0,49 €
Mehr erfahren.
- Herausgeber: Booksell-Verlag
- Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
- Sprache: Englisch
In Ian Hay's novel "A Safety Match," readers are immersed in a captivating blend of humor and social commentary, set against the backdrop of early 20th-century Britain. The narrative follows the life of a young man navigating the complexities of love, friendship, and societal expectations. Hay's prose is characterized by its sharp wit and keen observations, reflecting the cultural milieu of his time while deftly exploring universal themes of identity and aspiration. The novel intertwines light-hearted moments with poignant reflections, making it a compelling read that resonates with the struggles of its characters. Ian Hay, born in 1876 in Scotland, was a prolific author and playwright known for his insightful portrayals of British life and mores. His experiences as a soldier during World War I and his involvement in the theatrical world significantly shaped his writing. Hay's ability to weave humor into serious themes speaks to his understanding of the human experience, making his work both entertaining and thought-provoking. His life experiences likely informed the nuanced characters and the delicate balance of comedy and tragedy present in "A Safety Match." This novel is highly recommended for readers seeking both amusement and depth, as it skillfully navigates the intricacies of human relationships and societal norms. Those who appreciate a blend of humor and insight within a historical context will find "A Safety Match" to be a delightful and enriching read. In this enriched edition, we have carefully created added value for your reading experience: - A succinct Introduction situates the work's timeless appeal and themes. - The Synopsis outlines the central plot, highlighting key developments without spoiling critical twists. - A detailed Historical Context immerses you in the era's events and influences that shaped the writing. - A thorough Analysis dissects symbols, motifs, and character arcs to unearth underlying meanings. - Reflection questions prompt you to engage personally with the work's messages, connecting them to modern life. - Hand‐picked Memorable Quotes shine a spotlight on moments of literary brilliance. - Interactive footnotes clarify unusual references, historical allusions, and archaic phrases for an effortless, more informed read.
Das E-Book können Sie in Legimi-Apps oder einer beliebigen App lesen, die das folgende Format unterstützen:
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021
Ähnliche
A Safety Match
Table of Contents
Introduction
A quiet spark of individual choice glows against the well-ordered calm of Edwardian respectability. In A Safety Match, Ian Hay—pen name of John Hay Beith—shapes that glow into a genial comedy of manners that observes, with tactful humor, how private impulses must negotiate public convention. First appearing in the early 1910s, the novel belongs to the closing years of the Edwardian period, when social rituals were polished to a sheen and everyday life seemed reassuringly stable. Within this atmosphere, Hay invites readers to watch ordinary people make delicate decisions, placing wit and warmth ahead of melodrama and letting comedy carry insight.
The book is best approached as a light, character-driven novel of manners and romantic comedy, set in contemporary British society of its time. Readers encounter drawing rooms, clubs, and small-town or suburban settings where reputations matter and conversation does much of the narrative work. Published in the years just before the First World War, it reflects the textures of that moment: a belief in civility, a sensitivity to social boundaries, and a taste for gentle satire rather than sharp-edged critique. Its publication context situates it among Ian Hay’s pre-war successes, when his playful, observant prose found an eager audience.
Without straying beyond the spoiler-safe setup, the premise turns on courtship, family expectation, and the quiet tensions that arise when affection presses against protocol. A circle of acquaintances must decide how far to follow their inclinations without disturbing the fragile equilibrium of their community. Misunderstandings occur, but the stakes remain human-scaled; embarrassment, pride, and patience prove as consequential as any grand gesture. The story offers the pleasures of situational humor and social observation rather than sensational twists. Readers can expect an experience shaped by amiable irony, steady pacing, and the assurance that character, more than plot machinery, guides the unfolding.
Hay’s voice is conversational yet polished, favoring clarity over ornament and comedy over cynicism. He builds scenes through deft dialogue, allowing tone and implication to carry significance while the narration maintains a light touch. The humor is situational and social—grounded in timing, understatement, and the gentle puncturing of pretension. Farce appears in moderation, calibrated to keep the story buoyant without sacrificing plausibility. This balance gives the novel a welcoming mood, where readers feel both entertained and included, as if seated just within earshot of a lively, well-bred conversation that reveals more than it at first seems to say.
