"Don't get excited." she murmured, leaning still farther towards me. "It is most interesting. You have a cleft under your nose between your two nostrils; it denotes extraordinary artistic sensibility."
"Oh, no," I said, "you are mistaken. That mark is the result of falling against a sharp-edged fender as a child. I thought it was practically imperceptible. My husband calls it a dimple. I am afraid I am not artistic in the sense you mean. My husband and I are not very interesting. We are just every-day, ordinary people."
"And you are all the happier for that," she said, lifting the hair from her forehead as if it were too heavy. "You ordinary people, as you call yourselves, have the pull over us nervous, highly-strung, thinking mortals. Oh, the thoughts that burn in my brain! Sometimes I lie with my face pressed to dear mother earth—I put my lips to the grass, I murmur to her, I become one with her, and she soothes and comforts me as a mother soothes a tired child."
Involuntarily I pictured Mr. Winderby finding his rather portly spouse in her green velvet bed-gown rolling on the ground, and I smiled. I pretended that I was smiling at Amelia, who appeared with an advance guard of Japanese serviettes, but Mrs. Winderby detected my deceit. She frowned and rose.
At once I felt conscience-stricken. Mrs. Winderby was trying to entertain me, she had taken me into her confidence, and here was I, a supercilious invalid, laughing at her. I felt really sorry.
"Don't go, Mrs. Winderby," I said pleadingly. "Tea is coming, and I should like you to meet my husband."
"Master's in the cock-loft," said Amelia, carrying the three-decker cake-stand and placing it in front of Mrs. Winderby.
"In the where?" I asked.
"In the cock-loft."
"Wherever's that?"
"The cistern-room. He's doin' photigraphs in the dark."
Now I felt that Dimbie was acting very basely. He had seen Mrs. Winderby coming through the gate. He had rapidly taken his bearings, and was now in hiding in a cock-loft.
"Will you tell the master tea is ready, and that I am anxious to introduce him to Mrs. Winderby," I said to Amelia.
"Yes, mum."
Mrs. Winderby sat down again appeased. She graciously accepted a cup of tea, which she said must be just milk and water on account of her nerves, and she skilfully brought round the conversation to a man with a name which sounded like a sneeze, whom I knew nothing about. She talked of him, quoted him, raved about him. "He was a dear, naughty philosopher, and his philosophy drove him mad," she finished, and I covertly made a note on the fly-leaf of a book which lay beside me: "Niet or Ntiez, man who went mad." I intended looking him up in the encyclopædia. Mrs. Winderby might call and talk of this sneezy philosopher again, and I must know something about him.
She detected me in my note-making.
"What are you doing?" she inquired.
"I was only jotting something down."
"Your commonplace book? I presume. Was it something I said? My friends do put down bits of my conversation ready for copy."
She smoothed out her velvet gown with a plump, white hand.
"Copy books?" I murmured.
"Certainly not," she retorted snappily. "Copy means matter for books—anything interesting or amusing, that you hear and see. Have you not met any literary people?"
"No," I returned humbly. "But Amelia—Amelia is my maid—knew a poet in her last place; he visited the Tompkinses."
"How interesting! I wonder if she remembers his name, and what he was like."
"I know what he was like," I said, delighted to have interested her. "Amelia described him to me. He was like a garden leek that had been boiled without soda—yellowish looking I suppose she meant. And a great friend of mine once knew an authoress—a fifth edition, Marie Corelli sort of writer—whose head was like a mangel-wurzel."
I began to feel more on an equality with Mrs. Winderby. Nanty's and Amelia's reflected glory was raising my spirits.
"I am afraid I don't understand you," my visitor said.
"Oh, because it was so——" I stopped abruptly.
Suddenly I remembered that Mrs. Winderby was literary.
She looked at me coldly, she did not help me. She saw my agitation, she watched the beads rise on my forehead, and the only word I could think of was "swelled." I could not say swelled—it was impossible to say swelled. I hugged the tortoise, and my slippers fell off.
"I am afraid I don't understand. I cannot see the connection between a mangel-wurzel and a successful author," she repeated.
"Why because," I laughed feebly, "I—I—they——" And Dimbie appeared from the cock-loft and saved me.
"Because they are both so nice," he said affably, offering a hand to Mrs. Winderby and drawing up a chair close to hers.
The situation was saved. Dimbie was covered with cobwebs. His hands were dirty, but his manners were irresistible; and that Mrs. Winderby fell in love with him straight away gave me no qualms of jealousy.
"It is so kind of you to come and call upon my wife," he was saying. "She is delighted to see any of the residents of Pine Tree Valley."
Oh, Dimbie, Dimbie!
Mrs. Winderby gracefully crossed one velvet-clad leg over the other. She was prepared to prolong her visit indefinitely now that Dimbie had appeared. Jumbles, giving her foot a wide berth, crept on to the couch and snuggled down beside me.
"I have been telling Mrs. Westover how much I had been hoping that you would have been one of us. We are wanting new members."
"Oh!" said Dimbie politely.
"We call ourselves the Sesameites."
It sounded so like a tribe of Israel that I wanted to laugh, but Dimbie's face checked me.
"We are a little club for self-improvement. We exchange views, opinions, thoughts. We help each other like the——"
"Buffaloes," came a voice from the neighbourhood of the couch, but it was certainly not mine. It belonged to Amelia, who stood behind me regarding Mrs. Winderby with parted lips.
"Amelia!" I said.
"Amelia!" echoed Dimbie.
"My brother's a buffalo," she said defiantly, while turning a little red. "I though p'r'aps he belonged to the same club as this lady, as she says it's to help one another. You put in so much money a week, and then when you's ill you——"
"That will do," I said when I could get a word in. "You can remove the tray."
She walked unwillingly to the house, and we turned apologetically to our guest.
"You were saying?" said Dimbie.
"I am afraid I have lost the thread," she returned gloomily.
"Perhaps it will come to you," he said hopefully. "You were talking about the Simeonites."
"Sesameites," she corrected.
I pinched the tortoise quietly under the sofa blanket.
"Oh, yes, a sort of debating and literary society?"
"Exactly. I started it. It was uphill work at first, but I persevered. And now we have an extremely interesting number of members. Some of them are quite celebrities; for instance, it was I who wrote Winged White Moths."
"Really?" said Dimbie.
