Young Mrs. Caudle and Her Brother.

Free Lance, Volume III, Issue 148, 2 May 1903, Page 17

Young Mrs. Caudle and Her Brother.

MR. CAUDLE had a splendid idea roi a ballad, quite in the Kipling style. In the days of his youth he had written much poetry, and he thought he should like to woo the Muse again. He had mentioned has idea to the editor ot a weekly journal, who thought it excellent, and said, Just the thing I want. Let me hai c it to-morrow morning, in time tor Satui day's edition." It was nine o'clock in the evening, and the poet, in the seclusion of his comfoi table study, had iust got the "lilt" of the thing, as he called it Upstairs m the drawing-room you^g Mrs. Caudle was practising. She had played the same piece over seven times in her desne for perfection, and the "music" did not in the least suit the "hit." In fact, it was in direct opposition to it. But by putting cottonwool in his ears Caudle had succeeded in shutting out the sound, and, with a sigh of relief, grasped his pen, and prepared to write hisi first lines — In the dareless day of a careless crew, Who slumbered beside the sea, Wherever the flag of their fathers flew, In the days that used to be, A wild wind blew from the north, and bore The sound of a braggart boast ; And the Hun lord laughed a The music above had suddenly oeiased, though Caudle didn't know it, on account of the cotton-wool. He had paused, and was looking at the ceiling for his next line. There was a knock at the door , he didn't hear that. Then the door opened, and young Mrs. Caudle entered. In her hand were half a dozen bulky periodicals. "Why didn't you speak when I knocked at the door?" she said. "How am I to know if I am interrupting you, if you don't say so ? " Caudle hastily removed the cottonwool. ' I beg your pardon, my dear, but I was just in the middle of a poem." Young Mrs. Caudle, who had watched the operation by which her husband restored his sense of hearing with some astonishment, suddenly grasped what she believed to be the situation. "Poor boy'" she exclaimed, smpathetically, "have you got the ear-ache ? Why didn't you tell me p I know an excellent cure. I'll have two little baby onions made ,as hot as you can bear them. Mother always cured our ear-ache with hot onions when we were children. I'll go and order them at once." "Oh. please don't 1 " gasped Caudle "1 hate onions, and I haven't got the ear-ache. The fact is, I didn't want to hear the piano it worried me." Young Mrs. Caudle tossed her head. "Whatever I do seems to annoy you," she exclaimed. "It's a nice thing for a -woman who loves music to have a husband who puts cotton-wool in. his ears when she sits down to the piano. When I was at home I used to play all the evening, and father never put cottonwool in his ears." "I daresay not," sighed Caudle, "but your father didn't have to write a patriotic song to Chopin's Nocturne in E flat " "Father didn't write patriotic songs, and I can't think what you want to do that sort of thing for. Now the war's over I think you might leave all that mafficking nonsense alone. But, of course, I can quite understand you won't care for Chopin if you're writing rubbish for the music halls about Tommy Atkins. Perhaps you'd like me to walk about the study with a penny Union Jack, and tickle voui nose with a peacock's feather. That would inspire you. I can 'quite' understand why you put cotton-wool in your ear when I play Chopin " "But, my dear child I 'don't object to Chopin, or your playing, phopin is delightful, and you play beautifully, but when I am writing 'verse s—it5 — it is 'not' a music-hall song. I assure you — I can't stand a tune that upsets my lilt. _ You might ass well expect me to write a hymn while you were playing Top goes the Weasel ' " "Fancy comparing Chopin to Top goes the weasel' — and you call yourself a poet' But I didn't come to talk to you about music I miorht as well talk to a bricklayer about old lace." "Then what 'did' you come to talk about ?" exclaimed Caudle, impatiently. "Now, don't lose your temper! It's perfectly horrid ; when I just come into the room to speak a word to you. you blaze out as if I was the poor man who comes to see you about your income tax. Why can't you be human, and let me feel sometimes, that I'm a wife, and not an incubus? It is an awful thing for a girl who has left a home where she was loved, only to be an incubus Father used to call me 'Little Sunshine ' Whenever I come near you, you shiver as if I were a blizzard." "Mv dear girl, you wrong me — indeed you do When I'm not busy I

