NANTY CHEERS ME UP
A day has come when it is gusty and wet.
Last night the sun, which has been so kind to us of late, disappeared
red and angry, leaving behind it a sky of flaming glory.
I said to Dimbie that perhaps we had not been sufficiently grateful to
his majesty, that we had begun to take him for granted, and that we
should never make the sun feel cheap.
And so to-day the little forget-me-nots and velvety, sweet-faced
pansies have laid their heads on mother earth, driven there by squalls
of angry wind and rain, and the long branches of the beech tree in the
frog-pond field are waving and bending and shaking out their wealth of
still tender green leaves with fine abandon.
I am solicitous for the sweet-peas. Dimbie has been late in putting in
the sticks for them to climb up, and their hold is slight and wavering.
Two long hedges of Eckfords and Tennants and Burpees, and that
loveliest of all sweet-peas, Countess Cadogan, flank the lawn on either
side. In a few days they will all be out, and I shall lie in the midst
of a many-hued, blossoming sweetness. So much have I to be thankful
for. A cripple in town would stare at brick walls, yet to-day only
discontent sits at my side.
I am cold--rain in summer makes the inside of a creeper-covered cottage
very chilly. The water drips from the leaves of the clematis--drips,
drips. I want to be up and doing. The rain on my cheek in the woods
and lanes would be gracious and sweet-scented. The raindrops lying in
the heart of the honeysuckle would be as nectar for the gods. But a
rainy world when one is a prisoner within four walls is truly
depressing, and there will be no Dimbie to-night.
Dimbie, dear, do you know how much I miss you? The heart of your
Marguerite calls for you, calls for you.
You say you will be back soon, but you don't know. Little old ladies
take a long time to die. The flame flickers and flares up and flickers
and gutters, and is so long in going out. What am I saying? Dimbie,
forgive me, dear. I don't want Aunt Letitia to die. I am praying for
her to get better. Ill or well, she needs you, or she would not have
sent for you, for her message was: "I know your wife wants you, but I
want you more; and it will only be for a few days, and then you may
return to her. I would much like to have seen Marguerite, but----"
What does that "but" mean I wonder? Does she know that the journey is
nearly over? And Dimbie says that that journey has been one of great
loneliness, borne with a great patience and cheerfulness. I think God
will create a separate heaven for very lonely women. He will give them
little children and a love that passeth all understanding. The love
that has been withheld from them in this world will be given to them a
thousandfold in the New Jerusalem.
I am always sorry for lonely women.
* * * * *
Nanty came in breezy and fresh and wet, and my loneliness vanished.
"I have told John to put up in the village, and I can stay with you for
a couple of hours," she announced, removing her cloak. "And you have
been crying."
I shook my head.
"Well, there are two tears at the back of your eyes ready to fall."
"Not now," I said.
"What's been the matter?"
"Dimbie's away."
"Dear me!" she said with comical gravity. "Been away long?"
"He went this morning."
She laughed outright.
"What did you have for lunch?"
"Fish."
"What sort of fish?'
"A whiting."
She sniffed.
"A cold, thin whiting with its tail in its mouth, devoid of any taste
and depressing in its appearance?"
"That exactly describes it," I said laughingly.
"Did you eat it?"
"No, Amelia is going to make it into a fish pie for to-morrow's lunch."
"Amelia seems to be of an economical turn of mind."
"Painfully so," I agreed.
Nanty rose and rang the bell.
"Bring tea at once, please," she said when Amelia appeared, "and a
lightly-boiled egg for your mistress with some hot, buttered toast, and
light the fire."
Amelia's eyes bulged.
"We've been doing some summer cleaning, the fire'll make dirt."
"Light the fire at once, please, your mistress is cold, the dirt is of
no importance; her comfort should be considered before anything else."
"But it's summer----"
"Matches!" said Nanty sternly, and Amelia produced a box like lightning.
Nanty knelt down and removed the fire-screen. Amelia stood and watched
her.
"That is not getting tea and toast," said Nanty, without looking round.
"I'm not dressed, mum----" began Amelia argumentatively.
"Tea and toast!" thundered Nanty, and Amelia fled.
"How brave you are," I said.
She laughed.
"I'm certainly not going to be bossed by a young person like Amelia
Cockles. How does she suit you?"
"I've never thought of how she suits us, but I think we suit her,
although we are not grand like the Tompkinses."
"Who are the Tompkinses?" asked Nanty, settling herself comfortably in
an arm-chair.
"Don't you remember the people she lived with before she came to us?
They knew a poet, and gave dinner parties and had _entrées_ and
_hors-d'oeuvres_--hoary doves she calls them."
"But does she look after you well?"
"Yes," I said, "so long as I don't interfere with her cleaning. She is
a great cleaner, that is her weakest point. Economy is another; she is
too careful. Because I told her we were not rich she seems to think we
must live on potato parings. Then she wears squeaky, high-heeled
shoes, a pearl necklace, and puts on to her print bodies--as she calls
them--innumerable patches. Against these bad qualities we must set her
honesty, early rising, and devotion to me. She has taken me in hand
since the day she entered the house. She thinks, deep down in her
heart, that I am one of the poorest creatures she has met. She has
compared me on different occasions to a love-lies-bleeding and a black
prize Minorca hen. Yet I know she would go through fire and water for
me. She dresses me in the morning with a gentleness and patience
unsurpassed by any nurse, and the tenderness with which she lifts me
from the bed to the couch has caused me to marvel. You ask me how she
suits us. Now I come to think about it, I wouldn't be without Amelia
Cockles for the world."
