She stopped, smiled as only Margaret can, and bent
her head until a loose coil of amber hair fell on
my face Then she brushed it aside and, after a little
gasping cry, kissed me on the lips.
THE LITTLE JACK
AT THE HANYARDS STAFFORDSHIRE August 9th, 1757
Margaret and I had a hot dispute this morning.
True she went away, singing happily, to rebuild the
masses of yellow hair that had fallen all over her
shoulders and mine, for the dreadful stuff seems to
tumble down if I look at it, but still we had disputed,
and vigorously, too. The plain fact is she had
sniffed at Aristotle.
The trouble arose out of this story of mine which
I have been busy writing for the last twenty months.
It has been hard work, for I was new to the business,
and had to learn how to do it, but it has been a pleasant
task and a labour of love. Now we disputed about
it. I said it was finished. She said it
wasn’t. I said I ought to know. She
replied not necessarily, since I was such a great
goose. Then I loaded my big gun and thought to
blow her clean out of the water.
“My dear Margaret,” said I, “Aristotle
lays it down that every work of art has a beginning,
a middle, and an end. The beginning of our story
was the catching of the great jack, the middle of
it was the fight at the ’Red Bull,’ and
the end of it was the kiss you gave me. You see,
dear, how exactly I have done what Aristotle says
I ought to do.”
“Bother Aristotle! What does he know about
us?” It was here that she sniffed, not figuratively
but actually. That is to say she held up her
nose, on pretence of looking at me, and audibly ...
well, sniffed. There’s no other word for
it. Then she cried triumphantly, “What is
the use, Noll, of telling our story and not saying
a single word about the most important people in it?”
To this question I made no reply. I was beaten.
Aristotle, had he been in my place, would have been
beaten too. If we had been in town I would have
run round to Mr. Johnson’s and asked him to assist
me, but I feel sure he would have been as helpless
as I was. There was no reply, so I contented
myself with playing with her gorgeous hair till it
was all a-tumble to the floor.
Bother Aristotle! I must do as Margaret bids.
* * * *
*
The Colonel and Master Freake were in the house-place
when, at last, that memorable Christmas Eve, I proudly
took my Margaret there.
“Sir,” said I to the former, before he
had ceased his hearty handshake, “I love Margaret
dearly and Margaret loves me. May we be married?”
“You young dog! What d’ye say to
that, John?” he said.
“Nothing is nearer to my heart,” said
the great merchant of London, giving me his hand in
turn.
“Nor to mine, so that settles it,” cried
the Colonel, fishing out his snuff-box, while I led
Margaret up to mother.
