Dimbie and I—and Amelia

CHAPTER X

I DISCOVER THAT DR. RENTON IS IN LOVE

Nurse has gone, and I am not overwhelmed with grief. I could quite see that within another week the kitchen would have been turned into a pugilistic ring, and she and Amelia would have settled their grievances in a fight.

Amelia has said, with her nose in the air, "Seems to think I am just here to wait on her, mum. Nurses halways imagines they're duchesses, and just took to nursin' out of pilanthropy."

And nurse has said kindly, "I don't want to worry you, Mrs. Westover, but probably that girl is here just as a temporary, or I shouldn't speak; but really her impertinence is——"

"She is quite permanent," I have hastened to assure her, at which she too has stuck her nose in the air; and so they have gone about as though the law of gravitation was reversed, and their noses permanently drawn heavenwards.

I am downstairs in the drawing-room. I found awaiting me an invalid couch—an Ilkley—low and luxurious, with soft down cushions cased in silk of a lovely golden hue—a couch contrived to ease the weariness of tired people. They have pushed it into the window, and from here I can see all my friends of the garden—the apple tree best loved of all, for is it not our very own tree, growing on our domain? One has a peculiar affection for one's own possessions. Not that I am anything but grateful to the beech in the frog-pond field for casting its cool shadow across the lawn; but it belongs to somebody else—perhaps some farmer who hardly knows of its existence.

My descent from the upper regions was somewhat perilous. We—Amelia, nurse, and I—wanted to take Dimbie by surprise, so nurse said she would superintend my removal. As a matter of fact, she did nothing of the kind, for Amelia superintended it.

First of all she made me put up my hair. She said I could not "boss the show" with it hanging down in two plaits. I reflected that were I to dress it as high as the Eiffel Tower I should not be able to boss her, but I did not mention this. Next she picked up her end of the chair and fairly ran with me down the stairs, nurse being bound to follow. I closed my eyes and held my breath, and when I opened them again I found myself staring at two gorgeous yellow flags decorated with portraits of the King and Queen. They had certainly not been there on the last occasion of my being in the drawing-room. The King wore a top-hat and carelessly held a cigar in his kid-gloved hand. The Queen, poor thing, was extremely decolletée, and wore mauve roses in her hair. The King, in morning dress, seemed out of place to me by the side of such grandeur on the part of his spouse.

Amelia broke into my musings.

"Thought we would have a bit of decoration, like the Jubilee, mum, in your honour, so I got them flags in the village."

She looked at me expectantly, and nurse sniffed.

The sniff annoyed me.

"It was extremely kind of you, Amelia," I said warmly. "Thank you very much."

"And the Hilkley, mum? The master got that, and we smuggled it into the house without your hearing anythink that was going on. And he's been wheeling it about hever since, trying to get the best persition, where the sun wouldn't catch your eyes, and where you could see the garden and the happle tree."

"I think it is lovely. Please lift me on to it, nurse. You will have to lift me to-morrow, Amelia," I said soothingly.

She watched the proceeding carefully, and with gentle hand arranged the cushions. The hand was rough and coarsened by hard work, but I felt that it would ever be ready to do my service.

I told them to leave me, as I wanted to be alone. I wanted to think. Now that I was downstairs I wished to review my position. The familiar aspect of the room, the furniture—which Amelia had pushed against the walls with an undesirable effort at neatness—conjured up a thousand pleasant memories. It had been on a snowy winter afternoon when Dimbie and I had first come home. How peaceful, how delicious the warm, fire-lit room had seemed after the rush of hotel life! We sat in the gloaming talking, planning out our lives, what we would do, where we would go; and now—ah! when should I cease to chafe at lying still? I thought of all the people who had had to lie so much—Mrs. Browning, Stevenson, and they had seemed so patient over years of ill-health—and my inactivity was but for one year, and yet I was not patient.

*****

Doctor Renton came into the room, bearing in his arms a great bunch of roses.

"From your mother," he said; "she came round with them this morning. She wanted to come with me."

"And why didn't she?" I felt my eyes kindle.

"You know," he replied with a shrug.

"Peter is a beast!" I said.

He smiled.

"You are evidently better. I am glad to find you downstairs. How did you manage the removal?"

I described it fully, and he laughed.

"That girl of yours is a brick. I should keep her."

"She wouldn't go," I said.

"She will help you not to be lonely. Have you made any friends here yet?"

"No," I returned. "I believe some people called when I was ill. But I don't want anybody."

"You only want your husband?"

I nodded.

"You seem uncommonly fond of one another."

"Of course," I said.

To my surprise he sighed and walked to the window. I noticed his figure was a little bent and his hair grey. I had known Dr. Renton all my life, but for the first time it came to me that he was lonely.

"Why have you never married?" I asked suddenly. He surely wanted a wife.

He started, and then smiled.

"All young married people want to know that of their friends," he said evasively.

"I think you would have made an awfully nice husband, and—it seems such a pity that you should be alone."

He picked up one of the roses which I had untied and held it to his face.

"How do you mean, a pity?"

"Why, that you should be in that great big house at Dorking by yourself when there are so many women in the world. They seem to overflow. I don't know what is to be done with them all."

"So you want to marry me for the sake of reducing the number of spinsters?" He laughed.

"Well, not exactly," I replied. "But I feel you have lost so much—you and the woman you ought to have married."

"How do you know there was one?" he asked sharply.

