Part 15

“My knees shook so I could hardly get into the train. I decided I wouldn’t let anyone see another bit of it; yet actually, when I was in Mrs. Davis’s shop and getting out the money to pay for the wool, if I didn’t take out another half-sovereign in mistake for a sixpence!—I was so unnerved, I suppose—and she said, ‘Just fancy seeing a half-sovereign again! I thought they were all called in. Wherever did you light on that, Miss Primkins?’

“Now you can understand I’m at my wits’ end to know what to do with that money. I can’t spend it without everyone knowing. If I put it in my savings bank book, and so get it back to the Government that way, I have to hand it over the counter at the post office. You know so much about business, can you suggest anything?”

I immediately offered to give the nervous, worried lady Treasury notes in exchange.

“Oh, but I couldn’t let you incriminate yourself like that,” she protested, “kind as it is of you. There’s your reputation as well as mine to be thought of.”

I explained, however, that it was easier to dispose of an accusing golden sovereign in London without arousing the suspicions of the populace than it was in the country, and I said I was sure my bank manager would oblige me by receiving the gold for the good of the country, knowing me to be an honest and respectable Englishwoman.

“I never thought to be so thankful to see the last of a sovereign,” she said, as she tucked the paper notes into her handbag. “I’ve scarcely slept all this week. Why, Germany is the very last thing I would help!”

Mrs. Widow came in at the gate as Miss Primkins went out; and, seeing the house all turned out of windows, looked her surprise at such goings on! She carried a frying-pan, a long-handled broom, a double milk-boiler, an egg-beater, and a lemon-squeezer, and explained that they had kept beautifully dry in her kitchen, whereas they would have been ruined if left to get damp in an empty house. Parenthetically, she hoped I would excuse her having used half a dozen lemons I had left in the pantry last time; she was afraid they would not keep; also some sugar in a tin, that she dare say might have melted away—and it seemed cruel to waste it considering the price of sugar.

Of course I said she was quite welcome.

And, by the way, was I wanting a jar of lemon curd? Her daughter had made some that was really lovely, and she would not mind obliging me by selling me a jar.

While she was describing the distinctive merits of the lemon curd, and relating what the lady of the manor had said in praise of the jar she had purchased, a man-servant arrived from the Manor House with a note and a basket, which he handed to me (with a very superior air that gave me to understand he was not in the habit of carrying baskets, and was only doing so now as a patriotic act in war time) across the kitchen table that stood in the path and blocked his further progress. While I read the note, he fixed his eyes upon his boots, and apparently looked neither to the right hand nor to the left; yet I know that he catalogued every item of those wretched domestic oddments that were decorating the lawn and garden path.

Mrs. Widow, possessed of a natural curiosity that it is hard to circumvent, was loath to leave without a glimpse of the contents of the basket. But Virginia got her off by escorting her to the gate, and telling her that I had not been very well in town.

“Ah! anybody could see that, miss,” said Mrs. Widow feelingly, glancing in my direction. “Don’t she just look ’aggard!” And then, seeing a look of surprise on the face of Virginia—who distinctly resented my being described as haggard—she added hurriedly, “Leastways, I mean ’andsome ’aggard, of course, miss.”

The lady of the manor had written to say that a cold was keeping her indoors for a day or two; but in the meanwhile, as they were busy curing bacon at the home farm, she had had them cut just a little piece of griskin, which she was sure I should like, and was having it sent up at once, etc.

The superior person left, carrying in one hand an envelope addressed to his mistress, which contained all the thanks I could muster, and in the other a note to be left at the village shop, asking Miss Jarvis to send me up a large block of salt.

* * * * *

“What shall you do with all the pork?” Ursula inquired.

“I haven’t the faintest idea!” I said. “I can’t bestow any of it on the poor because, no matter which piece I gave away, Mrs. Widow’s married daughter would be sure it was _her_ gift I had spurned, and would feel duly slighted.”

