MY FIRST CALLER
Yesterday morning Dimbie said to me--
"Have any of those beastly women called yet?"
"What women?" I asked in surprise.
"Why, the women who live round here, of course. I suppose there are
one or two knocking about? I saw a lady with thick ankles and a
Wellington nose come out of the Old Grange."
"No, she's not been," I said laughing. "We've only been here six
months, and we're poor. If they came in a hurry it would look as
though they wanted to know us."
"And I'm jolly sure we don't want to know them."
Dimbie was heated.
"Of course we don't, dear; but they won't realise that."
"Still, it would be rather nice if somebody dropped in occasionally to
have a chat with you and discuss Amelia," he said.
"I don't want to discuss Amelia," I retorted.
"I wish Nanty would come a bit oftener."
"It is a long way for her to drive. Why do you wish to cram the house
with women?" I said plaintively. "I have quite enough to do with my
reading, mending, sewing, and writing without being inundated by a lot
of strange females."
His dear face brightened.
"So long as you don't feel lonely and the days long, that's all right."
He stroked my head the wrong way.
"I'm not a bit lonely," I said. "No one could be lonely or dull who
had an Amelia; and now the weather is so warm and lovely I lie for
hours under the apple tree. June herself is more than a companion. I
think I am going to read; I cut the magazines, take out a new novel,
and then I lie with eyes half closed looking at the gifts June has
lavished with prodigal hand, listening to the whisperings of leaves and
grass and flowers."
"What a patient, plucky little girl," he whispered.
"Patient!" I cried, when he had gone, and the click of the gate told me
another long day had to be lived through alone. "Patient!"
But how glad I am he doesn't know.
The little lazy insects seem so happy to be doing nothing. They spread
their wings in the warm sun, and rub their little legs together from
sheer contentment at just being alive. They regard with ill-concealed
scorn the aggressive busyness of the bees in the syringa bush, who,
like all working things, are kicking up a tremendous fuss about their
efforts. "Laziness, doing nothing," the insects say, "breed peace and
contentment." "But what about enforced laziness--lying still on a
couch?" I cry.
Oxshott Woods are calling me. I want to lie on the warm, scented
pine-needles, with the sun filtering through the branches of the sad,
stately trees on to my face; I want my senses to be lulled into that
beatific repose which only Nature sounds can achieve. One thinks that
woods--pine woods--on a calm day are still; but lie and listen
carefully, and one will marvel at the multitude of sounds, at the
little hoppings and twitterings, and scurryings and crawlings and
peckings. You are far too lazy to turn your head, but you are
conscious that little bright eyes have you well in focus, that a
movement on your part will cause fear and confusion in the settlement,
so--you don't turn your head. You like to know that they are there,
and presently you fall asleep, and who knows what they do then?
And I am to miss all this. The woods may call, but I must lie still.
The wild-rose hedges may send messages to me on the soft south wind,
invitations to view their loveliness, but I must refuse them all. I
must wait for another year.
Amelia is anxious to wheel me into the lane. Dimbie is more anxious,
but I say "no." Who that is injured is not sensitive? I dread the
encountering of curious eyes, of eyes that even might be pitying.
I want to be left alone in the garden with the birds and insects. They
don't allude to my misfortune, they don't pity me. They always say the
right thing.
* * * * *
As though in direct answer to Dimbie's inquiry, the woman with the
thick ankles from the Old Grange has called.
I must have fallen asleep, for I was dreaming most foolishly and
beautifully that Dimbie and I were in a meadow making daisy-chains,
when I was rudely brought back to my own drawing-room--Amelia had
wheeled me into the house as the sun had gone--by hearing her say, "A
lady to see you, mum."
A little irritably--for I didn't want to leave the daisy-chains--I
looked round for the lady, but she wasn't there.
"She's on the doorstep, mum. Will you see her?"
"Of course," I said. "You must never leave people on the doorstep; it
is very rude."
"What about old clothes women, mum?"