I smiled.

"I guessed," I said. "I am quite brilliant at times. Where is she?"

"In India."

He stopped abruptly on the word, and from his attitude I realised he would have given much to recall it. I felt I had been impertinent.

"Forgive me——" I began.

"Not at all," he said. "I don't mind. It's rather a relief to speak of it. You—you are still in love, and will understand. Once there was a time when I looked forward to being married. I looked forward greatly. I thought of it morning, noon, and night."

"Well?" I said gently.

"She went abroad."

"But why? Didn't she return your love?"

"I—I don't know."

"You don't know?" I raised my voice.

"No."

"Didn't you tell her?"

"You see, she went off so quickly. She was in such a deuce of a hurry to get abroad."

"What do you call a hurry?"

Dr. Renton shuffled.

"Perhaps you knew her for three months?"

"I knew her for two years."

"And you call two years a hurry?" I endeavoured to keep the sarcasm out of my voice.

"Of course, I didn't know if she cared anything about me."

"Did you expect her to propose to you?"

"Oh, no, certainly not."

"I see, you dangled about her for two years. In fact, you almost compromised her. Then you were astonished at the poor woman running away. Year after year you played fast and loose with her——"

"I don't call two years year after year," he interrupted meekly.

"I do," I said severely. "Dimbie was only six weeks."

He laughed.

"We are not all made of the same stuff as Dimbie." He spoke so humbly, so unlike his usual decided self, that I began to feel sorry for him.

"And do you think this woman will ever come back?"

"I wish to God she would," he said, with an intensity that startled me.

"Why, I do believe you still care for her," I said.

"Of course I do," he returned with asperity. "I thought I mentioned that."

"No, you didn't. You simply said you had driven a woman to India. Poor thing, my heart bleeds for her. I expect her tears have made a sort of railway cutting down her cheeks, and she will be prematurely aged."

Dr. Renton grunted.

"If you still care for her, may I ask why you don't follow her, or write to her?"

"That is what I have asked myself a thousand times a day," he cried, walking up and down the room. "For years I have been asking myself."

"Years!" I said in dismay. "Is it years?"

He nodded.

"Then I am afraid you are too late." I sighed.

"Of course I am. I've been a fool. Now it is too late."

"I'm very sorry."

He held out his hand.

"Good-bye."

"Can nothing be done?" I wondered.

"I'm afraid not, Marguerite."

"But you would be so happy married."

"Do you think all married people are happy?"

"No, according to Nanty few of them are. But I think you would have been, and I am sure of your wife. You are so strong and kind. I always think of you in the same way as I think of Miss Fairbrother."

"Oh!" he said, turning his face away.

"Yes, as the shadow of a great rock in a weary and thirsty land. You are both such comforting people. Do you remember Miss Fairbrother, my old governess?"

"Yes," he said, and he walked quickly to the door and went out.

CHAPTER XI

MY FIRST CALLER

Yesterday morning Dimbie said to me—

"Have any of those beastly women called yet?"

"What women?" I asked in surprise.

"Why, the women who live round here, of course. I suppose there are one or two knocking about? I saw a lady with thick ankles and a Wellington nose come out of the Old Grange."

"No, she's not been," I said laughing. "We've only been here six months, and we're poor. If they came in a hurry it would look as though they wanted to know us."

"And I'm jolly sure we don't want to know them."

Dimbie was heated.

"Of course we don't, dear; but they won't realise that."

"Still, it would be rather nice if somebody dropped in occasionally to have a chat with you and discuss Amelia," he said.

"I don't want to discuss Amelia," I retorted.

"I wish Nanty would come a bit oftener."

"It is a long way for her to drive. Why do you wish to cram the house with women?" I said plaintively. "I have quite enough to do with my reading, mending, sewing, and writing without being inundated by a lot of strange females."

His dear face brightened.

"So long as you don't feel lonely and the days long, that's all right." He stroked my head the wrong way.

"I'm not a bit lonely," I said. "No one could be lonely or dull who had an Amelia; and now the weather is so warm and lovely I lie for hours under the apple tree. June herself is more than a companion. I think I am going to read; I cut the magazines, take out a new novel, and then I lie with eyes half closed looking at the gifts June has lavished with prodigal hand, listening to the whisperings of leaves and grass and flowers."

"What a patient, plucky little girl," he whispered.

"Patient!" I cried, when he had gone, and the click of the gate told me another long day had to be lived through alone. "Patient!"

But how glad I am he doesn't know.

The little lazy insects seem so happy to be doing nothing. They spread their wings in the warm sun, and rub their little legs together from sheer contentment at just being alive. They regard with ill-concealed scorn the aggressive busyness of the bees in the syringa bush, who, like all working things, are kicking up a tremendous fuss about their efforts. "Laziness, doing nothing," the insects say, "breed peace and contentment." "But what about enforced laziness—lying still on a couch?" I cry.

Oxshott Woods are calling me. I want to lie on the warm, scented pine-needles, with the sun filtering through the branches of the sad, stately trees on to my face; I want my senses to be lulled into that beatific repose which only Nature sounds can achieve. One thinks that woods—pine woods—on a calm day are still; but lie and listen carefully, and one will marvel at the multitude of sounds, at the little hoppings and twitterings, and scurryings and crawlings and peckings. You are far too lazy to turn your head, but you are conscious that little bright eyes have you well in focus, that a movement on your part will cause fear and confusion in the settlement, so—you don't turn your head. You like to know that they are there, and presently you fall asleep, and who knows what they do then?

