In the few days that passed between Uncle Jim's departure and Wilfrid's
return, there was an atmosphere of unnatural sweetness in the Corders'
house. Ethel's gratitude to her father, for refraining from making her
suffer for Howard's fault, transformed her into the sunny daughter of
an indulgent parent, but Ruth, with the cynicism which both pleased
and saddened Hannah, treasured these good moments because she did
not believe they would last. Robert Corder, however, had adopted
an attitude and he kept it, and Hannah, who found it impossible to
attribute a good motive to him if she could find a bad one, saw this
consistency as a result of his instinct of self-protection which
warned him that if he was to play a part well he must play it all
the time. Before many days were over, he had merged himself into his
rôle and she wondered whether there had been any real suffering at
Howard's treatment of him and any response to its implications. His
was a curious character and, for all his human weaknesses, she could
not believe he was quite real. She would tell herself that he was
a marvellous puppet, so much like a man that he could deceive most
people, and then, when he came into the house, she had to admit her
consciousness of his personality. Ethel was in a flutter to please
him, Ruth was vigilantly critical, Hannah herself paid him the tribute
of an irritated delight in watching him, in divining the meaning of
his looks and foretelling his remarks, and these were the reactions to
no puppet. He could absorb the suggestions that suited him as easily
as water takes a colour, yet he must have had some suggestive power
over other people or they would not have sought him out and gone away
comforted. This was a puzzle which it would take a lifetime to solve
and Hannah was afraid her sands were running out--for Ethel's good
temper was not all due to her father's leniency--and as she saw the
silent slipping of the moments, she was alternately enraged and amused
that, with a few words, Mr. Pilgrim could change the family friend
into a person to be shunned, though her management, her economy,
her cooking, her counsel, all that made her useful to these people,
would remain unchanged. But there was her cousin Hilda and her own
word against Mr. Pilgrim's; it became a matter of pride with her to
frustrate him, and there was a strained alertness about her which no
one but Mr. Samson noticed. It would have been comforting to tell him
everything; he would have listened with a salutary lack of surprise,
but, sane as he was, she could not unwrap her little secret to his
gaze. He was, in fact, too sane to understand that what he saw in terms
of natural, harmless appetite had had a spiritual value for her which
she still struggled to keep.
She admitted to being tired and Mr. Samson growled his anxiety about
her; he had told that Bible-smiter she was worth taking care of and
would have told him a good deal more, but for Miss Fitt and the peaky
little girl. He did not want to make trouble that would fall on the
family. And what had Corder wanted, poking his nose in and waking Mr.
Samson out of his afternoon nap? If he had not thought it was the man
with the cat's meat he would not have gone to the door, and there he
was, smirking on the step and trying to look like a herald angel.
'But I let him know it's you that's the angel, just as his wife was
before you. I'm a lucky old devil, finding two of you at the end of my
days, and you wouldn't think I'd fancy your kind, to look at me, now
would you? Well, I've fancied all sorts, to tell the truth, but it's
the lively ones I like. A quick tongue's more use to me than a pretty
face. Now, you take care of yourself. And what about a bottle of port
to drink on the quiet?'
'No, no, it's a teetotal household.' Her laughter rang out. 'But Mr.
Corder had to eat some brandy with his Christmas pudding! I don't
want any port. I'm going to have a day's holiday and spend it in the
country.'
'And that's a funny idea of a holiday,' Mr. Samson said.
It was certainly a euphemistic description of the expedition she had
planned and for which, knowing that Ruth would beg to go with her, she
had not settled on the day. It would have been better to wait until
the beginning of the school term, but that was a long way off and she
would have to refuse Ruth a pleasure which, for her, would be something
like a day in Radstowe had been for Hannah, and Hannah herself, full of
shrinking though she was, had a great longing to see her own country,
to sit in the train and watch the city and its suburbs giving way to
fields and woods, flat meadows cut by dykes and villages dominated by
their stately perpendicular churches, just as she had watched all these
giving way to the promise of Radstowe, that fairy place of streets and
towers, bridges, water and ships. She would get her business done as
soon as possible, and then she would cross the fields to the old farm.
She did not know who owned it now, but if they had any likeness to
her own wary but kindly people, they would let her have a peep into
the kitchen, where she ought to have been living with the red-cheeked
children; they would let her stroll round the farm buildings and have
a look at the cows and, as she sat in the Beresford Road dining-room,
darning the everlasting socks and stockings, she fancied she could
smell the sweet breath of the cows, and the sweetness of wallflowers,
old man and pinks, in the little garden where the bear had lurked.
