A Damsel in Distress

"That poem was written by a very clever man who married one of my

ancestresses. He ran away with her from this very castle in the

seventeenth century."

"Lor'", said Albert as a concession, but he was still interested in

the hornet.

"He was far below her in the eyes of the world, but she knew what a

wonderful man he was, so she didn't mind what people said about her

marrying beneath her."

"Like Susan when she married the pleeceman."

"Who was Susan?"

"Red-'eaded gel that used to be cook 'ere. Mr. Keggs says to 'er,

'e says, 'You're marrying beneath you, Susan', 'e says. I 'eard

'im. I was listenin' at the door. And she says to 'im, she says,

'Oh, go and boil your fat 'ead', she says."

This translation of a favourite romance into terms of the servants'

hall chilled Maud like a cold shower. She recoiled from it.

"Wouldn't you like to get a good education, Albert," she said

perseveringly, "and become a great poet and write wonderful poems?"

Albert considered the point, and shook his head.

"No, m'lady."

It was discouraging. But Maud was a girl of pluck. You cannot leap

into strange cabs in Piccadilly unless you have pluck. She picked

up another book from the stone seat.

"Read me some of this," she said, "and then tell me if it doesn't

make you feel you want to do big things."

Albert took the book cautiously. He was getting a little fed up

with all this sort of thing. True, 'er ladyship gave him chocolates

to eat during these sessions, but for all that it was too much like

school for his taste. He regarded the open page with disfavour.

"Go on," said Maud, closing her eyes. "It's very beautiful."

Albert began. He had a husky voice, due, it is to be feared,

to precocious cigarette smoking, and his enunciation was not as

good as it might have been.

"Wiv' blekest morss the flower-ports

Was-I mean were-crusted one and orl;

Ther rusted niles fell from the knorts

That 'eld the pear to the garden-worll.

Ther broken sheds looked sed and stringe;

Unlifted was the clinking latch;

Weeded and worn their ancient thatch

Er-pon ther lownely moated gringe,

She only said 'Me life is dreary,

'E cometh not,' she said."

Albert rather liked this part. He was never happy in narrative

unless it could be sprinkled with a plentiful supply of "he said's"

and "she said's." He finished with some gusto.

"She said - I am aweary, aweary,

I would that I was dead."

Maud had listened to this rendition of one of her most adored poems

with much the same feeling which a composer with an over-sensitive

ear would suffer on hearing his pet opus assassinated by a

schoolgirl. Albert, who was a willing lad and prepared, if such

should be her desire, to plough his way through the entire seven

stanzas, began the second verse, but Maud gently took the book away

from him. Enough was sufficient.