And I am to miss all this. The woods may call, but I must lie still. The wild-rose hedges may send messages to me on the soft south wind, invitations to view their loveliness, but I must refuse them all. I must wait for another year.

Amelia is anxious to wheel me into the lane. Dimbie is more anxious, but I say "no." Who that is injured is not sensitive? I dread the encountering of curious eyes, of eyes that even might be pitying.

I want to be left alone in the garden with the birds and insects. They don't allude to my misfortune, they don't pity me. They always say the right thing.

*****

As though in direct answer to Dimbie's inquiry, the woman with the thick ankles from the Old Grange has called.

I must have fallen asleep, for I was dreaming most foolishly and beautifully that Dimbie and I were in a meadow making daisy-chains, when I was rudely brought back to my own drawing-room—Amelia had wheeled me into the house as the sun had gone—by hearing her say, "A lady to see you, mum."

A little irritably—for I didn't want to leave the daisy-chains—I looked round for the lady, but she wasn't there.

"She's on the doorstep, mum. Will you see her?"

"Of course," I said. "You must never leave people on the doorstep; it is very rude."

"What about old clothes women, mum?"

I ignored her question, which seemed to me unusually foolish, and asked her what she meant by wearing the tea-rose slippers, which I had expressly forbidden.

"Go and change them." I commanded, "when you have announced the lady."

Her "announcing" was unusual. "The lady, mum. Sit down, please." At which she pushed a chair behind my visitor's legs with so much force that she simply fell on to it.

"You must excuse my servant," I said apologetically when Amelia had vanished. "She is utterly untrained but invaluable." I held out my hand as I spoke, which the lady touched coldly.

"My name is Mrs. Cobbold, and I live at the Old Grange," she announced with a trumpet note.

"Oh, of course, Amelia forgot to mention it," I said politely.

"She didn't know it." She was aggrieved now.

"She could hardly mention it then," I said smiling, wishing to cheer her up. But this simple and natural comment appeared to have the opposite effect, for her brow lowered, and the jet butterfly in her bonnet quivered ominously.

"I have called because I heard you were a—an invalid, Mrs. Westover—that you were confined to your couch."

Her deportment dared me to contradict her.

"It is very kind of you," I said pacifically.

"Not kindness, but duty."

"Which makes your effort all the more praise-worthy," I said gently.

She looked at me sharply—through her pince-nez which gripped her nose very tightly—suspiciously almost, but she misunderstood me. I had not intended to be sarcastic. I was really touched at the sacrifice she was evidently making on my behalf. I felt she was a district visitor—probably the right hand of the vicar of the parish. She must need refreshment. She wore the look of one whose tongue clove to the roof of her mouth.

I rang the tortoise, and requested Amelia to bring tea.

"No tea for me, thank you," Mrs. Cobbold quickly interposed.

"I'm sorry," I said. "Perhaps you won't object to my having a cup?"

"Certainly not, but I never take anything between meals."

She seemed quite proud about this.

"Really!" I murmured interestedly. "But tea is a meal with me."

There was a pause. I could hear Amelia singing, "Now we shan't be long," which meant she was reaching out the best tea-things. The best tea-things appear to uplift her in a curious way. Perhaps by using them she feels we are gradually rising to the social status of the Tompkinses, who had an "at home" day with netted d'oyleys, and tea handed round by Amelia herself on a silver salver.

I wondered if Mrs. Cobbold could hear her singing. I felt sure she would strongly disapprove of any maid indulging in such vocal flights, and in spite of myself I laughed. Our eyes met: hers were green and hard, and in their depths I discovered that she disapproved of the mistress more than of the singing maid.

I smiled again—I couldn't help it; and then I racked my brain for something interesting and polite to say.

Mrs. Cobbold forestalled me.

"When is it expected? if I may venture to ask you."

"In about ten minutes."

"Gracious goodness!" she ejaculated, springing heavily to her feet.

"Whatever's the matter?" I cried, nearly falling off the couch.

"I thought—I was led to understand that——" she stammered and broke off.

"Well?" I said, gazing at her in unconcealed astonishment.

"That—that—you will pardon my mentioning it, but—I am a mother myself. And I was quite interested in hearing that the population of Pine Tree Valley was about to be increased. But I did not imagine it would be so soon."

I lay and stared at her. She had reseated herself, and again wore the district visitor air. Was she mad or—suddenly, in a flash, the drift of her remarks became clear to me. I strangled a laugh.

"The increase in the population of Pine Tree Valley has nothing to do with me," I said, a little coldly.

She looked disappointed.

"I am suffering from an accident."

"Oh," she said grudgingly.

"I am afraid you are disappointed."

"The vicar's wife has misinformed me."

"Perhaps she has been gifted with a vivid imagination," I suggested. "It is unfortunate, as it might get her into trouble."