I ignored her question, which seemed to me unusually foolish, and asked
her what she meant by wearing the tea-rose slippers, which I had
expressly forbidden.
"Go and change them." I commanded, "when you have announced the lady."
Her "announcing" was unusual. "The lady, mum. Sit down, please." At
which she pushed a chair behind my visitor's legs with so much force
that she simply fell on to it.
"You must excuse my servant," I said apologetically when Amelia had
vanished. "She is utterly untrained but invaluable." I held out my
hand as I spoke, which the lady touched coldly.
"My name is Mrs. Cobbold, and I live at the Old Grange," she announced
with a trumpet note.
"Oh, of course, Amelia forgot to mention it," I said politely.
"She didn't know it." She was aggrieved now.
"She could hardly mention it then," I said smiling, wishing to cheer
her up. But this simple and natural comment appeared to have the
opposite effect, for her brow lowered, and the jet butterfly in her
bonnet quivered ominously.
"I have called because I heard you were a--an invalid, Mrs.
Westover--that you were confined to your couch."
Her deportment dared me to contradict her.
"It is very kind of you," I said pacifically.
"Not kindness, but duty."
"Which makes your effort all the more praise-worthy," I said gently.
She looked at me sharply--through her pince-nez which gripped her nose
very tightly--suspiciously almost, but she misunderstood me. I had not
intended to be sarcastic. I was really touched at the sacrifice she
was evidently making on my behalf. I felt she was a district
visitor--probably the right hand of the vicar of the parish. She must
need refreshment. She wore the look of one whose tongue clove to the
roof of her mouth.
I rang the tortoise, and requested Amelia to bring tea.
"No tea for me, thank you," Mrs. Cobbold quickly interposed.
"I'm sorry," I said. "Perhaps you won't object to my having a cup?"
"Certainly not, but I never take anything between meals."
She seemed quite proud about this.
"Really!" I murmured interestedly. "But tea is a meal with me."
There was a pause. I could hear Amelia singing, "Now we shan't be
long," which meant she was reaching out the best tea-things. The best
tea-things appear to uplift her in a curious way. Perhaps by using
them she feels we are gradually rising to the social status of the
Tompkinses, who had an "at home" day with netted d'oyleys, and tea
handed round by Amelia herself on a silver salver.
I wondered if Mrs. Cobbold could hear her singing. I felt sure she
would strongly disapprove of any maid indulging in such vocal flights,
and in spite of myself I laughed. Our eyes met: hers were green and
hard, and in their depths I discovered that she disapproved of the
mistress more than of the singing maid.
I smiled again--I couldn't help it; and then I racked my brain for
something interesting and polite to say.
Mrs. Cobbold forestalled me.
"When is it expected? if I may venture to ask you."
"In about ten minutes."
"Gracious goodness!" she ejaculated, springing heavily to her feet.
"Whatever's the matter?" I cried, nearly falling off the couch.
"I thought--I was led to understand that----" she stammered and broke
off.
"Well?" I said, gazing at her in unconcealed astonishment.
"That--that--you will pardon my mentioning it, but--I am a mother
myself. And I was quite interested in hearing that the population of
Pine Tree Valley was about to be increased. But I did not imagine it
would be so soon."
I lay and stared at her. She had reseated herself, and again wore the
district visitor air. Was she mad or--suddenly, in a flash, the drift
of her remarks became clear to me. I strangled a laugh.
"The increase in the population of Pine Tree Valley has nothing to do
with me," I said, a little coldly.
She looked disappointed.
"I am suffering from an accident."
"Oh," she said grudgingly.
"I am afraid you are disappointed."
"The vicar's wife has misinformed me."
"Perhaps she has been gifted with a vivid imagination," I suggested.
"It is unfortunate, as it might get her into trouble."
Mrs. Cobbold looked or rather glared at me over the top of her glasses.
