Part 4

"I think, my dear, what you said was that 'he had another guess coming,'" said Thomas, with a smile.

"I 'guess' I did," laughed Maud. "At any rate, now that I understand the reason, I submit, I hope, gracefully."

"You could not do anything otherwise," he replied.

"Well," I exclaimed, "when the billing and cooing are over, I too should like to know the reason."

"Every country has its customs," said Sir Thomas, I thought a bit stolidly. "America has hers and England hers. The difference is that the English can give a reason for theirs, whereas I doubt if Americans always can."

I saw he was trying to get a "rise" out of me and so answered: "Such as?"

"Well, for instance, if a man goes to church in America, he takes the aisle seat, and if a lady enters he steps out and allows her to pass, instead of moving up as an Englishman would do. Is there any reason for that?"

"Certainly," I answered. "That is a survival of the custom of the early days when the men went to church carrying their flintlocks, which they might be called upon to use against the Indians at any minute, and could not wait for the women and children to clear the way."

"That strikes me as an interesting explanation of the origin of a custom rather than as a reason for its continuance. Indeed, I would suggest that it is a custom that might be discontinued with advantage, for it seems to have been carried from the church to the trams, and is, I suppose, accountable for the existence of what I have seen in the American papers called 'the end-seat hog.'"

We all laughed at this, but I said it looked to me like a red herring.

But he said: "No, the English custom of having the host rather than the hostess notified of the serving of dinner is not merely a survival from the days when women counted for little, but has a practical value to-day. Inasmuch as the host is expected to 'take in' the lady of leading rank, it is of consequence that he, and not the hostess, who comes last, should be informed when the procession should start."

I must say that seems a reasonable explanation. And when I think of the confusion that is apt to follow at home when we try to be formal--as, for instance, when the host is talking to the prettiest girl in the room up to the last minute, and his wife has to inform him that dinner is ready, because his charmer has been so engrossing that he has not heard the butler, and he hastens to escort the "lady" of a congressman, I am inclined to think we had better follow the English way or else revert to the primitive custom of "choosing partners"!

You will think I have been reading the _Countess_, or one of the other papers which teach the middle classes to ape the aristocracy, and are probably muttering: "What earthly difference does it make to us what are the customs of a society which is soon to pass away?" But you are wrong. This particular thing is of no value, as you and I both know. The point is, we Americans are continually saying that the English do not understand us. Do we understand them? If we would take the trouble to learn the reason for some of our differences, would it not do more for the peace of the world than all those stupid banquets, with their talk about "our common blood," when every one knows that at least a third of those present have not a drop of English blood in their veins, and some of them, as Roosevelt is reported to have said, "thank God for it"?

John is calling to know if I intend to type all night, and you will long ago have wished that I would stop! Well, you will not be troubled by me soon again, for to-morrow we start on our trip, and John will want to tell you about it himself.

XI

THE FOURTH SPEED

This came near being my last letter to you. No, that does not look right! What I mean is the one before this came near being the last. This is what happened: When we were leaving the "Beeches" a few days ago, my brother-in-law, in looking over the car, discovered the "fourth speed." As he had never seen one on an English car, he asked me what value it had. I was not quite clear in my own mind as to its value, and tried to recall what the agent had said about it. Finally I remarked that I had not had occasion to use it as yet, but that it was a good thing to have, because when one was running at forty miles or more, it steadied the car and took the strain off the engine.

"Good Lord," he exclaimed, "you don't mean to say you are going to drive forty miles an hour, do you?"

"No, not at present, but it's a good thing to have if one should want it."

"I should think it a jolly good thing to have if I were tired of life or of my wife!"

This rather nettled me, but I said nothing, chiefly because I did not know what to say! But I thought he was probably right, and that I could get all the speed I could control by running in "high."

It was one of those days, cool, dry, shining, which are as rare in England as they are common at home, say in October. A day on which one feels it is good to be alive. I was glad of this for Ruth's sake, for she was sad at parting with her sister and the children, and I was glad for my own sake, because I like to feel that it is good to be alive! I was also glad for the motor's sake, for it was running "fine"! Perhaps the reason both we and the motor rejoiced was because both human and mechanical engines function best when there is an uninterrupted flow of the electric current upon which both depend for their greatest efficiency. At any rate, the car seemed alive, and "pulled like a good 'un," as Sir Thomas's chauffeur remarked as we drove away.