Mrs. Cobbold looked or rather glared at me over the top of her glasses. I was relieved when Amelia appeared with tea. I even forgave her for her tea-rose slippers, which in her excitement she had omitted to change. Casually I inspected the three-decker bread and butter and cake-stand. I felt sure that Amelia would have upheld the honour and glory of the family by "doing" the thing nicely. The first plate was beyond reproach, nicely-cut bread and butter reposing on best netted d'oyley. Mrs. Cobbold's parlour-maid could have done no better. But the second plate made me pause. What was it? I rubbed my eyes. Did I see a lonely macaroon garnished by a ring of radishes—pointed red, fibrous radishes, with long green tops—arranged with a mathematical precision, or did I not? I leaned forward for a closer inspection—perhaps they were chocolate radishes or almond radishes. My breath came quickly, and a jet butterfly smote me on the forehead—Mrs. Cobbold had also leaned forward. The butterfly hurt me. That I didn't mind. What I did object to was Mrs. Cobbold's impertinent curiosity. If we chose to garnish a macaroon with radishes it was none of her business.

"Won't you change your mind and have some tea?" I said, recovering myself. "Macaroons and radishes are so nice together—a German tea delicacy." I nibbled the end of one of the radishes as I spoke, and found it so hot my eyes watered.

"No, thank you," she almost snorted. "Are you German?"

"Oh, no," I replied, "I am quite English with just a few foreign tastes." I covertly dropped the radish down the side of the couch as I spoke.

"Where were you born?"

"I was born in Dorking, I mean Westmoreland," I said wanderingly. I was debating as to what had come over Amelia.

"So you are north-country really?" Her voice was patronising.

"Yes," I returned, "isn't it interesting?"

She again regarded me with suspicion.

"North-country people are becoming quite rare. Perhaps you have noticed it? Everybody comes from the south."

She did not speak.

"And you," I inquired gently, "are you a native of Pine Tree Valley?"

"No," she replied shortly, "but I have lived here ever since I was a girl."

"So long?" I said thoughtlessly. And she rose and offered me her hand, which felt like a non-committal Bath oliver.

"It has been so kind of you to come to see me," I said, shaking the biscuit up and down.

She unbent a little.

"I will try to come again, but won't promise. My days are so full. Do you know any of the people here?"

"No," I admitted.

"The Honourable Mrs. Parkin-Dervis not called?"

"No."

She looked perplexed and annoyed.

"But she told me she was coming. She heard that you were confined to the house."

"She's not been," I said. "I am sorry. I suppose she always leads the way in the question of calling upon new people. But you needn't feel you have committed yourself. You see, I shan't be able to return your call, so please don't feel you must come again unless you want to."

"It's not that," she said; "but, you see, my days are so full."

"Of course they are," I agreed warmly. "I shall quite understand, Mrs. Cobbold. I'm so sorry Amelia is not here to show you out, but were I to ring the tortoise for ten minutes she wouldn't come. She is chopping wood—perhaps you hear her. Amelia never takes the slightest notice of anybody when she is chopping wood—they are Hudson's Dry Soap boxes—the more one rings the louder she chops."

"If she were my maid," said Mrs. Cobbold, "I'd make her——"

"No, you wouldn't," I interrupted. "You think you would, but you wouldn't. We thought the same when she first came to us, but now we don't. Good-bye."

Through an unfortunate accident the tortoise rang loudly as I spoke. I caught my sleeve in its tail, and it sounded as though I were cheering Mrs. Cobbold's departure. She left the house with a flounce and a flourish. We may meet again in another world, but I am certainly not on Mrs. Cobbold's visiting list in this.

When I heard the garden gate bang I rang for Amelia.

"I am never at home to that lady," I said.

Amelia stared.

"Where will you be, mum?"

"I shall be here, of course. Don't you understand, I shall not see her."

"Am I to say that?"

"You're to say, 'Not at home.'"

"I can't say that if you are." Her face was stolid.

"Amelia," I cried, "return to your soap boxes quickly, or I might fling the tortoise at you."

"But——"

"Go!" I said, and with a loud crack of a bone she departed, filled with amazement.

CHAPTER XII

NANTY CHEERS ME UP

A day has come when it is gusty and wet.

Last night the sun, which has been so kind to us of late, disappeared red and angry, leaving behind it a sky of flaming glory.

I said to Dimbie that perhaps we had not been sufficiently grateful to his majesty, that we had begun to take him for granted, and that we should never make the sun feel cheap.

And so to-day the little forget-me-nots and velvety, sweet-faced pansies have laid their heads on mother earth, driven there by squalls of angry wind and rain, and the long branches of the beech tree in the frog-pond field are waving and bending and shaking out their wealth of still tender green leaves with fine abandon.

I am solicitous for the sweet-peas. Dimbie has been late in putting in the sticks for them to climb up, and their hold is slight and wavering. Two long hedges of Eckfords and Tennants and Burpees, and that loveliest of all sweet-peas, Countess Cadogan, flank the lawn on either side. In a few days they will all be out, and I shall lie in the midst of a many-hued, blossoming sweetness. So much have I to be thankful for. A cripple in town would stare at brick walls, yet to-day only discontent sits at my side.

I am cold—rain in summer makes the inside of a creeper-covered cottage very chilly. The water drips from the leaves of the clematis—drips, drips. I want to be up and doing. The rain on my cheek in the woods and lanes would be gracious and sweet-scented. The raindrops lying in the heart of the honeysuckle would be as nectar for the gods. But a rainy world when one is a prisoner within four walls is truly depressing, and there will be no Dimbie to-night.

Dimbie, dear, do you know how much I miss you? The heart of your Marguerite calls for you, calls for you.