Thematically, A Safety Match contemplates the friction between prudence and passion, asking how much risk relationships can bear when reputation is currency and etiquette the rulebook. Its world prizes discretion, yet its characters want to be seen and chosen; the result is a humane study of compromise, courage, and timing. The title quietly gestures toward the paradox of a safe risk—the controlled spark that can illuminate or unsettle. Without moralizing, Hay suggests that integrity and kindness are sturdier guides than calculation. The novel’s comedy is not escapism alone; it is an instrument for measuring social pressures with sympathy and precision.
For contemporary readers, the book’s relevance lies in its gentle scrutiny of performative life—how people curate themselves for public view while hoping to be understood in private. Its scenes of group dynamics, the soft power of rumor, and the choreography of polite negotiation resonate beyond their period trappings. It offers a vantage on pre-war British society that is accessible without being nostalgic, revealing continuities in how communities set expectations and how individuals carve room for authenticity. The emotional appeal is quiet but durable: it reassures that humor can clarify, that restraint can coexist with desire, and that small choices accumulate meaning.
A Safety Match endures as a companionable read for those who appreciate comic restraint, crisp social textures, and the satisfactions of character-centered storytelling. It will particularly suit readers drawn to early twentieth-century British humor and the congenial intricacies of manners, where laughter arises from recognition rather than ridicule. In Hay’s hands, the everyday becomes a stage for tact, misstep, and grace, observed with patience and good will. The result is a novel that entertains while honoring the subtleties of human conduct, offering an invitation to linger with people whose lives turn not on grand crises, but on the sparks they choose to strike.
Synopsis
Ian Hay’s A Safety Match is a light Edwardian comedy of manners that follows a conscientious young man navigating family expectations, modest means, and the delicate rituals of courtship. Set between comfortable country houses and a sociable London season, the story opens by establishing a close-knit circle of friends and relatives whose good intentions often complicate simple matters. The title’s image suggests a spark that must be handled carefully, and early chapters show the protagonist’s instinct to keep feelings in check, preserve reputations, and avoid impetuous gestures. Humor arises from small embarrassments, brisk dialogue, and the gentle bustle of a well-ordered world.
The narrative begins with the return of the hero to a familiar social orbit, where his loyalty to family and an ingrained sense of duty shape his choices. At a garden party and subsequent visits, he renews acquaintances and meets a young woman whose independence and good sense quietly unsettle his cautious approach. Relatives, ever vigilant about prospects and propriety, encourage attentive politeness without promising commitment. Friends offer vigorous advice, some practical and some imprudent. The early scenes revolve around dances, teas, and casual outings, setting a tone of cheerful observation as the hero’s reserve and the heroine’s self-possession create a controlled, slowly kindling interest.
Social missteps and friendly wagers add motion to the courtship. A missed appointment, an ambiguous remark, and a harmless prank combine to produce minor but spreading gossip. The hero, determined to avoid theatrical gestures, chooses to weather the murmurs rather than protest too much, furthering the impression of measured calm. Games and matches, from tennis to village cricket, provide settings where character reveals itself indirectly: a self-effacing act here, a fair-minded decision there. The heroine remains cordial yet uncommitted, prompting speculative chatter among onlookers. The emphasis stays on tone and tempo, not confession or crisis, with each encounter slightly clarifying intentions.
Complications gather with the arrival of a more assertive rival and a subtle change in family fortunes. A small investment falters, and polite calculations about income and marriage reemerge. Letters and messages, sent in haste or read too literally, produce crossed signals. The hero’s desire to do the right thing conflicts with his reluctance to embarrass anyone, including himself. A well-meaning elder tries to steer events by arranging invitations that place the principal figures together more than chance would allow. The lightness persists, but beneath it the narrative tests how far good form can stretch before it ceases to be helpful or honest.
At midcourse, the hero faces a choice between personal inclination and obligations that would secure his position but complicate his feelings. A brief absence, occasioned by business or family duty, gives the characters time to reflect and observers space to build theories. A country excursion supplies a set piece in which accidents of weather and timing create opportunities for practical kindness. True to the title’s suggestion, sparks are struck but carefully sheltered. The heroine’s discernment deepens, not through speeches, but through small acknowledgments of steady behavior. The rival, meanwhile, mistakes decorum for hesitancy and presses his claim with tactical confidence.
