of you through the
night."
"Put me in my bed," said the little ruffian, "and I'll see;" and I was
awakened at break of day by a small figure in pyjamas dancing at my
bedside, shouting with unholy joy, "I'm here, you see, I'm here," and it
was weeks before I could bring him to a better state of mind.
So much younger than any of us--the 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
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