She had begun by being emotional and ended by being rude: but Mrs Burney did not take offence.
“Well, be sure and come to us if you find that you’re not comfortable,” she said cheerily as she hurried away.
A Dutch woman’s husband presently appeared and helped to sort out the children and various utensils from the Dutch domestic heap. It became plain that they were to be bestowed en bloc for the night in one of the prison cells. Whilst I was watching them make a trek to the end of the yard, a large stately woman, who looked like a dowager duchess, staggered in under the weight of many bundles, followed by a haughty satellite with a Wellington nose, who might have been at least a princess of the blood, so scornful was her air and the swish of her petticoat. I had never seen these imposing people before and wondered who they could possibly be, but they evidently had the advantage of me in this matter, for I distinctly heard my name whispered between them. They surveyed me curiously as if glad to have an opportunity of inspecting me so closely. I returned their gaze tranquilly and at last they went away.
Eventually there was no one left in the yard but Mrs Marriott and myself. I looked at her. She sat absolutely still on her untidy heap of clothes, her body slightly bent forward, both hands tucked down in her lap. A straw sailor-hat was pulled over her face, and her lank, heavy, dark hair lay in a dreary sort of knot far down the nape of her neck, shewing, between hat and hair, a long, unbeautiful line that had a kind of despair in it. Her thin figure in a well-fitting gown might have been pretty and temperamental, but in the faded pink blouse, and now historical grey skirt, soiled and shapeless and frayed at the edges, she was merely thin and shabby and utterly unattractive. I never saw a more hopeless look worn by any woman. It was not only that she was shabby—she was as spiritless as a dead crow. Her clothes drooped upon her as the leaves of a withering pumpkin flower droop in the sun. Her face wore the terrible look of uninteresting, unloved middle-age that even despair cannot mark with distinction. Yet she must once have had good looks far above the average. The traces of them were on her still—but they were only traces.
Presently Mrs Valetta and her party arrived. Adriana, loaded like a beast of burden, brought my dressing-case to me immediately, but the others when they saw me turned and fled as if from the yellow peril. Mrs Skeffington-Smythe, extraordinarily pale and subdued, made her way to her striped tent, followed by her husband who talked vivaciously and fondly to the back of her gown. He had a very thick-lipped mouth with a tiny straw-coloured moustache perched upon it, whilst around it a smile hovered unceasingly. He seemed to breathe the spirit of good-will and camaraderie (mingled with other spirits) towards all the world: but it was evident that Mrs Skeffington-Smythe was not under his spell. She kept on, saying nothing. Only, as she went to pull down the flap of the tent I saw her eyes snapping, and she pulled so hard that the tent flapped over on her and her devoted husband, whereupon a number of strange words issued in muffled tones from under the billowing canvas; and they were not all uttered in a man’s voice. Later, whilst they were at the business of pegging it out again, Mrs Valetta came on to the verandah and called out that she and Miss Cleeve had found a small room for themselves. Mr Skeffington-Smythe blithely responded:
“Ah! Good—That is good.—very good. I will come and see what I can do for you presently when I have fixed up my dear little woman.”
But Mr Skeffington-Smythe uttered never a word. Only, when next her Monty addressed a fond remark to her she very briefly and violently replied:
“Oh, shut up!”
It was plain that I was to be left to my fate. Adriana had brought some rugs and thrown them on to my dressing-case, and I seated myself upon them to consider the matter of accommodation for the night. A slight drizzle of rain began to fall, making the fires hiss softly, and throwing a sad little veil over everything.
Perhaps I looked nearly as hopeless and forlorn as Mrs Marriott, but I was far from feeling so. I had the light heart of the woman who loves and is beloved again, with the whole of life stretching out beautifully before me, and it would have taken more than all the rain out of heaven to drench the joy out of me that night. All the same it behoved me to be up and doing. There was no sense in getting wet and it also seemed indicated that I should rescue Mrs Marriott from a watery fate.