You say you will be back soon, but you don't know. Little old ladies take a long time to die. The flame flickers and flares up and flickers and gutters, and is so long in going out. What am I saying? Dimbie, forgive me, dear. I don't want Aunt Letitia to die. I am praying for her to get better. Ill or well, she needs you, or she would not have sent for you, for her message was: "I know your wife wants you, but I want you more; and it will only be for a few days, and then you may return to her. I would much like to have seen Marguerite, but——"

What does that "but" mean I wonder? Does she know that the journey is nearly over? And Dimbie says that that journey has been one of great loneliness, borne with a great patience and cheerfulness. I think God will create a separate heaven for very lonely women. He will give them little children and a love that passeth all understanding. The love that has been withheld from them in this world will be given to them a thousandfold in the New Jerusalem.

I am always sorry for lonely women.

*****

Nanty came in breezy and fresh and wet, and my loneliness vanished.

"I have told John to put up in the village, and I can stay with you for a couple of hours," she announced, removing her cloak. "And you have been crying."

I shook my head.

"Well, there are two tears at the back of your eyes ready to fall."

"Not now," I said.

"What's been the matter?"

"Dimbie's away."

"Dear me!" she said with comical gravity. "Been away long?"

"He went this morning."

She laughed outright.

"What did you have for lunch?"

"Fish."

"What sort of fish?'

"A whiting."

She sniffed.

"A cold, thin whiting with its tail in its mouth, devoid of any taste and depressing in its appearance?"

"That exactly describes it," I said laughingly.

"Did you eat it?"

"No, Amelia is going to make it into a fish pie for to-morrow's lunch."

"Amelia seems to be of an economical turn of mind."

"Painfully so," I agreed.

Nanty rose and rang the bell.

"Bring tea at once, please," she said when Amelia appeared, "and a lightly-boiled egg for your mistress with some hot, buttered toast, and light the fire."

Amelia's eyes bulged.

"We've been doing some summer cleaning, the fire'll make dirt."

"Light the fire at once, please, your mistress is cold, the dirt is of no importance; her comfort should be considered before anything else."

"But it's summer——"

"Matches!" said Nanty sternly, and Amelia produced a box like lightning.

Nanty knelt down and removed the fire-screen. Amelia stood and watched her.

"That is not getting tea and toast," said Nanty, without looking round.

"I'm not dressed, mum——" began Amelia argumentatively.

"Tea and toast!" thundered Nanty, and Amelia fled.

"How brave you are," I said.

She laughed.

"I'm certainly not going to be bossed by a young person like Amelia Cockles. How does she suit you?"

"I've never thought of how she suits us, but I think we suit her, although we are not grand like the Tompkinses."

"Who are the Tompkinses?" asked Nanty, settling herself comfortably in an arm-chair.

"Don't you remember the people she lived with before she came to us? They knew a poet, and gave dinner parties and had entrées and hors-d'oeuvres—hoary doves she calls them."

"But does she look after you well?"

"Yes," I said, "so long as I don't interfere with her cleaning. She is a great cleaner, that is her weakest point. Economy is another; she is too careful. Because I told her we were not rich she seems to think we must live on potato parings. Then she wears squeaky, high-heeled shoes, a pearl necklace, and puts on to her print bodies—as she calls them—innumerable patches. Against these bad qualities we must set her honesty, early rising, and devotion to me. She has taken me in hand since the day she entered the house. She thinks, deep down in her heart, that I am one of the poorest creatures she has met. She has compared me on different occasions to a love-lies-bleeding and a black prize Minorca hen. Yet I know she would go through fire and water for me. She dresses me in the morning with a gentleness and patience unsurpassed by any nurse, and the tenderness with which she lifts me from the bed to the couch has caused me to marvel. You ask me how she suits us. Now I come to think about it, I wouldn't be without Amelia Cockles for the world."

She entered as I finished speaking, and placed the tea-tray in front of me, eyeing Nanty with undisguised hostility.

Nanty returned the look with placidity.

"I s'pose you think I have been starving her?"

"No," said Nanty cheerfully, "I am sure you would do nothing of the kind. Your mistress has just been telling me how good you are to her."

Amelia's face softened.

"No one could help being good to a lady like her—she is a lady," and she flounced out of the room.

Nanty smiled. "You cannot be very dull so long as that young person is in the house." She pushed my couch nearer the fire, broke the top off my egg, and ordered me to begin to eat.

"It is lovely having you here," I said, "I was just beginning to be dull. What made you come this wet day?"

"Your husband wired for me."

"So you knew he was away?"

"Yes," she returned, "and I went straight away to see if I could persuade Peter to let your mother come and stay with you during your husband's absence."

"And——" I cried.

"Your father had just succeeded in getting a canoe to float on the duck-pond—personally I think it was on the bottom, but I did not suggest that—and in the flush of victory he said she could come the day after to-morrow. Ah, that's better," she finished as the blood rushed into my cheeks. "You looked as white as a ghost when I came in."

"You are clever," I said.

"Yes," she agreed, "in some things."

A smile hovered round her mouth.

"I wonder if you had been Peter's wife——"

"God forbid!" she broke in.

I laughed.

"It will be delightful having mother."

"Do you find the days long?"

"When it's wet."

"Do you still find vent for your happiness in the pages of a manuscript book?"

I nodded.

She looked at me with incredulous eyes.

"You still find your year—what was it you called it—wonderful?"

"I have Dimbie."

"And an aching back."

"That would be worse if I hadn't Dimbie."

"No man is worth such love from a woman."

"Mine is," I said indignantly.

