"At the last she said to me, 'From what you have told me I quite seem to know Marguerite, and I should have loved her I am sure. I feel she is good. Some good women are very unlovable; they are hard on the frailties of others. In their unsmirched purity they cannot understand the meaning of the words temptation, sin; but I do not think Marguerite is one of these. I should imagine she would be very tender towards those who are weak, for she understands and knows the mercy of God.'"
"The mercy of God." The words rang in my ears—dinned and hammered and beat.
"I understand the mercy of God! Dimbie, Dimbie, Aunt Letitia is wrong. I don't, I don't. I'm wicked, I'm rebellious, I——" My words broke off in a bitter cry, and I clung to him with both hands.
"Hush, hush, my dear one," he said, holding me closely. "If you are wicked it is a poor lookout for the rest of humanity. Why, to myself, I always call you my white Marguerite. I—" he paused, and I could hear the beating of his heart—"I want to tell you now what you have made of me, of my manhood. I have wanted to tell you ever since I first met you, but—it is difficult to lay your heart bare, even to the woman you love, but—I think I'm a better man now, Marguerite. I was a careless, selfish sort of beggar before, I only thought of myself. The down-on-their-luck fellows were down through their own fault I supposed. The women on the streets disgusted me; the sick and suffering I shunned as something repulsive; the poor and hungry bored me with their whining. Then I met you. You gave me something priceless—your love. I knew I was not worthy of it, but you married me. Then came your accident and illness. Will you think me cruel when I tell you I was almost glad? Now I could do something for you, wait on you, take care of you, cherish you, I thought, try to make myself worthy of your love. And your first question was, Would my love stand the strain of your illness? Ah, Marguerite, how those words hurt, how they cut me to the heart. 'She doesn't understand me,' I cried, 'she has no faith in me.' And have you still no faith in me? Do you not trust me? Marguerite, wife, were you to be stricken for life, always tied down to your couch, always a helpless invalid, I should feel that you were a sacred trust given to me by God to love and cherish. And—so long as you gave me your love I should be more than content. Do you still doubt me, fear that my affection would waver? Tell me that you trust me. Speak, Marguerite."
And I spoke, very slowly at first. The words came haltingly, brokenly. I was trying to keep the tears back—tears not of sorrow now, but of joy. As my husband was speaking sorrow left me, and my soul was irradiated with a great and wondrous happiness. I forgot my tired body, it seemed to fade away, dissolve, and only my spirit was left behind singing a Te Deum. My doubts, my fears had gone. Dimbie would always love me. I believed him as truly as I believed that the sun would rise on the morrow.
"Dimbie, dear," I said simply, "I do believe you, and I do trust you. Your words to-night have made that which I have to tell you quite easy. I—shall never walk again." My arm stole round his neck and I drew his cheek to mine. "No, don't speak till I have finished. I want to tell you all about it now—everything. Then we will accept it as the inevitable and never speak of it again. You say that I am patient, good. When the doctors had left me—Dr. Renton had broken it to me—I railed against God. I cried out in my agony, 'This cross is greater than I can bear!' I beat the pillows, tried to tear the sheets, struck my head against the bed. I longed to die. I prayed to die. I struggled to rise, only to fall in unconsciousness on the floor. This unconsciousness, I think, saved my reason. And, oh, the tears I shed, the bitter tears! I was glad you were not there, Dimbie. In the darkness of the night, even as Job, I cried out, 'Let the day perish wherein I was born!' Never to walk again—the words rang in my ears. Always to lie still. The wind and sea would call me, but I must lie still. Spring and summer would call me, but I must lie still, always still. Never stretch my limbs in the sunshine or feel the mountain air upon my face. Never hear the wind in the corn, or listen to the soft falling of the pine-needles in the woods. Dimbie, that night has left its mark upon my brow, I fear. I felt as though I had been seared with a hot iron. I quivered when they touched me—Peter, mother, Amelia—they all came to me, and I cried, 'Leave me, leave me!'"
With a passionate movement Dimbie made to speak, but I laid my fingers on his lips.
"Wait," I said. "Hush, dear. I don't feel unhappy now, that has all gone, you have sent it away. For above all my grief there was a sorrow which was a thousand-fold more keen, more bitter. I doubted you. I doubted your love, and I did not in my mind reproach you, Dimbie. 'He is young and strong,' I cried, 'and I am a cripple. He cannot spend the remainder of his life with a hopeless invalid. Nature demands a healthy mate. I cannot expect him to be faithful to me.'
"But, oh, I felt I could not give you up! I loved you so. You were my husband. No other woman should have you. And—I looked at my face. It is a little pitiful when a woman comes to look at her face, I think. Is it the men's fault, I wonder? Ah, and what the mirror told me! I put it from me, and I laughed mirthlessly. 'That will never hold him,' I said, and so I drew nearer and nearer to my Gethsemane and my cup was wellnigh full. And—then you came, and I woke as from a hideous nightmare; my sorrow and pain and anxiety fell from me like an old worn-out cloak. Dimbie, Dimbie, do you know how you smiled? In that dear crooked, whimsical, and most loving smile lay a woman's heaven—a heaven upon earth—and without you she wants no other paradise."
Dimbie's arms were around me as I finished. His tears fell upon my face, but he did not speak. In each other's arms we lay, wrapped around by the still, warm, scented night, and the silence was more beautiful than words. Later on, when he carried me to bed, he knelt down and said—
"I thank Thee for my most precious wife, O Lord, so much more precious now that she is—she is—brok——" He paused, and, getting up, went quietly out of the room.
CHAPTER XIX
WE INHERIT A FORTUNE
I have done with sadness forever.
Who could be sad on an afternoon such as this? Is the witchery of spring with us once more? we ask; for it has rained for a week, and now every faded green thing—leaf and grass and hedges—are chortling with pride over their fresh, bright raiment. They are as maidens of fifteen mincing in their new frocks.
The roses are holding up their heads and inviting you to bury your face in the heart of their sweetness where some raindrops still remain. You gladly do as you are bidden, and Amelia, who has brought them to you, thinks you are an eccentric creature to go sighing and sniffing and kissing their wet petals in such sentimental fashion.
"The sweetest flower that blows," you sing, and she says they are nothing of the kind, that "vi'lets take the cake."
"The master will be home at half-past four," you tell her, and she says you have mentioned this fact at least half a dozen times.
"Only twice, Amelia," I say. "You should learn to speak the truth." And she steps deliberately on to the tortoise, which lies on the grass, in order to teach me that I may allow it to stray once too often. I tell her I am sorry, and she suggests that I should tie it round my neck suspended from a ribbon, and people might take it for an enlarged miniature of one of my relations.
