A Knight on Wheels. Ian Hay
"Oh, no," he said in genuine distress. "I didn't mean to be rude to you. It—it was a different reason."
The little girl made no reply for a moment, but stood up on her heels and unrolled her cushion to double its former width.
"Come up here and tell me about it," she said maternally, patting the seat she had prepared.
Philip began to climb the gate. Then he deliberately stepped down again.
"Aren't you coming?" asked the little girl, with the least shade of anxiety in her voice.
"Yes," said Philip. "But I'll come up on the other side of you. Then I shall be able to keep the wind off you a bit. It's rather cold."
And he did so. Poor Uncle Joseph!
Now they were on the gate together, side by side, actually touching. Philip, feeling slightly dazed, chiefly noted the little girl's hands, which were clasped round her knees. His own hands were broad, and inclined to be horny; hers were slim, with long fingers.
The little girl turned to him with a quick, confiding smile.
"Now tell me why," she commanded.
"Why what?" asked Philip reluctantly.
"Why you went away just now."
Philip took a deep breath, and embarked upon the task of relegating this small but dangerous animal to her proper place in the Universe.
"It was—it was what Uncle Joseph said," he explained lamely.
"Who is Uncle Joseph?"
"He—I live with him."
"Haven't you got a father or a mother?" A pair of very kind eyes were turned full upon him.
"No."
"Poor boy!"
To Philip's acute distress a small arm was slipped within his own.
"I have a father and a mother," said the little girl. "You may come and see them if you like."
Philip, who intended to cut the whole connection as soon as he could decently escape from the gate, thanked her politely.
"Only don't come without telling me," continued his admonitress, "because Father isn't always in a good temper."
Philip thought he might safely promise this.
"Now tell me what Uncle Joseph said," resumed the little girl. "What is your name?" she added, before the narrative could proceed.
"Philip."
"Philip what?"
"Philip Meldrum."
"Shall I call you Phil?" enquired the lady, with a friendly smile.
"Yes, please," replied Philip, feeling greatly surprised at himself.
There was a pause. Philip became dimly conscious that something was expected of him—something that had nothing to do with Uncle Joseph. He turned to his companion for enlightenment. Her face was slightly flushed, and her eyes met his shyly.
"What is your name?" he enquired cautiously.
"Marguerite Evelyn Leslie Falconer," replied the little girl, in tones of intense relief.
"Oh," said Philip. "Do they call you all that?"
"No. I am usually called Peggy. Sometimes Pegs."
"Why?"
Miss Falconer sighed indulgently.
"Peggy is the short for Marguerite," she explained. "Didn't you know?"
"No," said Philip.
He was about to proceed to a further confession, when the little girl said graciously:—
"You may call me Peggy if you like."
Here Philip, whose moral stamina seemed to be crumbling altogether, took his second downward step.
"I shall call you Pegs," he said boldly.
"All right," replied the lady so designated. "Now tell me what Uncle Joseph said."
"Uncle Joseph," began Philip once more, "was with me on Sunday, when you were sitting here."
"Was I?" enquired Peggy with a touch of hauteur. Then she continued inconsequently: "I remember him quite well. Go on."
"He saw you," continued the hapless Philip, "when you smiled at me."
Miss Falconer's slim body stiffened.
"O—o—o—oh!" she gasped. "How can you say such a thing? I never did!"
Poor Philip—who had yet to learn the lesson that feminine indiscretions must always be accepted without comment and never again referred to without direct invitation—merely reiterated his tactless statement.
"But you did," he said. "Or perhaps," he added desperately, for Peggy's eyes were almost tearful, "you were only smiling to yourself about something."
To his profound astonishment this lame suggestion was accepted. Miss Falconer nodded. Her self-respect was saved.
"Yes," she said; "that was it. Go on."
"—And when Uncle Joseph saw you smiling—to yourself—he said that women always did that. He said they couldn't help it. It was a—a prebby—a prebby-something instinct. I can't remember the word."
"Presbyterian?" suggested Miss Falconer helpfully. "Our cook is one."
"Something like that. Yes, I believe it was that," said Philip. He was quite sure it was not, but he was anxious not to offend again. "He said it was due to a—a Presbyterian instinct. He thinks women ought to be avoided."
"Why?" asked Peggy, deeply intrigued.
"He doesn't like them," explained Philip. He spoke quite apologetically. Half an hour ago he could have set forth the doctrines of Uncle Joseph as matters of fact, not of opinion.
But Miss Falconer did not appear to be offended. She seemed rather pleased with Uncle Joseph.
"I don't like them much myself," she announced. "Except Mother, of course. I like little girls best—and then little boys." She squeezed Philip's arm in an ingratiating manner. "But why doesn't Uncle Joseph like women? They can't do anything to him! They can't stop him doing nice things! They can't send him to bed!" concluded Miss Falconer bitterly. Evidently the memory of some despotic nurse was rankling. "Did he ever tell you why?"
"Oh, yes—often."
"What does he say?"
"He says," replied Philip, getting rapidly into his stride over long-familiar ground, "that women are the disturbing and distracting force in Nature. They stray deliberately out of their own appointed sphere in order to interfere with and weaken the driving-force of the world—Man. They are a parry—parry—parry-sitic growth, sapping the life out of the strongest tree. They are subject to no standard laws, and therefore upset the natural balance of Creation. They act from reason and not instinct—no, I think it is the other way round—they act from instinct and not from reason. They have no breadth of view or sense of proportion. They argue from the particular to the general; and in all argument they habitually beg the question and shift their ground if worsted. They cannot organise or direct; they only scheme and plot. Their own overpowering instinct is the Prebby—Presbyterian instinct—the instinct of plunder—to obtain from Man the wherewithal to deck their own persons with extravagant and insanitary finery. This they do, not to gratify man, but to mortify one another. A man who would perform his life's work untravelled—no, untrammelled—must avoid women at all costs. At least," concluded Philip traitorously, "that is what Uncle Joseph says."
Miss Falconer puckered her small brow. Evidently she declined to go all the way with Uncle Joseph in his views.