The Window-Gazer

CHAPTER XX

Tea had been laid on the west lawn under the maples.

Possibly some time in the past the Spences had been a leisured people. They had brought from the old country the tradition of afternoon tea. Many others had, no doubt, done the same but with these others the tradition had not persisted. In the more crowded life of a new country they had let it go. The Spences had not let it go. It wasn't their way. And in time it had assumed the importance of a survival. It stood for some-thing. Other Bainbridgers had "Teas." The Spences had "tea."

Desire had been in her new home a month and had just made a remark which showed her astonished Aunt Caroline that tea was no more of a surprise to her than fireplaces had been.

"Do you mean to tell me you have always had tea?" Miss Campion ceased from pouring in pure surprise.

"Why, yes." Desire's surprise was even greater than Aunt Caroline's. "Li Ho never dreamed of forgetting tea. He served it much more regularly than dinner because sometimes there wasn't any dinner to serve. It was a great comfort—the tea, I mean."

"But how extraordinary! And a Chinaman, too."

"I suppose my mother trained him."

"And Vancouver isn't Bainbridge," put in Benis lazily. "A great many people there are more English than they are in England. All the old-time Chinese 'boys' served tea as a matter of course."

"Even when no one was calling?"

"Absolutely sans callers of any kind."

"Well, I am sure that is very nice." But it was plain from Aunt Caroline's tone that she thought it a highly impertinent infringement upon the privileges of a Spence. She poured her nephew's cup in aloof silence and refreshed herself with a second before re-entering the conversation. When she did, it was with something of a bounce.

"Benis," she said abruptly, "can you tell me just exactly what is a Primitive?"

"Eh?" The professor had been trying to read the afternoon News-Telegram and sip tea at the same time.

Aunt Caroline repeated her question.

"Certainly," said Spence. "That is to say, I can be fairly exact. Would you like me to begin now? If you have nothing to do until dinner I can get you nicely started. And there is a course of reading—"

Aunt Caroline stopped him with dignity. "Thank you, Benis. I infer that the subject is a complicated one. Therefore I will word my question more simply. Would an Indian, for instance, be considered a Primitive?"

"Um—some Indians might."

"Oh," thoughtfully, "then I suppose that is what Mrs. Stopford Brown meant."

Her delighted listeners exchanged an appreciative glance.

"Very probably," said Benis, with tact, "were you discussing Primitives at the Club?"

"No. Though it might be rather a good idea, don't you think? If, as you say, there is a course of reading, it would be sufficiently literary, I suppose? At present we are taking up psycho-analysis—dreams, you know. It was not my choice. As a subject for club study I consider it too modern. Besides, I seldom dream. And when I do, my dreams are not remarkable. However, it seems that all dreams are remarkable. And I admit that there may be something in it. Take, for instance, a dream which I had the other night. I dreamed that I was endeavoring to do my hair and every time I put my hand on a hairpin that horrible parrot of yours snapped it up and swallowed it. Now, according to psycho-analysis, that dream has a meaning. Understood rightly it discloses that I have, in my waking moments, a repressed feeling of intense dislike for that hateful bird. And it is quite true. I have. So you can see how useful that kind of thing might be in getting at the truth in cases of murder. I hope," turning to Desire, "I hope I am not being too scientific for you, my dear? When the ladies feel that they know you better you may perhaps join our club, if you care for anything so serious? May I give you more tea?"

"Thanks, yes. That would be delightful."

"Not so delightful, my dear, as educative. But as I was saying, Benis, it is all your fault that this misconception has got about. I blame you very much in the matter. It comes naturally from your writing so continually about Indians and foreigners and Primitives generally. People come to associate you with them. Still, I think it was extremely rude of Mrs. Stopford Brown to say it."

"So do I," said Spence, with conviction.

"I asked Mrs. Everett, who told me, if anyone else had made remarks leading up to it. But she says not a word. It was just that Mrs. Everett said that it was strange that when you had taken so long to consider marriage you should have made up your mind so quickly in the end—'Gone off like a sky-rocket!' was her exact wording, and Mrs. Stopford Brown said, in that frivolous way she has, 'Oh, I suppose he stumbled across a Primitive.' You will notice, Desire, that Mrs. Stopford Brown's name is not upon the list for your reception."

"But—" began Desire, controlling her face with difficulty.

"No 'buts,' my dear. It may seem severe, but Mrs. Stopford Brown is quite too careless in her general conversation. It is true that her remark is directly traceable to my nephew's unfortunate writings, but she should have investigated her facts before speaking. The result is that it is all over town that you have Indian blood. They say that, out there, almost everyone married squaws once and that is why there is no dower law in British Columbia. Those selfish people did not wish their Indian wives to wear the family jewels. Benis! You will break that cup if you balance it so carelessly. What I want to know is, what are you going to do about it?"

"Not being a resident of British Columbia, I cannot do anything, Aunt. But I think you will find that since women got the vote the matter has been adjusted."

"I do not understand you. What possible connection has the women's vote with Mrs. Stopford Brown?"

"I thought you were speaking of dower laws. As for Mrs. Brown, haven't you already fitted the punishment to the crime?"

"Then you will not officially contradict the rumor?"

"Dear Aunt, I am not an official. And a rumor is of no importance—until it is contradicted. Surely you are letting yourself get excited about nothing."

Aunt Caroline bestowed upon Desire the feminine glance which means, "What fools men are."

"That's all very well now," she said. "But it is incredible how rumor persists. And when you are a father—there! I knew you would end by breaking that cup."

"Aren't we being rather absurd?" asked Desire a little later when Aunt Caroline and the tea tray had departed together. "Besides, you can't break a cup every time."

Spence sighed. It was undoubtedly true that cups do come to an end.

"What we want to do," said Desire, angry at her heightened color, "is to be sensible."

"That's what Aunt Caroline is. Do you want us to be like Aunt Caroline?"

"I want us to face facts without blushing and jumping."

"I never blush."

"You jump."

"Sorry. But give me time. I am new at this yet. Presently I shall be able to listen to Aunt describing my feelings as a grandfather without a quiver. Poor Aunt!"

"Why do you say 'poor Aunt'?"

"It is going to be rather a blow to her, you know."

"Do you think we ought to—tell her?"

"Good heavens, no!"

"But it seems so mean to let her go on believing things."

"Not half so mean as taking the belief from her. Besides—" He paused and Desire felt herself clutch, unaccountably, at the arm of her garden chair.

"She wouldn't understand," finished Benis.

Desire's grasp upon the chair relaxed.

"Life is like that," he went on slowly. "No matter how careful people are there is always someone who slips in and gets hurt. Our affairs are strictly our own affairs and yet—we stumble over Aunt Caroline and leave her indignant and disappointed and probably blaming Providence for the whole affair. It is just a curious instance of the intricacy of human relationships—you're not going in, are you?"

"There is some typing I want to finish," said Desire. "I have been letting myself get shamefully behind."