 
 " Yes, I was. I tell you I was dressing for 
 dinner." 
 
 "Dressing for dinner at five o'clock! You're 
 not straight, are you .'' " 
 
 He waited. She was crying softly into her 
 handkerchief. 
 
 " I sent that message from the office round the 
 corner. I saw the boy take it. Now do you 
 understand.^ " 
 
 I understood, at any rate, if she did not. He 
 had suspected and meant to catch her playing 
 false. Very easily he had caught her. I fancied 
 he had not been sorry. 
 
 " You left me at four-fifteen," he said. " That 
 telegram asked you to meet me at seven. You 
 didn't turn up." 
 
 " I tell you I didn't get it till six." 
 
 " You could have telephoned." 
 
 " I tell you " 
 
 He cut her short. He was not interested. It 
 was all one what she told him. 
 
 " Got any more tea .^ " 
 
 " There's no hot wa-ter." 
 
 He swung round in his chair and beckoned the 
 waitress. 
 
 " Here, miss," he said, holding out the jug, *' is 
 the kettle boiling?" 
 
Getting the Sack 145 
 
 His jauntiness was far more ruthless than an 
 avalanche of oaths. 
 
 The waitress took the jug, grinning responsively. 
 Apparently the man had a charm that I, somehow, 
 had missed. I was sorry for the pink hat in the 
 corner. There was so little subtlety or power of 
 attack beneath it. I could not imagine an expres- 
 sion on the tear-smudged, oval face of greater 
 intelligence than a smirk. I could picture her on 
 that fatal day before yesterday tripping archly away 
 from the fat man at four-fifteen, slipping into the 
 nearest tube station to telephone : — 
 
 " Is that you, Ernie.'' " 
 
 "Don't be silly! " 
 
 " I've got an evening off. The old man's busy." 
 
 " Oh, you naughty boy! " 
 
 And so, ingenuously, it was all arranged, and 
 away she had skipped to meet her other " gentle- 
 man friend." 
 
 And now the reckoning. 
 
 She was saying — 
 
 " I hope sincerely you'll never be placed in such 
 a position. I hope not indeed." 
 
 How flat and inadequate the words were ! The 
 need of not raising her voice made them mincing 
 and genteel. Every circumstance handicapped her, 
 deepened her helplessness. Here she could not 
 
 K 
 
146 The Thrush and the Jay 
 
 even make a scene. The waitress returned with 
 the hot water. I asked her, as she passed me, for 
 my bill. I heard the fat man saying — 
 
 " I shall probably run down to Eastbourne for 
 a few weeks." 
 
 All that the pink hat was missing ! 
 
 She was pouring out his tea now in mute 
 quiescence. She had made a poor fight and she 
 must submit. The game was up. She had had 
 but one weapon — the weapon of tears — and 
 it had failed her. Possibly it was not the first 
 time that the fat man had encountered it. And 
 I thought to myself how even the most heckled 
 wife alive would have rounded and snapped at 
 him before the end of such an interview. Tears 
 she might have shed, sodden she might have sat, 
 but sooner or later she would have said — 
 
 " Stop talking about it, will you.'^ I've had 
 enough of it," or : 
 
 '' Do you realise that you are behaving like a 
 brute.? " or she might have slammed the door (like 
 Nora) and gone to call on friends. 
 
 But the pink hat could only sit and cry. I 
 wished that some sudden shaft might spring into 
 her mouth. Something novel, dangerous, and wild 
 to pierce his strong indifference. Her tears were 
 so much water on a drake's back. 
 
Getting the Sack 147 
 
 Leaving the pay desk I stepped into the street, 
 and as I stepped a rhyme recurred suggestively to 
 my brain. It seemed to summarise the obverse of 
 a very melancholy situation. 
 
 " I shoot the hippopotamus with bullets made of platinum, 
 Because if I use leaden uns his hide is sure to flatten 'um." 
 
 I wished that the lady in the pink hat could have 
 tried platinum. 
 
 K 2 
 
A FREED SPIRIT 
 
 Upward I sprang, 
 
 The earth shot from me like a stone, 
 
 Upward I flashed alone — 
 
 How the wind sang! 
 