I ignore her remark, and watch a thrush who is having a succulent feast of worms after the rain. I wonder at the worms being so easily deceived as to imagine that the stamping of the thrush's small feet is an earthquake, bringing them out of their burrows with a run.
"Miniatures are fashionable," she continues.
I am still engrossed in the thrush.
"That one of you in the drawing-room is not bad, but a bit flattering."
"Miniature of me?" I say lazily, refusing to be interested in Amelia's conversation. "I have never had a miniature painted in my life. The one to which you are referring is the master's great-aunt, painted when she was a girl."
She walks on high, sloping heels to the house with her head well up.
In about two minutes she returns with ill-concealed triumph written on her face, and places a portrait of myself on my knees. In surprise I pick it up and examine it closely. Yes, it is I, and—my heart contracts painfully as I look at it. Have I that expression in my eyes—now? Surely not. I put it down hastily, as Amelia is watching me.
"Don't you like it, mum? I shouldn't be disappointed if it was my portrait. Not but what I thinks it flatters you. The master was starin' at it for half an hour this morning—never touched his breakfast, and it was a fried sole, too."
I picked up a book. "It's not bad," I say carelessly. "Will you go to the village, Amelia, and bring me some bull's-eyes—hot, pepperminty ones. The master is very fond of bull's-eyes, and so am I." I evaded her glance and searched for my purse.
"It's in your pocket, mum. I stitched one in last night after you had gone to bed. Second seam, right-hand side. The house was being that neglected while I was lookin' for things—purses and tortises—that I took the liberty, mum."
Now I own to feeling excessively annoyed with Amelia. I had particularly requested her not to stitch a pocket on to me—anywhere, and she had disobeyed me. I had wondered what the hard, knobly thing I was lying upon could be. It was my own purse. I should not search the second right-hand seam. Amelia must be shown that she could not disobey my commands with impunity.
I read my book carefully, and turned its pages assiduously.
"I am waiting for the money, mum." This in an injured voice.
"There is some in the jewel drawer in my dressing-table," I said distantly. "And bring me my crêpe de chine gown, and kindly remove the pocket from this one to-night."
Amelia's prolonged stare almost broke down my gravity.
"Why, you're holding your book upside down!"
"And what if I am?" I retorted. "If I choose to read a book upside down that is no concern of yours. Kindly go."
I smiled as she walked slowly to the house. She was a very good girl, but must be kept in her place.
She was back in a minute.
"Here's your money, mum, and did you mean your grand new lavender gown which your moth—I mean Mrs. Macintosh—sent you?"
"That is what I meant," I said.
"But it's like a bit of spider's web." She held it at arm's-length. "It's that delikit and lovely, you'll crush it to pieces."
"That is your fault," I said quietly. "You have debarred me from wearing the other till the pocket is removed. Now help me, please."
With dexterous hands she got me out of one gown and into the other, but I was tired and spent when she had finished.
"You look like a pichir with your gold hair, mum, though it's not so bright as it was. Lavender wouldn't suit me, now, scarlet's my colour, but——" she broke off with a cry.
"Whatever's the matter now?" I asked.
"There's a pocket in this one, mum," she gasped, pointing to a gaping seam.
I looked and said nothing.
"Dressmakers is but human, mum. 'Ow was they to know that you had a prejudice against——"
"Amelia, will you hush," I almost shouted. "I am so tired of your talking so much. Go and buy the bull's-eyes."
"Will you have this gown off first?" she asked placidly.
"No, I won't. I am not a load of hay to be pitched about from pillar to post. And my gowns are not legion."
"There's the white serge, and the black heolian, and——"
"Amelia," I said, "if you don't go away I shall ring the tortoise for help—help from a stranger passing down the lane. I am a pestered, servant-driven creature, and I require as much help as a drowning man."
And she went without another word to me, but muttering softly to herself, of which I caught a word or two: "Moidered with the heat! Poor thing, I have known as sunstroke——" &c., &c. She disappeared round the broom bush, and I laughed more than I have done for many days.
*****
Dimbie brought great news with him. He flung himself down upon the grass, tilted back his hat, wiped his brow, and said—
"I have retired from business, Marg."
"Well, that doesn't make sitting upon the damp grass an act to be commended," I said severely.
An amused giggle came from behind me. It was Amelia crossing the lawn with a lettuce in her hand.
"I thought you were getting tea."
"So I am, mum. This here lettuce is for it, and I just catched what the master said, 'Retired from business!'" She put her hands to her hips. "I'm thinkin' there'll be a power more work to do now two for lunch and two for tea hevery day. And the master, beggin' his pardon, will be makin' more mess with his tobacco ash than ever. It lies about the carpets like bone manure on a flower-bed."
She continued her walk to the house, brandishing the lettuce and squeaking with emotion, without giving us time to reply.
"Amelia is like a jack-in-the-box. She seems to spring from nowhere," said Dimbie depressedly.
"Well, never mind. Go on with what you were saying, and get up from the grass, it's very damp, and you are sitting on a multitude of worm-hills."
"Give me the end of the couch, then. Tuck up your toes. Did you hear what I said? I have retired from business. I have done with the Stock Exchange forever, Marg."
"This then, I suppose, will be our last meal. We have no private means."
"I will feed you on oysters and champagne!"
"Bread-fruit and yams, more likely, on a desert island, where you can obtain food for nothing."
"Marg, I am worth £3,000 a year," he said gravely, and with suppressed eagerness.
I looked at him anxiously.
"Sunstroke too," I murmured.
"Do you hear? I am worth £3,000 a year. I can give you everything you want."
He raised his voice excitedly. And of course Amelia, who was bringing tea, tipped the hot-water jug over, and in endeavouring to catch it dropped the tray, and then sat down among the ruins and began to weep.
"Don't be a fool!" said Dimbie. "Get up! it doesn't matter."
But Amelia remained rooted to the ground, sobbing her heart out.
"I shan't leave, I shan't go," she wailed at length, looking at me as though I were contradicting her.
"Of course you won't," I agreed. "It's not the best china. It doesn't matter the least little bit in the world, Amelia."
"Oh, I don't mean that, mum. I mean that if the master's got £3,000 a year—I couldn't help hearin'—there'll be no room for Amelia Cockles. You won't want me. You'll keep cook, kitchenmaid, housemaid, parlour-maid, butler, boots, and have hentries, hoary-doves, cheese-straws, low dresses, and dessert every day of the week."