"Well, don't flash out at me like that. He must be an exception."

"Of course he is."

"And all women think the same when they are first married."

"Nanty, you are a pessimist."

"Optimists are tiresome and always boring."

"They add to the cheerfulness of the world."

"They depress me and always put me in a bad temper. You say it is horribly cold, and they remind you that frost keeps away disease. You say it is windy, and they reply that it is bracing. You have lost your pet dog, and they suggest that you might have lost your favourite horse. People who always say, 'Never mind, cheer up!' are aggravating in the extreme. I like people to weep when I weep and laugh when I laugh. I don't like my friends to make light of my troubles and practically suggest that I am a coward."

She poked the fire with vigour.

"So you would like me much better if I were to howl about my accident."'

"Exactly, it would be much more natural and human."

"But what about Dimbie?"

"Oh, of course if you bring Dimbie into everything it will be impossible for you to behave in a rational way."

I laughed gently, and Nanty frowned at the fire.

"If I were to howl Dimbie's year would be spoiled."

"I don't believe in wives being unselfish to their husbands; it spoils them. Men are quite selfish enough as it is."

"How down upon men you are, Nanty. Have you not met any nice ones?" I asked.

"Dimbie is not bad as men go. But give him a few years; he will be as disagreeable as the rest."

"I met a very nice man the other day," I said, refusing to be annoyed. "It was just before my accident—a Professor Leighrail."

"Professor Leighrail!" A great astonishment lay in Nanty's eyes. "A very thin man?"

"Yes, he invited us to look at his ribs. His wife, Amabella, is dead."

"Amabella dead?" she repeated.

I nodded.

"He took up ballooning, as he thought it would be the quickest way of ending himself."

Nanty started, and then poured herself out another cup of tea.

"Do you know him?"

"I knew him some years ago."

"He once asked you to be his wife."

Nanty dropped her spoon with a clatter.

"Did he tell you?"

"Of course not," I laughed, and hugged Jumbles who lay on the couch beside me. "I knew by your face, Nanty, dear. Why didn't you accept him?"

"Because I was a fool." She spoke bitterly. "I should have been happy with that man. As it was, he—grew fond of Amabella. Didn't he?" She turned on me with a pounce.

"I—I think so," I stammered; "but I don't suppose he ever loved her as much as he loved you. I should fancy from her name she was a bit—pussy-catty."

Nanty smiled a little grimly.

"Men like domestic, sit-by-the-hearth women. I feel sure Amabella mended his socks regularly and brushed his clothes."

"They wanted brushing the other day," I said reflectively, "and his boots were miles too big for him—they were like canoes." And I went on to relate where we had met him, what he had had for his dinner, and how he was coming to call upon us in his balloon.

"It is a dangerous game," said Nanty crossly as she rose to go.

"But he is lonely and unhappy," I protested.

"So are lots of people," she snapped. "I have been lonely for twenty years, and I get stouter every day."

"His ribs are like knife blades," I observed.

"He was always thin. I have not seen him since I was a girl, but I have followed his career. I knew he would make a name for himself. He was always dabbling in some mess—ruined his mother's bed-quilts—and wore badly-fitting clothes. It's strange you should meet him," she finished musingly.

"Would you like his address?" I asked quietly.

"No, I wouldn't, thanks, but—I shouldn't mind meeting him here some day. It would be pleasant to have a chat about old times."

"Rather dangerous, I should say."

"You always were an impertinent child," she said as she stooped to kiss me.

The love affairs of my friends are multiplying, I thought, when she had gone—Dr. Renton's and now Nanty's.

CHAPTER XIII

UNDER THE APPLE THEE

I am under the apple tree trying to be busy. In front of me lies a waif and stray garment—a flannel petticoat. There is no house mending to do—everything is new and holeless. Dimbie had a trousseau as well as I. Occasionally he will wear a small hole in one of his socks, the mending of which will take me half an hour, then my work is finished. So I have taken to waif and stray garments and deep-sea fishermen's knitting in self-defence.

Were I not engaged on this I should be making wool-work mats like the old men in the workhouse—I can see it in the tail of Amelia's eye; so I keep a garment well to the front, ready to pick up at the sound of her first footstep, which, being squeaky, fortunately warns me of the advance of the enemy.

Now but for Amelia I should be only too content to laze through the summer—just staring at the sky and the soft, white, fleecy clouds through the breaks in the foliage of the apple tree; for though I do nothing I am tired, always tired. Perhaps it is the warmth of the summer, for the rain and cold are gone. By and by I am going to be very energetic, and do little things for Amelia, whether she considers it helpful or otherwise. I shall peel apples in the autumn when the weather is cooler, and stone the plums for jam, and skin the mushrooms. But now I want to be idle. I just want to watch the bird and insect life of the garden.

Much to my delight, a colony of ants has settled at the base of the apple tree. I get Amelia to wheel the couch close to their head-quarters, and I lean over and gently drop little things in front of the openings to their tunnels. Sometimes a tiny bit of twig lies across their front door, or a cherry-stone bars the cellar entrance; and then what excitement and confusion reign, what a twinkling of a myriad tiny legs! Nine strong, able-bodied men are requisitioned to tackle the cherry-stone. I smile and chuckle as I picture one excited ant—who is not eager to tell the news?—rushing off to inform the others that he has discovered a thunderbolt lying at their cellar-door, and they must marshal their forces for an attack. And then what a straining and pushing and levering there is! First six men arrive; they look like policemen. Presently one rushes away and brings back three more. They then sort of take their bearings, trotting in and out of the front door and eyeing with indignation the obstacle that lies in their path.