 My feet together pressed, 
 
 My arms crossed on my breast, 
 
 A shining spear, 
 
 A quivering arrow from the bow of Death, 
 
 I drew exultant breath, 
 
 I knew no fear : 
 
 Flame in my heart and hair 
 
 I reached the upper air. 
 
 I saw the throng 
 
 Of those whose uniform is loveliness. 
 
 Beauty of wing and dress. 
 
 Beauty of song. 
 
 Through them I swiftly went. 
 
 My energy unspent, 
 
 148 
 
A Freed Spirit 149 
 
 Though there was one 
 
 Cried out to me, beseeching me to stay, 
 
 Scornful I took my way. 
 
 Hawk to the sun. 
 
 The Universe stretched out, 
 
 I faced it with a shout ! 
 
 Oh, I was strong! 
 
 My body and my wings were as of steel; 
 
 No flagging did I feel 
 
 All space among : 
 
 The blue deeps length on length 
 
 Were challenge to my strength; 
 
 My pinions beat 
 
 Down the vast shadow distances of night, 
 
 And triumphed into light; — 
 
 Tireless and fleet 
 
 I meant to see all things. 
 
 Such strength was in my wings. 
 
 And then it came, 
 
 A star among the countless stars at last 
 
 That might not be o'erpast, 
 
 This world without a name — 
 
 'Twas on the verge of night, 
 
 I poised in my great flight. 
 
150 The Thrush and the Jay 
 
 And saw a moon 
 
 Rise honey-coloured in a purple sky 
 
 And watch so tenderly 
 
 The hills of June, 
 
 All night, all thro' the night, while the hills 
 
 slept — 
 Down from my height I crept 
 And hid my face and wept. 
 
THE SMALL DAUGHTER 
 
 God does not fail in anything, 
 The ring-dove's neck, the beetle's wing, 
 The buds that turn from green to gold. 
 The sunny perfumes of the spring. 
 The coloured patchwork of the wold, 
 The blue dusk dropping fold on fold. 
 And all talk talked and stories told 
 In the long evenings by the fire, 
 And strength and laughter and desire. 
 
 Dear, when you come to me and say 
 Do this, do that, I must obey. 
 Swift to interpret, to devise 
 With all the gladness that I may. 
 So can I face the trust that lies 
 Within your wide exacting eyes 
 (Your beautiful exacting eyes); 
 Mending and fashioning, I know 
 If you will have, it must be so. 
 
152 The Thrush and the Jay 
 
 Do not be over harsh with me 
 
 When (empty of all subtlety, 
 
 Stupid and ignorant and shy) 
 
 You find my small reality. 
 
 When on a sudden grown as high 
 
 And how much cleverer than I ! 
 
 You put your games and nonsense by 
 
 And find me also questioning 
 
 And empty of all counselling. 
 
 Ah, turn your puzzled glances then 
 From the unresting ways of men, 
 From tangled right and tangled wrong 
 To where the brooks are loud with rain, 
 To where the birds are glad with song. 
 And with the world know you are young, 
 And with the ageing world be strong. 
 And unto God as faithful be 
 As in these days you are to me. 
 
THE MULBERRY BUSH 
 
 I. 
 
 She will never forget the heady and all but un- 
 controllable feeling of relief that danced within her 
 when Mr. Stanton Murray (since deceased), 
 having pressed his wet moustache upon her cheek, 
 and, in sequence, upon the legitimate cheeks of 
 his five children (she was a mere visitor in his 
 house), had lifted his bag from the carved chest 
 in the hall, and with rain-coat flapping and gravel 
 crunching beneath his feet, had taken his way to 
 the railway station. Until his large, strong hand 
 had swung open the gate and shut it again force- 
 fully behind him, they held themselves in check, 
 there was many a slip 'twixt cup and lip, quite 
 apart from those that disfigured the breakfast cloth, 
 and they did not permit themselves to forget the 
 morning that he had returned unexpectedly for his 
 umbrella. With the clang of the closing gate. 
 
