Part 9

I soon found that the ample one did not require any reply other than the feeble nod, as it would have impeded her eloquence. She went on—

“I think, if you don’t mind, we won’t go upstairs till we’ve had some tea. We are absolutely prostrate, aren’t we, dear?” The flue-brush dipped slightly. “Could we have some tea at once?”

“Certainly,” I said with alacrity. I had already decided that tea was the only possible way to relieve the strain of the situation, and I rang the bell.

Abigail, after one comprehensive glance at the callers, fetched my very best afternoon tea-cloth, which she displayed on the table to the utmost advantage, that not an Irish inlet or a bit of lace border should be lost on the visitors. When she does not approve of any callers, or does not consider them quite in keeping with the family traditions, she invariably makes a terrific splash in front of them, getting out the special silver and the finest china, and serving with an air of withering superiority, as though she said, “Behold! this is how _we_ live every day; very different from what _you’ve_ been accustomed to!”

The tiresomeness of it is that when intimate friends call, who really matter, the handmaiden treats the tea-table most casually; they evidently don’t count if they are known to be above reproach!

From the look she gave the strangers, I knew we should have it all, and we did! She was wonderfully quick in getting both the tea and her smartest cap and apron. She put as much silver as she could squeeze on the table; she got out some egg-shell china plates for the bread and butter, and the old cut-glass for the preserves. She opened new jars of plum, black-currant, strawberry and raspberry jam; she turned out preserved ginger into a blue Chinese bowl; she put lemon-curd into a quaint brown dish, and honey in a lustre saucer. She hunted out all the cake we possessed, and opened a tin of apricots; she mashed up sardines with Worcester sauce, and heaped it on pale lettuce leaves, and she garnished some thin slices of ham most artistically with lemon and cucumber and flowering sprigs of rosemary. All this while the ample one was explaining to me how marvellously things were managed in London, the miles you could ride in a motor-bus for twopence, the cleanliness and speed and safety of the Tube, the ever-recurring convenience of a halfpenny in a tramcar, and the luxury of a taxi; and then more moans to think of the miles they had covered without meeting either motor-bus, Tube, tramcar or taxi.

When the table seemed on the very verge of breaking down with its abundance, and they had just drawn up their chairs, Abigail asked in clear tones that the visitors were bound to hear, “Would you wish me to bring in the cold duck, madam?” (“Madam” indicates company; “ma’am” is ordinary every-day.) I wasn’t exactly anxious to bestow my to-morrow’s dinner on the strangers, for I had reckoned to make the duck do for twice; but, of course, under the circumstances, I was bound to ask sweetly, “Oh, would you care for a little roast duck? It’s _cold_,” I added, by way of disqualifying the joint a little in their eyes. Fortunately they preferred ham, but it was satisfactory that at least they knew we had roast duck in the larder.

After sitting up and taking a little nourishment, the wilted ones revived perceptibly, and even began to be gracious. I am afraid I am not very fond of the graciousness of that type of woman; she does get it so mixed up with patronage. But I buoyed myself up with the thought that perchance I was entertaining angels unawares—though they didn’t look like it!

The ample one continued to be voluble. I did not interrupt her with questions, because I find it is usually as well to let a situation explain itself; it usually does in time. Besides, I didn’t quite know what to say. I couldn’t exactly ask, “Who are you? where have you come from? and why have you singled me out for this particular visitation?” Yet the longer I waited, the more awkward it became to open inquiries.

“You have a very well-trained maid, I see,” the large plaid continued, “that is to say, for the country”—with emphasis, to show me that there were obvious deficiencies, only she was willing to make allowances for them. “It’s the first thing I always notice in a house. We are used to such excellent service—_most excellent_ service, aren’t we, dear?”

Dear agreed, but not very heartily; she seemed to ponder for a moment before she said her customary “Yes.”