She reeled this off without apparently drawing breath, and I too was breathless at the contemplation of such a truly awful prospect.
"Never!" I said.
She looked incredulous.
"Never!" I repeated.
She sat up on her heels and began to collect the broken pieces and pick up the bread and butter.
"And were I ever to indulge—I mean saddle myself with the retinue of servants you mention—there would always be room for you, Amelia."
"Thank you, mum," she sobbed, while eating a piece of sandy cake in complete unconsciousness.
"You could be mistress of the robes," said Dimbie cheeringly.
Her sniffs became less frequent.
"You could be lady's maid," I said. "But no pockets, Amelia. You understand."
She gave a watery smile.
"I could find the tortis and brush your hair all day long, mum."
"Thank you," I said; "and would you let me wear plaits?"
She hesitated, and then, like the boy who stood on the burning deck, remained faithful to duty.
"People might call."
"And if they did?"
"Plaits is only proper for little girls and in bedrooms—I don't like them there,—but if the master doesn't mind I don't."
Dimbie broke into roars.
"Go and get some more tea," I commanded, "and make haste."
"She's a good, faithful soul," said Dimbie when she had gone, "and we won't part with her."
"Part with her!" I repeated in astonishment. "I should think not indeed. Why, if Amelia were to go I should be lost; and I should not only lose myself, but the tortoise, my purse—everything I possess. She is my guide, my comforter, my solace in my lonely hours, and tells me entrancing stories about the Tompkinses. I could not do without Amelia."
"And yet I don't know how she would agree with other servants."
"Dimbie, dear," I said petulantly, "don't joke any longer. I don't feel like joking and Amelia dropping trays; they upset my silly nerves."
"I am not joking," he returned slowly. "Aunt Letitia has left me all her money. She has lived simply, almost niggardly, the last few years, poor old lady. The money has been accumulating at compound interest, and we shall have an income of £3,000 a year and a house in Yorkshire. What do you think of that, Marguerite?"
He put an arm around me and laughed like a happy schoolboy.
"We shall be able to buy you everything you want. We will take a house by the sea, in the mountains, in the heart of one of your dearly-loved pine woods—wherever you wish it, my princess. You've only to hold up your little finger and your desire shall be gratified. We'll bring the roses back to your pale cheeks in a more bracing climate. You might even—get well—nearly well. This garden is too small and hot. Now isn't it?"
"I love it better than any other spot in the world," I said earnestly.
He looked at me with disappointment chasing across his face.
Quickly I said, "Dimbie, dear, I am delighted at your good luck. It will be too beautiful to have plenty of money. I can hardly believe it yet. It seems too good to be true. And I think you deserve every little bit of it. You have been to Aunt Letitia more than a son. But—you won't take me away from here just yet. I—I don't want to go."
"You don't want to go to a jolly big house with nice grounds and smooth lawns?"
"What lawn could be smoother than ours? It is like velvet."
He smiled.
"But it's only the size of a——"
"It's big enough to hold the apple tree and me," I interrupted.
"You shall have grand chestnuts, wind-torn oaks, and sit under a weeping willow in our new garden."
"I want to sit under my own apple tree," I said querulously.
He surveyed it disdainfully.
"It is so beautifully gnarled and old." I disregarded the look. "And you see it has seven apples on it, and I believe they are going to be red."
"We shall be able to use them for cider, perhaps." His voice was mocking.
"And I don't want to leave the ants; they're so interesting."
"I suppose no other garden contains ants?"
"And look at the roses! Have you ever seen trees bloom more freely?"
"Roses—in England—are, of course, extremely rare."
"Dimbie," I said, "if you mock me again I shall——"
"Kiss me, sweetheart," and he held his face to mine.
"I shall not kiss you until you promise faithfully you will not transplant me to another garden. I—I don't want to go yet awhile, Dimbie."
"But what shall we do with our money? There is nothing to spend it on here," he argued.
"Oh, I could soon run through it, given the opportunity. I should first of all buy new shoes for Amelia—lovely, respectable, black, kid shoes, with neat bows and low heels."
"Would they cost seven and sixpence?" he asked ironically.
"Quite," I returned gravely.
He walked up and down the lawn impatiently.
"But tell me why," he said after a time, standing still in front of me, "why, Marguerite, my poor white daisy, you are so anxious to remain here?"
"Because——" I paused. Ah, no, I must not tell him yet; it is not time. Besides, after all, it may only be my foolish fancy. "Because," I continued, "to take me away from the garden that I love, from our pretty cottage, would be to tear out my heart-strings. Perhaps you will think it sentiment, Dimbie, but I want to finish our year here—our wonderful year. Into the branches and green lace-work of the trees, into the dewy grass, into the sweet-peas and roses, into the beech—which is always so kind and friendly—into the frog-pond, and, above all, into our much-loved apple tree, are woven a thousand beautiful associations and memories. The memories, you will say, will remain with us, be with us wherever we go; but they are not yet complete. This is only August. We have four months left to finish our year. Into those four months may be crowded much happiness, much simple, quiet joy, and the storehouse of our 'looking back' will be full to the brim and running over. Let us finish our year here—you and I and Amelia—and then——"
I turned away to hide my face.
"And then——?"
"Why then," I said softly, "I will do whatever is required of me."
He sat down beside me.
"Your will will always be mine, Marguerite."
YOUR WILL WILL ALWAYS BE MINE, MARGUERITE.
I shook my head.
"You and everybody will turn me into the most selfish creature that ever breathed if I let you have your way."
"And why not? There is not very much left to you now." His voice was a little bitter, and a shadow crept across his face.
"Hush!" I said. "I have nearly everything a girl could possibly want—husband, home, friends, and now riches. Why," I continued, trying to divert his thoughts, "why didn't you tell me your most important news on the day you returned home? Didn't you know?"
"Yes, I knew. The will was read after the funeral. I was going to tell you. I kept it as a bonne-bouche till the night fell, and then there was your news——"
He broke off and did not finish.
"Afterwards," he said a little later, "I waited till my right to the money was confirmed. My mother was inclined to dispute it. She was Aunt Letitia's only sister, and considered she had the first claim, though she had not been to see her for years. Yorkshire was too dull for her after the gaieties of London. Still, she seemed to think the money was hers by right." He slowly dissected a sweet-pea. "I hope never again to see such a look on any woman's face as was on my mother's when the will was being read. It was very ugly and—sad. Poor mother, she has missed the best things of life." He sighed deeply. Amelia's voice singing "I wouldn't leave my little wooden hut" came through the pantry window.
"She too is evidently of the same opinion as I," I said, smiling. "She doesn't want to leave."