154 ^^^ Thrush and the Jay 
 
 however, restraint went shrieking to the winds. 
 The play-room rocked beneath the surge of small 
 ecstatic Stanton Murrays. Whoever was in the 
 swing swung until his toes recorded their prowess 
 in black marks upon the ceiling. Whoever was 
 upon the rocking horse spurred the dappled beast 
 in loud triumphant jerks across the protestant 
 linoleum. Whoever had a dispute to settle closed 
 and settled it there and then. Mr. Stanton 
 Murray's departure let loose a festival of anarchy. 
 She was too young at that time to have made 
 herself a theory; but her perceptions and preferences 
 were acute. She had not been many hours in the 
 Murray household without forming an opinion 
 as to the value and function of the tall thing called 
 " Father." Father was literally awful. His eye 
 v/as like the eye upon the pillar that terrorised 
 her dreams from the sign-board of the " Free- 
 mason's Arms." He was Justice unblinded, and 
 with no weights or scales to hamper the freedom 
 of his sword-play. His tread, though heavy, was 
 silent; his manner, though absent, was severe. He 
 was a mixture of Blue-Beard and the Giant Grim- 
 Bloodyman. He stalked through the house and 
 garden like a plague. The young Stanton Murrays 
 never knew the meaning of the word " black " as 
 applied to Monday, for then it was that the 9.18 
 
The Mulberry Bush 155 
 
 removed him gratefully to town (that was one of 
 the advantages of living in the country), and they 
 had invented and sang, strictly in private, a version 
 of " Sally in Our Alley," which ran : — 
 
 "Of all the days within the week I hate and loathe but 
 one day, 
 And that's the day that comes between a Saturday 
 and Monday." 
 
 There had been a debate in the nursery as to 
 whether "hate" or "loathe" were the stronger 
 word, so they had compromised and put both in. 
 Briefly, this meant that on Sundays Mr. Stanton 
 Murray was en famille for dinner and tea, as well 
 as for breakfast. 
 
 Breakfast on other days, though bad, was never 
 quite so bad. The distraction of the morning- 
 paper, together with the necessity of consuming a 
 sufficiency of food before leaving for town, limited 
 the scope of his exertions. But Sunday was a day 
 of tribulation. It was a new-fashioned household, 
 and there was no breathing space for prayers or 
 armistice for church time, so all day long the noise 
 of battle rolled. It seemed to begin with the first 
 peeping light of dawn, when Mr. Stanton Murray, 
 clad only in his admirable striped pyjamas, strode in 
 the corridors and commanded one or other of his 
 offspring, in a voice that was actually strengthened 
 
156 The Thrush and the Jay 
 
 by the rushing of taps and roaring of cisterns, to 
 *' Come out of the bathroom!" It persisted 
 through breakfast, when porridge, whether burnt 
 or lumpy, was consumed, not without tears. It 
 swelled to a climax at dinner, when the clattering 
 of a fork sounded in frightened ears like an 
 avalanche, when an overturned glass caused the 
 havoc of a tidal wave. There was always one 
 scapegoat at least, who got no pudding; but in 
 the roast-beef stage was bidden, " Go out of the 
 room! " Terrible indeed to hear one's name so 
 called upon. There was nothing convivial about 
 dinner when Mr. Stanton Murray was at home. 
 No one could fill up a milky glass with water 
 then and call it " ginger-beer," no one could make 
 a pipe of peace out of a crust of bread. A child 
 could not speak to its mother without being told 
 to make less noise, or to stop whining. There 
 was always somebody who had to spend the after- 
 noon in her own room. 
 
 Tea-time brought a lull, for then father was in 
 the drawing-room. All the same, his nearness made 
 itself felt. They did not care to compete as to 
 who could take the largest bite from a slice of 
 bread, and the print that teeth left in the butter 
 was no long spiritually satisfying. Vengeance was 
 his, and he invariably repaid. 
 
The Mulberry Bush 157 
 
 She remembers in particular one example of his 
 austerity. She had come in on a spring morning 
 heated from the chase with some of the other 
 children, and found him and the grown-ups eating 
 crystallised ginger. " Oh, give me some," ex- 
 claimed a little Stanton Murray. " No, you shall 
 not have any," replied father, " because you asked." 
 And the stranger perceived with rounded eyes that 
 this was not a joke. 
 
