'They will probably give her indigestion,' I said. 'I hope they do.'
'Why didn't you have better children?' sobbed Robina; 'we are none of us any good to you.'
'You are not the children I wanted, I confess,' I answered.
'That's a nice kind thing to say!' retorted Robina indignantly.
'I wanted such charming children,' I explained?'my idea of charming children: the children I had imagined for myself. Even as babies you disappointed me.'
Robina looked astonished.
'You, Robina, were the most disappointing,' I complained. 'Dick was a boy. One does not calculate upon boy angels; and by the time Veronica arrived I had got more used to things. But I was so excited when you came. The Little Mother and I would steal at night into the nursery. 'Isn't it wonderful,' the Little Mother would whisper, 'to think it all lies hidden there: the little tiresome child, the sweetheart they will one day take away from us, the wife, the mother?' 'I am glad it is a girl,' I would whisper; 'I shall be able to watch her grow into womanhood. Most of the girls one comes across in books strike one as not perhaps quite true to life. It will give me such an advantage having a girl of my own. I shall keep a note-book, with a lock and key, devoted to her.''
'Did you?' asked Robina.
'I put it away,' I answered; 'there were but a few pages written on. It came to me quite early in your life that you were not going to be the model heroine. I was looking for the picture baby, the clean, thoughtful baby, with its magical, mystical smile. I wrote poetry about you, Robina, but you would slobber and howl. Your little nose was always having to be wiped, and somehow the poetry did not seem to fit you. You were at your best when you were asleep, but you would not even sleep when it was expected of you. I think, Robina, that the fellows who draw the pictures for the comic journals of the man in his night-shirt with the squalling baby in his arms must all be single men. The married man sees only sadness in the design. It is not the mere discomfort. If the little creature were ill or in pain we should not think of that. It is the reflection that we, who meant so well, have brought into the world just an ordinary fretful human creature with a nasty temper of its own: that is the tragedy, Robina. And then you grew into a little girl. I wanted the soulful little girl with the fathomless eyes, who would steal to me at twilight and question me concerning life's conundrums.
'But I used to ask you questions,' grumbled Robina, 'and you would tell me not to be silly.'
'Don't you understand, Robina?' I answered. 'I am not blaming you, I am blaming myself. We are like children who plant seeds in a garden, and then are angry with the flowers because they are not what we expected. You were a dear little girl; I see that now, looking back. But not the little girl I had in my mind. So I missed you, thinking of the little girl you were not. We do that all our lives, Robina. We are always looking for the flowers that do not grow, passing by, trampling underfoot, the blossoms round about us. It was the same with Dick. I wanted a naughty boy. Well, Dick was naughty, no one can say that he was not. But it was not my naughtiness. I was prepared for his robbing orchards. I rather hoped he would rob orchards. All the high-spirited boys in books rob orchards, and become great men. But there were not any orchards handy. We happened to be living in Chelsea at the time he ought to have been robbing orchards: that, of course, was my fault. I did not think of that. He stole a bicycle that a lady had left outside the tea-room in Battersea Park, he and another boy, the son of a common barber, who shaved people for three-halfpence. I am a Republican in theory, but it grieved me that a son of mine could be drawn to such companionship. They contrived to keep it for a week?till the police found it one night, artfully hidden behind bushes. Logically, I do not see why stealing apples should be noble and stealing bicycles should be mean, but it struck me that way at the time. It was not the particular steal I had been hoping for.
'I wanted him wild; the hero of the book was ever in his college days a wild young man. Well, he was wild. It cost me three hundred pounds to keep that breach of promise case out of Court; I had never imagined a breach of promise case. Then he got drunk, and bonneted a bishop in mistake for a 'bull-dog.' I didn't mind the bishop. That by itself would have been wholesome fun. But to think that a son of mine should have been drunk!'
'He has never been drunk since,' pleaded Robina. 'He had only three glasses of champagne and a liqueur: it was the liqueur?he was not used to it. He got into the wrong set. You cannot in college belong to the wild set without getting drunk occasionally.'