Returning to the social round, the hero discovers that the rumor he ignored has grown into a working assumption. A playful challenge has become a public expectation, and the cost of correction rises. A family council touches on prudence, prospects, and sentiment, while friends divide into camps that overstate their certainties. A minor breach of etiquette, unintended yet visible, forces the issue. Instead of allowing farce to dominate, the narrative keeps a friendly tone, treating discomfort as a means of distinguishing genuine feeling from performance. The heroine’s patience has limits, but her fairness remains intact, preserving the story’s balance.
All threads converge at a house party designed to smooth tensions but primed to expose them. Guests include the rival, the meddling but affectionate elders, and the pair whose careful progress has stalled. A small crisis, more comic than perilous, requires prompt action and clear judgment. In the bustle that follows, loyalties are tested, and the hero’s quiet steadiness proves more persuasive than grand gestures. Misconceptions are not dispelled instantly, yet their outlines become visible to everyone who matters. The narrative resists melodrama, preferring the steady brightening that comes when people finally attend to what they have actually seen.
Resolution arrives through conversation rather than confrontation. Private explanations replace public assumptions, and previously tangled signals are put in order. No single revelation overturns the plot; instead, a sequence of modest admissions restores proportion. Practical arrangements fall into place as elders soften, rivals reconsider, and friends accept a less dramatic outcome than they imagined. The hero’s professional path, once in doubt, finds firm footing consistent with his character. Romantic understanding, when it comes, is presented with restraint, in keeping with the title’s promise that a well-handled spark can warm without blazing. The close is tidy, affectionate, and deliberately unshowy.
A Safety Match thus offers a portrait of affection tempered by responsibility, arguing that constancy, tact, and humor can guide people through social crosswinds. Its key events are small by design, yet they accumulate to illustrate how everyday choices build durable ties. Ian Hay’s brisk scenes, ensemble interplay, and preference for understatement create an atmosphere in which comedy reveals character. The book’s message favors steadiness over spectacle and kindness over cleverness. By structuring the story around misread signs and patiently corrected impressions, the novel affirms the value of moderation, showing that a carefully tended flame can illuminate without consuming.
Historical Context
A Safety Match, first published in 1911, is set in contemporary Edwardian England, a period spanning the late reign of Edward VII (1901–1910) and the early years of George V. The milieu is upper- and upper-middle-class domestic life in English towns and the London commuter belt, where drawing rooms, gentlemen’s clubs, and country-house weekends shape social encounters. Motorcars, telephones, and electric lighting signal modernity, while rigid etiquette, chaperoned courtship, and inheritance expectations preserve tradition. The novel’s conversations, engagements, and family logistics unfold against this pre-war calm, mirroring an England poised between late Victorian certainties and the unsettled politics and social debates of the 1906–1914 years.
Liberal welfare reforms defined the public conversation in which Ian Hay wrote. After the Liberal landslide of 1906 under Sir Henry Campbell-Bannerman and, from 1908, H. H. Asquith, the government enacted the Old Age Pensions Act 1908 (introducing means-tested pensions for those over 70, typically five shillings a week), the Labour Exchanges Act 1909 (organizing hiring through state-run offices), and the National Insurance Act 1911 (health and unemployment insurance funded by contributions from worker, employer, and state, championed by David Lloyd George). These measures reshaped notions of duty, thrift, and respectability. In A Safety Match, the anxieties of salaried gentlemen, the language of “allowances,” and genteel worries about dependence or self-reliance echo the era’s recalibration of social security and responsibility.
The constitutional crisis of 1909–1911 altered Britain’s class politics. The House of Lords rejected Lloyd George’s “People’s Budget” in November 1909, triggering general elections in January and December 1910 and culminating in the Parliament Act 1911, which limited the Lords’ veto to a suspensory power of two years. The episode, involving Asquith, Lloyd George, and George V’s conditional readiness to create peers, dramatized the waning supremacy of hereditary power. A Safety Match quietly registers this shift: comic deference to titled authority coexists with an unmistakable sense that incomes, professions, and electoral legitimacy now matter more than pedigree, shaping how characters weigh marriage, money, and merit.