Virginia broke in upon us breathlessly, her arms full of pasteboard, soup tureen, hearthrug, hassock, and fire-irons, which she had hastily gathered up from the path. “The Rector’s outside in the lane talking to some children.”

“And has _he_ any basket in his hand?” asked Ursula.

“No, he only appears to be carrying his umbrella.”

“Thank goodness!” said Ursula fervently, as she put the third flank of griskin in the coldest larder.

By this time the next caller was coming up the path, and though I could invite him to take a seat in one of the armchairs that were now inside, anything like order had not yet been evolved from the chaos.

The Rector is loved by rich and poor alike, by reason of his unselfishness, his absolute sincerity and “other-worldliness.” He is now well on in years, but neither distance nor weather keeps him from visiting regularly all in his wide-scattered parish. His calls are always welcomed, though I admit I should have preferred to see him any day other than the one in question.

“I have come with a message from my niece,” he began. “She told me to say that she is sending up a small trifle—a little housewifely notion of hers—for your kind acceptance. She thought you might find it add a little variety to the cottage menu. As a matter of fact, the rectory pig has gone the way of most pigs! And we said, the moment we heard you had arrived, that we must get you to sample the home-grown article, so she is sending you up just a little piece of—— Ah, here it is, I expect”—as the Rector’s handy man came in at the gate, carrying the inevitable basket; and though the contents were wrapped up in a spotless white cloth, there was no need for one to be told what he was bringing.

I tried to be as truly grateful as ever I could; I told myself I must not think about the gift itself, but must keep my mind focused on the kind thought that had prompted the gift. Nevertheless, the basket seemed very heavy as I carried it into the larder, and added one more joint to the goodly collection already assembled. And as I went back into the living-room, I heard Virginia warbling outdoors:

“Not more than others I deserve, But Heaven has given me more.”

There is something singularly exasperating about other people’s joyousness, when it is purchased at one’s own expense!

* * * * *

We were restoring the last jug to its proper hook on the dresser, when once more we saw Miss Primkins toiling up the steep garden path.

She really felt terribly ashamed to be intruding on me again; but she had just read in the paper that the Prime Minister now said everyone must save, and no one who was a true patriot would spend more than was absolutely necessary. Now what was the difference between hoarding and saving? She did so want to do the right thing; it was so little she could do to help her country. Yet, for the life of her, she couldn’t make out whether she ought to save that £12 or spend it.

Would I mind explaining it to her? She never could understand anything Prime Ministers, or people like that, said nowadays; so different from what it was in her young days. When there was only Lord Salisbury and Mr. Gladstone everything was so sensible and straightforward. Her father used to say: “Always believe Lord Salisbury; never believe Mr. Gladstone”—or else it was the other way round, she wasn’t sure which. Whereas now, what with radicals, and coalitions, and territorials, and boards of this, that, and the other, her brain almost gave way trying to find out who anybody was.

“And when at last I think I’ve got it straightened out, I find there’s a lot of ‘antis,’ and it’s just the opposite thing they say you ought or ought not to do; or else you have to begin at the other end and work backwards. What a lot those Germans have to answer for!”

I offered my own simple political creed for her guidance: “When the King or Lord Kitchener says anything, then I know it’s all right. When they hold their tongues, I know it’s equally all right; and the rest I don’t worry about!”

She said I had expressed her own views entirely, only she never thought to put it so concisely as that. What a wonderful thing it was to have a brain like mine that grasped things so clearly! She should just go on being economical as her mother had always taught her to be, until the King—or, possibly, Queen Mary—said anything definite on the subject, then people would know where they were.

“At least, you aren’t the only one bothered about the question of hoarding,” I said. “I’m also wrestling with the problem. Look here,” and I led the way to the larder and gave details. “I’ve been wondering whether, as I relieved you of your hoard, you could assist me out with mine! Will you accept a piece of griskin, merely to get it off my premises?”