"Yes," she said, dropping her eyelids. "It took a great deal out of me—I felt it all so intensely. I was quite exhausted when I had finished."
"How many editions?" I asked pleasantly.
She did not reply, perhaps she did not hear me, anyway she did not reply. She drew on her gloves and said "Good-bye." Dimbie conducted her to the gate. I could hear him entreating her to come again, and she sounded a little more cheerful as she went away.
When he came back he threw himself into a chair and frowned at me. I returned it with an engaging smile, but he continued to frown.
"It doesn't suit you because of your dear crooks," I said.
"We shall never have any friends, Marg, if you behave like——"
"Do you want friends like that?" I interposed.
"I don't, but I'm thinking of you."
"Well, don't," I said. "I don't want any friends like Mrs. Winderby. I like clever, really clever people, because they are usually unaffected and quite simple, and can be interested in you and your doings as well as in their own. But Mrs. Winderby is artificial, and she poses. I don't like people who pose. I would infinitely prefer unclever, natural women than posy ones. Wouldn't you?"
"She was a bit of an affected ass, certainly."
"Some of the women who have called are very nice—not violently interesting any more than I am, but just kind and simple and straightforward. I like to know them, but I don't want to know Mrs. Winderby."
"And you shan't," said Dimbie, lighting his pipe. "The next time she comes I'll throw her out of the gate if you like."
"Dear Dimbie," I said, "one of your most engaging qualities is that you so often see things from my point of view. Now some husbands would have forced their wives to know that woman."
He laughed, then a tender expression crept into his face.
"You see, you are not like most wives."
"I am not able to run away from disagreeable people, you mean?"
"No, I did not mean that." A shadow now superseded the tenderness. "I meant that you were so much more reasonable in your wishes than most women."
I blew him a kiss.
"Dimbie, you are prejudiced. What about my selfishness in insisting upon remaining here when you are aching to spend your money upon some large establishment. You are penned in, I know. When I think that if we were away from here you might get some shooting, riding, golf this autumn, I am ashamed of my own selfishness. But—it won't be for long, that comforts me a little. Not for very long now."
"And then you are willing to go?" he said eagerly, kneeling at the side of my couch.
"And then I shall be ready to go," I said gently, hiding my face on his breast.
"Dear sweetheart!" he murmured, kissing my hair.
"Dear God," I said in my heart, "once again I thank thee for Dimbie!"
CHAPTER XXIII
I SURPRISE DOCTOR RENTON'S SECRET
Very blind, very dense, and downright stupid have I been; and being of the gender called feminine, and presumably supposed to possess the gift of scenting a love affair of even the most embryo growth, I am all the more annoyed at my own density.
Besides, Dr. Renton helped me. The scent was hot. He mentioned India; he said she had lived at Dorking, or am I imagining he said that? Anyway, the trail was good, and it was only at five o'clock this afternoon that I discovered that my medical adviser, Dr. Renton, has been in love with my old governess, Jane Fairbrother, for over ten years.
And my discovery was only made by accident. Had I been staring at Dimbie, as is my customary fashion, instead of at Dr. Renton, when I announced from the open telegram in my hand that Jane would arrive on the morrow, I should not have seen the red colour dye the Doctor's bronzed cheeks, and I should still be wondering most probably who was his long-loved and long-lost woman.
"Oh!" I said, blinded for the moment by my sudden illumination. "Oh!"
Our eyes met. He smiled, and I knew that he understood.
"Yes," he said, nodding quietly.
Dimbie was balancing a piece of cake on Jumble's nose.
"I'm so glad."
"Thank you," he said simply.
"What are you glad about?" asked Dimbie, looking around.
"That the sun is coming out for Jane and Dr. Renton after the long, long gloom."
Dimbie gazed at me.
"I don't see why you should be specially glad for them. I think we require the sun much more than they, as we are lazy people who lie about and do nothing. Besides, it has only been dull for three or four days. You can't expect this wonderful summer to go on forever. You've become exacting, captious."
"It has been more or less dull for eight years," I remarked sententiously; and Dimbie, after again staring at me, returned to Jumbles, as though cats were easier to understand than women.
The Doctor and I smiled.
"I should wear grey flannel and a soft, grey hat—grey goes so well with hair of the same colour," I observed.
"It's not very bad," he protested, putting his hand to his hair.
"Pretty bad," I laughed; "there's a little brown left, but it's mostly tinged with grey."
"And my tie?" he asked, with a funny and almost resigned expression upon his face.
I put my head on one side to consider.
"Lavender would be—too bridal. I think grey or black and white."
"Whatever are you two talking about?" asked Dimbie.
"Colours. We were just considering what would best suit a man with iron-grey hair."
"But I'm not grey," said Dimbie.
"No, dear."
"Well, what do you mean?"
"I was just considering another man for the moment. Another man's appearance for an occasion on which he is anxious to look unusually well and young."
"He must be a conceited ass!" quoth Dimbie, getting up and strolling after Jumbles, who with arched back and stately tread marched away, refusing to be turned into a common performing clown at any man's bidding.
We laughed outright.
"May I—may I talk to you about it?" I asked.
He nodded.
"When would you like to see her?"
"To-morrow evening if you'll let me."
I considered this.
"Say the day after."
"Why?"
"Because if—if she says 'Yes' she'll cease to take any further interest in me. I've grown selfish, and I should so like to have her all to myself for the first evening."
"Very well," he agreed somewhat grudgingly.
"You see, after waiting for eight years one day——"
"Will seem longer than the whole lot put together," he said despondently.
"Well, come late to-morrow night, after supper."
"No, I'll try to hold out." He smiled a little. "If she—well, if she refuses me, I shall have had all the longer blissful looking forward to meeting her again. And if she should say 'No' it will serve me right."
"I somehow don't think she'll refuse you, though, as you say, it would certainly serve you right."
"Yes, I know it would." In his eyes lay an anxious, almost wistful look, which touched me. His rugged face had softened to a semblance of youth, his voice was less gruff.
"Women don't forget easily. If she ever cared for you——" I began.
Dimbie was returning.
"Dimbie," I called, "you might climb over into the frog-pond field and bring me some marguerites."
"Aren't they over?"
"If they are bring me some loosestrife and, scabious and anything you can find. I long for some wild-flowers."
Lazily he threw a leg over the fence and disappeared.
"He'll be away some time now. Dimbie never does anything quickly; he is slow and thorough, and he will endeavour to find the largest daisies in the field."