The women’s suffrage movement transformed public life between 1903 and 1914. The Women’s Social and Political Union, led by Emmeline Pankhurst, staged mass rallies such as “Women’s Sunday” in Hyde Park (21 June 1908), organized a census boycott on 2 April 1911 under the slogan “No vote, no census,” and escalated militancy in 1912 with window-breaking that led to arrests and hunger strikes (later met by the 1913 “Cat and Mouse Act”). Alongside this stood the constitutional National Union of Women’s Suffrage Societies under Millicent Fawcett. Although A Safety Match is a comedy of engagements rather than agitation, its assertive young women and negotiations over autonomy and choice reflect this ferment, while changing marriage law—e.g., the Deceased Wife’s Sister’s Marriage Act 1907—signals shifting norms the novel treats as living issues.
Education and elite formation were restructured by the 1902 Education (Balfour) Act, which created local education authorities and expanded publicly funded secondary schooling, and by the Haldane reforms, which founded the Officer Training Corps in 1908 to link schools and universities to national service. Public schools and Oxbridge networks consolidated a code of gamesmanship, restraint, and duty that permeated Edwardian professions and clubs. A Safety Match draws on this ethos: its well-schooled young men share a vocabulary of fair play, team spirit, and clubbable irony, which guides their conduct in courtship and family decision-making, and gently exposes how such training can misread emotion or entrench class assumptions.
Domestic service was the backbone of Edwardian household life. The 1911 Census recorded roughly 1.3 million domestic servants—by far the largest female occupation in Britain—sustaining the rituals of dining, visiting, and entertaining that defined status. Debates over a “servant problem” (1890s–1914) noted rising expectations, alternative employment, and the allure of city life, while new technologies (electric bells, vacuum cleaners) altered work rhythms and staff hierarchies, and motorcars introduced chauffeurs. A Safety Match situates its comedy within such staffed homes: the timing of meals, messages, and visits depends on a service economy, and small frictions between “upstairs” and “downstairs” become cues for humor that also reveal paternalism and dependency.
Urban modernity reshaped everyday tempo. London’s Underground expanded with the Central line (1900), Bakerloo (1906), and Piccadilly (1906), while motorbuses proliferated after 1905. Suburban growth in Middlesex and Surrey, encouraged by railways and the garden-city ideal (Letchworth founded 1903), created commuter societies mixing city work with semi-rural domesticity. The rapidly spreading telephone and telegram services tightened social coordination and miscommunication alike. A Safety Match reflects these rhythms: swift visits, crowded schedules, and the logistics of engagements and chaperonage depend on trains, cabs, and messages, making modern speed an engine for farce and a backdrop for the tension between impulsive feeling and scheduled propriety.
As social or political critique, the novel uses light comedy to expose the limits of Edwardian deference and gender convention. It targets the quiet coercions of class—inheritance calculations, club influence, and parental gatekeeping—showing how privilege narrows the range of acceptable choices while pretending to expand them. Women navigate a maze of reputation and dependency despite the era’s rhetoric of progress; servants are visible yet structurally voiceless. The work’s genial tone underscores its point: when status scripts determine intimacy, sincerity is endangered. By staging misunderstandings born of hierarchy and habit, A Safety Match interrogates the complacency of a society reorganizing itself without fully relinquishing its inequities.
A Safety Match
BOOK ONE.
THE STRIKING OF THE MATCH.
BOOK TWO.
FLICKERINGS.
BOOK THREE.
THE LIGHTING OF THE CANDLE.
BOOK ONE.
THE STRIKING OF THE MATCH.
CHAPTER ONE.
HAPPY FAMILIES[1].
"Nicky, please, have you got Mr Pots the Painter?"
"No, Stiffy, but I'll trouble you for Mrs Bones the Butcher's Wife. Thank you. And Daph, have you got Master Bones the Butcher's Son? Thank you. Family! One to me![1q]"
And Nicky, triumphantly plucking from her hand four pink-backed cards, slaps them down upon the table face upwards. They are apparently family portraits. The first—that of Bones père—depicts a smug gentleman, with appropriate mutton-chop whiskers, mutilating a fearsome joint upon a block; the second, Mrs Bones, an ample matron in apple-green, proffering to an unseen customer a haunch of what looks like anæmic cab-horse; the third, Miss Bones, engaged in extracting nourishment from a colossal bone shaped like a dumb-bell; the fourth, Master Bones (bearing a strong family likeness to his papa), creeping unwillingly upon an errand, clad in canary trousers and a blue jacket, with a sirloin of beef nestling against his right ear.