"You are in collusion, that is quite clear. Two women are too much for any one man, especially when one of the women is an Amelia. We will stay here and see the old year out, Marg. Your wishes are but commands. What is your desire now, my princess—to be wheeled nearer the sweet-peas?" He stroked my cheek lovingly.
"Was there ever a husband like mine?" I asked myself. And aloud, "Go and tell Amelia to sing less loudly, and inquire of her the size in shoes she takes."
CHAPTER XX
PROFESSOR LEIGHRAIL PAYS US A CALL
The afternoon was waning, and Dimbie and I were beginning to wake up and trying to ignore the fact that Amelia was watching us through the ever useful point of vantage, the pantry window, when Professor Leighrail drifted through the gate, round the broom bush, and stood staring at the cottage.
That he hadn't seen us in the profound shade cast by the apple tree was evident from his not too polite remark addressed to the cottage—
"Worse than I imagined—an overgrown pest-house!"
We laughed aloud, and he walked to us with outstretched hands. His dress attracted my immediate attention, as it was a little unusual—black cloth trousers, white linen coat, large, badly-fitting, brown shoes with different coloured laces, and a top hat. The last he removed with a flourish, and his first observation seemed characteristic of the little I knew of him.
"Guessed I should find you like this, still playing at Romeo and Juliet, and you look," he put on a pair of spectacles, "you look, seated against that background of gnarled old branches, just as foolishly sentimental and happy as any young couple could look." He did not wait for any reply, but rattled on. "I found you without the slightest trouble. I knew I should."
"Pine Tree Valley is not a large—"
"Certainly not," he interrupted, "but had it been a town and not a village, I should have found you just as easily. I said to a villager—man in corduroys—'Where is the residence of a lady and gentleman who smile, who live on sunshine and walk on air?'"
"And did he understand you?" we asked, determined not to smile.
"Certainly, I spoke quite clearly. He reflected for a moment, scratched his head, and said, 'First turning to the right, One Tree Cottage.' 'That is correct,' I said. 'One Tree Cottage is the foolish and fantastic name they mentioned to me, now I come to think of it.' So you see here I am, and I must say that you and your cottage are worse than I anticipated."
"Worse!" Dimbie ejaculated.
"Yes, you and your wife are still at it, the love-making. I thought you would be getting over it by now. And your cottage—isn't it below the sea level? It looks to me as though it might have been built on drained marsh land, originally a swamp." He spoke in the same cheerful, detached manner as when he first scraped acquaintance with us in the wood.
"We are two hundred feet above the level of the sea," said Dimbie with as much pride as if he had had a hand in the manufacture of the earth's surface. "A valley does not necessarily mean below the sea level, as you must know."
The Professor laughed.
"But isn't it extremely damp and insanitary, covered over with that weed?"
"That weed is clematis."
"Oh!" said the Professor. "I should root it up, all the same."
"But Marg—my wife and I almost took the cottage on the strength of it."
"A foolish reason. Did you look into your drains, young man?"
"Amelia does that," I broke in. "You know she has a drain-bamboo."
"Of course, I remember. Very sensible of Amelia, most sensible. Where is she?"
"On the pantry table."
"A curious place to sit."
"She has the best view of us from there."
He smiled.
"I like servants to be interested in their master and mistress."
"She is very interested in us," I said.
"I should like to see this young person, and I should like to see your drains. Are they trapped?"
We both remained silent.
"I will have a look at them, if you don't mind."
Dimbie rose.
"No, I want Mrs. Smiling Face. Women ought to know more about the arrangements of their homes than men."
He offered me his hand.
I looked helplessly at Dimbie. It was so difficult to speak, to tell him. My voice still had an annoying habit of breaking when I was trying my hardest to refer to my—sorrow in a cheerful, careless fashion. The tears did not come, but—there was always the break. I would be telling Amelia she might have my waterproof, as I should never require it again. I would start quite bravely, then would come the catch. Will it always be so, I wonder? Shall I never become quite calm and indifferent? It is eleven days since Dimbie came home—a rich man—full of his good news. Eleven days he has spent with me, and never once have we spoken of the cross we are called upon to bear, for it is Dimbie's cross as much as mine. Are we wise to put it behind us thus? Should we not feel it less if we bravely discussed it? And yet it is my doing. It is I who willed it so, I who bade Dimbie never to speak of it, and now I am almost sorry. Somehow it seems as though the silence makes it harder to bear. Our skeleton becomes more of a skeleton. Perhaps if we were to discuss it freely, frankly, we should begin to regard it in the same way as one regards a smoky chimney—as tiresome, annoying, but bearable if the windows are kept open to let in the fresh air. Our windows left wide would let in a great deal of happiness—love, comradeship, the pleasure of friends, the interest of books, the everlasting joy of Nature. I must ask Dimbie what he thinks. Dimbie always knows what is right.
In a few brief words he explained to Professor Leighrail that I was a prisoner to my couch, and that he must conduct him to the house. The Professor started as though to offer me words of sympathy, and then stopped. Simply taking my hand in his he pressed it gently, and then followed Dimbie into the house.
"That was nice of him," I thought. "I wish Nanty was here that they might renew their old friendship. Perhaps they—but no," I laughed, "they are a little old, and—Nanty hates men."
Amelia bore down upon me with intense excitement.
"That gentleman has got his coat off, and he's poking about the drains with my bamboo."
"It just shows how prepared you were for any emergency, Amelia," I said sympathetically.
She looked at me out of the corner of her eye. I never knew anyone's eyes capable of turning back so far. "Like a halibut's," I murmured. They instantly became straight.
"What did you say, mum?"
"Nothing," I replied gently. "I sometimes think aloud."
"Yes," she said, in a tone which suggested she wished I wouldn't.
"Is he a sanitary inspector, mum?"
"Who?"
"The gentleman who's doin' the drains."
"No, certainly not. He's one of the greatest and cleverest men in England, and—he killed his mother."
Amelia looked incredulous.
"He'd have been hung if he'd done that, mum—hung by the neck till he was dead."
My servant is painfully dramatic on occasions.
"It was an accident," I hastened to explain. I was afraid she might lock the Professor in the cistern-room, or some other dark and unholy place. "He was driving an aerodrome. An aerodrome is——" but Amelia was not in the least interested in my explanation.
"What's he examining the drains for?"
"He is afraid we shall be down with typhoid."
Amelia jumped into the air and dropped with a thud on to her now decently flat-heeled shoes.
"Tompkinses' grandfather died of typhus."
"On the maternal side?" I asked affably.