"I suppose when I—if I were ever married my wife"—he stumbled over the words—"might ask me to pick daisies for her?"
"Perhaps. But a great deal depends upon the man. I cannot imagine my father picking flowers for mother; he would more likely throw them at her."
Dr. Renton smiled. He had known Peter as long as I.
"I wonder whether you will find Miss Fairbrother much changed? She is eight years older, you know."
"Of course," he said placidly.
"Women age as well as men."
"Naturally."
"You don't care?"
"How do you mean?"
"You don't mind if she looks older?"
"Certainly not. No man wants his wife to look old, but if she does he loves her none the less. I have not been married, but I know this is so. I have seen the most beautiful affection between quite old men and women. It is not passion, but a love that has been tried in the fire and emerged triumphant."
I gave a sigh of relief.
"Besides, I know Jane's is a face that will have become more beautiful with the years."
"Why?"
"You will remember that her mouth was firm, almost hard? Her clear eyes honest, but almost defiant?"
I shook my head.
"Well, they were. Perhaps I studied her features more carefully than you."
"Possibly," I said, a little dryly.
"She had had to fight her own battles. She had had to stand up for herself against the world. Her childhood had been sad—an invalid mother, a drunken father——"
"No?" I said.
"Yes. Once she told me all about it. We were alone, and she gave me her confidence. And—I was fool enough to let that moment pass, though every bit of my being cried out to me to speak to her, tell of my love. But I thought she wasn't ready, and then she went away. But, as I was saying, I know she will be more beautiful now, Hers was a large nature. The years will have brought her a tenderness and sympathy which will have written themselves on the lines of her face. Some lined faces, with their experience, are infinitely more attractive than the fresh, smooth faces of youth. Don't you think so?"
I nodded. For the first time in my life I was learning that the Doctor had another side to his character. He had thrown aside his cloak of reserve, his professional manner, and I feared lest a chance word of mine might cause him to withdraw into his shell.
"In some faces you will see written the history of their owners' lives, dispositions, characters, if you look carefully. Note the little lines around the eyes that star away in all directions. They mean that the person who possesses them has smiled much, laughed at misfortune, helped the world to be the brighter and better for his or her presence. I expect to see those lines around Jane's eyes, and if they are not there I shall almost be disappointed."
He fell into a reverie, and I looked at him thoughtfully. He would make Jane very happy. "Oh, I hope she'll have him, I hope she'll have him!" I whispered again and again to myself.
Dimbie appeared over the fence.
"Will those do?" he asked, putting into my hand an enormous bunch of wild-flowers.
I buried my face in their fresh sweetness.
"We will put them in Jane's room; she loves flowers."
"You will not put them in Jane's room," contradicted Dimbie crossly. "I don't gather flowers for every strange woman from India, please understand that, Marguerite."
Dr. Renton looked up in surprise.
"Yes, I have to speak like that. Marguerite will make a perfect fool of Miss Fairbrother if I let her have her way. It's Miss Fairbrother this and Miss Fairbrother that. I'm sick of the very name of the woman. I'll take jolly good care that she is out of this house in less than a fortnight. Marguerite asked her for an indefinite period, but it happens to be very definite in my mind." With which he flung himself across the lawn and into the house.
The Doctor opened his mouth.
"Don't take any notice," I said quickly, for I knew Dimbie was watching us through the drawing-room window, "it's only jealousy, nothing more; he'll be all right when she comes."
"I'll marry her at once," the Doctor pronounced, getting up from his chair.
"You forget that she may not accept you."
He blushed a little.
"Good-bye," he said gruffly.
"Good-bye," I laughed; "but you might tell me before you go whether you think I am any better or worse. You'll remember you came over to see me—perhaps?"
He couldn't help laughing too.
"I'm awfully sorry. You see, the telegram came just after my arrival."
"You needn't be, there's nothing fresh to report."
"Still tired?" he asked very gently.
"Still tired and waiting for a fresh breeze to blow. I think I shall be better then, Doctor."
"God grant that it may be so." He raised my hand to his lips. "You are a staunch friend, Marguerite."
"Take care," I said, my eyes suddenly filling, "Dimbie is watching, and he is in a bit of a temper. You will be coming on Thursday, and good luck to you."
When he had driven away Dimbie sauntered across the grass.
"What is that man kissing you for?"
"Dimbie," I said, "you are too comical for words, and I will return your question with another. What is the matter with you?"
"I don't know." He lay down on the grass and leaned his head against my couch. "I'm cross, I think, Marg."
"Yes," I returned, running my fingers through his wavy hair, "you're very cross. How long do you think you will continue to be so?"
"Till Miss Fairbrother has gone. Marg, I don't want to be a surly beast, but, oh, I do wish I had never consented to that Indian woman's coming."
"If I tell you something will you promise to keep it secret—either till the day after to-morrow, Thursday, or forever?"
"There's rather a wide difference between the two periods of time."
"Yes, but there is a reason for it. Will you promise?"
"All right."
"I mean a faithful promise. You have a rather trying habit of slipping things out. This must be an on-my-oath promise."
"On-my-oath, world-without-end promise," repeated Dimbie.
"Dr. Renton wishes to marry Jane Fairbrother."
"The deuce he does!"
"Yes," I said, enjoying his astonishment.
"But he doesn't know her."
"He has known her for years. He knew her when she lived with us, but she went to India before he could make up his mind to speak to her. Now he is coming on Thursday."
"And he will take her away just when she is going to be useful to us, selfish beast!"
I smiled behind my hand.
"Dear Dimbie," I said, "I always thought men the most contrary creatures, having lived under Peter's roof for some years, but never quite so contrary as I now find them to be."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean that here you have been making yourself extremely disagreeable about Miss Fairbrother's visit, and the moment someone comes along and says he will remove the incubus you turn equally nasty."
"I don't want you to be disappointed. For myself, I am only too jolly thankful that she won't be here long."
"But she may. I am not sure that she will accept Dr. Renton."
"I am."
"Why?"
"Most women accept the first man who asks 'em."
I swelled with indignation, and I rang the tortoise to emphasise my righteous anger.
"The conversation is finished," I said.
"No, it isn't," contradicted Dimbie.
"I repeat that it is." I shut my eyes.
"You've beautiful eyelashes—look like a fringe on your cheeks, and they all curl up at the ends, Marg."
