The Golden Scarecrow | Page 5

a parson, Lasher," said his guest.
In fact, by the evening of the second day of the visit it was obvious that
Clinton St. Mary Vicarage might, very possibly, witness a disturbed
Christmas. It was all very tiresome for poor Mrs. Lasher. On the late
afternoon of Christmas Eve, Hugh heard the stormy conversation that
follows--a conversation that altered the colour and texture of his
after-life as such things may, when one is still a child.

IV
Christmas Eve was always, to Hugh, a day with glamour. He did not
any longer hang up his stocking (although he would greatly have liked
to do so), but, all day, his heart beat thickly at the thought of the
morrow, at the thought of something more than the giving and
receiving of presents, something more than the eating of food,
something more than singing hymns that were delightfully familiar,
something more than putting holly over the pictures and hanging
mistletoe on to the lamp in the hall. Something there was in the day like
going home, like meeting people again whom one had loved once, and
not seen for many years, something as warm and romantic and lightly
coloured and as comforting as the most inspired and impossible story
that one could ever, lying in bed and waiting for sleep, invent.
To-day there was no snow but a frost, and there was a long bar of
saffron below the cold sky and a round red ball of a sun. Hugh was
sitting in a corner of Mr. Lasher's study, looking at Doré's "Don
Quixote," when the two gentlemen came in. He was sitting in a dark
corner and they, because they were angry with one another, did not
recognise any one except themselves. Mr. Lasher pulled furiously at his
pipe and Mr. Pidgen stood up by the fire with his short fat legs spread
wide and his mouth smiling, but his eyes vexed and rather indignant.
"My dear Pidgen," said Mr. Lasher, "you misunderstand me, you do
indeed! It may be (I would be the first to admit that, like most men, I
have my weakness) that I lay too much stress upon the healthy,
physical, normal life, upon seeing things as they are and not as one
would like to see them to be. I don't believe that dreaming ever did any
good to any man!"
"It's only produced some of the finest literature the world has ever
known," said Mr. Pidgen.
"Ah! Genius! If you or I were geniuses, Pidgen, that would be another
affair. But we're not; we're plain, common-place humdrum human
beings with souls to be saved and work to do--work to do!"

There was a little pause after that, and Hugh, looking at Mr. Pidgen,
saw the hurt look in his eyes deepen.
"Come now, Lasher," he said at last. "Let's be honest one with another;
that's your line, and you say it ought to be mine. Come now, as man to
man, you think me a damnable failure now--beg pardon--complete
failure--don't you? Don't be afraid of hurting me. I want to know!"
Mr. Lasher was really a kindly man, and when his eyes beheld
things--there were of course many things that they never beheld--he
would do his best to help anybody. He wanted to help Mr. Pidgen now;
but he was also a truthful man.
"My dear Pidgen! Ha, ha! What a question! I'm sure many, many
people enjoy your books immensely. I'm sure they do, oh, yes!"
"Come, now, Lasher, the truth. You won't hurt my feelings. If you were
discussing me with a third person you'd say, wouldn't you? 'Ah, poor
Pidgen might have done something if he hadn't let his fancy run away
with him. I was with him at Cambridge. He promised well, but I'm
afraid one must admit that he's failed--he would never stick to
anything.'"
Now this was so exactly what Mr. Lasher had, on several occasions,
said about his friend that he was really for the moment at a loss. He
pulled at his pipe, looked very grave, and then said:
"My dear Pidgen, you must remember our lives have followed such
different courses. I can only give you my point of view. I don't myself
care greatly for romances--fairy tales and so on. It seems to me that for
a grown-up man.... However, I don't pretend to be a literary fellow; I
have other work, other duties, picturesque, but nevertheless necessary."
"Ah!" exclaimed Mr. Pidgen, who, considering that he had invited his
host's honest opinion, should not have become irritated because he had
obtained it; "that's just it. You people all think only you know what is
necessary. Why shouldn't a fairy story be as necessary as a sermon? A
lot more necessary, I dare say. You think you're the