"Hurrah!" I cry as they lever the cherry-stone the fraction of an inch; and Amelia, appearing at the front door, says—

"I beg your pardon, mum."

Amelia certainly has a most tiresome habit of cropping up at the tense moments of life. Should I call, gently at first, "A-me-li-a," and then louder, "A-ME-LI-A!" and then in stentorian tones, "A-ME-LI-A!" finally degenerating into cat-calls and war-whoops, she wouldn't dream of hearing me; but when I apostrophise the thrush which comes to sing in the apple tree of an evening, or encourage the ants in their labours, or laugh at the ridiculous wagtails bobbing up and down the lawn, she appears suddenly and stands and stares at me.

Just now I said, "You shouldn't stare at me"; and when she replied, "You're so pretty, mum," I felt hers was the gentleness of the dove and the cunning of the serpent combined.

I had been trying to persuade her not to whiten the front-door step, which is of cool grey stone. She appears to regard it in the same light as a kitchen-hearth bestowed by a bountiful Providence. She smears it with wet donkey-stone, and when dry it gleams and scintillates in the hot sun with dazzling intensity. Then she attacks the scraper, which she polishes with a black-lead brush till it resembles the kitchen kettle after "siding up." You cannot prevent Amelia from "siding up." Every now and again she "sides up" me. She says my hair is untidy and approaches me with a brush. She suggests that the wearing of a pearl necklace round my throat, the collar of which is cut low for comfort, would smarten me up. She picks up my slippers, which I have kicked on to the grass, and compels me to put them on in case I have callers.

She constantly threatens me with these callers. She dangles them in front of me when I am idling with The Vicar of Wakefield, and offers to bring me my best hat, as "that Liberty garden thing is shabby and old-fashioned." She thinks the vicar may call. He has been laid up for some weeks; but he is better, and it is his bounded duty to call to see a poor sick lady.

I gently bring her back to the discussion of the step, and after some stubbornness on her part she asks if I would like it done like the Tompkinses'. Knowing that the Tompkinses are superior people, indulging in "hoary doves" at their dinner, I say "Yes" without any further parley, trusting to their good taste.

Mother is coming to-morrow, and I know just how she is feeling about me. She will be thinking if ever her daughter Marguerite wanted her it will be now—now, when she is lonely and tired and without Dimbie. Her dear face will be brimful of joy at being wanted by anyone, and at the prospect of getting away from Peter. She would not own up to the last. If ever there was a loyal, patient soul in this world it is mother. She won't allow herself to believe that Peter is selfish and domineering. He is her husband, and with a wavering curve of her sweet lips she pronounces him as just tiresome.

And, best of all, I know she will like being here without Dimbie. She likes him, she admires him, but she is secretly jealous of him. I believe I should be too if I had a daughter married. When a child gives herself into somebody else's keeping the mother is dethroned; the child—always a child in the mother's eyes—takes her joys and sorrows to her husband. He bandages the little cut leg, figuratively speaking, kisses the crushed fingers, wipes away the tears of sorrow. The mother has to take a back seat, and her heart is sore. When Dimbie and I, in the short days of our engagement, would try to slip away to another room, to be by ourselves, I have seen mother close her eyes and heard her give a little gasping sigh. She would smile bravely when her eyes caught mine, but I had heard the sigh, and though my heart ached at the thought of leaving her alone with Peter, I was unable to keep the happiness away from my own eyes and voice. Poor little mother! It is hard, but it was ever thus. You left your mother, and I in turn have left you. It is one of Nature's edicts—cruel it may seem, but not to be resisted. Were Dimbie to call, I should follow him to the end of the world, I know.

But during the days mother is with me I mean to let her have it all her own way. I shall pretend that Dimbie is dethroned. I shall not talk of him; at least, I shall try with unusual strength not to speak of him, beyond mentioning the bare fact that he is well and ministering to the wants of Aunt Letitia.

And we shall also not talk of Peter more than we can possibly help. Long ago we decided that Peter must be a tabooed subject between us.

"We might be led into saying things about your father which we ought not to say," mother had implied without putting it into so many words, and I had nodded.

"Besides, he might—he might have been so much worse."

I fear I looked doubtful about this point, for she added quickly, "He doesn't steal."

"No," I admitted, "he is certainly not a thief."

"And he doesn't drink."

"No."

"And he doesn't gamble."

"No," I conceded somewhat grudgingly.

"And——" she hesitated.

"He doesn't go off with other men's wives, you want to say."

"That's it. Your father is—is quite moral."

"It's a pity he is," I said laughing. "If only he would run away with someone you could get a divorce."

Dear mother looked terribly shocked, and glanced fearfully at the door.

"It's all right," I reassured her; "he's resting in the library, overcome by your insubordination. He's not used to it. He lunged at me with his stick because he detected me in a smile, but I dodged him."

I remember mother smiled faintly, and told me I ought not to dodge him. This conversation took place after an unusually violent outburst on Peter's part because he had lost his best gold collar stud, which he accused mother of having taken. And when she tremblingly said that she had never in her life worn anything around her neck but a lace tucker, which did not necessitate the wearing of a gold stud, he said lace tuckers were foolish fripperies, and that she ought to wear a linen collar the same as other sensible women. And when mother protested that her neck was not long enough, he replied snappily: "Then stretch it till it is. You are a woman without any resources."