'Perhaps not,' I admitted. 'In the book the wild young man drinks without ever getting drunk. Maybe there is a difference between life and the book. In the book you enjoy your fun, but contrive somehow to escape the licking: in life the licking is the only thing sure. It was the wild young man of fiction I was looking for, who, a fortnight before the exam., ties a wet towel round his head, drinks strong tea, and passes easily with honours. He tried the wet towel, he tells me. It never would keep in its place. Added to which it gave him neuralgia; while the strong tea gave him indigestion. I used to picture myself the proud, indulgent father lecturing him for his wildness?turning away at some point in the middle of my tirade to hide a smile. There was never any smile to hide. I feel that he has behaved disgracefully, wasting his time and my money.'
'He is going to turn over a new leaf;' said Robina: 'I am sure he will make an excellent farmer.'
'I did not want a farmer,' I explained; 'I wanted a Prime Minister. Children, Robina, are very disappointing. Veronica is all wrong. I like a mischievous child. I like reading stories of mischievous children: they amuse me. But not the child who puts a pound of gunpowder into a red-hot fire, and escapes with her life by a miracle.'
'And yet, I daresay,' suggested Robina, 'that if one put it into a book?I mean that if you put it into a book, it would read amusingly.'
'Likely enough,' I agreed. 'Other people's troubles can always be amusing. As it is, I shall be in a state of anxiety for the next six months, wondering, every moment that she is out of my sight, what new devilment she is up to. The Little Mother will be worried out of her life, unless we can keep it from her.'
'Children will be children,' murmured Robina, meaning to be comforting.
'That is what I am complaining of, Robina. We are always hoping that ours won't be. She is full of faults, Veronica, and they are not always nice faults. She is lazy?lazy is not the word for it.'
'She is lazy,' Robina was compelled to admit.
'There are other faults she might have had and welcome,' I pointed out; 'faults I could have taken an interest in and liked her all the better for. You children are so obstinate. You will choose your own faults. Veronica is not truthful always. I wanted a family of little George Washingtons, who could not tell a lie. Veronica can. To get herself out of trouble?and provided there is any hope of anybody believing her?she does.'
'We all of us used to when we were young,' Robina maintained; 'Dick used to, I used to. It is a common fault with children.'
'I know it is,' I answered. 'I did not want a child with common faults. I wanted something all my own. I wanted you, Robina, to be my ideal daughter. I had a girl in my mind that I am sure would have been charming. You are not a bit like her. I don't say she was perfect, she had her failings, but they were such delightful failings?much better than yours, Robina. She had a temper?a woman without a temper is insipid; but it was that kind of temper that made you love her all the more. Yours doesn't, Robina. I wish you had not been in such a hurry, and had left me to arrange your temper for you. We should all of us have preferred mine. It had all the attractions of temper without the drawbacks of the ordinary temper.'
'Couldn't use it up, I suppose, for yourself, Pa?' suggested Robina.
'It was a lady's temper,' I explained. 'Besides,' as I asked her, 'what is wrong with the one I have?'
'Nothing,' answered Robina. Yet her tone conveyed doubt. 'It seems to me sometimes that an older temper would suit you better, that was all.'
'You have hinted as much before, Robina,' I remarked, 'not only with reference to my temper, but with reference to things generally. One would think that you were dissatisfied with me because I am too young.'
'Not in years perhaps,' replied Robina, 'but?well, you know what I mean. One wants one's father to be always great and dignified.'
'We cannot change our ego,' I explained to her. 'Some daughters would appreciate a father youthful enough in temperament to sympathise with and to indulge them. The solemn old fogey you have in your mind would have brought you up very differently. Let me tell you that, my girl. You would not have liked him, if you had had him.'
'Perhaps not,' Robina agreed. 'You are awfully good in some ways.'
'What we have got to do in this world, Robina,' I said, 'is to take people as they are, and make the best of them. We cannot expect everybody to be just as we would have them, and maybe we should not like them any better if they were. Don't bother yourself about how much nicer they might be; think how nice they are.'
Robina said she would try. I have hopes of making Robina a sensible woman.