She took no notice of my question.
"He lay for twelve weeks."
"Well, that was better than standing," I said. She resumed her halibut-eyed expression, and—left me.
Presently I heard her in strident-voiced conversation with the Professor. I could not hear what they said, but they appeared to be very much in earnest.
Dimbie came out smiling.
"One is seated on the back kitchen table, and the other is working away at the sink with the bamboo. It seems a nasty job, but they appear to be very happy."
"Which is doing the work?"
"Amelia. The Professor wanted to, but she snatched the implement from him."
"Well, are we to be down with typhoid, or is there any chance of our escaping?"
Dimbie sat down.
"He doesn't know yet, but he is hoping for the best. He's a queer old cock, but I like him immensely."
"So do I," I agreed. "I wish Nanty would come."
It very rarely happens that one's wishes are instantly granted, but in this particular case my fairy godmother was in a generous mood, for as I spoke Nanty's carriage drew up at the gate, and she swept down the path and across the lawn just as the Professor emerged from the house brandishing in his right hand the drain-bamboo.
Now that Nanty should, after a lapse of nearly thirty years, meet her old friend Professor Leighrail armed with a drain-bamboo would appear to be a situation very far removed from romance. But to me it seemed a most delightful and natural proceeding, for Nanty would no doubt remember that her one time lover was, to say the least of it, a little eccentric in his habits. And Professor Leighrail would equally remember that Nanty with her broad outlook on life was not easily shocked. Did I say "broad outlook"? I withdraw it, for Nanty with her hard and narrow views of the genus man is anything but broad in one respect. Even her more intimate knowledge of Dimbie has not converted her, and Peter pronounces her as "pig-headed."
Anyway, her meeting with the Professor left her quite calm and unruffled, while he, poor man, because he was a man, mopped his brow and dropped the bamboo on to the grass as though it had been a live snake.
I had omitted to tell Dimbie of their former relationship, and he now stood and stared at them in the same way that Amelia stares at me when I am gone, as she terms it, "a bit dotty."
Nanty dropped gracefully into a wicker basket-chair, and settled her mauve taffeta gown comfortably and elegantly. The Professor with his big shoes and linen coat cut a poor figure beside her.
"Nanty and Professor Leighrail used to know one another," I explained to Dimbie.
"It was a very long time ago, when we were young. I won't say how long, because the Professor might not like it," said Nanty calmly.
Here was an opening for the Professor to say something gallant, "That she was not altered in the least, that only he had grown old," but he did not take it. The Professor is not a party man. He stared at the bamboo and said nothing. Was he thinking of the days when Nanty stood to him for everything adorable in woman, or was he thinking of his lost Amabella? Can the woman you have married entirely efface your memory of the other woman you wished to marry? And Nanty. She had started and seemed distressed when I told her of the Professor's loneliness, of his unkempt appearance. She was downright cross when I mentioned his ballooning, she had said it was a dangerous game. She had also said she had been a fool not to marry him, and she supposed that he had grown very fond of Amabella. Now she sat sphinx-like, with a little smile on her lips and her hands folded on her lap. The Professor might have been a casual acquaintance she had met the day before. I longed for strength to get up and shake her.
Dimbie recognised that the Professor was in trouble. His embarrassment and awkwardness, not to mention silence, were only too evident. Manlike he came to the help of man. He plied him with questions about the drains. He did not understand why the Professor should be awkward and embarrassed, though vaguely he felt it had something to do with the presence of Nanty; but whatever the cause, he knew that the Professor required gentle assistance, and to give this assistance he must get him on one of his own pet subjects, either drains, over-eating, or balloons. He selected drains. He picked up the bamboo to attract the Professor's attention, and asked him how long he gave us.
"Give you?" said the Professor, looking a little dazed.
"Before we are down with typhoid." Dimbie was quite grave.
"Oh, that depends on how much or how little you flush your drains." The Professor was equally grave.
"What do you recommend us to use?"
"Condy's fluid, or any other good disinfectant." The Professor was now becoming interested.
"Chloride of lime is cheapest," chipped in Amelia excitedly. Under the pretext of rescuing her drain-bamboo she had joined the party, and when I tried to catch her eye to inform her that her services were not required her eye steadily refused to be caught.
"Quite right," said the Professor, "chloride of lime is the cheapest."
"Tompkinses always used it; their drains was always beautiful, that sweet and fresh you could have eaten your dinner in 'em."
Dimbie now tried to catch her eye, but she still wouldn't be caught.
"Amelia," I said gently.
She became deaf as well as blind.
"The Tompkinses set a good example which all householders might follow with great advantage to themselves. It is simply suicidal"—the Professor had now quite forgotten Nanty—"it is simply suicidal the manner in which they neglect their drains, ignore their drains. And their ignorance on drains is usually colossal, only exceeded by the ignorance and stupidity of the men who lay them. I quite expected to find your main drain running beneath your drawing-room.
"You almost seem disappointed that it isn't," I said.
He smiled.
"Do you know where it is?"
"No—o."
"Do you know where your gas-meter is?"
"We haven't one, we use lamps and candles."
"Ah, well, you wouldn't know if you had. Women never know these things." He spoke despondently.
"I am not overwhelmed at our ignorance," I said laughing. "I don't see why we should know. Surely the knowledge of gas and water is a man's business?"
"I do not agree with you at all." He spoke with extreme rapidity. "Women use them as much as men, they should therefore understand something of their working."
"Do you know where the pearl buttons for your flannel shirt are kept?" I asked quietly.
Dimbie suppressed a chuckle.
"I didn't know I used them."
"How do you suppose your shirt remains fastened? At the present moment the button on your left wrist-band is cracked across the centre. You must replace it with a new one on your return home."
The Professor laughed good-humouredly.
"You had me there," he said.
"They always have us," quoth Dimbie. "Haven't you found it so?"
The Professor stole a sly glance at Nanty.
"Not always," he said softly.
He was evidently recovering from his embarrassment by leaps and bounds.
A smile flickered across Nanty's lips. She did not return the look, but she unbent ever so little.
"What do you think of women, Professor? You have told us what you think about drains and creeper-covered cottages, let us have your opinion of the fair sex." Dimbie looked wicked. With unusual perspicacity he smelt a rat, and now he meant to run it to earth.
"What do I think of women! I—I—" (the Professor was now undoubtedly flurried) "I don't think anything of them."
"That is a little rude and unkind of you," I said.
"Eh, what?"
"That you should not think anything of them. Are they so very unworthy?"
The poor man looked worried.
"I—I think I must go now."
