It was more than a week since Tommy's Ladies had come to Draeth.
Easter was over, and until Whitsuntide no more steamer-loads of
Plymouth trippers would visit the little town. On landing the steamer
passengers invariably followed the same plan. Presumably during the
short voyage they had had enough of the sea, for on leaving the boat
they at once trailed up the main street of Draeth, either in
scattering groups or in twos. The groups included children: little
girls with tightly curled hair and little boys in velvet suits.
Sometimes the twos held each other's hands, spoke little and looked
down at the ground as they walked; sometimes they were parted by the
whole width of the roadway, each seemingly indifferent to the presence
of the other.
The groups looked in at the shop-windows until they were hungry; then,
carrying bulging paper-bags, they retraced their steps and, sitting in
sheltered corners among the rocks, looking out beyond the island to
the open sea, they ate stolidly until the bags were empty. Later the
tide came up and restored the beach to order, carrying out, even
beyond the breakwater of the island, all the litter of paper bags,
banana skins, orange peel, glass and tin--all mercifully washed
outwards to the horizon until they became waterlogged and sank to the
ocean floor.
On Easter Monday the ladies walked to a distant and secluded part of
the coast and were happy all the morning in avoiding the rush of
holiday-makers. From afar they watched the approach of the thronged
steamers, and speculated idly as to the probable number of boatloads
that would land. Because it was good for the watermen they were glad
that the steamers came.
As they were leaving the house after dinner, a weary lady had
approached them. Behind her stood another woman, equally weary, and a
pale-faced, meek-eyed man. "Excuse me," the first weary lady had said,
addressing Miss Dorothea, "but will you be so very kind as to tell me
where we can find the stocks?" she spoke with nervous eagerness. "You
see, we are only here for the day."
Miss Dorothea had directed her to the stocks just around the corner,
and had followed the Blue Lady down the alley. But she was not to
escape so easily. "Excuse me once more," said the weary stranger,
somewhat out of breath with running after her, "but is there anything
else to be seen in Draeth; you see, we are only here for the day."
On the following Monday, as they were walking up from the sands at
dinner time, they were laughing over the Easter reminiscences, and
comparing the beauty and stillness around them with the bustle and
throng of the week before. Then they began to speak of Mrs. Radford.
They found it very difficult to avoid her, although they had not
responded to her early advances. Whenever they left the house they
were conscious that her eyes followed them until they were out of
sight; she stood, barely concealed by the curtains of the window, to
mark their return.
The Blue Lady was growing impatient; the unceasing spying annoyed her.
The Brown Lady saw not only the humour, but also the pathos, of Mrs.
Radford's actions. "But think, Margaret," she said; "it isn't real
ill-nature that makes her so. It's just a sort of jealousy; we have so
much, and she has so little."
"I don't agree with you. She has a husband and a child, and money
enough to enable her to live without effort."
"Yes, she has all that, but she lacks absolutely the joy of living.
You yourself possess this in so high a degree that you scarcely allow
for its absence in others."
"Ah, well," sighed the Blue Lady, "I really will try to be more
tolerant, but the woman irritates me beyond endurance."
She ran upstairs to the sitting-room:
"Oh the wild joys of living," she quoted, "the leaping from rock
to----"
Her good resolutions were forgotten, for there, curled up on the sofa,
sat Annabel. She was not an attractive child in appearance: she was
too tall for her age, and, in spite of the fact that she was five
years old, she spoke in a babyish manner which sounded unnatural and
was, indeed, the result of affectation.
She was the first to speak. "Miss Magalet, 'tan I have dinner wiv
'oo?"
"No, Annabel, you most certainly can _not_. Why don't you speak
plainly--Tommy does. And you must never again come up here when we are
not in."
"You have much nicer dinners than us," continued the child; "me never
has g'evy and meat, only beans and fings."
"Poor mite!" said the Brown Lady below her breath.
Annabel had wriggled off the sofa and was pointing to a gay chocolate
box on the mahogany wash-stand that served as a sideboard. "'S dem for
Tommy?" she asked.
The Blue Lady lost patience. "They _were_ for Tommy," she said, quite
sharply; "but I don't think they're very good; they don't seem quite
fresh, so you can have them if you like."
The child, completely satisfied, went downstairs to show her mother
the gift.
"It's no good," said the Blue Lady, ashamed of her unkindness to a
little child. "She's exactly like her mother and I cannot like her."
For dinner the ladies had ordered ox-tail soup, lamb and green peas,
gooseberry tart and cream. So much Mrs. Radford learned when she
peeped in at the kitchen door as Mrs. Tregennis was dishing up the
second course.
"What very extravagant dinners they order."
Mrs. Tregennis took no notice of the remark, but, stooping, closed the
oven door, and, digging a fork into the joint, lifted it from the tin
to the hot dish waiting on the fender. At that moment the upstairs
bell rang. Mrs. Tregennis answered it and returned with the plates and
the soup-tureen.
Mrs. Radford raised the lid of the tureen. "What delicious soup!" she
remarked, "and what a lot they have left. They would never miss it,
Mrs. Tregennis, if you would let me have some."
There was no reply.
"Won't you give me just a little--just enough for Annabel?"
Then Mrs. Tregennis spoke. "I shouldn't think of doing such a thing!"
she answered, indignantly. "Why, I wouldn't take not even so much as a
crumb of theirs, not even for my own Tommy, no, not if 'twas ever so!"
Even then Mrs. Radford was not ashamed. "A few green peas----" she
began again.
"Not _one_ green pea, ma'am," replied Mrs. Tregennis, firmly, "and
you'll excuse me for sayin' it, ma'am, but I really cannot understand
as how you can ask for any such thing; so there's where 'tis to."
Mrs. Radford flushed hotly. "Well! _you'll_ see," she said
vindictively, "they're living at too grand a rate, they are. Their
money won't last out, it won't. You can't say that you were not
warned."
Passing into her own room Mrs. Radford slammed the door, while Mrs.
Tregennis carried the lamb, green peas and baked potatoes upstairs to
the spendthrift ladies.