An interval of silence.
"I didn't say you would rush at a man. I meant most women."
More silence.
"Don't you think I'm right?"
"Your ignorance of women is only equalled by your colossal conceit. The conversation, I again repeat, is at an end."
"And once again I assert that it isn't. I wish to discuss the matrimonial prospects of Dr. Renton and Miss Fairbrother."
"You must discuss them with yourself."
"Can't."
"You must take back what you said."
"Shan't."
I closed my eyes tightly.
"I shall go and talk about them to Amelia."
He got up.
"You dare!"
"I shall."
"You promised. You can't break your word."
"It would be quite easy."
"Dimbie, I never thought you could descend to such meanness."
"You see how little you knew me."
"Women are always deceived."
"It's funny how they rush at marriage."
"Oh," I cried, "you are too dreadful! Go away at once."
He laughed and croodled closer to the couch.
"This is our last afternoon," he said ingratiatingly, looking up into my face.
"What do you mean?"
"Before the she-dragon comes. Be nice to me, wife."
I looked away. It is hard to resist the plead in Dimbie's eyes and the crook of his mouth. His hand stole into mine. I took no notice. The other hand stroked my hair the wrong way, and—then, after the manner of fond, foolish woman, I forgave him and was nice.
CHAPTER XXIV
MUSINGS ON AUTUMN AND THE ARRIVAL OF JANE
One of those September days is with us in which the world, like Rip Van Winkle, is very fast asleep. A great stillness broods o'er our little garden. No blade of grass or leaf of tree moves or rustles to disturb the silence. Jumbles lies curled upon the warm front doorstep; Dimbie lies asleep in a low hammock chair. The birds and insects, and even the ants, have joined in the general siesta; and I, generally having more time than the others in which to indulge in flights to the land of Nod, am keeping awake to take care of all my friends of the garden. I have to keep removing a fly from Dimbie's nose; to see that Jumbles doesn't wake up suddenly and pounce upon a drowsy, unwary bird in the neighbourhood of the broom bush; and to turn an eye upon a butterfly which appears to have fallen asleep in the heart of a single dahlia.
Over all broods a haze, gossamer and fairy-light, but still a haze which ever follows in the footsteps of sweet September—September so quiet, so peaceful, so mellow and rounded. September is to May as mature and still beautiful womanhood is to the freshness of girlhood, not so radiant, but so complete, so satisfyingly lovely. Spring somehow, I know not why, gives me an ache at the heart, creates within me a yearning for something. Autumn does not affect me thus. There may be a regret, a glance of retrospection at the months which are gone—the beautiful, bountiful summer months—but the ache has vanished, the yearning has departed.
Is it that September, herself the most peaceful of all the months, bears in her arms a gift for Nature's truly loving and understanding children—the gift of peace, a peace which passeth all understanding? Lately it has come to me, this peace, and I smile happily, hugging it to my heart. All the anguish of the last weeks—the bitter tears, the pining for movement, the unutterable yearning to be out in the wind, by the sea, on the mountains—has left me. I am content to lie in my little garden, to be still, to commune with myself, and to know that Dimbie is there.
And—I am reading a Book, one that I read as a child, as a girl, and now as a woman. I am a woman now, for I know the meaning of the word suffering. In the old days I read this Book as one reads a lesson—dull, uninteresting, I thought it. I chafed at the chapter which Miss Fairbrother obliged me to read each day. Some parts struck me as being duller than others. There was the tiresome description of the building of the temple, and the bells and pomegranates—pomygranates I used to call them—and the fourscore cubit this and the fourscore cubit that. Miss Fairbrother would endeavour to make it interesting, but I was unmistakably bored. But now—-it seems curious that I should have ever thought it dull. I read it with deep intensity. I know as I turn the pages what is coming, but yet it is all new to me, a new meaning falls upon my understanding. And there are three words from this Book which of late have continually danced before my eyes. I have seen them written on the sky, on the grass, on the pages of my book. I have heard the wind whisper them, the flowers repeat them, the leaves pass on the refrain to the waving corn, and yet I alone have been unable to say or believe them. The words have stuck in my throat, my dry lips have refused to form them. And then a night came when I saw them written on Dimbie's face. He had been depressed, and had taken his sorrow to the pine woods, and when he returned a gladness irradiated his countenance, and on his forehead, as it seemed to me, were the words, written in letters of gold, "God is Love! God is Love!" I repeated them mechanically to myself over and over again; and suddenly the mists cleared away, the fog dispersed, and I too cried, with a great sincerity and gladness, "God is Love!"
/tb
Jane came softly down the walk and with finger to lip bade me be silent.
"I want to love and kiss you, little old pupil, without any jealous eye to mar my happiness. And I also want to have a good look at your husband."
Dimbie lay with head thrown back, giving to the garden a music that was not of the sweetest.
"He is not at his best," I whispered; "his mouth isn't always like that."
Jane made a comical little moue and kissed me again. "The same old Marguerite," and she framed my face in her hands.
"With a difference," I said quietly.
"With a beautiful difference. I don't wonder at your husband's falling——"
"Hush!" I said, "I am going to wake him."
Jane sat down and watched with interest.
"Dimbie! Dimbie, dear, would you mind waking up?"
"He doesn't always sleep quite so heavily as this," I explained apologetically. "It has been such a warm, enervating day."
"Dimbie, will you stop snoring."
Still no answer.
Loudly I rang the tortoise, and he was on his feet in an instant, blinkingly staring at Jane.
"It's not a fire or an accident," I said; "it's Miss Fairbrother."
With the first of Jane's wholesome, heartsome smiles I knew that his conquest had begun. They shook hands, and he apologised for being caught in such an attitude.
"It enabled me to have a good look at Marguerite's husband, of whom I have heard so much," said Jane frankly.
"And what do you think of him?" Dimbie asked with a twinkle.
"I must reserve my judgment till later. It may be a case of cruelty, desertion, and wife beating. Appearances are so deceitful. And no faith should be placed in a young wife's estimate of her husband."
He pushed his hammock chair towards her.
"Won't you take this; it is more comfortable. And were Marg's letters very tiresome?"
"Well, she didn't say much about you." Jane wore an air of "May God forgive me!" "But what little she did write of you was mostly to the good."
Dimbie laughed, and began to enjoy himself.