There would be no flowers blooming now, unless there was a chance
primrose on a sheltered bank, but the cows would be there, and she
looked at Ruth, sitting on her feet in the old saddle-bag armchair, and
reading with absorption, and thought it would be cruel to go without
the child. Was this an excuse for procrastination? she asked herself,
as there came a loud knock on the front door which made Ruth look up
and say: 'Postman, Moley. It may be the fortune.'
'What fortune?' Ethel asked. She was trying to alter one of her many
unsatisfactory dresses, but she was inept, and presently she would ask
Miss Mole to gather her scattered pieces into some semblance of a whole.
'If it's the fortune,' Hannah said, going towards the door, 'I'll give
you each--well, it depends, but I'll give you each something.'
'And she would, you know,' Ruth said, looking gravely at Ethel.
The knock had drawn Robert Corder from his study and he found Miss
Mole, in the hall, holding a letter. 'The postman?' he asked.
'No. This came by hand, as they say, as though postman hadn't got one.'
'For me?'
'No, for me,' she said and she opened and read it while he stood there.
'Not bad news, I hope,' he said.
'Not at all,' she replied, smiling at him as she tucked the letter into
the bosom of her dress, and returned to the dining-room.
The smile was still on her lips, though she did not know it until Ruth
cried: 'And I do believe it really is the fortune!'
'Good gracious! Do I look as pleased as all that?'
'Not now. Now you're frowning a little. Isn't it something nice?'
'That depends on one's point of view,' Hannah said, and Ruth resumed
her reading. 'There were times when she knew it was of no use to ask
Miss Mole any questions.
Hannah wondered, and was half annoyed at her satisfaction, but a day in
the country with Mr. Blenkinsop would be a day of inward and outward
laughter: she could not look at him without a bubbling feeling of
pleasure, even his handwriting made her smile and, if she gave him
the day he asked for, she must postpone her own expedition. This, in
itself, was a relief, and to be looked after as she knew Mr. Blenkinsop
would look after her, to have her ticket taken for her, to be asked if
she were tired, was an alluring prospect to Hannah, who had spent so
much of her time in looking after other people. But Mr. Blenkinsop took
a good deal for granted: he assumed, and no doubt she had given him
cause, that her interest in Mrs. Ridding was considerable, but to take
her into the country to inspect the little house he had found--that
house, which, no doubt, was to be Mrs. Ridding's refuge from her
husband--was a dependence on her judgment which that lady might
resent, and it was a deliberate involving of Mr. Corder's housekeeper
in an affair which would do her reputation no good. This care for her
reputation satisfactorily explained her slight feeling of irritation
with Mr. Blenkinsop, but it did not influence her desire to oblige him.
Such invitations did not often come her way and, irritated or not, she
liked Mr. Blenkinsop, and the thought of his companionship, preoccupied
though he might be, for a whole day in the country, with bare branches
against grey skies and pale fields slipping into brown ones, and the
chance of a primrose, was more than enough to make her smile.
Mr. Blenkinsop hoped the following Sunday would not be an impossible
day for her. He was afraid it would be awkward but--he was quite
playful in the excitement which had made him begin his note without any
formality of address--he also hoped she would be able to produce the
usual grandmother or aunt whose illness or funeral called her away.
Hannah, however, did not need these ladies, for she had a tenant, and
Mr. Corder's prejudice against Sunday pleasures would not be applied to
business if she explained that it could be transacted on no other day.
Her trouble was not Mr. Corder; it was lack of suitable clothing for
this outing. She had the shoes, but she had no well cut tweeds, no gay
scarf and jaunty hat. Life was simpler for men. Their festive occasions
were not brightened or dimmed by the clothes question; it was dull for
them, but easy, and Hannah looked at her battered headgear and sighed.
She counted her little savings and saw the coins as so many meals and
so many nights of shelter: it would be madness to spend a penny, but
why should she not be mad? There was not much difference between having
food for a month and having it for a day, and she put her purse in
her pocket and decided to go and look at the shops. The January sales
had begun, and she might pick up a bargain: she might save a rich old
gentleman from being run over and her future would be secured because
she had dared to risk it, and she set off, believing the miracle
was really going to happen, ready to squander, but possessed of the
pleasant certainty that she could restrain herself if she chose. This
was the right mood in which to go shopping. The smell of spring in
the mild air, the thought of Sunday, and the purse held firmly in the
pocket of her coat, were like wine to Miss Mole, who walked with her
quick, light tread until she reached the shops, and then she walked
slowly, gazing into the windows, but her exhilaration left her before
she had gone far. She was born fastidious, and the heaps of clothing,
boldly ticketed, did not attract her. She knew it was better to be
decently shabby than cheaply gay and she retraced her steps up The
Slope, looking back now and then at the beauty she could get for
nothing.