It was Saturday night at the Rectory, and the Vereker family—"those absurdly handsome Rectory children," as old Lady Curlew, of Hainings, invariably called them—sat round the dining-room table playing "Happy Families." The rules which govern this absorbing pastime are simple. The families are indeed happy. They contain no widows and no orphans, and each pair of parents possesses one son and one daughter—perhaps the perfect number, for the sides of the house are equally balanced both for purposes of companionship and in the event of sex-warfare. As for procedure, cards are dealt round, and each player endeavours, by requests based upon observation and deduction, to reunite within his own hand the members of an entire family,—an enterprise which, while it fosters in those who undertake it a reverence for the unities of home life, offers a more material and immediate reward in the shape of one point for each family collected. We will look over the shoulders of the players as they sit, and a brief consideration of each hand and of the tactics of its owner will possibly give us the key to the respective dispositions of the Vereker family, as well as a useful lesson in the art of acquiring that priceless possession, a Happy Family.
Before starting on our tour of the table we may note that one member of the company is otherwise engaged. This is Master Anthony Cuthbert Vereker, aged ten years—usually known as Tony. He is the youngest member of the family, and is one of those fortunate people who are never bored, and who rarely require either company or assistance in their amusements. He lives in a world of his own, peopled by folk of his own creation; and with the help of this unseen host, which he can multiply to an indefinite extent and transform into anything he pleases, he organises and carries out schemes of recreation beside which all the Happy Families in the world become humdrum and suburban in tone. He has just taken his seat upon a chair opposite to another chair, across the arms of which he has laid the lid of his big box of bricks, and is feeling in his pocket for an imaginary key, for he is about to give an organ recital in the Albert Hall[2] (which he has never seen) in a style modelled upon that of the village organist, whom he studies through a chink in a curtain every Sunday.
Presently the lid is turned back, and the keyboard—a three-manual affair, ingeniously composed of tiers of wooden bricks—is exposed to view. The organist arranges unseen music and pulls out invisible stops. Then, having risen to set up on the mantelpiece hard by a square of cardboard bearing the figure 1, he resumes his seat, and embarks upon a rendering of Handel's "Largo in G," which its composer, to be just, would have experienced no difficulty in recognising, though he might have expressed some surprise that so large an instrument as the Albert Hall organ should produce so small a volume of sound. But then Handel never played his own Largo in a room full of elder brothers and sisters, immersed in the acquisition of Happy Families and impatient of distracting noises.
The Largo completed, its executant rises to his feet and bows again and again in the direction of the sideboard; and then (the applause apparently having subsided) solemnly turns round the cardboard square on the mantelpiece so as to display the figure 2, and sets to work upon "The Lost Chord[3]."
Meanwhile the Happy Families are being rapidly united. The houses of Pots the Painter, Bun the Baker, and Dose the Doctor lie neatly piled at Nicky's right hand; and that Machiavellian damosel is now engaged in a businesslike quest for the only outstanding member of the family of Grits the Grocer.
Nicky—or Veronica Elizabeth Vereker—was in many respects the most remarkable of the Rectory children. She was thirteen years old, was the only dark-haired member of the family, and (as she was fond of explaining) was possessed of a devil. This remarkable attribute was sometimes adduced as a distinction and sometimes as an excuse,—the former when impressionable and nervous children came to tea, the latter when all other palliatives of crime had failed. Certainly she could lay claim to the brooding spirit, the entire absence of fear, the unlimited low cunning, and the love of sin for its own sake which go to make the master-criminal. At present she was enjoying herself in characteristic fashion. Her brother Stephen—known as "Stiffy"—Nicky's senior by one year, a transparently honest but somewhat limited youth, had for the greater part of the game been applying a slow-moving intellect to the acquisition of one complete Family. Higher he did not look. Nicky's habit was to allow Stiffy, with infinite labour, to collect the majority of the members of a Family in which she herself was interested, and then, at the eleventh hour, to swoop down and strip her unconscious collaborator of his hardly-earned collection.
