"Now at last we have begun," I said. "From this point I may be able to help you, and we will get on. At the word 'gunpowder' Veronica pricked up her ears. The thing by its very nature would appeal to Veronica's sympathies. She went to bed dreaming of gunpowder. Left in solitude before the kitchen fire, other maidens might have seen pictured in the glowing coals, princes, carriages, and balls.
Veronica saw visions of gunpowder. Who knows?--perhaps even she one day will have gunpowder of her own! She looks up from her reverie: a fairy godmamma in the disguise of a small boy--it was a small boy, was it not?"
"Rather a nice little boy, he gave me the idea of having been, originally," answered Robina; "the child, I should say, of well-to-do parents. He was dressed in a little Lord Fauntleroy suit--or rather, he had been."
"Did Veronica know how he was--anything about him?" I asked.
"Nothing that I could get out of her," replied Robina; "you know her way--how she chums on with anybody and everybody. As I told her, if she had been attending to her duties instead of staring out of the window, she would not have seen him. He happened to be crossing the field just at the time."
"A boy born to ill-luck, evidently," I observed. "To Veronica of course he seemed like the answer to a prayer. A boy would surely know where gunpowder could be culled."
"They must have got a pound of it from somewhere," said Robina, "judging from the result."
"Any notion where they got it from?" I asked.
"No," explained Robina. "All Veronica can say is that he told her he knew where he could get some, and was gone about ten minutes. Of course they must have stolen it--even that did not seem to trouble her."
"It came to her as a gift from the gods, Robina," I explained. "I remember how I myself used to feel about these things, at ten. To have enquired further would have seemed to her impious. How was it they were not both killed?"
"Providence," was Robina's suggestion: it seemed to be the only one possible. "They lifted off one of the saucepans and just dropped the thing in--fortunately wrapped up in a brown paper parcel, which gave them both time to get out of the house. At least Veronica got clear off. For a change it was not she who fell over the mat, it was the boy."
I looked again into the kitchen; then I returned and put my hands on Robina's shoulders. "It is a most amusing incident--as it has turned out," I said.
"It might have turned out rather seriously," thought Robina.
"It might," I agreed: "she might be lying upstairs."
"She is a wicked, heartless child," said Robina; "she ought to be punished."
I lent Robina my handkerchief; she never has one of her own.
"She is going to be punished," I said; "I will think of something."
"And so ought I," said Robina; "it was my fault, leaving her, knowing what she's like. I might have murdered her. She doesn't care.
She's stuffing herself with cakes at this very moment."
"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. "**** 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.