I smile as I conjure up dear mother's expression of countenance when he said this. She usually, with unquestioning obedience to Biblical commands, turned her other cheek to him for a smite, but on this occasion she didn't do anything of the kind. She simply turned her back on him, drew herself up to her full height of five feet nothing, and pranced out of the room. I say pranced, because she did prance, just like a thoroughbred horse chafing at the bearing rein. Peter watched this prancing with unconcealed astonishment; in fact, he put up his monocle and stared at the closed door. Now if mother had only pranced a little oftener. Peter might have been a much better behaved person. But mother is not of the stuff of which people like Amelia and Napoleon are composed. She is not a ruler, and she is not a fighter. She cannot stand up for herself, and so Peter has taken advantage of her sitting position—which sounds as though I were referring to a hen, and not to mother at all.

I find on turning back the pages that I said mother was rarely disloyal to Peter, that she pronounced his selfishness and bad temper as "just tiresomeness." Still, the worm will turn sometimes, and on this occasion she did turn. To-morrow she will probably ignore him altogether—glad to get away from an unpleasant subject.

I am full of delightful anticipations of the peaceful time she and I will spend together under the apple tree. At first she will lean forward when I speak to her as though she had been deafened by a storm. To live with Peter is to live in a succession of storms, and when mother reaches the calmer spaces of the world she wears an almost dazed expression. I must speak very slowly and gently till she becomes accustomed to being in a quiet haven. We will chat in the mornings and doze in the warm afternoons and discuss Amelia in the evenings. I know I shall be unable to resist discussing Amelia with mother. She will be so interested in her not wearing cloth boots. She will be so surprised at my having given in. She gives in herself over every question in life, great or small. But she is quite surprised if other people do the same, especially her own daughter. She imagines I have inherited some of Peter's characteristics, which Heaven forbid. She thinks his bullying is strength of character. Ah, little mother, I am not strong, if you only knew it. I am as weak as water towards people I love. You, Dimbie and Nanty could do anything with me.

Amelia has been to tell me that we are out of Shinio, and shall she run to the village. She didn't call it Shinio, but Shiny. She has quite an extraordinary affection for the evil-smelling stuff, and is always "requiring" it.

"But you won't be cleaning anything this afternoon," I said. "You are dressed, and it must be nearly five o'clock."

"It's for the brasses to-morrow morning," she answered in a tired voice, as though she were weary of explaining things to me. "It's kitchen-day, and I do my steels and brasses before breakfast."

"Oh, of course," I murmured hastily while looking for my purse, which I can never find, and which she unearthed with lightning rapidity from under the tortoise.

I handed her sixpence, but she didn't go.

"Anything further?" I asked pleasantly.

"No, mum; but I was just considerin' if we couldn't alter your pocket—put it in front of your tea-gown, a sort of flap-pocket right-hand side, like motorists and golfists and cyclists has."

"Put a flap-pocket on my right-hand side," I repeated. "But I don't motor or golf or cycle."

"No, mum, but it might help you not to lose your purse so frequently, and save you and me a lot of trouble. I expect you lies on your pocket mostly?"

"I do nothing of the kind," I replied coldly, "for I haven't got one."

"There!" she said triumphantly, "I might have knowed it. I'll fix you one up in two shakes. I'm a good hand at sewing. Have you a bit of white serge like your gown, mum?"

"No, I haven't; and I forbid your putting a pocket on me anywhere."

She looked surprised at my warmth.

"All right, mum; I won't if you don't wish it. I only thought it would save time. You see, when the purse isn't lost the tortis is. The tortis is a beggar for gettin' away. See now, it's slippin' down the Hilkley at this minute." She caught it by the tail and placed it on the little table which always stands at the side of my couch. "The creature might be alive," she finished, shaking her fist at it.

"Don't be ridiculous, Amelia," I commanded, endeavouring not to laugh. "I will try and not lose it so often, but things do disappear."

"Yes, mum, they do," she responded gravely. "If nothing was ever lost, like hair-pins, the world wouldn't hold 'em." With which oracular remark she swept down the garden path to the gate, her two heels leaning over at a more dangerous angle than usual.

I drew Dimbie's letter—he writes every day, sometimes twice—from beneath the cushions, and read it over for—well, I won't say how many times, but one passage I already knew off by heart:—

"Dear one, I am glad that you miss me—very glad, isn't that cruel? If you want me, how much more do I want you, my poor little girl. I long to put my arms round you and kiss your big, wistful eyes—kiss away the wistfulness, which only came with your suffering, and I will do it when I come home.

"Aunt Letitia is slowly sinking. She is not suffering, and her mind is quite clear. She has asked a great many questions about you, and has even laughed feebly at Amelia and her household arrangements—I mean your household arrangements. For the squeaking and cracking of bones and wearing of unsuitable slippers she has no suggestions to offer. She says there is always something. With old Ann it has been a misfit in artificial teeth. They have moved horribly, and the gums have gaped at her, but she has not considered this of sufficient importance to give Ann notice.

"I wired to Nanty to know how you were. You don't tell me in your letters, bad girl. I shall scold and slap you when I get home, as well as kiss you."

I glanced carefully round to see that neither Amelia nor Jumbles were watching me, and holding the letter to my lips, I kissed it over and over again.