am delighted to have you with me, jou know I am. Don't we go out. in the countiy together, and pick wild floneis r " "Yes, and I'm quite happy then, though' you 'do' always woiry about lunch at th© hotel, and catching the train back to town." "I have to get back to town to earn my living, and pay for your frocks," replied Gaudle. "But what 'is' it yon want to speak to me about p " "My brother." "Oh, what's he. been doing?" "He hasn't been doing anything, and I don't know what VO'U mean. But, there, you get on, with your comic song, or whatever it is, and, instead of going back to the piano, which seems to annoy you so much, I'll sit here and talk to you while you work." "I can't work while you talk." "What nonsense ' Why, I used to work at home while 'everybody' talked. I worked those slippers I gave you while half-a-dozen, people talked. And I remember they took me a w hole fortnight, and you only wore them once, and then left them at an hotel — at least, you said you did." "Never mind about the slippers. What about your brother ?" "Well, dear, he's eighteen, and he's awfully clever. You've heard me speak about him." "Yes , he's the boy who takes everybody's watch to pieces, and all the clocks and can't put them together again." "Yes , he has quite a taste for that sort of thing- he had from a child. When he was seven, we took him with us to the seaside, and stayed at an hotel, and he got up early in the morning and went into the sitting-rooms, and took the locks' off all the doors. Father said such mechanical skill in a mere child was marvellous." "What did the manager say?" "Oh, he was a foreigner, and a bacheloir. He didn't understand, and he made father pay to have the locks put on again. Well, now, you know, Peter being eighteen, it's time he decided on a career. "What does he w ant to be — a locksmith or a clookwinider ? " "Don't be absurd, dear With his talent I'm sure he ought to be an engineer." "I agree with you. Bv all means let him be an engineer." "But he can't be an engineer at home, or all at once. He must leain the business." "But, with his talent for pulling clocks to pieces and taking locks off doors what has he got to learn p '" "Oh, there are other things, you know — making railways and telegraph poles and bridges, and ships, and electric light. That's all engineering." "Does he want to do the Iot ? " "Well, of course, he wants to be a real engineer. It's a good position, and some engineers make a great deal of money. But I understand he ought to be apprenticed to a good firm." "Well, appientice him " "But I don't know how to go about it. He says he's been to> several big firms and they want £500. and they won't give him anything for two or three years." "With his talents I should have thouo-ht Tangye's would have jumrted at him " "He went there , they didn't. But he asked me to help him, so I've bought these papers, the 'Engineer,' and the 'Architect,' and the 'Builder,' and 'Iron ' and the 'Electrical Review,' and I've read all the advertisements, and I want you just to look through them, and write to some of the big firms about Peter. I'm sure if you, with your influence " Young Mrs. Caudle looked at her husband with a winning smile as she said this. "You — want me to go round to all the engineering firms and ask them to teach Peter their business," gasped Caudle. "Yes, or you could write to them. You see, you are a public man, and you can do so much." "It's absolutely impossible I don't know any engineers. I can't do it " "You mean, you won't," she said, and the little foot began drumming in an ominous manner. "My love, I assure you the future career of your brother is as interesting to me as it is to you, but. " "Oh don't say any more. I ought to have 'known' that you wouldn't put yourself out a hair's breadth for anyone belonging to me. But when a perfect stranger oame the other day, a shabby-looking fellow who sat on the edge of the hall chair and twiddled his hat and asked you to eet him something to do, you gave him a letter to a bis: firm." "It was a poor man out of work, who brought me a letter from an old friend, who knew all about him. I gave him a letter to ShooTbred's, and they took him on as a porter."

"And you could get a perfect stranger into a big firm like Shoolbred's, and you won't help me to get my brother into anything." "It's different. Your brother wants to be an engineer. I don't know anybody in that line " "But, I've ticked dozens of the advertisements in these papers. Look at them. I shouldn't mind if it was an electric business he went mto — into the Telephone Company, or the Electric Light Company. You know -' them ; their men are ah\ ays coming here tinkering about." "You don't want your brother to be a tinker, do you?" said Caudle. "Of course not. I want him to be an engineer , I've told you so. Now, you iust look over the advertisements m these papers. It would make me so happy to know that you were looking for something for Peter." "I — I'll see about it," groaned Caudle, looking at the solitary verse on the paper before him, and remembering that he had to finish it and send it in the next morning. "I'll see about it. Leave the papers with me, and I'll look through the advertisements quietly by myself." "You will p Then I won't say another word " exclaimed Mrs. Caudle. "I'm sure if you'll only take the trouble to call on some of these neoiple yourself they'll take Peter, and teach, him engineering;. Now, get on with your comic sona dear, and if you're not wing to be 'very' late, I'll sit up and waitfor you. And I'll only play the Gaiety nieces. They won't interfere with you like Chopin did because, of oourse, the-v're comic. I'll -write, to father, and cay you are cooing to get Peter into a first-class firm of engineers a,t once." n » • "I finished my ballad at 2 a.m.," says Caudle, in a footnote, "but it wasn't a bit like I intended it to be. My head was full of engineering, and 'The Messenger Boy,' and 'The Toreador.' And the next day I made Peter a private offer of a five-pound note if he'd write to his sister, and say that he would rather wait a year before deciding what he would be. And the dear boy did." — George R. Sims, in "Men and Women."