"Before you begin to talk," I said, "would you like a wash or have tea first?"
"Tea, please."
I rang the bell.
"I'm quite anxious to see the young person with the tea-rose slippers," observed Jane, removing her hat and running her fingers through her soft, luxuriant hair, which was parted on one side.
"She doesn't wear them now. We have had a lot of money left us," I said, studying the expressive face in front of me, which had changed so little.
"Does she run about barefoot?"
"Oh, no! What I mean is that we can afford now to give her nice, kid slippers." I struggled to keep my mind on Amelia, and not on Jane's pretty, cool, grey linen gown which was inset with beautiful, Irish crochet lace.
"It isn't mercerised cotton," I thought aloud.
"It's one of my best frocks," said Jane, following my eyes. "Do you think it suitable for my years, Marguerite?"
"I should wear it to-morrow," I said impulsively, and then stopped awkwardly.
"Why to-morrow?" she asked in surprise. "Are you having a party?"
"Only Marg's medical m——"
"Dimbie," I shouted, "will you go and see if tea is ready? I can't think what Amelia can be doing." I looked at him feverishly. He sat open-mouthed for a moment, and then he remembered, nodded his head, and set off to the house with a run. I could see from Jane's expression that she thought we were very odd people.
"What—what do you think of the sunflowers?" I asked jerkily.
"I think they appear to be very handsome, self-respecting sunflowers," she replied.
There was an interval of silence.
"What's the matter, Marguerite?" she asked at length. "The atmosphere is charged with a mysterious something which I cannot understand."
"I will tell you on Thursday."
"On Thursday?"
"Yes. Oh, here is Amelia with tea! This is Amelia."
Jane gave her a smile, showing her even, white teeth. This was returned by a look of hostility. Amelia was not to be won by any smile. She was not a weak man, and she prided herself on her even balance.
"Good afternoon," said Jane.
"Good afternoon," said Amelia in a tone of "Go to perdition with you!"
But Jane had no intention of doing so, at any rate, till she had had some tea. She handed some money to Amelia.
"Will you be good enough to give this to the man who is bringing my trunks along?"
"Were there no cabs? Most people takes cabs." Now she was being distinctly impertinent. I felt very angry with her.
"Please do as you are told," I said wrathfully, "and without comment."
She was, for the first time since she had been in my service, impressed by my anger, and at once she changed her tactics.
"The day would be hot I was thinkin' for Miss Fairbrother to walk."
"You were thinking nothing of the kind. Stick to the truth." And to my consternation she immediately did as she was told and stuck to it.
"I don't want no visitors."
"Amelia!"
Jane laughed unconcernedly.
"I shouldn't either," she said, looking at Amelia in a most friendly manner. "I quite sympathise with you. You think I am going to meddle and interfere?"
"Yes."
"You think I am going to poke into the kitchen and do things for your mistress that you have been in the habit of doing?"
"Yes," said Amelia, surprised at Jane's intuition.
"Well, you may make your mind quite easy on that score. To begin with, I am far too lazy to interfere. I like people to work for me if they will. And I think it would be a mean thing to do when you have served Mrs. Westover so faithfully and lovingly. I shall not usurp your place." Jane's voice was most gentle now, full of sympathy and kindliness. "But if you will allow me, I will help you with my bed and dust my room. I shall make a little extra work, of course, and I am sure you must have a great deal to do."
Amelia wavered, rocked about with indecision for a moment, and was won.
"Thank you, miss, it's very good of you," was all she seemed able to say. And as a relief to her feelings she slapped the tortoise, picked up Jane's gloves from the ground and returned to her kitchen.
"Tea is going cold," said Dimbie. "First game of the rubber to Miss Fairbrother."
"You don't say the rubber, I notice," observed Jane.
"I know Amelia."
"I fancy though, without any undue conceit, that I shall win. I like that girl."
"So do we, but that doesn't give us the power of managing her."
"I don't want to manage her. My simple desire is that she shouldn't manage me, and will permit me to remain with you for a short time."
"You shall certainly do that," said Dimbie. "Marg has been counting the days to your coming."
"And you?" she asked slyly.
"I—I have been doing likewise," said my husband brazenly.
She laughed, a merry, incredulous laugh.
"And yet I fancied I had two rubbers to play and hoped to win."
"Really?" said Dimbie. "Only one as far as I know, and the first game is already yours."
"You are very kind," she said simply. "I understand, and am grateful. I did so want to see Marguerite again."
"You could not be more grateful than I am for your coming," he returned earnestly. "The thanks are on our side." And I knew he meant it.
"A rubber and a half for Jane," I whispered to the tortoise. And I stretched out a hand and held Dimbie's closely in mine.
CHAPTER XXV
AN ENGAGEMENT, AND I TELL JANE MY STORY
The two of them came down the garden path hand in hand. The sun caressed Jane's small, dark head. She wore the pretty, cool, grey gown, and in her belt was tucked a red rose no redder than her cheeks. They stopped in front of the couch, and I held out my hands to them.
"I know," I said. "You needn't tell me. I'm so glad. You two dear things. It is beautiful, and—I like your suit, Dr. Renton; my sartorial instinct is good, I think."
"I don't think it was the suit—altogether, but perhaps I'm vain." He looked gravely at Jane.
She was a little mystified.
"I was telling Dr. Renton the other day that I considered grey flannel was very becoming to men with grey hair."
"Oh," she said, "I didn't notice what he was wearing."
"There!" said the Doctor.
"I don't feel abashed. Unconsciously she would take in the general effect."
Jane wandered to the sweet-pea hedge and hummed a little tune.
"I don't like a conversation conducted in asides," she called. "When you two have finished tell me."
Dr. Renton regarded her with pride and love written on every line of his face.
"You see, she has grown beautiful!" he said.
"Do you think so?"
"Certainly. Don't you?"
"Well, no. I haven't thought so; but I will look more closely. Are the lines there?"
"A few, but not so many as——"
"You had expected?"
"As I had hoped," he finished with a smile.
"Jane," I called, "the Doctor is disappointed not to find you wrinkled."
"Did he wish me to keep him in countenance?"
"Jane, you must learn to be respectful. The Doctor is older than you."
"I cannot learn such a lesson at my time of life. My pupils have respected me."
"I shall be your master, not your pupil."
"These are early days to adopt such a tone, sir."
"You might both be in your teens," I observed. And they laughed as happily as though they were.