Miss Primkins was almost tearful in her thanks. “It’s so strange you should have thought to offer this,” she said in a sort of broken hesitation, “because I’m going to Cardiff by the first train to-morrow to see my sisters. I always like to take them a little something, you understand. They have big families, and business is bad now; and, of course, coming from the country—— Only eggs are so dear, and fowls such a price; and just now—well, you know—dividends aren’t coming in as they did, and I’ve my three houses standing empty, and such a big bill for repairs, and—— Only, of course,” rallying herself, “I’m heaps better off than those poor Belgians; but oh, I can’t tell you how grateful I am to you for your kindness. You see, I was keeping that £12 by me in case I should be ill—we never know, do we?—or to meet the rent if I should run short. Please pardon my speaking of these things, only—you understand,” and the poor lady blushed to think she should have let herself refer to finances.

Yes, I understood. Rumour had already reached me that Miss Primkins had only used three hundredweight of coal through the whole of the winter (of course, in our village everybody knows how much everybody else buys of everything), and she had been seen out in the woods gathering sticks. She had cut her milk down to a half-pint a day, and that was consumed by Rehoboam (the cat). She seldom had any meat, and practised all sorts of pitiful little economies, living chiefly on the vegetables she had grown in her garden. But she never let anything interfere with a coin going into the Sunday offertory, or her knitting for the troops; and she gave a donation to the Red Cross Fund as gladly as anyone.

It makes one’s heart ache to think how many poor elderly ladies there are up and down the land, who have lost what at best was but a very modest meed of comfort, in the present financial upheaval; and these have additional anxiety in the fact that it would be torture to them were their poverty paraded before the world. They have not the physical strength to engage in national work, though their spirits are valiant enough for any self-sacrifice. So, since it is all they can do for their country, they shoulder their burdens uncomplainingly, keeping a frail body alive on sugarless tea and sparsely-buttered bread, while they knit long, long thoughts into socks and comforters, if by any means they can raise the money to purchase the wool.

No Fund is large enough to embrace such as these; no charity could ever meet their case. All the same they are part of the bulwark strength of England, these dear, faithful women, who in old age and feeble health hide their own privations beneath a brave exterior, willing to make any personal sacrifice rather than Might should triumph over Right.

* * * * *

“Miss Primkins!” I exclaimed, when I heard of the Cardiff visit, “I believe you’re the good fairy who, I used to think, lived at the entrance to the waterfall cave under the hill; and I’m certain you’ve been sent up here for the explicit purpose of relieving me of that meat! If you’re going to Cardiff, it’s your clear duty to take a griskin to each of your sisters—hearty-eating boys, did you say? Good! That will rid me of two! Well, you’ll find them at the station in the morning waiting for the 9 o’clock train—we’ll do them up to look like hothouse grapes and pineapples.”

Of course she protested, but I remained firm; as I told her, I wasn’t going to let slip such a heaven-sent opportunity to get those joints transported for life.

When Virginia and Ursula put them in the railway carriage next morning, she asked if they would mind, as they passed her house on their way home, seeing if they could find Rehoboam; he hadn’t come back for his milk, and she couldn’t wait for him. They would find the door-key under the fourth flower-pot on the right hand window-sill; and if he was waiting on the step (his usual custom about half-past nine) would they be so kind as to give him the milk that was in the larder? Then she need not worry any more about him.

* * * * *

They found Rehoboam as per schedule, and gave him the milk. They couldn’t help seeing that there was only a small piece of cold suet pudding, a little blackberry jam, and one thin slice of bacon in the larder.

When they got back we set to work on a cooking crusade; and isn’t there a delightful sense of freedom when you can do what you like in your own kitchen, with no Abigail oversighting your operations! We cooked some griskin, and made pastry and cakes, and put some eggs into pickle. (Do you know these? hard-boiled eggs shelled when cold and put into pickle vinegar; ready in a couple of days.)