"No, don't go," I pleaded. "Do stay to supper. We do so want to hear your views upon women. We so often hear them upon men" (I glanced at Nanty) "that it will be quite refreshing to have a change."
"And—what are the views you hear upon men?" He also looked at Nanty.
"That they are all bad."
He laughed.
"And—I think women are all good," at which he bolted across the garden, called a good-bye, raised his hat, and disappeared through the gate.
"That is the thinnest man I have ever seen," said Nanty somewhat unromantically.
"I don't think he gets enough to eat."
She started.
"Housekeepers are poor sort of creatures—selfish, thoughtless, heartless," I generalised, not having known one.
Nanty looked at the sweet-peas.
"I am sure he is often hungry."
She started again, and getting up from her seat walked across the lawn and back to me.
"Where does he live?" she asked abruptly.
"The Grey House, Esher. Why do you want to know?"
"Oh—just curiosity."
"Perhaps you might ask him to tea?" I suggested.
"I don't ask men to tea," she said crossly, picking up a newspaper and beginning to read.
"Visitors don't usually read."
"Humph!"
"While you read I'll think," and I fell into a reverie, weaving many pleasant fancies, in which, strange to say, Nanty and the Professor were always the central figures.
By and by she looked up.
"Of what are you thinking and smiling?"
"Of—marriage and love."
"A foolish thought, and you cannot put the two together."
"No?"
"No!" said Nanty decisively.
CHAPTER XXI
JANE FAIRBROTHER'S IMPENDING VISIT
"All's right with the world." The long-looked-for letter from Miss Fairbrother has arrived, and she is coming to stay with us. I read out the good news to Dimbie exultantly and most happily:—
"'LITTLE OLD PUPIL,—Shall I be glad to come to you? Why my pulses quicken at the very thought, and my heart sings when I contemplate the quiet joy of sitting in an English garden—a little green garden under an apple tree with Marguerite Westover. Kipling says: "O the oont, O the oont, O the Gawd-forsaken oont!" But I cry, "O the heat, O the heat, O the hellish, burning heat!" and I conjure up before my sun-tired eyes a vision of wondrous golden cornfields, ripening blackberries, leaves turning to crimson and russet, dewy, hazy mornings and over all the soft, mellow September sunshine—for it will be September, that sweetest of English months, when I arrive.
"'Everything I have to say to you must wait till I am at One Tree Cottage. Of your accident and suffering I cannot write, but you will know—knowing me a little—what I feel for you. But take heart. Twelve months will not pass quickly at your age. Time tarries only for the young it would seem, when for the old—who would have it linger—it flies all too quickly. But the months will pass. Think, Marguerite, if it had been for life!' (This I did not read to Dimbie, I feared my voice, for it still breaks.) 'As it is, you will get stronger each month. And then a day will come when I shall take you for your first walk, if I am anywhere near you, through the stately pine trees you loved so much as a child. Do you still love them? But, ah, I forgot—Mr. Dimbie will be there to take you. There will always be a husband now, tiresome man! Forgive me, but I want to step back to the dear old days when I had my little pupil all to myself.
"Till the fifteenth of September good-bye. I shall, on reaching London, travel straight to Pine Tree Valley. It is so good of you to ask me, and much gooder of your husband.
"'Always your affectionate,
"'JANE FAIRBROTHER.'"
I smiled up at Dimbie, who was leaning over me, but there was no response. On his face there was an expression I had never seen before. He avoided my eyes and walked across to the window.
"She seems a silly, sentimental woman," he pronounced curtly. "I can't bear people who gush." And he marched out of the room and shut the door with a bang.
For a moment I wondered whatever was the matter. Then it dawned upon me that he was jealous, and I laughed softly to myself. "Dear Dimbie, goose, that you should be jealous of anyone, when I'm—I'm—no use now, makes me absurdly happy, ridiculously puffed up with pride and——"
Dimbie was back.
"Will that woman have meals with us?"
"Where else could she have them?" I asked.
"Couldn't she have them in the kitchen with Amelia?"
"With Amelia? Miss Fairbrother is the daughter of——"
"I don't care if she is the daughter of an archbishop," he interrupted with extreme gloom. "I am not going to have her always messing round."
"She won't mess round. Miss Fairbrother is not that sort of person."
"You are prejudiced. You see her through the rose-coloured spectacles of time. It is eight years since you met. Probably she has degenerated into a prig." He threw himself on to the bottom of the bed.
"Should I be mistaken in my estimation of Miss Fairbrother, and she prove to be a prig, she shall leave within a week. I promise you that."
"How are you going to get rid of her?" He spoke eagerly.
"Why, I do believe you hope she will be one."
"Oh, I don't say that!"
"But you'll want her to go all the same?"
"Yes," he returned brazenly, "I shall. She'll go and spoil everything, I know. I was a fool to suggest her coming; but you seemed such dead nuts on her. Our pleasant afternoons in the garden will be spoiled. All our jolly talks and reading aloud and suppers under the apple tree will be at an end——"
"But she can have talks and supper under the apple tree with us. There'll be plenty of room for three," I interrupted.
"And that's just what there won't be. I'll see to that," almost shouted Dimbie in a manner very similar to Peter, I am ashamed to say.
"Are you going to be rude to Miss Fairbrother?"
"Yes, very rude."
"Very well, then, I'll cable to stop her."
"Where are you going to cable—she sailed more than a month ago—why she'll be here this week!" springing up.
"Of course," I returned. "Have you only just found that out? Amelia is already airing the best drawn-thread linen sheets."
"Then what did you mean by saying you'd cable?"
"I meant I would wire on her arrival."
"But she said she was coming straight here. You can't wire." He groaned. "Oh, Marg, Marg, what shall we do?"
"Do?" I cried impatiently. "You talk as though Miss Fairbrother were a perfect gorgon, instead of the sweetest and best woman in the world."
"That's just it." He wiped his forehead. "I don't like best women; I like 'em ordinary. In fact, I don't like them at all—no one but you."
"That is exactly the way Peter talks."
"I don't care. There are worse people in the world than Peter. Look what we're going to have planked on to us for weeks—months even."
"Hand me my desk!" I commanded in a patient voice.
"What do you want it for?"
"To write a telegram form for Amelia to take at once. It will be given to Miss Fairbrother on the boat when it arrives, I should imagine. Anyway, I will try it. She must be stopped from coming at any price."
"It's no good wiring till the boat is due."
"I don't know when it is due. Please pass me my desk."
"We'd better go through with it."
"Hand me my desk."
"Shan't! Let the infernal woman come and be done with it!"
