scene which Rosalie would not have missed for worlds. A meeting of two males, so utterly unlike a meeting of two females, was invariably of the most entrancingly noisy or violent description. When ladies came to the rectory to see her mother they sat in the drawing-room and sipped tea and spoke in thin voices; but when men came to see her father and went into the study, there was very loud talking and often a row. Yes, and once in the village street, Rosalie had seen two men stand up and thump one another with their fists and fall down and get up and thump again. When two women, her sisters or others, quarrelled, they only shrilled, and went on and on shrilling. It was impossible to imagine the collision of two women producing anything so exciting and splendid as invariably was produced by the collision of two males.
As now——
In comes Harold in great heat and hurry (as men always were) with his splendid button boots in one hand and an immense pair of shining cuffs in the other hand.
“Haven’t you gone yet, you lazy young brute?”
“No, I haven’t, you lazy old brute!”
Agitated feminine cries of “Robert! Robert! You are not to speak to Harold like that.”
“Well, he spoke to me like that.”
“Yes, and I’ll do a jolly sight more than speak to you in a minute if you don’t get out of it. Get out of it, do you hear?”
“Shan’t!”
“Robert! Robert! Harold! Harold!”
“Well, get him out of it, or he’ll be sorry for it. Why is he always here when I’m supposed to be having my breakfast? Not a thing ready, as usual. Look here, where I’m supposed to sit—flannel and soap! That’s washing his filthy neck, I suppose. Filthy young brute! Why don’t you wash your neck, pig?”
“Why do you wear girl’s boots with buttons, pig?”
Commotion. Enthralling commotion. Half the female assemblage hustle the splendid creature Robert out of the door and down the hall and on to his bicycle; half the female assemblage cover his retreat and block the dash after him of the still more splendid Harold; all the female assemblage, battle having been prevented and one splendid male despatched, combine to minister to the requirements of the second splendid male now demanding attention.
Busy scene. Enthralling spectacle. There he is, eating; shoving sausages into himself against the clock just as Robert had shovelled porridge into himself against the clock. One ministrant is sewing a button on to his boot, another with blotting paper and hot iron is removing a stain from his coat, divested for the purpose; one is pouring out his coffee, another is cutting his bread, a third is watching for his newspaper by the postman. And suddenly he whirls everything into a whirlpool just as men, if Rosalie watches them long enough, always whirl everything into a whirlpool.
“Oh, my goodness, the pump!”
Chorus, “The pump?”
“The bicycle pump! Has that young brute taken the bicycle pump?”
“Yes, he took it. I saw it.”
Commotion.
“Catch him across the field! Catch him across the field! Where are my boots? Where the devil are my boots? Well, never mind the infernal button. How am I going to get to the bank with a flat tyre? Can’t some one catch him across the field instead of all standing there staring?”
Away they go! Rosalie, seeking a good place for the glorious spectacle, is knocked over in the stampede for the door. Nobody minds Rosalie. Rosalie doesn’t mind—anything to see this entrancing sight! Away they go, flying over the meadow, shouting, scrambling, falling. Out after them plunges Harold, shirt-sleeved, one boot half on, hobbling, leaping, bawling. Glorious to watch him! He outruns them all; he outbellows them all. Of course he does. He is a man. He is one of those splendid, wonderful, mysterious creatures to whom, subject only to Rosalie’s father, the entire world belongs. Look at him, bounding, bawling! Wonderful, wonderful Harold!
But Robert is wonderful too. If it had been Anna or Flora or Hilda gone off with the pump, she would have been easily caught. Not Robert. Wonderful and mysterious Robert, wonderfully and mysteriously pedalling at incredible speed, is not caught. The hunt dejectedly trails back. The business of pushing Harold out of the house is devotedly resumed.
And again—enthralling spectacle—just as the reign of Robert was terminated by the accession of Harold, so the dominion of Harold is overthrown by the accession of father. Harold is crowded about with ministrants. Nobody can leave him for a minute. Rosalie’s father appears. Everybody leaves Harold simultaneously, abruptly, and as if by magic. Rosalie’s father appears. Everybody disappears. Wonderful father! Everybody melts away: but Harold does not melt away. Courageous Harold! Everybody melts; only Harold is left, and Rosalie watching; and immediately, as always, the magnificent males clash with sound and fury.
Rosalie’s father scowls upon Harold and delivers his morning greeting. No “Good morning, dear,” as her mother would have said. “Aren’t you gone yet?” like a bark from a kennel.
“Just going.”
Wonderful father! A moment before there had been not the remotest sign of Harold ever going. Now Harold is very anxious to go. He is very anxious to go but, like Robert, he will not abandon the field without defiance of the authority next above his own. While he collects his things he whistles. Rosalie shudders (but deliciously as one in old Rome watching the gladiators).
“Do you see the clock, sir?”
“Yes.”
“Well, quicken yourself, sir. Quicken yourself.”
“The clock’s fast.”
“It is not fast, sir. And let me add that the clock with which you could keep time of a morning, or of any hour in the day, would have to be an uncommonly slow clock.”
Harold with elaborate unconcern adjusts his trouser clips. “I should have thought that was more a matter for the Bank to complain of, if necessary. I may be wrong, of course——”
“You may be wrong, sir, because in my experience you almost invariably are wrong and never more so than when you lad-di-dah that you are right. You may be wrong, but let me tell you what you may not be. You may not be impertinent to me, sir. You may not lad-di-dah me, sir.”
“Father, I really do not see why at my age I should be hounded out of the house like this every morning.”
“You are hounded out, as you elegantly express it, because morning after morning, owing to your disgustingly slothful habits, you clash with me, sir. My breakfast is delayed because you clash with me, and the house is delayed because you clash with me, and the whole parish is delayed because you clash with me.”
“Perhaps you’re not aware that Robert clashes with me.”
“Dash Robert! Are you going or are you not going?”
He goes.
“Bring back the paper.”
He brings it back.
Wonderful father!
Rosalie’s