I know you have driven over the hills of the "West Riding," and therefore remember that it is all "up hill and down dale." But with you the horse slowly mounted the hills and then held back on the descent. But with a motor it is different; the hills must be rushed so that one mounts half-way up the opposing rise before the impetus of the descent is lost. This requires constant shifting of gears which becomes rather tiresome, and after a while one begins to look for a bit of level ground on which the car will run without much attention from the driver, or for a long straight hill, not too steep, down which one can coast.

Such a hill we soon reached. But as we began the descent I saw that it was steeper than I had supposed, and so began the descent slowly. But the car soon gained a greater speed than I wished, so I threw her into second and pressed on the foot-brake. Still she ran too fast, and I saw that this was a steeper hill than I had ever met, and much as I disliked doing so, knowing how ruinous it is to the tires, I put on the emergency brake. But what was my horror to find that we were now shooting down the hill at a speed greater than I had ever felt since the days when I tobogganed! However, there was nothing more to be done, and I could only hope that we should meet nothing in the way. But that hope was short-lived, for at the moment I saw, near the foot of the hill, a picnic party which had backed their pony-cart against the hedge, leaving the pony standing across the road while they leisurely unpacked a lunch-basket and other paraphernalia for a feast. It was true there was room to pass if one drove carefully and slowly, but we were not going slowly! Indeed, one glance at the speedometer brought my heart into my throat! I have read of men who were cool in moments of danger--I must be a hero, for I was _cold_! I could only hope that Ruth had not seen, or, if she had, had not understood. I blew the klaxon furiously; saw a boy run to the pony's head. I blew again two sharp blasts, and, fortunately, he had sense enough to see he should be struck, and so jumped clear. The pony threw back his head with a snort, and we shot by without an inch to spare between the cart and a solid stone post opposite. Ruth was as white as death but uttered no sound. The silence was broken by the voice of the child who had been so near death. But what he said seemed inadequate. It was: "Oh, I say!" James Freeman Clarke attributed the profanity of the kindly boatmen on the Ohio River to a lack of vocabulary. Perhaps that was the reason the boy did not swear!

Well, the longest lane has a turning and the steepest hill a bottom, so at length the car began to slow down as it struck the opposite rise, and finally came to a full stop.

Then Ruth spoke. But, angel as she is, all she said was: "Don't you think, dear, that was a little fast?"

I said I thought it was, and that I would go slower hereafter!

I could not imagine what had happened. The brakes were new, and while the chauffeur at the "Beeches" had warned me that they were too light, I thought that was because he did not understand the difference there is in weight between an English and an American car. As I say, I could not understand it. The car had behaved as if it were alive--like a high-spirited horse, "full of beans," who had taken the bit into its teeth and bolted.

I descended and took a good look at every part of the machine. I found that the foot-brake was in order, _but the emergency brake had not been touched_. I have no doubt that such a student of the "subconscious" as yourself has already discovered the answer to the riddle. Yes, you are right! It was Sir Thomas's foolishness in talking about the "fourth speed," as I was leaving, that had lodged in my subconscious mind and led me to pull, not the emergency brake, but the fourth-speed lever!

I asked a laborer, plodding home to his dinner, the name of the little hamlet at the top of the hill. He answered: "Sawley."

"Why, that can hardly be," I replied. "I passed Sawley soon after leaving Ripon."

"Ay," he replied, "there be two of 'em."

"Well, one is enough for me," I answered.

He made no reply; simply stared at me as if he thought I was a fool. I guess he was right!

The motor-car has completed the work begun by the bicycle of breaking down "the middle wall of partition" which divided Englishmen from strangers. The motor is a letter of introduction to every owner. At the inn where we stopped for lunch were a young couple who, like ourselves, were making a trip, and when I asked some question about roads they opened their maps and not only gave us the desired information but also a valuable "tip," from which I learned on authority what otherwise I could have learned only by experience--that is, by loss of time and labor.