With which exceedingly ungallant remark my husband again stumped out of the room, and again I lay and laughed and kissed the ugliest photo' of him in my possession, for which I have an unaccountable liking.
And so to-day I have lived more or less under a cloud—a cloud in the shape of a lowering frown on Dimbie's face. But I care not. I know most assuredly that it will disappear as Jane Fairbrother walks through the gate. He will like Miss Fairbrother, or Jane, as I always think of her now. He will not be able to help it. And into our days Jane will bring outside interests, a fresh, breezy atmosphere, new thoughts, new ideas, which I know will be good for both of us. Most fearful am I of becoming a self-centred invalid, thinking of myself only, of my ailments, of my weariness, of my sometimes suffering.
And if I am afraid for myself, still more desperately afraid am I of the invalid atmosphere for Dimbie. "It is not natural," my heart cries out, "that a man young and strong should be the silent witness of everlasting helplessness and weariness." When I am pretty well and able to be interested in all that goes on around me, and can smile and be happy, it matters not for him; but, oh, the days when I am too tired to do anything but lie with my eyes closed! And the nights, the long, long nights, when I am too restless to do anything but keep them wide open; when my head tosses and moves restlessly from one side of the pillow to the other, and when I long with an unspeakable longing to be able to move my helpless body in unison! That is not good for Dimbie to see; it cannot be good. He will stretch out strong, cool hands and gently lift me on to my side, or turn my pillow, or hold a cooling drink to my thirsty lips. He will speak cheerfully, he will even try to find a joking word; but, oh, the heartache that must be his, the weary heartache! And some day—as yet perhaps the burden is not too heavy, the yoke not too galling, because out of his great love for me he has learnt a great patience; but will not the day come when the burden will be too heavy, when he will falter or faint by the wayside? "O God, take me before that," I whisper out of the darkness, "take me before he gets tired of me!"
And so I look for the coming of Jane with a great thankfulness. The days in the garden, which I have feared will become long and monotonous to Dimbie, will be shared by one who, as I remember her with her vivid personality, was always engaging and interesting. I have searched the papers for the shipping intelligence, and for the date upon which the good steamship Irrawaddy is due. I have looked up every possible train by which she could come down to Pine Tree Valley. The spare room, Amelia tells me, is fit for the habitation of the Queen of England. And it is a pretty room, with its Indian matting floor coverings, soft green walls and rugs, wide, old-fashioned windows through which a white rose peeps, and airy, silken casement curtains. It seems a long time since I was in that room. Some day, perhaps, if I should get stronger, I will persuade Dimbie and Amelia to carry me upstairs, and it will be like exploring a long-forgotten country. That Amelia has flattened every piece of furniture (as much as you can flatten washstands and wardrobes) against the walls I feel pretty certain. She objects to corners and pretty angles disturbing her visual horizon. She likes furniture to be neat and orderly and placed like soldiers in a row. She looks at my bed, which I insist upon having in the window, and sighs heavily. I can see her fingers itching to bang me up against the wall. She suggests that I shall feel draughts and get a stiff neck, be bitten by earwigs taking a walk from the clematis which endeavours to climb through the window, be sun-struck in the morning, moon-struck at night, and be blown out of bed by the first gale which comes along. To all of which I say, "I don't care, Amelia"; and she, figuratively speaking, washes her hands of me, as sensible people do wash their hands of silly, contrary creatures who won't listen to reason.
Amelia really is no more pleased at the prospect of Jane's visit than Dimbie, although she has so thoroughly cleansed the spare room. She talks to me in this strain—
"Miss Fairbrother's not going to dress you, mum?"
"Of course not."
"And she won't be wanting to order the dinners?"
"I am sure she won't. Besides," with a sly smile, "I thought I ordered the dinners."
Amelia considered this, and with the wisdom of a diplomatist said—
"Of course you do, mum."
"I thought so," I agreed.
Amelia looked at me—one of the halibut looks—and continued, "And I won't have her messing about the kitchen." Had she overheard Dimbie's remark?
"Miss Fairbrother would not dream of messing about the kitchen. Miss Fairbrother is not used to kitchens and flue-brushes and 'sweetening' ovens with lime."
"Oh, of course, if she's a grand lady!" Amelia's nose tilted in the air.
"She's not a grand lady; but her work in life has lain in channels otherwise than kitchens. She teaches, she used to teach me."
"Oh——!"
I took up the paper.
"She can't know much, then!"
Now I am sure Amelia had no intention of being in the least rude.
"That depends upon what you mean by much," I said.
She began to walk away.
Unaccountably I yearned to know her definition of knowledge.
"What do you think constitutes 'knowing much'?"
She looked at me without understanding.
"What do you mean by saying Miss Fairbrother won't know much?"
"Well, she won't."
"Granted that," I was becoming impatient, "but what sort of things won't she know?"
"She'll know nothing useful."
"Amelia," I said despairingly, "if anyone can walk round and round a circle you can."
She batted her eyes and regarded the ceiling in complete vacancy.
Once again I tried.
"Will you tell me the things you consider not useful?"
"Lessons and maps and 'broidery work."
"Maps?"
"We was made to do maps in Mile End Road."
"What sort of maps?"
"Heurope in red paint."
"Don't you mean the British possessions?"
"That was it—America and——"
"But America doesn't belong to us," I interrupted.
She closed her eyes in intense boredom, but I was not to be snubbed.
"What do you call useful?"
"Gettin' bailiffs out of a house when they thinks they's settled in."
"Oh!" I said.
"I've got two lots out."
"Was it at the Tompkinses'?" I whispered.
"Tompkinses was as respectable as you, mum," she said, mildly indignant.
"Oh, I beg your—I mean the Tompkinses' pardon."
"They had salmon—lots of it."
"The bailiffs?" I knew I had been stupid the moment the words were uttered, but it was too late.
"I'm speaking of Tompkinses, mum."
"Of course you are."
"Why did you say bailiffs then?"
"A slip of the tongue."
Amelia with her eyes dared me to any more "slips."
"The Tompkinses had salmon twice a week and manase once."
"Did it agree with them?"
"Of course it did. We might afford salmon a bit oftener now as we's rich before it goes out."
"Goes out where?"
"Goes out of season, of course," and this time she left my presence with a most distinct snort.
Human nature is very much alike. Dimbie is cross about Miss Fairbrother's coming because he thinks his nose with its dear crook will be put farther out of joint. Amelia is cross because she thinks her nose will be put out of joint. And I am sufficiently human and feminine to derive considerable joy and satisfaction from their anxiety about the putting out of their said noses.