I was relieved when Amelia appeared with tea. I even forgave her for
her tea-rose slippers, which in her excitement she had omitted to
change. Casually I inspected the three-decker bread and butter and
cake-stand. I felt sure that Amelia would have upheld the honour and
glory of the family by "doing" the thing nicely. The first plate was
beyond reproach, nicely-cut bread and butter reposing on best netted
d'oyley. Mrs. Cobbold's parlour-maid could have done no better. But
the second plate made me pause. What was it? I rubbed my eyes. Did I
see a lonely macaroon garnished by a ring of radishes--pointed red,
fibrous radishes, with long green tops--arranged with a mathematical
precision, or did I not? I leaned forward for a closer
inspection--perhaps they were chocolate radishes or almond radishes.
My breath came quickly, and a jet butterfly smote me on the
forehead--Mrs. Cobbold had also leaned forward. The butterfly hurt me.
_That_ I didn't mind. What I _did_ object to was Mrs. Cobbold's
impertinent curiosity. If we chose to garnish a macaroon with radishes
it was none of her business.
"Won't you change your mind and have some tea?" I said, recovering
myself. "Macaroons and radishes are _so_ nice together--a German tea
delicacy." I nibbled the end of one of the radishes as I spoke, and
found it so hot my eyes watered.
"No, thank you," she almost snorted. "Are you German?"
"Oh, no," I replied, "I am quite English with just a few foreign
tastes." I covertly dropped the radish down the side of the couch as I
spoke.
"Where were you born?"
"I was born in Dorking, I mean Westmoreland," I said wanderingly. I
was debating as to what had come over Amelia.
"So you are north-country really?" Her voice was patronising.
"Yes," I returned, "isn't it interesting?"
She again regarded me with suspicion.
"North-country people are becoming quite rare. Perhaps you have
noticed it? Everybody comes from the south."
She did not speak.
"And you," I inquired gently, "are you a native of Pine Tree Valley?"
"No," she replied shortly, "but I have lived here ever since I was a
girl."
"So long?" I said thoughtlessly. And she rose and offered me her hand,
which felt like a non-committal Bath oliver.
"It has been so kind of you to come to see me," I said, shaking the
biscuit up and down.
She unbent a little.
"I will try to come again, but won't promise. My days are so full. Do
you know any of the people here?"
"No," I admitted.
"The Honourable Mrs. Parkin-Dervis not called?"
"No."
She looked perplexed and annoyed.
"But she told me she was coming. She heard that you were confined to
the house."
"She's not been," I said. "I am sorry. I suppose she always leads the
way in the question of calling upon new people. But you needn't feel
you have committed yourself. You see, I shan't be able to return your
call, so please don't feel you must come again unless you want to."
"It's not that," she said; "but, you see, my days are so full."
"Of course they are," I agreed warmly. "I shall quite understand, Mrs.
Cobbold. I'm so sorry Amelia is not here to show you out, but were I
to ring the tortoise for ten minutes she wouldn't come. She is
chopping wood--perhaps you hear her. Amelia never takes the slightest
notice of anybody when she is chopping wood--they are Hudson's Dry Soap
boxes--the more one rings the louder she chops."
"If she were my maid," said Mrs. Cobbold, "I'd make her----"
"No, you wouldn't," I interrupted. "You think you would, but you
wouldn't. We thought the same when she first came to us, but now we
don't. Good-bye."
Through an unfortunate accident the tortoise rang loudly as I spoke. I
caught my sleeve in its tail, and it sounded as though I were cheering
Mrs. Cobbold's departure. She left the house with a flounce and a
flourish. We may meet again in another world, but I am certainly not
on Mrs. Cobbold's visiting list in this.
When I heard the garden gate bang I rang for Amelia.
"I am never at home to that lady," I said.
Amelia stared.
"Where will you be, mum?"
"I shall be here, of course. Don't you understand, I shall not see
her."
"Am I to say that?"
"You're to say, 'Not at home.'"
"I can't say that if you are." Her face was stolid.
"Amelia," I cried, "return to your soap boxes quickly, or I might fling
the tortoise at you."
"But----"
"_Go!_" I said, and with a loud crack of a bone she departed, filled
with amazement.