Then when it got to within an hour of train time, the girls went down and lit Miss Primkins’ fire, taking down a scuttle of coals for the purpose; her outside coal-cellar being locked fortunately gave us an excuse for not using up hers. They also took some milk, three of my finest potatoes, and other things.

By the time the train arrived, and Miss Primkins was on a tired homeward walk, the kettle was singing on the hob; three floury potatoes—strained, but keeping hot in the saucepan—stood beside the kettle; the supper table was laid with cold griskin, a jam tart, and a small spice cake, while in the larder stood two sausage-rolls, a seed cake, and a jar containing three eggs in course of pickling.

Of course the girls couldn’t resist ticketing the things “Virginia made this, so be cautious! (Signed) Ursula,” and similar nonsense, hoping thereby to divert Miss Primkins from the bald truth, viz., that we were trying to smuggle something into a bare cupboard!

Then, after rounding up Rehoboam, and placing him on the hearthrug to give an air of social welcome, they locked the door, putting the key under the fourth flower-pot, and skipped up the hill again by the woodland path, as Miss Primkins turned into her little garden gate.

XIII

When the Surgeon Crossed the Hills

OF course, it seemed ridiculous for a sane and moderately well brought-up individual to dress herself to go out—and in a new hat, too—and, then, simply because her dog happened to tumble out of the window, to collapse on the hearthrug like an anæmic concertina, while she draped her head gracefully over the fender, with the plumes of the said new hat resting resignedly on the fire-irons.

It didn’t seem quite reasonable to want to go to sleep like that. Still, as I showed signs of doing it once more, after they had propped me upright again, they decided to put me to bed.

When I woke up, they told me I was ill. That seemed ridiculous, too, and I said so; and added that now I had had a little rest I intended to get up and go to town—important appointment; couldn’t possibly be spared, etc.

And they all said lots of things—you know the kind of arguments your friends always bring to bear on you if you chance to be just a little out of sorts. I tried to make them understand that I was indispensable to the well-being of London; that, though _they_ might be in the habit of shirking work under the slightest pretext of a headache, _I_ wasn’t that sort of a person. I owed it to my conscience, as well as to the world at large, to be at work in my office within half an hour, penning words of wisdom that should keep the universe on its proper balance.

Ursula merely asked if I liked the milk with the beaten egg _quite_ cold or a trifle warm?

In the end I had to give in. They insisted I was ill; and I admit I was feeling unusually tired.

But as the weeks went by I did not get as strong as I had hoped to do. I seldom got farther than an easy-chair, and not always as far as that. So at last I determined to try the cure that hitherto had never failed me. Trunks were packed, and they got me down by easy stages to the cottage among the hills. I felt that if only I could see the flowers and breathe the air that blows way over from where the lighthouse blinks in the channel, I should certainly pick up both my strength and my courage.

* * * * *

When I reached the cottage the autumn sun was setting on hills that were a gorgeous blaze of brilliant crimson, yellow, bright rust, gold, pale lemon, chestnut brown, with the dark green of yew-trees at intervals. I have never seen colours like our autumn hillsides anywhere in the world, though, of course, they can be matched in places where the woods are made up of a wide variety of different trees. After the murk of London in October the glory of it all fairly dazzled me.

The garden was lovely too, but in a wistful sort of way. Snapdragons and zinnias and eschscholtzias were blooming lustily; there were still blossoms on the monthly rose bushes; nasturtiums flaunted in odd corners, and made splashes of brightness; the purple clematis over the porch was in full flower; fuchsias, geraniums, belated larkspurs, hollyhocks, and sweet alyssum talked of summer not yet over; while peeping out from crevices among the stones and nestling at the roots of trees were primroses already in flower; violets were blooming in the big bed by the kitchen door, and the yellow jasmine was smothered in bloom—such a curious mixture of summer and spring overlapping, with no hint of autumn and winter in between.

