CHAPTER XI
MY FIRST CALLER
Yesterday morning Dimbie said to me—
"Have any of those beastly women called yet?"
"What women?" I asked in surprise.
"Why, the women who live round here, of course. I suppose there are one or two knocking about? I saw a lady with thick ankles and a Wellington nose come out of the Old Grange."
"No, she's not been," I said laughing. "We've only been here six months, and we're poor. If they came in a hurry it would look as though they wanted to know us."
"And I'm jolly sure we don't want to know them."
Dimbie was heated.
"Of course we don't, dear; but they won't realise that."
"Still, it would be rather nice if somebody dropped in occasionally to have a chat with you and discuss Amelia," he said.
"I don't want to discuss Amelia," I retorted.
"I wish Nanty would come a bit oftener."
"It is a long way for her to drive. Why do you wish to cram the house with women?" I said plaintively. "I have quite enough to do with my reading, mending, sewing, and writing without being inundated by a lot of strange females."
His dear face brightened.
"So long as you don't feel lonely and the days long, that's all right." He stroked my head the wrong way.
"I'm not a bit lonely," I said. "No one could be lonely or dull who had an Amelia; and now the weather is so warm and lovely I lie for hours under the apple tree. June herself is more than a companion. I think I am going to read; I cut the magazines, take out a new novel, and then I lie with eyes half closed looking at the gifts June has lavished with prodigal hand, listening to the whisperings of leaves and grass and flowers."
"What a patient, plucky little girl," he whispered.
"Patient!" I cried, when he had gone, and the click of the gate told me another long day had to be lived through alone. "Patient!"
But how glad I am he doesn't know.
The little lazy insects seem so happy to be doing nothing. They spread their wings in the warm sun, and rub their little legs together from sheer contentment at just being alive. They regard with ill-concealed scorn the aggressive busyness of the bees in the syringa bush, who, like all working things, are kicking up a tremendous fuss about their efforts. "Laziness, doing nothing," the insects say, "breed peace and contentment." "But what about enforced laziness—lying still on a couch?" I cry.
Oxshott Woods are calling me. I want to lie on the warm, scented pine-needles, with the sun filtering through the branches of the sad, stately trees on to my face; I want my senses to be lulled into that beatific repose which only Nature sounds can achieve. One thinks that woods—pine woods—on a calm day are still; but lie and listen carefully, and one will marvel at the multitude of sounds, at the little hoppings and twitterings, and scurryings and crawlings and peckings. You are far too lazy to turn your head, but you are conscious that little bright eyes have you well in focus, that a movement on your part will cause fear and confusion in the settlement, so—you don't turn your head. You like to know that they are there, and presently you fall asleep, and who knows what they do then?
And I am to miss all this. The woods may call, but I must lie still. The wild-rose hedges may send messages to me on the soft south wind, invitations to view their loveliness, but I must refuse them all. I must wait for another year.
Amelia is anxious to wheel me into the lane. Dimbie is more anxious, but I say "no." Who that is injured is not sensitive? I dread the encountering of curious eyes, of eyes that even might be pitying.
I want to be left alone in the garden with the birds and insects. They don't allude to my misfortune, they don't pity me. They always say the right thing.
*****
As though in direct answer to Dimbie's inquiry, the woman with the thick ankles from the Old Grange has called.
I must have fallen asleep, for I was dreaming most foolishly and beautifully that Dimbie and I were in a meadow making daisy-chains, when I was rudely brought back to my own drawing-room—Amelia had wheeled me into the house as the sun had gone—by hearing her say, "A lady to see you, mum."
A little irritably—for I didn't want to leave the daisy-chains—I looked round for the lady, but she wasn't there.
"She's on the doorstep, mum. Will you see her?"
"Of course," I said. "You must never leave people on the doorstep; it is very rude."
"What about old clothes women, mum?"