As she neared the top of the hill, she spied the figure of Lilla
bustling down, and a new light came into her eyes. If she could not
have a new hat, she could have some fun with Lilla, and she greeted her
cousin so loudly and lovingly that Lilla looked round for a retreat.
'Come in here and have some tea,' she said, indicating the shop
where they had met on that October evening when Hannah first saw Mr.
Blenkinsop, and Hannah followed her into the most secluded corner.
'I've been wanting to see you,' Lilla said.
'You don't look a bit pleased, dear,' Hannah said sadly.
'I'm not pleased, but I wanted to tell you that I wish you'd mind your
own business and leave me to mind mine. I don't need instructions about
how to behave, Hannah, and your letter was quite unnecessary.'
'Not instructions, dear--only hints. You told me I was to bark when
necessary, so I barked. You put me in that house to take care of Mr.
Corder, and I'm trying to do it. I thought you'd be glad. Are you
paying for this tea, or am I?'
'Never mind about that. I want to get to the bottom of this affair of
Howard's.'
'But I do mind, Lilla. If it's me, I'm having a bun. If it's you, I'll
have buttered toast to start with.'
'Have anything you like,' Lilla said grandly. 'I suppose that boy is
running away from trouble, but of course his father wouldn't admit it.
He talked a lot of rubbish about temperament and the open air, and I
did my best to make things easy for him, but he ought to have trusted
me. I've a great respect for Robert Corder--'
'Nothing to what he has for you,' Hannah said feelingly. 'I really
believe the only thing that worried him about Howard was the fear that
you would be hurt. He has a noble character, Lilla.'
'H'm,' Lilla said. 'I'm not satisfied, but I must say he seemed anxious
to return the money I'd spent. Where he's going to get it from, I don't
know and, if he can pay it back, it seems to me that he can't have
needed it. And that's not a pleasant thought.'
'Then don't think it. Just remember that you're a lucky woman. If Mr.
Corder admired me as he admires you--'.
'Now don't begin getting sentimental, Hannah. It's no good. He thinks
you're a capable woman, but there he stops. I took care to find that
out.'
'Oh, did you?'
'Yes, I did. There's too much nonsense about him in the chapel already,
and really, Patsy Withers made me feel quite ashamed at my party. What
with her and Mr. Pilgrim--'
'What was she doing?' Hannah asked quickly. 'I didn't notice her.'
'No,' Lilla said drily, 'you were too busy monopolising Mr. Blenkinsop,
and I may tell you that Mr. Corder saw it. It wasn't fair, Hannah, with
so many girls in the room.'
'I couldn't help it, dear. I've a fatal sort of attraction for him.
Why is it do you think? I was the belle of the ball for Mr. Blenkinsop
there isn't a doubt.'
'I invite young men for the sake of the girls, not for you to sharpen
your wits on, but if I'd known, as Mr. Corder tells me, that he'd left
the chapel, I shouldn't have invited him at all. And he wouldn't have
been missed, as it happened, and that was your fault. Do you know where
he goes?'
'Goes?' said Hannah.
'What place of worship?'
'Oh, here and there; here and there. He wants to take me with him on
Sunday.'
'Stuff!' Lilla said, but she said it doubtfully. 'Well, Mr. Pilgrim
isn't likely to get him, after the exhibition he made of himself--and
that was Ernest's fault. What did you think of him?' she asked, and
her bright eyes sharpened a little. 'He told me he'd seen you before,
Hannah, and he seemed curious about you.'
'Naturally,' Hannah said easily. 'I'll never get you to understand that
I'm a noticeable character.'
'And he used to live in your part of the country,' Lilla went on, 'but
as you haven't lived there for years--' she sighed. 'I wish I could
feel more comfortable about you.'
'Don't try,' Hannah said. 'I haven't split on you yet.'
'I'm thinking of your own good, Hannah. I didn't like the man's manner
at all. If there's anything I ought to know, you'd better tell me.'
Hannah shook her head. 'I won't betray him.'
'Him?' Lilla cried.
Hannah smiled in the way Wilfrid loved and Lilla distrusted.
'It hasn't occurred to you that he might be nervous about his own
little secrets, I suppose?'