 A less tough breed than his own children would 
 have gone down before him. She herself felt in 
 his presence frailer than glass; but they took his 
 violence philosophically. Each victim in turn 
 would make the comment, " It's always w^," and 
 depart to be smacked or sent to bed with martyr- 
 like resignation. She found, too, that the alarums 
 of their life, though shattering, held yet the 
 gloriousness of battle. As the sailor boasts his 
 combat with the fury of storms and weevils, as the 
 pioneer with rhinoceros and niggers, so did she 
 find that her blest security was looked on with 
 contempt by these hardy swashbucklers. They had 
 their answer ready for her when she talked of peace 
 with honour, warm baths, skipping school, choco- 
 late after medicine — they told her she was spoilt. 
 She was a mere land-lubber of family life, and knew 
 nothing of its fiercer intoxications. 
 
158 The Thrush and the Jay 
 
 Certainly these children remained uncowed. No 
 surety of wrath to come could dissuade them from 
 tearing clothes, wading in black mud with shoes 
 on, from losing cap or glove or golosh in their 
 morning excursions. Nor could it make less 
 keen the joy of playing dodge round the house 
 when a wind set all things slamming, and 
 on occasion shattered both panes of glass in the 
 wash-house door. Nor could it prevent them 
 from capturing stray small boys, and putting them 
 to extreme question in the nursery until the whis- 
 pered word went round, " he's blubbing." They 
 were indeed bold young imps to their father's 
 Lucifer. Fortunately, and perhaps inevitably, they 
 were inarticulate imps. If they had been less like 
 him, they could perhaps have made plain their 
 thoughts; but in that case, it is clear their thoughts 
 would not have been the same, nor yet so salutary 
 in the hearing. 
 
 II. 
 
 Sometimes they seemed to her unnaturally 
 naughty. There was something so unreasonable in 
 their alternating silences and vivacities. Why be 
 dumb when you are simply wanted to show how 
 nice you can be to a visitor } Why be uproarious 
 
The Mulberry Bush 159 
 
 at five o'clock in the morning ? Why be morose 
 when you are asked to play oranges and lemons ? 
 Why bound like an acrobat when you have to be 
 dressed in time to catch a train? 
 
 For good or ill, she was forced to face the fact 
 that she was now on the side of the parents. It 
 did not seem greatly to matter what the method 
 was by which she sought to "bring them up"; 
 she saw that her children would certainly do things 
 that she would not like, and that she would have 
 to do things that they would not like. She wished 
 they would live always at their highest level of 
 sweetness and intelligence. As it was, she had to 
 scold them. 
 
 It was a point of honour with her not to be afraid 
 of them She had ever a slavish longing to yield 
 in anticipation of drooping mouth and puckering 
 brow. But she conquered her weakness. She was 
 the captain of her soul. She saw clearly that it is 
 sometimes a moral duty to make children cry. 
 
 Had Mr. Stanton Murray so braced himself.-^ 
 She determined not to think about him. Maternity 
 is not a state for moth-wing shades of meaning, 
 moonbeam balances. Rather it is a series of 
 emergencies. It needs swift decisions, boldness, 
 dash. If necessary, the offender must be sent 
 to bed. 
 
i6o The Thrush and the Jay 
 
 She was eager that her children should not be 
 " spoilt." (The word had rankled.) Her own 
 faults were so plain to her. Would she have 
 reached grown-upness, surer of her feet, she won- 
 dered, more capable and independent, for the pre- 
 liminary hardships .^ Had she lost something 
 irretrievable in those light years of non-existent 
 discipline.? The Stanton Murrays tip-toed upon 
 her thoughts. She counted her losses. Chiefly she 
 could never enjoy cold baths or salt with porridge. 
 Still, she was sure that there were other things, 
 too, if she would only think of them. Surely there 
 must be some great benefit that accrued to those 
 who had wept their golden youth into unconsoling 
 ears .? Had they not a hardiness of frame, a physical 
 vigour .f* Was it worth the misery .f* Almost 
 breathless with the daring of it, she wondered if 
 Mr. Stanton Murray had tormented his mind in 
 the same way. Had he } 
 
 On the whole, she believed herself to be a 
 success. She was almost certain that her children 
 liked her, and were glad when she came in. She 
 was sure that they never wished her to be gone. 
 She allowed herself to feel, in secret, that so bene- 
 volent a tyranny as her own could not fail of 
 appreciation. Possibly she swaggered at times. 
 The abyss was made ready for her pride. 
 
