My Little Sister Part 11

Eric didn't seem sorry, though his voice changed and he looked away. "It was a fine way to die."

He said the self-discipline imposed by the pursuit of science had become the chief hope of the world. All the good that was in Militarism had been got out of it. It was a spent sh.e.l.l now, half-buried in the long gra.s.s of a fallow field. Still, it was no wonder the majority of the governing cla.s.s, out of touch with the real work of the world--no wonder they still groped after the military idea.

They saw the idle on the one hand and the overworked on the other, wallowing in a sickly wash of sentiment; they saw the dry rot in Government. He himself had small patience with politicians, or with those other "preachers"--in the pulpits. In old days, when the churches were in touch with the people, a man might feed his flock instead of merely living off the sheep of his pasture.

But the people who fared worst at Eric's hands were the professional politicians. They were "bedevilled" by the most intellect-deadening of all the opiates, the Soothing Syrup of Popularity. They must be excused from doing anything else because, forsooth, they did such a lot of talking.

We discovered an unexpected vein of humour in him the day he travestied a certain distinguished friend of Lord Helmstone's. We were shown the Great Man on the hustings at a Scottish election, and we laughed afresh over Eric's fury at his own evocation. As though the distinguished personage were actually there, perorating on Duncombe lawn, Eric brushed up his moustache and began to heckle him. What had he _done_--except to use his great position as a rostrum? What had been done by all the members of the Lords and Commons put together comparable to the achievements of--for instance, Sanitary Science? Ha, _Science_! No phrase-making. No flourish of fine feelings. Just Sanitation--the force that had done more in fifty years to improve the condition of the poor than all the philanthropy since the birth of Christ. And what had the Government done even for Science?

Then the Personage, magnificently superior, setting forth the folly, the sinful waste of getting him there, and not listening to his words of wisdom.

"When I ope my mouth let no dog bark."

No such inept.i.tudes from your man of science. The conditions of his work--humbleness of spirit, a patient tracking down of fact--these kept him sane; kept him oriented. Woe to him if he fell into fustian, or pretended to a wisdom he could not substantiate. Your man of science had to mind his eye and test his findings. He worked without applause, away from the limelight. He was unwritten about--unknown. Even when, after years of toil, your man of science came out of obscurity with some great gift for the world in his hand, no one except other men of science was the least excited. The _Daily Mail_ was quite unmoved. The service done mankind by science left the general public in the state of Pet Majorie's turkey:

"----she was more than usual calm, She did not give a single d.a.m.n."

He was not complaining.

All this was wholesome.

"Science!"

_"No high-piled monuments are theirs who chose Her great inglorious toil--no flaming death.

To them was sweet the poetry of prose, And wisdom gave a fragrance to their breath."_

"Who wrote that?" my mother asked.

With a thrill in his voice: "A friend of mine!" Eric said, "A friend of the human race."

And he told us about him.

I asked to have the verse written down.

Life seemed a splendid thing as he talked; but still, a splendour only to dazzle me--not to light and lead.

When he was there, all I asked was to sit and listen, and now and then to steal a look.

When he had gone, all I wanted was to be left alone, that I might go over all he had said, all he had looked, and endlessly embroider upon that background.

My best times, in his absence, were those safest from interruption--the long, blessed hours while other people slept.

To lie in bed conjuring up pictures of Eric, conversations with Eric, had come to be my idea not only of happiness but of luxury. And, as seems the way of all indulgence taken in secret and without restraint, this of mine enervated me, made me less fit for the society of my fellow-beings. I found myself irked by the things that before had pleased me, impatient even of people I loved. I was like the secret drinker, ready to sacrifice anything to gratify my hidden craving.

All this time Bettina was less in my thoughts than she had been since she was born--till that afternoon when I began to think furiously about her again.

Lord Helmstone had come with Eddie Monmouth and carried Eric off. I thought they had all three gone to the links.

I went indoors and wrote a note for my mother. Then I escaped to the garden. I will go down in the orchard, I said to myself, and wait by the gap for a glimpse of Eric playing the short round. Along the south wall I went towards the landmark of the big apple-tree, a yard or so this side of the gap. As I pa.s.sed the ripening wall-fruit, netted to protect it from the birds, I remembered my mother had said the formal espaliers wore the air of a jealously-guarded beauty smiling behind her veil. The old tree by the gap was like some peasant "Mother of Many," she said, rude and generous, bearing on her gnarled arms a bushel to one of the more delicate fruits on the wall.

All the way down to the end of the orchard I had glimpses through the lesser trees of old "Mother of Many," brave and smiling, holding out cl.u.s.ters of red-cheeked apples to the last rays of the sun. I started, and stood as still as the apple-tree.

Under the low branches two figures. My sister's raised face. The other bending down. He kissed her--Eddie Monmouth.

I turned and fled back to the house.

The kiss might have been on my lips, so effectually it wakened me out of my dreaming.

Bettina!--old enough to be kissed by a man!

So she was the first to be engaged ... my little sister, who had only just had her sixteenth birthday.

I tried that night to lead up to a confidence.

But I had neglected Bettina too long, apparently, for her to want to tell me her great secret just at first.

So I waited.

Then a dreadful day when Hermione came over to say that she was going up to London for Eddie Monmouth's wedding.

Yes, most unexpected. All in hot haste, just before his sailing for India. The bride a girl they had never heard of.

I dared not look at Betty for some minutes. When at last I mustered up courage to steal a glance--not a cloud on Betty's face.

Here was courage!

But what the poor child must be going through.--I could not leave her to bear this awful thing alone....

When Hermione had gone I told Bettina that I knew.

She looked at me out of her innocent eyes, and reddened just a little.

Then she laughed: "Oh, I don't mind _like that_!" she said. "He was very nice. But I think I prefer Ranny Dallas."

At first I was sure this was just a brave attempt to bear her suffering alone.

But I was wrong.

Bettina _did_ like Ranny Dallas best!

He liked Bettina, and flirted with her.

I began to see that I had not been looking after Bettina properly.