She entered as I finished speaking, and placed the tea-tray in front of
me, eyeing Nanty with undisguised hostility.
Nanty returned the look with placidity.
"I s'pose you think I have been starving her?"
"No," said Nanty cheerfully, "I am sure you would do nothing of the
kind. Your mistress has just been telling me how good you are to her."
Amelia's face softened.
"No one could help being good to a lady like her--she _is_ a lady," and
she flounced out of the room.
Nanty smiled. "You cannot be very dull so long as that young person is
in the house." She pushed my couch nearer the fire, broke the top off
my egg, and ordered me to begin to eat.
"It is lovely having you here," I said, "I was just beginning to be
dull. What made you come this wet day?"
"Your husband wired for me."
"So you knew he was away?"
"Yes," she returned, "and I went straight away to see if I could
persuade Peter to let your mother come and stay with you during your
husband's absence."
"And----" I cried.
"Your father had just succeeded in getting a canoe to float on the
duck-pond--personally I think it was on the bottom, but I did not
suggest that--and in the flush of victory he said she could come the
day after to-morrow. Ah, that's better," she finished as the blood
rushed into my cheeks. "You looked as white as a ghost when I came in."
"You _are_ clever," I said.
"Yes," she agreed, "in some things."
A smile hovered round her mouth.
"I wonder if you had been Peter's wife----"
"God forbid!" she broke in.
I laughed.
"It will be delightful having mother."
"Do you find the days long?"
"When it's wet."
"Do you still find vent for your happiness in the pages of a manuscript
book?"
I nodded.
She looked at me with incredulous eyes.
"You still find your year--what was it you called it--wonderful?"
"I have Dimbie."
"And an aching back."
"That would be worse if I hadn't Dimbie."
"No man is worth such love from a woman."
"Mine is," I said indignantly.
"Well, don't flash out at me like that. He must be an exception."
"Of course he is."
"And all women think the same when they are first married."
"Nanty, you are a pessimist."
"Optimists are tiresome and always boring."
"They add to the cheerfulness of the world."
"They depress me and always put me in a bad temper. You say it is
horribly cold, and they remind you that frost keeps away disease. You
say it is windy, and they reply that it is bracing. You have lost your
pet dog, and they suggest that you might have lost your favourite
horse. People who always say, 'Never mind, cheer up!' are aggravating
in the extreme. I like people to weep when I weep and laugh when I
laugh. I don't like my friends to make light of my troubles and
practically suggest that I am a coward."
She poked the fire with vigour.
"So you would like me much better if I were to howl about my accident."'
"Exactly, it would be much more natural and human."
"But what about Dimbie?"
"Oh, of course if you bring Dimbie into everything it will be
impossible for you to behave in a rational way."
I laughed gently, and Nanty frowned at the fire.
"If I were to howl Dimbie's year would be spoiled."
"I don't believe in wives being unselfish to their husbands; it spoils
them. Men are quite selfish enough as it is."
"How down upon men you are, Nanty. Have you not met any nice ones?" I
asked.
"Dimbie is not bad as men go. But give him a few years; he will be as
disagreeable as the rest."
"I met a very nice man the other day," I said, refusing to be annoyed.
"It was just before my accident--a Professor Leighrail."
"Professor Leighrail!" A great astonishment lay in Nanty's eyes. "A
very thin man?"
"Yes, he invited us to look at his ribs. His wife, Amabella, is dead."
"Amabella dead?" she repeated.
I nodded.
"He took up ballooning, as he thought it would be the quickest way of
ending himself."
Nanty started, and then poured herself out another cup of tea.
"Do you know him?"
"I knew him some years ago."
"He once asked you to be his wife."
Nanty dropped her spoon with a clatter.
"Did he tell you?"
"Of course not," I laughed, and hugged Jumbles who lay on the couch
beside me. "I knew by your face, Nanty, dear. Why didn't you accept
him?"
"Because I was a fool." She spoke bitterly. "I should have been happy
with that man. As it was, he--grew fond of Amabella. Didn't he?" She
turned on me with a pounce.
"I--I think so," I stammered; "but I don't suppose he ever loved her as
much as he loved you. I should fancy from her name she was a
bit--pussy-catty."
Nanty smiled a little grimly.
"Men like domestic, sit-by-the-hearth women. I feel sure Amabella
mended his socks regularly and brushed his clothes."
"They wanted brushing the other day," I said reflectively, "and his
boots were miles too big for him--they were like canoes." And I went
on to relate where we had met him, what he had had for his dinner, and
how he was coming to call upon us in his balloon.
"It is a dangerous game," said Nanty crossly as she rose to go.
"But he is lonely and unhappy," I protested.
"So are lots of people," she snapped. "I have been lonely for twenty
years, and I get stouter every day."
"His ribs are like knife blades," I observed.
"He was always thin. I have not seen him since I was a girl, but I
have followed his career. I knew he would make a name for himself. He
was always dabbling in some mess--ruined his mother's bed-quilts--and
wore badly-fitting clothes. It's strange you should meet him," she
finished musingly.
"Would you like his address?" I asked quietly.
"No, I wouldn't, thanks, but--I shouldn't mind meeting him here some
day. It would be pleasant to have a chat about old times."
"Rather dangerous, I should say."
"You always were an impertinent child," she said as she stooped to kiss
me.
The love affairs of my friends are multiplying, I thought, when she had
gone--Dr. Renton's and now Nanty's.