My new friend, for such I must call him, was much interested on learning we had come so far, and expressed a wish to see an American car. He was greatly impressed by the "self-starter," but insisted--as did every other Englishman who spoke to me on the subject--that the car was too light to stand up as an English car does. He also said that he had been told that the American brakes were not to be depended upon.

This led to a confession of my folly of the morning. I should have thought twice before telling it to a fellow countryman, for he would have thought it a high joke, and have "rubbed it in." But this serious young man was filled with horror at our narrow escape from death, and was altogether sympathetic. This led him to give me the "tip" of which I have spoken. It was very simple: "In descending a hill," said he, "judge its angle of descent and adjust your gear accordingly, then switch off the current, let in the clutch, and the engine will act as a brake. You will always have the brakes in reserve, but seldom use them. I have been over the highest passes of the Alps, with the exception of the Stelvio, without touching the brake."

"All's well that ends well," but I wish I might have known this simple rule earlier in the day!

XII

"JAEL THE WIFE OF HEBER THE KENITE"

John has not written lately because the car has been running well! He says you care only for "thrillers," and that there have been none since he last wrote. "Laus Deo!" add I. So to-day, which is a Sunday, I am writing in his place.

I am sorry to say I am not at all pleased with him! You know how unconventional and outspoken he is; well, I have had to tell him more than once that while his way of talking is well enough at home, where people know and love him, and where, even if they do not know him, they are more or less like him, and so understand that what he says is not to be taken _au pied de la lettre_, here people are different--their yea is yea, and their nay nay. The English are not only matter of fact, but have an awful reverence for truth, and do not understand what John means when he says that "Lying can be the highest form of truth"! So when a man says a thing they not unnaturally think he means it.

Well, all this introduction leads to the events of the day. This morning we went to the cathedral. I must say it was a shock to find that there were less than a hundred people in the choir--where the service was held. However, all went well enough until the sermon: the preacher announced--no, _sung_--his text, "Blessed among women shall Jael the wife of Heber the Kenite be. Blessed shall she be among women in the tent," and then proceeded: "We will think of Jael, my dear brethren, not merely as the wife of Heber the Kenite, but rather as a type of the Blessed Virgin." What followed I shall never know, for at this moment John picked up his hat and umbrella and left, and I, fearing he might be faint, quickly followed. When we got outside, I said, "Are you sick, dear?" and he replied: "Not yet, but I should have been had I waited a moment longer."

"Was the air close?" I innocently asked.

"No, it was as damp and drafty as usual, but I could not have stood that creature another minute."

Then followed a diatribe on the Established Church, which I will spare you. Before he had finished, there was not one stone left upon another of the cathedral system! "Such an array of clergy, such a choir, such an organ, such everything to make the service glorious, and yet fewer people than could be found in a mission chapel--the extravagance of it, the futility of it--why, half the people there were American tourists! Why don't they take the money and use it for some good purpose?"

"'This ointment might have been sold for much,'" I quoted.

"No, you don't," he growled. "Was the 'whole house filled with the odor of the ointment'? Is England? Is this town? Was the great cathedral? Was the choir even? There was no odor of ointment. There was nothing but a _stench_!"

"John!" I protested.

"Well, perhaps that was too strong. But, honestly, was there any feeling of the majesty of God there? I say nothing of his love--any pity for poor struggling souls? 'A type of the Blessed Virgin,' forsooth! If he must talk of Jael, why did he not tell the truth and remind the people that if she were living to-day she would be in jail--no, that is not a pun--waiting for the report of the grand jury? Is it not due to Mary's Son that she can no longer be counted 'blessed'? It is not the blasphemy, it is the unreality of the whole performance which is so dreadful. The preacher no doubt is a decent, law-abiding Englishman, who would be horrified if he read such a story in the _Times_, but because it is embedded in the Bible he considers it his duty to find a mystic meaning in it. This sort of talk is what leads to moral confusion, and is one of the reasons why the church is losing its hold on thoughtful people. The day was when the 'world' was full of darkness and the church full of light, but now the 'world' has a clearer moral vision than the church--or, at any rate, than that preposterous creature has."

By this time, as you may believe, there was not much of the "joy of the sanctuary" left in me! We walked down to the river, and after a long silence John began to recite:

"O Mary, go and call the cattle home, And call the cattle home, And call the cattle home, Across the sands o' Dee."

