Emphatically I said that I should not want any extra milk—and a few other things.
I resumed my work.
Ten minutes later there was yet another interruption. This time it was the owner of the Buff Orpingtons, who had arrived at the back door to inquire if I was wanting any eggs—she’d brought eight with her, and expected another one to-night, which she’d send up—her hens had just started laying again, etc.
I fairly blessed the individual who had first set going the fable that I was expecting visitors.
I told Abigail that it was a matter of perfect indifference to me whether all the fowls in the district did, or did not, accommodatingly lay nine, or even ten, eggs for my especial benefit; but what did matter to me was whether I could, or could not, get nine or even ten minutes of uninterrupted peace, in order to finish my letters before the postman arrived. (He always calls obligingly at five o’clock for my afternoon mail.) And I requested that she would kindly take in any and everything that came during the next hour (so long as it didn’t need paying for!); only, for pity’s sake, would she cease opening that door and seeking advice on the subject.
After that I was left severely alone. From time to time I heard voices in the rear; there was one very loud series of bumps and bangs—I concluded it was the missionary report being introduced to the table. But I worked on, and had just sealed up my last budget of proofs, and addressed it to the printers, when the postman appeared. I heaved a sigh at the amount of stuff he carried away. The shower had passed over without even damping the blossoms. I would have some tea, and then start watering.
The postman was speaking to someone at the gate. No, it wasn’t Abigail. I heard him say, “Yes; this is Rosemary Cottage.” I was gathering up my papers as footsteps dragged themselves along the path—“dragged” is the only word for it—and before I had time to step outside to see who was there, two female forms, one ample and one spare, made for the door opening into the living-room, precipitated themselves into the room, and sank into the nearest chairs, in the last stages of panting exhaustion; while the ample one, in a coat and skirt of a large black and white plaid, buttoned and piped with cerise, exclaimed—
“At last! Well, of all the out-of-the-way forsaken places! We’ve been tramping nearly all day, trying to get here from that wretched station! We must have walked miles—miles—up and down hill, only it was all uphill; we found ourselves in woods with no possibility of ever getting out again; we got into lanes that ended nowhere, and when we got there it was the wrong place; we tried to take a short cut across some fields, and got stuck in a bog; we met a flock of wild cows, and the top of that hedge positively ran into me like needles. When we did chance to find a house, hoping it was yours, it never was; the people always told us to go on and ask further directions at the next house we came to, but each time there wasn’t another house. Why ever didn’t we take that fly at the station! But there, he could never have driven us over all the huge stone walls we’ve had to climb! We’ve been walking for hours on end—hours—haven’t we, dear?”
“Dear” nodded feebly. She was leaning back in the easy-chair with closed eyes. Her hat—of a remarkable shape—was trimmed with what looked like a kitchen flue-brush standing straight upright at the back; at least, it would have been upright if her hat hadn’t shifted askew; at the moment the flue-brush was inclining towards her left ear. Her costume was mustard colour, with spasms of black. She must have been very pleased with it when she bought it, otherwise she could never have induced herself to get inside it!