A hammering at the drawing-room window attracted our attention.
"It's Dimbie," I explained. "You see, he is a little cross. He went to look up something for me in the encyclopædia, and I told Amelia to lock him in. I was afraid he might worry you, and perhaps follow you about."
"Do you mean to say he knew——" Jane broke off, turning a vivid scarlet.
What was I to say? Here was a pretty dilemma.
"I let it out the other day," said the Doctor bravely.
"Did you know when you invited me here?" Her eyes were full of fire, but her voice was quiet.
"No," I said triumphantly, "not a word. And Dr. Renton didn't exactly tell me; I found out. He was here when your telegram came."
"Mr. Westover will certainly break the window," she said, somewhat inconsequently.
He was waving and war-whooping like an Indian. Amelia came to the door.
"Shall I let him out now, mum?" she asked.
"At once."
When he appeared I said—
"Dimbie, you should try to be more controlled."
"Well, of all the cheek——"
"It wasn't cheek, but common sense," I interposed gently. "I told Amelia to do it."
"But why? You may be the mistress of One Tree Cottage, but I——"
"Come here, and I will whisper to you." I pulled his sunburnt face down to mine.
"Your hair tickles!" He was still a little cross. I pushed it back.
"I was afraid you might follow those two about and stare at them, and I wanted them to get engaged and——"
Dimbie raised his head. (Jane, followed by the Doctor, had strolled away.) Light broke across his face.
"And they've done it?"
"It is not an elegant way of putting it."
"They've been jolly sharp."
"Dr. Renton has been here over half an hour."
"And where have I been?"
"Studying the encyclopædia. Don't you remember I asked you to find me the sneezy man? Who was he?"
"Nietzsche, a bally German who didn't know what he wanted."
He crossed the lawn, and I noticed that the grip he gave the Doctor's hand was pretty severe. To Jane I heard him say: "It's made Marg awfully happy. Her eyes are shining, and she thinks she has brought it all about—a regular match-maker!"
I could not catch Jane's reply, but presently they returned to me.
"You will be wanting to walk and wander down the lanes, as Dimbie and—as all lovers want to wander, and you shall go at once. The evening is lovely. There is a cornfield in the lane after you have passed the four cross-roads. Dimbie has told me of it. The sun is setting—sun on a golden cornfield is a thing of beauty—and later there will be a moon. Please remember that supper is at eight o'clock."
They laughed, and Jane without any more ado put on her hat.
"It seems to me," observed Dimbie, as our eyes followed them round the broom bush and through the gate, "that they are a little old for the game."
"That is so like a man who never knows or understands anything."
"Oh!" He settled himself in a deck-chair and lighted his pipe.
"You see, the hearts of Jane and the Doctor are still quite fresh and young."
"Indeed?"
"Yes," I said, "love has kept them so. As they walk down the lane they are back in their 'twenties.' The years have slipped away. What matters if their faces are tired, if some of the brightness has gone out of their eyes, if some of the freshness has left their voices? They are beautiful to each other, that is sufficient."
"You sound very wise, little wife."
I nodded.
"I am wiser than you in a few things because I am a girl. Only women understand that which pertaineth to love. Men are very ignorant."
Dimbie smiled and smoked for a while in silence, while I thought of the happiness of Jane. We had had a long and intimate talk the previous evening. Dimbie had left us and gone to the fields in search of mushrooms at my special request. Mushrooms, I had felt, were the one thing needed to complete our evening in the garden, for we were to sup under the apple tree; and Dimbie on his return was to hang out our Chinese lanterns and dot fairy lights about the lawn.
"You only want to get rid of me," he had laughed. "I am convinced that there will not be a single mushroom in Surrey after the long, dry summer."
"If I want to get rid of you," I returned, "it will be for the very first and last time in my life; but I want to talk to Jane for a little while—just by ourselves."
He looked at me for a moment jealously and suspiciously.
"You don't mind just for once, dear."
"No, not very much, though I don't approve of secrets between women."
"Good-bye," I said, patting his cheek, "and bring plenty of mushrooms."
Jane sat on a low chair with her arms pillowed behind her head.
"Now," she said, "tell me all, tell me your story from the very beginning. You have suffered much, I can see it in your face, but you are happy. Tell me where you met your husband. I may say at once that I like him tremendously."
"Jane," I said, "my heart goes out to you at your words. To like Dimbie shows that you possess a fine discrimination."
She smiled and said, "I am waiting."
And so in the gentle hush of evening, in the fading light, in the sweet fragrance of the garden, I told her all. Of Dimbie's and my first meeting, of our engagement, of our marriage, of my great happiness —I lingered on that. The pain which had been mine when I recalled those radiant days had gone. I could speak of them now calmly and without any break in my voice. Those were days pulsating with joy, these were days of a great peace. Then briefly I touched upon my accident and suffering, of our hopes only to be dashed to the ground, of my subsequent despair, of my doubts as to the steadfastness of Dimbie's love, followed by the radiance of complete faith and understanding. I told her of Aunt Letitia's money, of my desire to remain at our cottage till the end of the year because—— Should I tell her why? Should I tell her that which I had even withheld from Dimbie? Jane was so sensible, so—— And out of the gathering darkness it came to me that she was crying silently, despairingly.
"Why, Jane," I whispered, "you are crying. You must not do that, Dimbie might come, and it would distress him. Listen, I am not unhappy now. Do not think I am sorry for myself, for— perhaps I cannot make it clear to you, words are so futile, but—one morning just lately, one wonderful dawn when God Himself took out His pallet and brush and touched the clouds with softest grey and pearl, and pink and rose, when the first note of a still sleepy bird broke the silence, when the flowers shook the dew from their fresh morning faces, something came to my room on footsteps light as thistledown, something came to my bed on which I had spent a long, weary, sleepless night, and laid a gentle, healing hand on my aching brow, and sorrow and pain and the fear of death fell from me, and I was comforted. You will say I was fanciful, imaginative, that my mind was overwrought from fatigue; but no, I was calm and clear-eyed, and I knew that it was Peace that had come to me. I opened my arms wide and held it closely, never to let go. 'Dear Comforter,' I whispered, 'you shall never leave me, for now I know a happiness which is not of this world, but is of a life which is eternal.'