“That is one reason why I always hesitate about leaving home.” (How I wished she’d hesitated a little longer! The sun was getting behind the fir-trees, and I did so want to start watering!) “You have some garden, I see, but it wants planning, doesn’t it? I wish you could see ours at home; it would give you some ideas. We have a man in occasionally; but we always superintend him ourselves. I’ll tell you how we have it arranged. In the centre is a square lawn, and in the middle of this we have a round bed with scarlet geraniums in the centre, and a ring of calceolarias round them, and then outside that, at the edge of the bed, you understand, all round, you know, we have lobelias, little blue flowers, you know. You’ve no idea how bright and effective it is. And then in the border all round the garden by the fences, we have standard roses about a couple of yards apart, and a row of scarlet geraniums. It’s so bright, and doesn’t cost so much when you buy them by the dozen.

“Your ceiling is very low, isn’t it?—still, for a cottage, it isn’t a bad-sized room; and I see you’ve made the best of it with your little bits of things put about.” I do wish you could have heard the charming, indulgent condescension with which she said “your little bits of things”! “Though I don’t think I’ve ever seen yellow walls before—very _quaint_, of course, but—er—rather peculiar. Don’t you think so, dear?”

Dear said she did. But I don’t know why, seeing that she was carrying about more yellow on her mustard person than I had in the whole of the house!

“I _wish_ you could see our _lovely_ dining-room at home,” the plaid continued. I murmured inarticulations, as there was a pause where I was evidently intended to say something. “It has a dark red paper on the wall. We have just furnished it with fumed oak. I think fumed oak is _so_ artistic. We have a most _handsome_ sideboard that will only just stand across one end of the room. I don’t mind telling you that it cost fifty pounds originally, but as the people to whom it belonged were a little unfortunate, we got it—well, we didn’t give quite that much for it; but you’d never know. It was just as good as new. And we have aspidistras and a _beautiful_ palm in copper flower-pots—really exquisite works of art they are; and they go so well with the fumed oak, don’t they, dear?”

By the time I had been taken over their _beautiful_ drawing-room, we had finished tea—happily, for I already saw a _beautiful_ best bedroom suite looming ahead.

Having made a most excellent, not to say solid, meal, the voluble one shoved her chair back and said—

“I feel all the better for that cup of tea. Now, I think, if you’ll show us the way, we’ll go upstairs and have a good wash, and make ourselves presentable—not that you dress much for dinner, I suppose?”

I conclude I, too, was all the better for my cup of tea, for I felt myself warming to the work—and I led the way washstandwards most cordially. I didn’t take them out into the hall to the more modern staircase, I opened the door in the corner of the room, and revealed the steep stone stairs; and you should have heard their gurgles and squeals.

“Oh, dearest, _do_ look. _Isn’t_ it primitive? And do you go up and down this every day?”

“Oh, no,” I couldn’t help replying. “We only use this when visitors are here. On ordinary occasions we get in and out of the bedroom windows, and hop down the honeysuckle.”

She drew herself up reprimandingly; she evidently wished me to understand that, though she was willing to treat me as an equal so long as I behaved myself, she couldn’t allow any undue familiarity on my part.

“I don’t suppose _you_ would see anything unusual in such an approach to the upper storeys, having been used to it all your life,” she said distantly; “but accustomed as _we_ are to our magnificent staircase at home—wide enough to drive up a carriage and pair, isn’t it, dear?”—

“Er—nearly——” (Dear was the more truthful of the two, I fancy.)

“—And our beautiful pile carpet, in rich reds and blues, and the thickest of stair-pads underneath, till you would think you were walking on real Turkey carpet, this naturally strikes us as—how shall I put it so as not to hurt your feelings?—as—as very humorous, you know!”

“I quite understand,” I said, as we entered my bedroom.

She walked straight over to the window and looked out.

“Not a house to be seen anywhere,” she exclaimed dismally, “whichever way you look; nothing in sight but those everlasting tree-covered hills.”

As she seemed inclined for a lengthy soliloquy, I poured out some water and indicated the soap-dish, as politely as I knew how, to Dear, who had taken off her hat and coat, and seemed almost grateful for my attentions. I noticed that Abigail had been up and had adorned the towel-horse with my finest damask towels with embroidered ends, and had got out a rare and treasured bedspread made entirely of lace, that had just been sent me as a present from Venice, and had put it over the bed in place of the old-world patchwork quilt that I infinitely prefer in the cottage; it was so much more in keeping with the surroundings.