Stiffy, sighing patiently, had just surrendered Mr, Mrs, and Miss Block (Hairdressers and Dealers in Toilet Requisites) to the depredatory hands of Nicky, and was debating in his mind whether he should endeavour when his next chance came to complete the genealogical tree of Mr Soot the Sweep or corner the clan of Bung the Brewer. Possessing two Bungs to one Soot, he decided on the latter alternative.
Presently he was asked by his elder sister, Cilly (Monica Cecilia), for a card which he did not possess, and this gave him the desired opening.
"I say, Nicky," he began deferentially, "have you got Master Bung?"
Nicky surveyed her hand for a moment, and then raised a pair of liquid-blue eyes and smiled seraphically.
"No, Stiffy, dear," she replied; "but I'll have Mr Bung and Mrs Bung."
Stiffy, resigned as ever, handed over the cards. Suddenly Sebastian Aloysius Vereker, the eldest son of the family (usually addressed as "Ally"), put down his cards and remarked, slowly and without heat—
"Cheating again! My word, Nicky, you are the absolute edge!"
"Who is cheating?" inquired Veronica in a shocked voice.
"You. Either you must have Master Bung, or else you are asking for Stiffy's cards without having any Bungs at all; because I've got Miss myself."
He laid the corybantic young lady in question upon the table to substantiate his statement.
Nicky remained entirely unruffled.
"Oh—Bung!" she exclaimed. "Sorry! I thought you said 'Bun,' Stiffy. You should spit out your G's a bit more, my lad. Bung-gah—like that! I really must speak to dad about your articulation."
In polite card-playing circles a lady's word is usually accepted as sufficient; but the ordinary courtesies of everyday life do not prevail in a family of six.
"Rot!" said Ally.
"Cheat!" said Cilly.
"Never mind!" said loyal and peaceable Stiffy. "I don't care, really. Let's go on."
"It's not fair," cried Cilly. "Poor Stiffy hasn't got a single Family yet. Give it to him, Nicky, you little beast! Daph, make her!"
Daphne was the eldest of the flock, and for want of a mother dispensed justice and equity to the rest of the family from the heights of nineteen. For the moment she was assisting the organist, who had inadvertently capsized a portion of his keyboard. Now she returned to the table.
"What is it, rabble?" she inquired maternally.
A full-throated chorus informed her, and the arbitress detached the threads of the dispute with effortless dexterity.
"You said you thought he was asking for Miss Bun and not Bung?" she remarked to the accused.
"Yes—that was all," began Nicky. "You see," she continued pathetically, "they're all so beastly unjust to me, and—"
Daphne picked up her small sister's pile of completed Families and turned them over.
"You couldn't have thought Stiffy wanted Buns," she said in measured tones, "because they're here. You collected them yourself. You've cheated again. Upstairs, and no jam till Wednesday![2q]"
It is a tribute to Miss Vereker's disciplinary methods that the turbulent Nicky rose at once to her feet and, with a half-tearful, half-defiant reference to her Satanic inhabitant, left the room and departed upstairs, there to meditate on a Bun-strewn past and a jamless future.
Daphne Vereker was perhaps the most beautiful of an extraordinarily attractive family. Her full name was Daphne Margaret. Her parents, whether from inherent piety or on the lucus a non lucendo[4] principle, had endowed their offspring with the names of early saints and martyrs. The pagan derivative Daphne was an exception. It had been the name of Brian Vereker's young bride, and had been bestowed, uncanonically linked with that of a saint of blameless antecedents, upon the first baby which had arrived at the Rectory. Mrs Vereker had died eleven years later, two hours after the birth of that fertile genius Anthony Cuthbert, and Brian Vereker, left to wrestle with the upbringing of six children on an insufficient stipend in a remote country parish, had come to lean more and more, in the instinctive but exacting fashion of lonely man, upon the slim shoulders of his eldest daughter.
