Till the very first days of May! Then, with a great return upon herself, Nature flew to work. The trees rushed into leaf, and never had there been such a glorious leafage. Everything was late, but everything was perfection. And nowhere was the spring loveliness more lovely than in Westmorland. The gentle valleys of the Lakes had been muffled in snow and scourged with hail. The winter furies had made their lairs in the higher fells, and rushed shrieking week after week through delicate and quiet scenes not made for them. The six months from November to May had been for the dale-dwellers one long endurance. But in one May week all was forgotten, and atoned for. Beauty, 'an hourly presence,' reigned without a rival. From the purple heights that stand about Langdale and Derwentwater, to the little ferns and mountain plants that crept on every wall, or dipped in every brook, the mountain land was all alive and joyful. The streams alone made a chorus for the gods.
Hester, who was now a woman of sixty, had reluctantly admitted, by the middle of the month, that, after a long winter spent in a munition factory and a Lancashire town, employed on the most strenuous work that she, an honest worker all her life, had ever known, a fortnight's holiday was reasonable. And she wrote to Nelly Sarratt, just as she was departing northwards, to say—cunningly—that she was very tired and run down, and would Nelly come and look after her for a little? It was the first kindness she had ever asked of Nelly, to whom she had done so many. Nelly telegraphed in reply that in two days she would be at Rydal.
Hester spent the two days in an expectation half-eager, half-anxious. It had been agreed between them that in their correspondence the subject of Nelly's health was to be tabooed. In case of a serious breakdown, the Commandant of Nelly's hospital would write. Otherwise there were to be no enquiries and no sympathy. Cicely Marsworth before her marriage in early March had seen Nelly twice and had reported—against the grain—that although 'most unbecomingly thin,' the obstinate little creature said she was well, and apparently was well. Everybody in the hospital, said Cicely, was at Nelly's feet. 'It is of course nonsense for her to lay down, that she won't be petted, Nature has settled that for her. However, I am bound to say it is the one thing that makes her angry, and the nurses are all amazed at what she has been able to stand. There is a half-blind boy, suffering from "shock" in one of the wards, to whom they say she has devoted herself for months. She has taught him to speak again, and to walk, and the nerve-specialist who has been looking after the poor fellow told her he would trust her with his worst cases, if only she would come and nurse for him. That did seem to please her. She flushed up a little when she told me. Otherwise she has become horribly impersonal! Her wings are growing rapidly. But oh, Hester, I did and do prefer the old Nelly to any angel I've ever known. If I hadn't married Herbert, I should like to spend all my time in tempting her—the poor darling!—as the devil—who was such a fool!—tempted St. Anthony. I know plenty of saints; but I know only one little, soft kissable Nelly. She shan't be taken from us!'
So horribly impersonal! What did Cicely mean?
Well, Cicely—with the object described in full view—would soon be able to tell her. For the Marsworths were coming to Carton for a week, before starting for Rome, and would certainly come over to her to say good-bye. As to William—would it really be necessary to leave him behind? Nelly must before long brace herself to see him again, as an ordinary friend. He had meant no harm—and done no harm—poor William! Hester was beginning secretly to be his warm partisan.
Twenty-four hours later, Nelly arrived. As Hester received her from the coach, and walked with her arm round the tiny waist to the cottage by the bend of the river, where tea beside the sun-flecked stream was set for the traveller, the older friend was at once startled and reassured. Reassured—because, after these six months, Nelly could laugh once more, and her step was once more firm and normal; and startled, by the new and lonely independence she perceived in her frail visitor. Nelly was in black again, with a small black hat from which her widow's veil fell back over her shoulders. The veil, the lawn collar and cuffs, together with her childish slightness, and the curls on her temples and brow that she had tried in vain to straighten, made her look like a little girl masquerading. And yet, in truth, what struck her hostess was the sad maturity for which she seemed to have exchanged her old clinging ways. She spoke, for the first time, as one who was mistress of her own life and its issues; with a perfectly clear notion of what there was for her to do. She had made up her mind, she told Hester, to take work offered her in one of the new special hospitals for nervous cases which were the product of the war. 'They think I have a turn for it, and they are going to train me. Isn't it kind and dear of them?'
'But I am told it is the most exhausting form of nursing there is,' said
Hester wondering. 'Are you quite sure you can stand it?'
'Try me!' said Nelly, with a strange brightness of look. Then reaching out a hand she slipped it contentedly into her friend's. 'Hester!—isn't it strange what we imagine about ourselves—and what is really true? I thought the first weeks that I was in hospital, I must break down. I never dreamt that anyone could feel so tired—so deadly ill—and yet go on. And then one began, little by little, to get hardened,—of course I'm only now beginning to feel that!—and it seems like being born again, with a quite new body, that one can make—yes, make—do as one likes. That's what the soldiers tell me—about their training. And they wonder at it, as I do.'
'My dear, you're horribly thin,' interrupted Hester.
'Oh, not too thin!' said Nelly, complacently.