The ample one turned with a sigh from the depressing outlook that was so deficient in motor-buses and halfpenny car rides and taxis and houses, and said, evidently striving to make the best of a bad job, “At any rate you’ve tried to make it look as nice as you can inside. Do you know, I rather like that bedspread”—as though conveying a real favour on the article in question. “It reminds me of an _exquisite_ bedspread we have at home something like it, only ours is linen, with shamrocks on it in solid embroidery.” And she flung down her coat and other _impedimenta_ on the top of the lace in a way that made me tremble for its safety. “It’s _something_ like ours—don’t you think so, dear?”

Dear had her face in the soft delicious lather of the rainwater, and didn’t reply.

“But”—at this point transformation came over the black and white plaid—“I’ve only just noticed it! This is a _double_ bed! Look, dear, it’s a DOUBLE bed! And I most distinctly said in my letter it was imperative that we have two single beds; the same room would do, I said—no need to go to the expense of two rooms—but on no account a double bed. As I can’t possibly rest unless I have the bed to myself—I’m a _very_ light sleeper, whereas my friend sleeps rather heavily, not to say—er—sonorously, don’t you, dear?—I must simply insist that you have this bed taken down and two single ones put up in its place. Had I _seen_ the rooms before I engaged them I shouldn’t have taken a place with such a desolate outlook; but as we’ve had the expense of coming here, I don’t mind staying if you undertake to have the beds changed; and they must both be feather beds, too. Now, can you do this?”

“I’m afraid I can’t!” I said. “But if——”

“There can be no ifs; I put everything quite clearly in my letter. I’ve got a copy of it here. I wrote——”

“My dear lady, if you will sit down in that easy-chair, we’ll make everything still clearer.” She was beginning to prance around the room.

Dear, unmoved, was having a very thorough wash. So the light sleeper sank into the chair and rummaged in her hand-bag, presumably for the copy of the letter in question.

I tried to speak as lightly and soothingly as possible, for she was fairly bursting with indignation! “Now, please understand that I am delighted to give a meal to any wayfarer who, like yourself, arrives hungry and tired at my door. I’m glad for them to come in and have a rest, and even a wash and brush up, if they want it. But, when an absolute stranger, of whom I know nothing, demands my own bed, and my feather bed into the bargain, then I must protest! That feather bed is one of my most cherished possessions!”

“But you expected me?”—sitting bolt upright.

“I certainly did not!”

“Didn’t I write and tell you we would arrive to-day?”

“I’ve neither heard of you, nor from you, in my life before!”

“But this is Rosemary Cottage?”

“It is.”

“Then you _must_ be Miss Flabbers!”—with an air of finality.

“I’m sorry, but I’m _not_!”

At this, Dear dropped the soap with a sudden splosh into the water and looked round in frozen astonishment. (The merest wraith of it remained two hours later when Abigail emptied the water. It was a new cake, too!)

At the name of Flabbers, light came. Miss Flabbers is a gentlewoman in somewhat reduced circumstances, who lives in a cottage a good mile and a half away. Presumably she was going to add to her income by taking in boarders.

“If it’s Miss Flabbers whom you are wanting,” I continued, filling up a painful silence, “her house is called Rose May Cottage. I expect you got the names confused in your mind.”

“There! It’s all _your_ fault,” said the ample one, turning irritably to her companion; “you said it was Rose May Cottage when you read the first letter: but I said that was an absurd name, and it must be Rosemary it was intended for—country people _do_ write so badly. I do _wish_, dear, you would be careful to be more accurate; if only you had said the right name I might have been saved all this trouble—and expense, because of course I shall _insist_ on paying for our tea——” (she didn’t though!) “and think how many miles I’ve walked, and now I suppose I’ve to do it all again. How I wish I’d listened to that old man at the station and gone with——”

She paused suddenly and threw up her hands; and then there arose that cry common to all womankind the world over, when they are weary with their pilgrimage, footsore and travel-stained; the cry that must have rent the air in the olden days when Sarai trailed after Abram across the plains of Mamre, even as it sounds to-day from Yokohama to Land’s End:

“_Where’s our luggage?_”

There was a perceptible gasp—and then, “Yes; _where’s our luggage?_” faintly echoed Dear, as she nervously clutched her gloves with feverish haste and pinned them on her head, and then wildly tried to get her arms into her hat.