"I lay very still thinking about it. I must tell you that during my weeks of suffering I had lost my faith, I had lost God. I felt that He had treated me too cruelly. 'He is not a God of love,' I had cried. 'I cannot believe that. I have done with Him.' So as I lay watching the dawn, waiting for the sun, I wondered and wondered again: 'Has God forgiven me—forgiven my rebellion, taken pity on my loneliness?' For when Dimbie has said his prayers at night with his hand in mine, and entered into His presence, I have felt so lonely and cried in my heart, 'Lord, let me find Thee again, for where Dimbie is there I want to be.'
"'Perhaps He has forgiven me, and wants me—even me,' I said to myself. With my eyes on the glowing east I waited and watched for the sun. At last he appeared, and, as though looking for me, sent a warm shaft of light across my body. And from me came the words, 'God is good! Allah is great!' And I laughed aloud, and Dimbie stirred and woke. 'What is it, girl?' he asked. 'Have you had a good night?'
"'A bad, bad night, but such a dawn. Look! Here from my corner I can see all the beauty of the world—shell-pink softness, the red glory of sunrise, a distant cornfield touched with gold, dewdrops on gossamer web.
"'O world as God has made it, all is beauty;
And knowing this is love, and love is duty.
What further may be sought for——'
And Dimbie put a gentle arm around me and drew my head on to his shoulder. 'And have you no further need to ask for, sweetheart?' he inquired.
"'Not one,' I whispered. 'I am beginning to understand things—just a little, and I am at peace.'"
I stopped. Night had fallen, my story was finished. Jane got up—I could not see her face—and she walked across the lawn to the sweet-pea hedge. No sound broke the stillness of the garden.
Presently she returned and knelt in front of me.
"Little old pupil."
"Yes," I said.
"I want to say something to you. Most people say things when it is too late. I don't want to be too late. I want to tell you, now, that you have given me all the happiness I have had for the last eight years. An Indian station is a dreary place for a plain, unattached, working woman. I should have become hard, dull, apathetic but for your love, little Marguerite, but for your admiration of my poor qualities. Your bright, loving letters came each month as a draught of fresh water to a tired, thirsty traveller. Your faithfulness cheered me on my way. Your symp——"
"I don't want to hear any more, Jane," I broke in.
"And but for you I should never have returned to England."
"And you would have missed happiness, the crown of your life."
She paused and looked up into my face.
"Happiness!" she said a little bitterly, "the crown of my life! I don't know what you mean. I only know that you suffer; I have just heard your story."
"Ah, don't speak of that! There are other things. There is love."
"Love and I passed each other long years ago," she said. "Love mocked me, laughed at me, left me alone."
"But he may return."
"It is unlikely. I am not young. But I don't want to talk of myself. I want only to speak of you. A little while back you said—you said that the fear of death fell from you. What did you mean?"
"Just what I said," and I bent my head and kissed her. "I think I hear Dimbie."
He came down the lane whistling, through the white gate—a dark, mysterious figure.
"Three mushrooms!" he called gaily. "One for each of us. Now I must light up. You are all in the dark."
"We are all in the dark," said Jane hopelessly.
"And the light is coming," said I.
CHAPTER XXVI
DIMBIE TAKES PETER AND AMELIA IN HAND
Peter and mother are here again, and Jane has been transferred to the bachelor's room.
Peter is gouty, irritable, chilly—for October is with us and giving us sharp little frosts—and sulphurous in his language.
Amelia wears a patient, stand-by-me-O-Lord air; and Dimbie is crossly resigned to the inevitable.
He came to me this morning.
"I am going to kick Peter."
"Yes," I agreed, drawing my blue nightingale, which mother has made me, more closely round my shoulders.
"I am going to pitch him out of the front door."
I nodded.
"You have no objection?"
"Well, choose a flower-bed for his descent."
"But I want to hurt him."
"I quite sympathise with you in your desire, which is most reasonable. But were he to alight on the gravel path he might break his leg, and then we should be obliged to have him here for weeks."
"Then I shall certainly not choose the path," said Dimbie decisively.
"That is right. What has he been doing?"
"Everything he shouldn't do. Your mother is reduced to tears, and Amelia is flinging the saucepans and kettles at the kitchen-range."
"She is certainly making a noise."
Dimbie sat down on the bed and knit his brows.
"I am sorry, dear," I said sympathetically. "I couldn't help his coming; I didn't invite him."
"I know. Naturally your mother wanted to see you."
"Yes. Poor mother! To live for three months without any respite upon the edge of a crater subject at any moment to volcanic eruptions is naturally wearing, and she must have an occasional change in order to keep her reason."
Dimbie nursed his leg, and his mouth was a little more crooked than usual. I lay and watched him. How unselfish and forbearing he was! He put up with Peter for mother's sake, he put up with mother for my sake, he put up with Jane for her own and the Doctor's sake. Here he was yearning to be alone, to be by ourselves; and the house was full up with parents, friends, and doctors. And I, to add to his worries, have been obliged to keep my room for the last week owing to a feverish cold and general poorliness.
"But they will all go soon," I said, trying to comfort him. "Peter and mother are returning home after the wedding, and Jane is to be married next month."
"November is an idiotic month for a wedding," he said irritably.
"Why?"
"She mightn't have been in such a deuce of a hurry."
"But it isn't she, it's the Doctor."
"Then he ought to have learnt patience at his age."
I smiled.
"You've grown fond of Jane?"
"Oh, I like her all right, but it's you I'm thinking of. She seems to know how to look after you and make you comfortable. I'm rough and Amelia's stupid, and it's amazing how she knows exactly what you want. And Amelia has taken to her, she's a perfect lamb in her presence."
"I wish Peter would be a lamb, too. How are they getting on at meals?"
And Dimbie gave me a most vivid description of how they were getting on at meals, which left me weak with laughter.
"And really, sweet," he concluded, "I am rather glad you are fast here, though the drawing-room without you seems like a barren wilderness. Your old corner looks lonely and empty."
"I'll soon be there to fill it," I said.
"Do you think you are better?" He furrowed his brow.
"I wonder how many times a day you ask me that, dear one. Don't I look better?" He regarded me anxiously. "When we get to our new house——"
"Ah, yes!" he said, brightening at once. "It is change you want. As soon as ever we have cleared out this rabbit warren we'll begin our plans. We'll be our own architects—master builders, eh?"
"Do you mean by the rabbit warren mother and Peter?"
