Olivia in India | Page 4

other boys were at Oxford when he was in his first knickerbockers--he was a lonely little soul and lived in a world of his own, peopled by the creatures of his own imaginings. His great friend was Mr. Bathboth of Bathboth--don't you like the name?--and he would come in from a walk with his nurse, fling down his cap and remark, "I've been seeing Mr. Bathboth in his own house--oh! a lovely house. It's a _public-house_!"
I'm afraid he was a very low character this Mr. Bathboth. According to Peter, "he smoked, and he swored, and he put his fingers to his nose when his mother said he wasn't to," so we weren't surprised to hear of his end. He was pulled up to heaven by a crane for bathing in the sea on Sunday. Another of Peter's creatures was a bogle called "Windy Wallops" who lived in the garrets and could only be repulsed with hairbrushes. "Whippetie Stoowrie," on the other hand, was a kindly creature inhabiting the nursery chimney, and given to laying small offerings such as a pistol and caps or a sugar mouse on the fender. A strange fancy once took Peter to dig graves for us all in the garden. It wasn't that he disliked us; on the contrary, he considered he was doing us an honour. My grave was suggestively near the rubbish-heap, but he pointed out that it was because the lily-of-the-valley grew there. One day he came in earthy but determined-looking. "Dodo didn't send me anything for my birthday," he announced, "so I've filled up his grave."
Now Peter has gone to school and has put away childish things, and the desire to be a knight like Launcelot. He no longer babbles to himself in such a way as to make strangers doubt of his sanity; and he confided to me lately that when he grew up he hoped to lead a Double Life. He who was brought up in Camelot, he who wept when Roland at Roncesvalles blew his horn for the last time, now devours blood-curdling detective stories, vile things in paper covers, which he keeps concealed about his person, and whips out at odd moments. What he hates is a book with the slightest hint of a love affair. I found him disgustedly punching a book with his fist and muttering (evidently to the hero), "I know you, I know you, you're in love with her," in tones of bitter scorn. When I begin to speak about Peter I can't stop, and forget how tiresome it must be for people to listen. I apologize, but please bear with me when I enlarge upon this brother of mine; I simply must, sometimes.
How good of you to write such a long letter! Of course I shall write often and at length, but you must promise not to be bored, or expect too much. I fear you won't get anything very wise or witty from me. You know how limited I am. The fairies, when they came to my christening, might have come better provided with gifts. But then, I expect they have only a certain number of gifts for each family, so I don't in the least blame them for giving the boys the brains and giving me--what? At the moment I can't think of anything they did give me except a heart that keeps on the windy side of care, as Beatrice puts it; and hair that curls naturally. I have no grudge against the fairies. If they had given me straight hair and brains I might have been a Suffragist and shamed my kin by biting a policeman; and that would have been a pity.
Later.
G. and I are crouched in a corner, very awed and sad. A poor man died suddenly yesterday from heart failure, and the funeral is just over. I do hope I shall never again see a burial at sea. It was terrible. The bell tolled and the ship slowed down and almost stopped, while the body, wrapped in a Union Jack, was slipped into the water, committed to the deep in sure and certain hope of a blessed resurrection. In a minute it was all over.
The people are laughing and talking again; the dressing-bugle has sounded; things go on as if nothing had happened. We are steaming ahead, leaving the body--such a little speck it looked on the great water--far behind.
It is the utter loneliness of it that makes me cry!
_S.S. Scotia, Oct. 29_.
... This won't be a tidy letter, for I am sitting close beside the rail--has it a nautical name? I don't know--and every few minutes the spray comes over and wets the paper and incidentally myself. And the fountain-pen! I greatly fear it leaks, for my middle finger is blackened beyond hope of cleansing,