“I expect it’s reposing peacefully in Miss Flabbers’ best bedroom,” I said assuringly. “At any rate it isn’t _here_!” as I saw signs that they were going to crawl under the bed in search of it. “The man would be sure to deliver it there, and——”

Abigail knocked at the door and asked if she could speak to me for a minute.

When I got outside she said, “There’s a person downstairs wants to see you _particular_, ma’am, or I wouldn’t have disturbed you.” Abigail divides all her sex into two classes, “persons” and “ladies,” and no one is more careful than she to see that “persons” don’t think more highly of themselves than their social status warrants.

I found a pleasant-faced woman who lives in a cottage near Miss Flabbers. “Please, ma’am, Miss Flabbers has lost two ladies rather suddint, and I wondered if you’d chanced to set eyes on ’em? Miss Flabbers is _that_ worrit as never was; expected ’em by the eleven train, and I misdoubt me if the cutlets won’t be a bit heavy by now, though she’s had ’em over a saucepan of hot water ever since. She’s so upset she don’t know what to do, yet she can’t go out to look for ’em in case they turns up meanwhile. I thought it ’ud be just neighbourly if I went out for her and hunted around. I know they come by that train, for I see’d ’em myself at the station, puffeck ladies you’d have took ’em for, only they wouldn’t have a fly. They’re not friends, no, nor boarders, no, she wouldn’t think of having boarders, so reserved as she is; they’re what’s called paying guests. I know, because my son’s got a friend in the _Hargus_ office, and he told him about an adver-_tise_ment she put in, only you wouldn’t have known it was her, being only X Y Z on it, but the people at the _Hargus_ knew as the X Y Z meant her, though _how_ they should know puzzles me, and they send on the letters to her. But she’s kep’ it very private; no one knew they was coming, so I wouldn’t dream of mentioning X Y Z to a soul. I’ve tracked ’em up here. Everybody all over the Common and even up to the Crag Farm has a-seed them, they’ve scoured the county for miles round. You’d be sure to rekernize them once you’d saw them——”

I should think so! E’en the slight harebell raised its head and stared after them whenever they passed it that afternoon, I’m certain.

By dint of shouting above her talking I managed to get her to hear that I had them safe and sound; and should be everlastingly grateful if she would take them off my hands and place them in the safe keeping of Miss Flabbers.

Then I fetched them down and introduced the neighbourly soul, who, you could see, felt elated at the distinction of being the one to take such costumes in tow.

“Better go out of the back door,” I said, “and up the garden to the top gate; it will save you a few steps.”

And then the ample one turned and said icily, “I suppose we must thank you for what you have done; but I _do_ think you should have told us _sooner_ who you were.” Yet I hadn’t told them even then!

* * * * *

It was as they were going out of the back door that Dear amazed us by falling unexpectedly to her knees and affectionately clasping a dark object that I had not seen in the dim recess of the lobby.

“_Here’s_ our trunks!” she shrieked hysterically.

And then both those women glared things unspeakable at me. They knew now, what they had only suspected before, that I was a deeply-dyed villainess with designs on them and their property.

“What’s this? Why wasn’t I told about it?” I inquired of Abigail, who, naturally, was not missing a word.

“Old Bob brought them while you were busy. He said they were for here, so of course I took them in, madam, as you said you were not to be disturbed,” with an injured sniff, “and I’ve had no opportunity to tell you since.”

The two, true to the instincts of their sex, had promptly seated themselves on the trunks, and I feared they had no intention of budging unless the trunks went with them. But the neighbourly person was anxious to be on the move; she wanted the _kudos_ of walking through the village with them in the broad daylight, so she said—

“They’ll be all right; my ’usband’ll come round for them soon as we get back. Now don’t you worrit the least little bit.”