The fruit had not all been gathered in, and the trees in the orchard were bowed down with masses of crimson and pale green and golden yellow and russet brown, with spots of colour dotted about among the lush grass. It seemed impossible that one could remain ill in such an earthly paradise!

I was too tired with the journey to go round the garden that day; I put it off till to-morrow. Next day I was not equal to going out at all, and the third day I did not get up.

The colours gradually faded from the hillsides; the woods grew a purply-brown; the white mists were later and later in rising from the river in the valley below me. All day long I lay in bed watching the sun move from east to west across the mountains, while near at hand tomtits and finches, jays and magpies, cheeky robins and green and crimson woodpeckers flitted about in the bare trees just outside my windows.

One little wren used regularly to pay me a morning call on the window-ledge; often she flew right into the room. I liked to think she came to ask how I was. Once I opened my eyes to find a robin perched on the rail at the bottom of the bed, eyeing me inquiringly. The little wild things on these hills seem so friendly.

As soon as twilight fell the owls woke up the adjoining wood, and called to other owls across the ravine.

These were the only sounds to break the silence.

* * * * *

It is when you are ill, more than at any other time, that you realise the human difference between town and country. You can live all your life, and then be ill and die, in London, and the people next door—even those in the same building—may know nothing about it.

I knew of a girl living in a block of small flats occupied by women workers, and trying to make a living by journalism, who lay dead in her room for a week, and then was only discovered by the caretaker because her rent was overdue. No one had missed her, though there were women going up and down stairs and in and out of the rooms, all around her. The isolation of the solitary woman in a crowded city can be something awful.

It isn’t that town dwellers at heart are more selfish than country folks; it is their mode of life that is to blame.

London claims so much of one’s time and energy for the doing of “most important” work, and the pursuit of machine-made pleasure, till next to nothing is left for the greatest of all work and the greatest of all pleasure—merely being kind.

* * * * *

Once it was known that I wasn’t getting better and the local doctor had been summoned (he lives in another village nearly four miles off), kindnesses came from all directions, everybody offering the best they had. If extra people had been required to take turns sitting up at night, any number were ready to come on duty. One woman, who is exceedingly capable, though an amateur masseuse, came to inquire if it was a case where rubbing would be beneficial. She brought a bottle of Elliman’s with her, in case she could be of use, and offered to come daily.

Did the Buff Orpingtons lay that priceless treasure, an unexpected mid-winter egg? It was promptly sent up by a small child, with a kind hope from mother that the lady would be able to take it.

I believe Sarah Ann Perkins would have slain every duck she possessed (and have scorned to take payment), if only there had been the slightest chance of my once more eating that fair slice from the breast!

A calf’s foot was needed for jelly. The butcher hadn’t one, didn’t know who had; but one arrived next day, though he had had to scour the county for it.

Was anything required hurriedly from the village shop? Everybody was willing to go and fetch it, or Miss Jarvis would toil up with it herself, after the shop was closed, rather than I should be kept waiting, bringing up a bunch of early violets from her garden at the same time.

One farmer’s wife trailed up the rough, wet paths, with a little pigeon all ready for roasting, in the hope that it might tempt me.

The handy man went out and shot an owl because he was sure I must find all they hooters a turr’ble noosance. Of course he didn’t know how I love the owls, nor how companionable it seemed to hear them calling to one another through the long, long night. But probably the kind thought behind his gun was of greater worth than the bird he shot.

Yes, everybody was anxious to do something, only there was so little they could do—till one day Angelina lost herself! She had followed Abigail in the afternoon to the village, where a dog suddenly scared and chased her, and she flew off into the woods.

Abigail hunted for her till the winter dusk settled in, but no cat responded to her calls. So she had to content herself with mentioning the matter at each cottage in the vicinity, everyone willingly undertaking to keep a look-out for the missing cat. By the next afternoon every youngster in the village was out scouting for her, and saucers of milk were placed enticingly outside doors.

But poor Angy was never seen again.