These stories first appeared in The Albany Review, The English Review,The Independent Review, The Pall Mall Magazine, and Putnams Magazine;thanks are due to the editors for kindly permitting republication.
CONTENTS
THE STORY OF A PANIC
THE OTHER SIDE OF THE HEDGE
THE CELESTIAL OMNIBUS
OTHER KINGDOM
THE CURATE'S FRIEND
THE ROAD FROM COLONUS
Eustace's career—if career it can be called—certainly dates from thatafternoon in the chestnut woods above Ravello. I confess at once that Iam a plain, simple man, with no pretensions to literary style. Still, Ido flatter myself that I can tell a story without exaggerating, and Ihave therefore decided to give an unbiassed account of the extraordinaryevents of eight years ago.
Ravello is a delightful place with a delightful little hotel in which wemet some charming people. There were the two Miss Robinsons, who hadbeen there for six weeks with Eustace, their nephew, then a boy of aboutfourteen. Mr. Sandbach had also been there some time. He had held acuracy in the north of England, which he had been compelled to resign onaccount of ill-health, and while he was recruiting at Ravello he hadtaken in hand Eustace's education—which was then sadly deficient—andwas endeavouring to fit him for one of our great public schools. Thenthere was Mr. Leyland, a would-be artist, and, finally, there was thenice landlady, Signora Scafetti, and the nice English-speaking waiter,Emmanuele—though at the time of which I am speaking Emmanuele was away,visiting a sick father.
To this little circle, I, my wife, and my two daughters made, I ventureto think, a not unwelcome addition. But though I liked most of thecompany well enough, there were two of them to whom I did not take atall. They were the artist, Leyland, and the Miss Robinsons' nephew,Eustace.
Leyland was simply conceited and odious, and, as those qualities will beamply illustrated in my narrative, I need not enlarge upon them here.But Eustace was something besides: he was indescribably repellent.
I am fond of boys as a rule, and was quite disposed to be friendly. Iand my daughters offered to take him out—'No, walking was such a fag.'Then I asked him to come and bathe—' No, he could not swim.'
"Every English boy should be able to swim," I said, "I will teach youmyself."
"There, Eustace dear," said Miss Robinson; "here is a chance for you."
But he said he was afraid of the water!—a boy afraid!—and of course Isaid no more.
I would not have minded so much if he had been a really studious boy,but he neither played hard nor worked hard. His favourite occupationswere lounging on the terrace in an easy chair and loafing along the highroad, with his feet shuffling up the dust and his shoulders stoopingforward. Naturally enough, his features were pale, his chest contracted,and his muscles undeveloped. His aunts thought him delicate; what hereally needed was discipline.
That memorable day we all arranged to go for a picnic up in the chestnutwoods—all, that is, except Ja