There are certain attributes of woman before which the male sex, whose sole knowledge of the ways of life is derived from that stern instructor Experience, can only stand and gape in reverent awe. When her mother died Daphne Vereker was a tow-headed, long-legged, irresponsible marauder of eleven. In six months she looked like a rather prim little nursery-governess: in two years she could have taken the chair at a Mother's meeting. Circumstance is a great forcing-house, especially where women are concerned. Her dreamy, unpractical, affectionate father, oblivious of the expectant presence in the offing of numerous female relatives-in-law, had remarked in sober earnest to his little daughter, walking erect by his side in her short black frock on the way home from the funeral:—"You and I will have to bring up the children between us now, Daphne;" and the child, with an odd thrill of pride at being thus promoted to woman's highest office at the age of eleven, had responded with the utmost gravity—
"You had better stick to the parish, dad, and I'll manage the kids."
And she had done it. As she presides at the table this Saturday evening, with her round chin resting on her hands, surveying the picturesque crew of ragamuffins before her, we cannot but congratulate her on the success of her methods, whatever those may be. On her right lolls the apple of her eye, the eldest son, Ally. He is a handsome boy, with a ready smile and a rather weak mouth. He is being educated—God knows by what anxious economies in other directions—at a great public school. When he leaves, which will be shortly, the money will go to educate Stiffy, who is rising fourteen.
Next to Ally sprawls Cilly, an amorphous schoolgirl with long rippling hair and great grey eyes that are alternately full of shy inquiry and hoydenish exuberance. Then comes the chair recently vacated by the Madonna-like Nicky; then the ruddy countenance and cheerful presence of the sunny-tempered Stiffy, completing the circle. In the corner Master Anthony Cuthbert, cherubic and rapturous, is engaged, with every finger and toe in action, upon the final frenzy of the "Hallelujah Chorus." The number 6 stands upon the mantelpiece, for the recital is drawing to a close.
To describe Daphne herself is not easy. One fact is obvious, and that is that she possesses an instinct for dress not as yet acquired by any of her brothers and sisters. Her hair is of a peculiarly radiant gold, reflecting high lights at every turn of her head. Her eyes are brown, of the hue of a Highland burn on a sunny afternoon, and her eyebrows are very level and serene. Her colouring is perfect, and when she smiles we understand why it is that her unregenerate brothers and sisters occasionally address her as "Odol." When her face is in repose—which, to be frank, is not often—there is a pathetic droop at the corners of her mouth, which is perhaps accounted for by the cares of premature responsibility. She is dressed in brown velvet, with a lace collar—evening dress does not prevail in a household which affects high tea, but Daphne always puts on her Sunday frock on Saturday evenings—and, having discovered that certain colours suit her better than others, she has threaded a pale blue ribbon through her hair.
Altogether she is a rather astonishing young person to find sitting contentedly resting her elbows upon a dingy tablecloth in an untidy dining-room which smells of American leather and fried eggs. It is as if one had discovered the Venus de Milo presiding at a Dorcas Society or Helen of Troy serving crumpets in an A.B.C. shop.
The "Hallelujah Chorus" has just stopped dead at that paralysing hiatus of two bars which immediately precedes the final crash, when the door opens and the Reverend Brian Vereker appears. A glance at his clear-cut aristocratic features goes a long way towards deciding the question of the origin of the good looks of "those Rectory children."
He is a tall man—six feet two,—and although he is barely fifty his hair is specklessly white. He looks more like a great prelate or statesman than a country parson. Perhaps he might have been one or the other, had he been born the eldest son of the eldest son of a peer, instead of the youngest son of the youngest. And again, perhaps not. The lines of his face indicate brain rather than character, and after all it is character that brings us out top in this world. There are furrows about his forehead that tell of much study; but about the corners of his mouth, where promptitude and decision usually set their seal, there is nothing—nothing but a smile of rare sweetness. His gentle blue eyes have the dreamy gaze that marks the saints and poets of this world: the steely glitter of the man of action is lacking. Altogether you would say that Brian Vereker would make a noble figurehead to any high enterprise; but you would add that if that enterprise was to succeed, the figurehead would require a good deal of imported driving-power behind it. And you would be right.
The Rector paused in the doorway and surveyed the lamp-lit room.
..."Halle-lu-u-ja-ah!" vociferated the Albert Hall organ with an air of triumphant finality. Brian Vereker turned to his youngest son with the ready sympathy of one child for another child's games.
"That's right, Tony! That's the stuff! Good old George Frederick! He knew the meaning of the word music—eh?"