"Yes," he laughed. "And when the endless discussion of frocks and Jane's wedding is over we'll set to work hard. I want the house to be ready by the summer."
A little pain settled at my heart. He was so bent upon building this new home for us—a home after our own hearts, a house with south-west windows to catch every bit of sunshine for me, with a verandah in which I could lie, with an old-world garden—we must find a plot of land with well-grown, stately trees—with extensive views, with distant, pine-clad hills, and smiling, fertile valleys. Perhaps a river might be included too, a babbling stream which would cheer me with its happy laughter. His eyes glisten as he paints his picture, develops his foreground, sketches in his distances.
"They must be blue distances," he said to-day.
"They might be grey, swept by clouds, wrapped in mist."
"Even then they would be beautiful," he argued.
"Yes," I agreed, "most distances are beautiful; look at the frog-pond."
He laughed.
"Still attached to our little home?"
"Oh, so attached! I love it more each day. It is so cosy, and we are so comfortable. Now that Amelia has permitted us to have daily help there is nothing we want, is there?"
A cloud passed over his face.
"I am sorry that you still do not wish to leave, Marg. I know it would be so much better for you, and Renton insists upon it. He says in bracing air you will be so much stronger, and—I am disappointed that you are not interested."
"He does not know——" the words broke from me. And then, "I am interested. I want to do what you want. Your picture is entrancing. Let us begin at once. I will draw a plan of the garden, and you shall draw a plan of the house, and then we'll compare notes."
I spoke rapidly. Why should we not begin, as he was so eager? It would give him occupation during the long days. It would make him happy, feeling that it was being done for me and my comfort.
He brightened at once.
"Where shall we have it?" I went on. "Shall it be on the top of Leith Hill, or at Hind Head, Farndon, Frensham, or Dorking?"
"It must be where there are pine trees and heather for you, and in the neighbourhood of shooting for me. It must be high up, and yet not too cold, and we must pitch the house southwest for the sun."
"And there must be a river," I continued gravely, "and blue distances, a wide, extensive view, grand forest trees in our own garden, and lawns that have been rolled and 'mowd' for a thousand years. And God will specially create it all for us."
"Now you are being impertinent." He smiled happily. "I will fetch paper and pencils." But he didn't, for Peter arrived at the moment and forced an entrance. His nose was a trifle blue, and his eyes glistened as a warrior's who has recently tasted blood. He pecked me on the forehead and asked me how I was. I informed him that I was only very middling, and Dimbie added that rest and quiet were most essential for my well-being.
Peter ignored Dimbie and seated himself in front of the fire, to which he held out a gouty leg, and remarked that Amelia was a brazen minx. Dimbie and I not replying, he repeated it again. Dimbie and I admired the view from the window, and Peter for the third time repeated the same uninteresting remark, but this time with a yell. Dimbie said politely and firmly that if the yell was repeated Peter must leave the room, as my nerves were not in a state to stand cat-calls. Peter glared but didn't repeat the yell, at which I marvelled.
Mother popped her head in at the door, and seeing Peter, popped it out with extreme activity.
Jane did the same.
Amelia popped hers in, but kept it there, and then advanced. She sort of arched her back as she looked at Peter, and bristled and figuratively spat.
"What is it, Amelia?" I asked, before they got at each other.
"The butcher, mum."
"How often the butcher seems to call," I said wearily. "Does he live very near to us?"
"He lives in the village, mum, and he's killed a home-fed pig."
"Poor thing! Just when there's an abundance of acorns."
Amelia ignored my sympathy.
"A nice loin of pork with sage and onion stuffing would be a change, mum."
"I don't eat sage and onion," growled Peter.
"A nice loin of pork with sage and onion stuffing would be a change," repeated Amelia steadily. "And I've got oysters and a partridge for you, mum."
"I don't want both. General Macintosh could have the partridge," I said pacifically.
"There'll be soup, pork, Charlotte Ruce, and savoury eggs for the dining-room." When Amelia adopted that tone it was unwise to argue.
"Do you know how to make Charlotte Russe?"
Amelia creaked, and a bone snapped, the result of an extraordinary veracity.
"I have an idea how it's made, but Miss Fairbrother does the sweets now. She's gettin' her hand in before she's married. She's goin' to spoil the Doctor. Most ladies spoils their husbands." She fixed a baleful eye upon Dimbie and Peter.
Peter seized the poker and thumped the fire into a blaze. I was glad, for the room was chilly.
"Is that all, Amelia?"
"No, mum. I wants to speak about the bathroom. It's fair swimmin' with water. You could float the canoe in it."
"Dear me, has the cistern overflowed?" asked Dimbie.
"No, sir, it's General Macintosh. When he takes his bath in the mornin' he thinks he's suddenly turned into an alligator. The splashin's dreadful, and when he's tired of that he just bales the water on to the floor. It's like the Bay of Biscay when I go in, and I shall be glad if you'll kindly speak to him about it, sir."
Peter put his gouty leg carefully and firmly on to the floor, and, as golfers say, got a good stance. Then he opened his mouth, but before he could utter a word Dimbie had gently but forcibly taken him by the shoulders and put him out of the room. Amelia was triumph personified, but her victory was short lived, for when Dimbie returned he was very angry with her.
"Understand now, Amelia, that no such tales are brought to the mistress. I will not have her worried with trivial household matters. I thought you were capable and clever enough to manage for yourself; you keep telling us that you are, and the first thing that goes wrong you fly to her. Understand too that your manner of speaking to General Macintosh is little short of downright impertinence, and if it should occur again, if there are any more scenes, not only he goes out of the house, but you also. Yes, you go, understand that. You are a good girl, but there are plenty of other good girls in the world. Your mistress is poorly, weak and nervous, and she is not to be worried. Now go! Not a word. Go!"
Dimbie stopped for breath, and weeping, humiliated, and very unhappy, Amelia went. Whether she straightway fisted Peter, whether she peppered him from every point of vantage, we have not inquired; but during the last six hours there has been a marked improvement in the behaviour of both. Peter is not bearing Dimbie any grudge for his ejectment, which seems to me remarkable, but which Dimbie says isn't. "Bully a bully and he becomes an angel."
"He is hardly that yet," I objected.
"He passed the hot buttered toast to us at tea and didn't have any himself."
"Hot buttered toast doesn't agree with him," I said. "It has always lain heavily upon his stomach."