The Mulberry Bush i6i 
 
 It was a winter's afternoon. The children were 
 waiting for her in the drawing-room. As she 
 came downstairs to them, she could hear their cries 
 of laughter. She opened the door and stepped 
 into the room. Then she flushed, and her eye- 
 brows drew together. They knew they were not 
 allowed to riot in the drawing-room. 
 
 On the floor the cushions had been flung, on 
 the cushions the children were sprawling; whatever 
 game was in progress she did not stop to inquire. 
 Enough for her, bear-garden, pandemonium, con- 
 duct unworthy of " nice little girl," or " any lady's 
 child " (as the nurses say). She plucked the 
 children from the cushions, and the cushions from 
 the floor. It is probable that she shook them all 
 a little. In the cause of order, civilisation, the 
 law, she drove out happiness. If freedom meant 
 merely licence — perhaps she was right. 
 
 Through the tears, the words reached her, 
 " Up'tairs, up'tairs." 
 
 " Nonsense," she said briskly, but without anger 
 (hers had been the victory). " You are not going 
 upstairs again yet. You are going to stay here, 
 and play with me." 
 
 (An invitation to the sheep from the butcher.) 
 The small person steadied itself on its heels, and 
 looked at her. 
 
1 62 The Thrush and the Jay 
 
 " I didn't say / wanted to go up'tairs again," 
 it said. "I said I wanted you to go up'tairs 
 again." 
 
 This was full-circle, and it dizzied her for a 
 moment. She beheld herself and the blonde wraith 
 of Mr. Stanton Murray standing shoulder to 
 shoulder. In the pitiless eyes of a child she had 
 assumed the burden of ogre-hood. 
 
 So here we go round 
 
BETHLEHEM 
 
 I. 
 
 Long ago and long ago 
 In the dark days of the earth 
 Came a little child to birth. 
 Gentler did his mother find 
 Patient beasts than human kind 
 And travailed so. 
 
 In the long unfriended night 
 All the sweet flower-woven hay 
 Breathed a summer where she lay; 
 Through the broken roof the stars 
 Showed her, as through prison bars, 
 Gentle light. 
 
 II. 
 
 Mary, Mother, take thy rest 
 With thy baby at thy breast, 
 Happy thou that canst not see 
 That so tender bud of thee 
 ifl, 
 
164 The Thrush and the Jay 
 
 Scourged and bruised and crowned with thorn, 
 
 Crucified in agony, 
 
 Mocked, forsaken and forlorn, 
 
 Hanging on the bitter tree. 
 
 {Keepy ah, keep from child of mine 
 
 Such a lot as fell to thine.) 
 
 Weep not, Mary, lift thy head, 
 Christ, thy darling, is not dead. 
 He so underfoot was trod, 
 He so in the mire was pressed. 
 That small feet might walk clean shod 
 To the Kingdom of the Blest, 
 All the joys thou gavest Him 
 In the manger warm and dim 
 He at last shall give again 
 To the little ones of men. 
 
 III. 
 
 Love without grieving. 
 Wealth without thieving. 
 This world in laughter. 
 Paradise after. 
 Mary under her blue shawl 
 Singeth in the ox's stall. 
 
THIS AND THIS 
 
 This was summer, this was peace: — 
 Scarlet-laden apple trees, 
 Cows that munch the dew-grey grass, 
 Boys that whistle as they pass, 
 Flying flowers and gulls a-flap. 
 Honey fields on Golden Cap, 
 Earth a blue and shining thing 
 To set the angels envying. 
 
 This was summer and this came: — 
 This was a city and is flame. 
 This was corn and now is mud. 
 This was water and is blood; 
 The beloved and the lover 
 Carrion for earth to cover. 
 Youth and laughter and bright eyes 
 The worm's rich prize. 
 
 165 
 
printed in great britain bv 
 
 Richard Clay and Sons, Limited, 
 
 brunswick street, stamford street, s.e., 
 
 and bungay, suffolk. 
 
THE CHORUS 
 
 A Tale of Love and Folly 
 By SYLVIA LYND 
 
 Crown 8vo 6/- 
 
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 . . , ' The Chorus ' belongs to that small class of novel 
 which we need so badly." 
 
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 Mrs. Lynd takes a definitely witty interest in life and 
 people and things, and does not exclude a feeling for 
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 merely sparkle but cut." 
 
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 observation of character and two triumphant portraits — 
 the first novel that gives us all this rare." 
 
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