Thus they were got off at last.

* * * * *

“Puffeck ladies,” I said to myself as I seized the brown pitcher and the water-can, and went out to the spring.

VIII

Merely to be Prepared

I COULDN’T have been asleep many minutes (though, when I come to think of it, no one ever is, in London), because I had waited up till eleven for Abigail.

It was like this: the day before, cook had asked me if she might stay out till eleven that night, as she wanted to go and see an old lady in whose employ she had once been. The old lady was seriously ill; she couldn’t get her off her mind; and she felt she ought to give her what little pleasure she could, as she wouldn’t be likely to get over it.

I begged her to take the whole afternoon; such affection was really touching. I saw myself in a few years’ time, decrepit, aged, and infirm, being visited by a crowd of devoted retainers, who murmured one to another:

“She had her faults, goodness knows, but at least we will scatter seeds of kindness!”

In any case, I was pleased for cook to take some extra time, as she is invariably home early—the Naval Division at the Crystal Palace have to be under glass by nine o’clock.

She thanked me, but declined the afternoon, as she thought half-past nine or ten in the evening would suit the old lady best; she was in a West End nursing home. It seemed late to visit one who was so aged and so ill, but, of course, I gave the extended leave.

She returned at 10.55, looking very bright, a bunch of roses in her coat-belt, a box of chocolates dangling from her finger, and a programme in her hand.

Yes, thank you; she had had a lovely time. The old lady?—er—oh, yes! she was getting on nicely, thank you.

* * * * *

Next day, Abigail came to me, also asking for an eleven o’clock leave. It transpired that she was expecting a little orphan cousin to arrive that night from Blackpool; _such_ a sad affair—child left without a father when it was only four years old—she was eight now. No, she hadn’t ever seen the little cousin, but she felt it was such a distressing case that it was her duty to do what she could.

I hinted that eleven o’clock at night seemed rather late for one who was so young and so orphaned to be up and about, and likewise offered her the afternoon. But she said the train didn’t arrive sooner, and the trains were often late. So I gave her till 11.0 p.m. to welcome the pitiful orphan.

She also arrived in at night looking radiant. Under her mackintosh she was wearing a pink chiffon dress, edged with swansdown; a bandeau of sparkles was on her hair, a horseshoe of the same make adorning the back of her head; she carried a fan, and some flowers that had evidently been worn on the dress.

I am glad to say that she, too, had enjoyed herself immensely, and the desolate relative had been most pleased to make her acquaintance.

After that I retired.

* * * * *

And then I conclude it was the bang that did it; at any rate, the whole household woke with a start, and with one accord the feminine portion precipitated itself downstairs and on to the front door mat, and peered out into the dark road in the hope of seeing _something_!

The masculine element, being gifted with a faculty for keeping cool, calm and collected in any emergency, stayed to gather up a few wraps and rugs and overcoats and anything else he could lay his hands on in the dark (including his disreputable old gardening jacket), which he brought down and distributed among us, as we had not stopped for much in the way of clothing.

At that moment Virginia and Ursula rushed along the road from their own house and joined us. Virginia was clad in a nightdress, with a mackintosh over it and a sumptuous pale blue kimono (covered with brown and black flying herons) on the top of the mac. Ursula was wearing her heliotrope dressing-gown, an ostrich feather boa, and an eiderdown quilt.

They both apologised for calling so late (it was past midnight), but said they felt they should just like to talk things over.

While I was bidding them welcome, Miss Quirker (from round the corner) appeared; likewise Miss Thresher (a secondary-school mistress) and her friend Mrs. Brash, who share a flat near by; and in the rear came Mrs. Ridley, the doctor’s widow from across the road.

They all said they had come because they could see “it” better from my house, which stands on a high point, overlooking London one way, and Kent from the other side.

Each caller was grateful for the loan of a blanket.

Meanwhile, in far less time than it takes to write all this, fire-engines and ambulances, and policemen and motor-cars and pedestrians appeared as by magic from nowhere and went tearing along the road. Yet, crane our necks as we would, not a glimpse could we catch of “it.”