CHAPTER XXII
A LITERARY LADY HONOURS ME WITH A VISIT
On several different occasions of late has Amelia had the pleasure of reaching out the best china to a shrill accompaniment of "Now we shan't be long," for the few select residents of Pine Tree Valley have begun to call. Six months have elapsed since we came to live here. Now it will not look like "rushing at us." Most of them are kindly, amiable, well-meaning matrons, who seem sincerely sorry for me, who have sent me books and magazines, and who take an unfeigned interest in Amelia, her management, and her singing. "At any rate, she has nice, respectable shoes now," I say to myself with secret satisfaction. And she is enjoying the callers; she feels we are getting on. She has hinted at an "at home" day; she says I must buy Japanese paper serviettes to lay on the ladies' laps; and that rolled bread and butter is more correct than flat, every-day bread and butter.
Of all my visitors only two stand out in my memory with any distinctness: Mr. Brook, the vicar of the parish, because he was a man, and Mrs. Winderby, because she was literary.
As Mr. Brook walked through the gate Amelia simultaneously flew out of the front door, and put my slippers on to my feet with a smart action, rescued the tortoise, and generally put me in order. On reflection, I have decided that Amelia must take up her position at the pantry window each afternoon to lie in wait for callers.
Mr. Brook's eyes twinkled as he watched Amelia's efforts, and I liked him for the twinkle.
I remember more of Mrs. Winderby's conversation than I do of that of Mr. Brook, for the latter was not literary or nervous, or highly strung or jumpy, he was just a plain clergyman. I don't mean plain-looking, but a man without frills or nonsense, a kindly, breezy, broad-minded Christian gentleman with a clean-shaven face and a cultured voice. He was apologetic for having been so long in calling, he had been more or less ill for some months, and his wife did not make calls without him; she was at the seaside just now enjoying a well-earned rest. He was extremely sorry to hear of my illness; he hoped I should soon be better; he had seen my husband at church; and he consumed two muffins and four cucumber sandwiches with his tea.
Tennyson's bad and unpoetical line in which he burlesqued Wordsworth jumped into my mind: "A Mr. Wilkinson, a clerygman." That, I thought, exactly described Mr. Brook; but I felt he would be a good friend to those who were down on their luck.
I cannot dismiss Mrs. Winderby thus briefly, for she still keeps edging into my thoughts in exactly the same way as Amelia used to edge.
Mrs. Winderby wore, as Amelia describes it, a bed-gown, and her words were well chosen, for it was a bed-gown. The bed-gown was fashioned of green velvet cut in a low square at the throat. It was supposed to hang in full, graceful folds, but it didn't do any thing of the kind, for Mrs. Winderby was of rounded, uncorseted, somewhat stout proportions, so the poor bed-gown was tight and strained. Around Mrs. Winderby's throat was a string of amber beads; and her hair, which was red and towsly, was surmounted by a green, untidy, floppy, Liberty hat.
She sank on to the low wicker chair, and said—
"I have simply ached to know you ever since you came to Pine Tree Valley."
"Oh!" I returned, unable to keep the surprise out of my voice.
"Of course, I know you have been here some time; but, you see, I am always so frantically busy."
"Are people ever busy here?" I asked.
"If they like to be," she pronounced; "it depends on the people. People who have resources of their own are always busy. You have resources." She pointed her parasol at me.
"Oh, have I?" I said, surprised.
"For you have a temperament."
Now I knew I had a temperature, but I didn't exactly know what she meant by the other thing; so I just laughed carelessly. Had she said, "You are of a sanguine or pessimistic temperament," I should have quite understood; but to say in that decided manner, "You have a temperament," simply nonplussed me. And as she evidently knew more about it than I, I didn't contradict her.
"I can see it in the colour of your gown, in the books on your table—dear, darling Omar—in the way you dress your hair."
She trod on Jumbles as she spoke. Involuntarily I put my hand to my head, but it felt all right.
"And this is such a sweet garden. You live the simple life, I suppose?"
"I live the life of an invalid," I replied; "it is bound to be simple."
"Of course, of course. I was told that you were a sufferer—most distressing."
She spoke hurriedly, as though anxious to get away from a painful subject. Did she think that I should dilate on my affliction to her? God forbid!
"I had been so hoping that you would have been one of us."
I looked at her, puzzled.
"That you and your husband would have been kindred spirits. I thought I saw your husband as I came through the gate?"
"Yes, that was my husband," I said steadily.
She looked about the garden, as though Dimbie were concealed behind the sweet-pea hedge or hidden among the rhubarb, and I had difficulty in suppressing my laughter.
"Even if you are a prisoner—poor thing—perhaps your husband would join our little coterie. What is his bent? What line does he take?"
Her conversation was mysterious, but here was a plain, simple question easily understood.
"The South-Western he used to take," I said; "but now——"
She eyed me a little coldly.
"I was not referring to railway lines," she interrupted. "I meant in what movement, art, thought, work, is he specially interested?"
"Oh," I said in confusion, "I beg your pardon. I don't think there is anything very special. My husband is rather a lazy man. He enjoys walking, and, oh," I added with inspiration, "he likes gardening."
"Gardening has been overdone," she said firmly. "Charming subject, communing with Nature and all that sort of thing; but we have had Elizabeth, Alfred Austin, Mrs. Earle, Dean Hole, and a host of others."
"My husband does not commune with Nature, he kills slugs," I retorted. "Besides, none of the people you have mentioned have gardened for us. Elizabeth may fall into ecstasies of astonishment at the unique sight of a crocus in bloom in February, Alfred Austin may converse most charmingly with his verbenas and lavender, but they don't know where Dimbie has planted our celery."
She made a gesture of impatience.
"You don't seem to understand me, but I will endeavour to explain. You see, a few of us here have formed ourselves into a little band of——"
"Musicians," I said pleasantly. I was listening to Amelia's rendering of "Now we shan't be long," and had not quite followed the gist of Mrs. Winderby's conversation.
"I was not going to say 'musicians,'" she contradicted, "though musical people are members of our club. We are literary—I am literary" (a pause)—"artistic, scientific. We have formed ourselves into a club, and meet at each other's houses once a week."
"It sounds most interesting and improving," I observed. "I know a scientific man. He invented an aerodrome which killed his mother, and he goes about in a balloon, and——"
"We only have gentlemen in our club."
"But he is a gentleman. He is the great——"
She leaned forward and stared at me intently.
"What's the matter?" I asked, "an insect crawling over me?"
"More than that."
"More than that!" I cried, nervously clutching at my gown. "Is it a wasp?"