The tears came to my eyes, and John said, now quietly and reverently: "He was a man"--meaning Kingsley--"and there must be some like him. But, not 'in king's houses'! Why did not the preacher call _that_ Mary a type of the Virgin? Why didn't he recite the 'Sands o' Dee'? Is it not as truly inspired as Judges?"

By this time my ill humor had passed, and I said: "Perhaps because he could not recite it as well as you."

John laughed, and then said, "I'm sorry. Let us try and forget him," meaning, I suppose, the preacher, who probably was at that moment eating his Sunday roast and listening to his wife's praises of the sermon!

In the afternoon I announced that I thought of going to even-song, and to my dismay John said he would go with me! I thought it was running into temptation, and intimated as much, but he said he was going to do penance. Well, it proved to be a lovely penance! The sermon was so beautiful and simple, on the words "I know where thou dwellest." It was about home--where we dwell. "Is it such," said the preacher, "as we should wish Our Lord to visit?" He was an old man, and the sermon was like the talk of a father to his children. It radiated love. Then came the anthem, "Love Divine," and as the voice of the tenor was lifted up the boy's soprano followed, rising still higher, till in one final "Love Divine" the great arches of the roof re-echoed with the melody. I confess that I wept, and John said softly: "How perfect it all was! I understand now why the townspeople--the nave was filled--come to such a service."

So we wended our way back to the hotel, feeling that the day had not been altogether lost.

XIII

"AS IT WAS IN THE BEGINNING"

I said that the day was not altogether lost, but, alas! it was not yet over. We were sitting in the garden after the cold supper always served in lieu of dinner on Sunday evenings. John was smoking his pipe and all was peaceful when a man sitting near us suddenly turned to John and said: "I saw you in the cathedral this morning, but as you left hurriedly I feared you might be ill. I hope not."

Why can't John be good all the time? Or, if that is not possible, why can't he tell a lie? Surely the latter would have been better than to blurt out: "No, thank you. I was quite well, but when I found the talk was to be about Jael, I thought it best to take my wife out. I don't think Jael is a proper person to be spoken about in the presence of decent people."

"God bless me!" exclaimed the other, "how extraordinary!"

Fortunately, at that moment the man in charge of the garage appeared with the information that he had succeeded in getting the distilled water needed for the batteries, as the chemist's shop was now open, and John departed with him to see to dropping it in.

There was a long silence, and then the stranger said: "Are you an American?"

When I told him, he said: "Really, I should never have suspected it!"

How thankful I was that the chemist had opened his shop just when he did, for that "compliment"--for such of course it was intended to be--affects John as "sheeny" does an Irishman.

"Of course," continued my neighbor, "I saw at once that your husband was an American. But how does it happen that you speak without an accent?"

I laughed and said: "Probably because I had lived until my marriage in Boston, and am of pure English stock, whereas my husband is of mixed race, possibly having no English blood at all in him."

"Dear me! You don't mean to say Indian or negro, do you?"

Thank goodness that distilled water has to be put in drop by drop, or John would have been in the place he said the wife of Heber should be in! I explained that my husband's ancestors on one side had come from Ulster, and on the other from Wales, so that he did not have quite the same feeling about England that I have, whose people came from Norfolk and Devon.

He remarked it was a pity--I suppose for John, not for me--but I did not inquire. It is, however, a funny thing that while the English speak of curiosity as an American characteristic, they never seem to think there is any reason they should not ask us any questions which come into their heads. John, to whom, I need not say, I am indebted for this observation, says that it is because they look on us as freaks! And that just as children at the circus will pinch the legs of those unfortunate creatures called freaks--a thing they would never dream of doing to "humans"--so the English take liberties with us which they would never take with their own countrymen. But you know how he talks!

My new acquaintance was evidently not yet satisfied, for he continued: "You know that was rather an original remark of your husband's about the sermon this morning."

I replied that he was rather an original person.

"But," he said, "if you once begin that sort of thing, where will it end?"

"What sort of thing?" I asked.

"Why, talking about those people in the Bible as if they were real people living to-day, don't you know."

"Don't you think of them as real?"

"I don't think of them at all."

"But when they are spoken of in a sermon, what do you think?"