I ignored her question, which seemed to me unusually foolish, and asked her what she meant by wearing the tea-rose slippers, which I had expressly forbidden.
"Go and change them." I commanded, "when you have announced the lady."
Her "announcing" was unusual. "The lady, mum. Sit down, please." At which she pushed a chair behind my visitor's legs with so much force that she simply fell on to it.
"You must excuse my servant," I said apologetically when Amelia had vanished. "She is utterly untrained but invaluable." I held out my hand as I spoke, which the lady touched coldly.
"My name is Mrs. Cobbold, and I live at the Old Grange," she announced with a trumpet note.
"Oh, of course, Amelia forgot to mention it," I said politely.
"She didn't know it." She was aggrieved now.
"She could hardly mention it then," I said smiling, wishing to cheer her up. But this simple and natural comment appeared to have the opposite effect, for her brow lowered, and the jet butterfly in her bonnet quivered ominously.
"I have called because I heard you were a—an invalid, Mrs. Westover—that you were confined to your couch."
Her deportment dared me to contradict her.
"It is very kind of you," I said pacifically.
"Not kindness, but duty."
"Which makes your effort all the more praise-worthy," I said gently.
She looked at me sharply—through her pince-nez which gripped her nose very tightly—suspiciously almost, but she misunderstood me. I had not intended to be sarcastic. I was really touched at the sacrifice she was evidently making on my behalf. I felt she was a district visitor—probably the right hand of the vicar of the parish. She must need refreshment. She wore the look of one whose tongue clove to the roof of her mouth.
I rang the tortoise, and requested Amelia to bring tea.
"No tea for me, thank you," Mrs. Cobbold quickly interposed.
"I'm sorry," I said. "Perhaps you won't object to my having a cup?"
"Certainly not, but I never take anything between meals."
She seemed quite proud about this.
"Really!" I murmured interestedly. "But tea is a meal with me."
There was a pause. I could hear Amelia singing, "Now we shan't be long," which meant she was reaching out the best tea-things. The best tea-things appear to uplift her in a curious way. Perhaps by using them she feels we are gradually rising to the social status of the Tompkinses, who had an "at home" day with netted d'oyleys, and tea handed round by Amelia herself on a silver salver.
I wondered if Mrs. Cobbold could hear her singing. I felt sure she would strongly disapprove of any maid indulging in such vocal flights, and in spite of myself I laughed. Our eyes met: hers were green and hard, and in their depths I discovered that she disapproved of the mistress more than of the singing maid.
I smiled again—I couldn't help it; and then I racked my brain for something interesting and polite to say.
Mrs. Cobbold forestalled me.
"When is it expected? if I may venture to ask you."
"In about ten minutes."
"Gracious goodness!" she ejaculated, springing heavily to her feet.
"Whatever's the matter?" I cried, nearly falling off the couch.
"I thought—I was led to understand that——" she stammered and broke off.
"Well?" I said, gazing at her in unconcealed astonishment.
"That—that—you will pardon my mentioning it, but—I am a mother myself. And I was quite interested in hearing that the population of Pine Tree Valley was about to be increased. But I did not imagine it would be so soon."
I lay and stared at her. She had reseated herself, and again wore the district visitor air. Was she mad or—suddenly, in a flash, the drift of her remarks became clear to me. I strangled a laugh.
"The increase in the population of Pine Tree Valley has nothing to do with me," I said, a little coldly.
She looked disappointed.
"I am suffering from an accident."
"Oh," she said grudgingly.
"I am afraid you are disappointed."
"The vicar's wife has misinformed me."
"Perhaps she has been gifted with a vivid imagination," I suggested. "It is unfortunate, as it might get her into trouble."
Mrs. Cobbold looked or rather glared at me over the top of her glasses. I was relieved when Amelia appeared with tea. I even forgave her for her tea-rose slippers, which in her excitement she had omitted to change. Casually I inspected the three-decker bread and butter and cake-stand. I felt sure that Amelia would have upheld the honour and glory of the family by "doing" the thing nicely. The first plate was beyond reproach, nicely-cut bread and butter reposing on best netted d'oyley. Mrs. Cobbold's parlour-maid could have done no better. But the second plate made me pause. What was it? I rubbed my eyes. Did I see a lonely macaroon garnished by a ring of radishes—pointed red, fibrous radishes, with long green tops—arranged with a mathematical precision, or did I not? I leaned forward for a closer inspection—perhaps they were chocolate radishes or almond radishes. My breath came quickly, and a jet butterfly smote me on the forehead—Mrs. Cobbold had also leaned forward. The butterfly hurt me. That I didn't mind. What I did object to was Mrs. Cobbold's impertinent curiosity. If we chose to garnish a macaroon with radishes it was none of her business.
"Won't you change your mind and have some tea?" I said, recovering myself. "Macaroons and radishes are so nice together—a German tea delicacy." I nibbled the end of one of the radishes as I spoke, and found it so hot my eyes watered.
"No, thank you," she almost snorted. "Are you German?"
"Oh, no," I replied, "I am quite English with just a few foreign tastes." I covertly dropped the radish down the side of the couch as I spoke.
"Where were you born?"
"I was born in Dorking, I mean Westmoreland," I said wanderingly. I was debating as to what had come over Amelia.
"So you are north-country really?" Her voice was patronising.
"Yes," I returned, "isn't it interesting?"
She again regarded me with suspicion.
"North-country people are becoming quite rare. Perhaps you have noticed it? Everybody comes from the south."
She did not speak.
"And you," I inquired gently, "are you a native of Pine Tree Valley?"
"No," she replied shortly, "but I have lived here ever since I was a girl."
"So long?" I said thoughtlessly. And she rose and offered me her hand, which felt like a non-committal Bath oliver.
"It has been so kind of you to come to see me," I said, shaking the biscuit up and down.
She unbent a little.
"I will try to come again, but won't promise. My days are so full. Do you know any of the people here?"
"No," I admitted.
"The Honourable Mrs. Parkin-Dervis not called?"
"No."
She looked perplexed and annoyed.
"But she told me she was coming. She heard that you were confined to the house."
"She's not been," I said. "I am sorry. I suppose she always leads the way in the question of calling upon new people. But you needn't feel you have committed yourself. You see, I shan't be able to return your call, so please don't feel you must come again unless you want to."
"It's not that," she said; "but, you see, my days are so full."
"Of course they are," I agreed warmly. "I shall quite understand, Mrs. Cobbold. I'm so sorry Amelia is not here to show you out, but were I to ring the tortoise for ten minutes she wouldn't come. She is chopping wood—perhaps you hear her. Amelia never takes the slightest notice of anybody when she is chopping wood—they are Hudson's Dry Soap boxes—the more one rings the louder she chops."
"If she were my maid," said Mrs. Cobbold, "I'd make her——"
"No, you wouldn't," I interrupted. "You think you would, but you wouldn't. We thought the same when she first came to us, but now we don't. Good-bye."
Through an unfortunate accident the tortoise rang loudly as I spoke. I caught my sleeve in its tail, and it sounded as though I were cheering Mrs. Cobbold's departure. She left the house with a flounce and a flourish. We may meet again in another world, but I am certainly not on Mrs. Cobbold's visiting list in this.
When I heard the garden gate bang I rang for Amelia.
"I am never at home to that lady," I said.
Amelia stared.
"Where will you be, mum?"
"I shall be here, of course. Don't you understand, I shall not see her."
"Am I to say that?"
"You're to say, 'Not at home.'"
"I can't say that if you are." Her face was stolid.
"Amelia," I cried, "return to your soap boxes quickly, or I might fling the tortoise at you."
"But——"
"Go!" I said, and with a loud crack of a bone she departed, filled with amazement.