PLANS
"Now, chicks, this is London, the friendly town," Jan announced, as the
taxi drove away from Charing Cross station.
"Flendly little London, dirty little London," her niece rejoined, as she
bounced up and down on Jan's knee. She had slept during the very good
crossing and was full of conversation and ready to be pleased with all
she saw.
Tony was very quiet. He had suffered far more in the swift journey
across France than during the whole of the voyage, and it was difficult
to decide whether he or Ayah were the more extraordinary colour.
Greenish-white and miserable he sat beside his aunt, silent and
observing.
"Here's dear old Piccadilly," Jan exclaimed, as the taxi turned out of
St. James's Street. "Doesn't it look jolly in the sunshine?"
Tony turned even greener than before, and gasped:
"This! Piccadilly!"
This not very wide street with shops and great houses towering above
them, the endless streams of traffic in the road and on the crowded
pavements!
"Did Mrs. Bond live in one of those houses?" he wondered, "and if so,
where did she keep her ducks? And where, oh, where, were the tulips and
the lilies of his dream?"
He uttered no sound, but his mind kept exclaiming, "This! Piccadilly?"
"See," said Jan, oblivious of Tony and intent on keeping her lively
niece upon her knee. "There's the Green Park."
Tony breathed more freely.
After all, there _were_ trees and grass; good grass, and more of it than
in the Resident's garden. He took heart a little and summoned up courage
to inquire: "But where are the tulips?"
"It's too early for tulips yet," Jan answered. "By and by there will be
quantities. How did you know about them? Did dear Mummy tell you? But
they're in Hyde Park, not here."
Tony made no answer. He was, as usual, weighing and considering and
making up his mind.
Presently he spoke. "It's different," he said, slowly, "but I rather
like to look at it."
Tony never said whether he thought things were pretty or ugly. All he
knew was that certain people and places, pictures and words, sometimes
filled him with an exquisite sense of pleasure, while others merely
bored or exasperated or were positively painful.
His highest praise was "I like to look at it." When he didn't like to
look at it, he had found it wiser to express no opinion at all, except
in moments of confidential expansion, and these were rare with Tony.
Meg had found them a nice little furnished flat on the fifth floor in
one of the blocks behind Kensington High Street, and Hannah must surely
have been waiting behind the door, so instantaneously was it opened,
when Jan and her party left the lift.
There were tears in Hannah's eyes and her nose was red as she welcomed
"Miss Fay's motherless bairns." She was rather shocked that there was no
sign of mourning about any of them except Jan, who wore--mainly as a
concession to Hannah's prejudices--a thin black coat and skirt she had
got just before she left Bombay.
Tony stared stonily at Hannah and decided he did not like to look at
her. She was as surprising as the newly-found Piccadilly, but she
gratified no sensuous perception whatsoever.
Ayah might not be exactly beautiful, but she was harmonious. Her body
was well proportioned, her sari fell in gracious flowing lines, and she
moved with dignity. Without knowing why, Tony felt that there was
something pleasing to the eye in Ayah. Hannah, on the contrary, was the
reverse of graceful; stumpy and heavy-footed, she gave an impression of
abrupt terminations. Everything about her seemed too short except her
caps, which were unusually tall and white and starchy. Her afternoon
aprons, too, were stiffer and whiter and more voluminous than those of
other folk. She did not regard these things as vain adornings of her
person, rather were they the outward and visible sign of her office as
housekeeper to Miss Ross. They were a partial expression of the dignity
of that office, just as a minister's gown is the badge of his.
By the time everyone was washed and brushed Meg returned with the
luggage and Hannah brought in tea.
"I thought you'd like to give the bairns their tea yourself the first
day, Miss Jan. Will that Hindu body have hers in the nursery?"
"That would be best," Jan said hastily. "And Hannah, you mustn't be
surprised if she sits on the floor. Indian servants always do."
"_Nothing_ she can do will surprise me," Hannah announced loftily. "I've
not forgotten the body that came back with Mrs. Tancred, with a ring
through her nose and a red wafer on her forehead."
Jan, herself, went with Ayah to the nursery, where she found that in
spite of her disparaging sniffs, Hannah had put out everything poor Ayah
could possibly want.
The children were hungry and tea was a lengthy meal. It was not until
they had departed with Ayah for more washings that Jan found time to
say: "Why don't you take off your hat, Meg dear? I can't see you
properly in that extinguisher. Is it the latest fashion?"
"The very latest."
Meg looked queerly at Jan as she slowly took off her hat.
"There!" she said.
Her hair was cropped as short as a boy's, except for the soft, tawny
rings that framed her face.
"Meg!" Jan cried. "Why on earth have you cut off your hair?"
"Chill penury's the cause. I've turned it into good hard cash. It
happens to be the fashionable colour just now."
"Did you really need to? I thought you were getting quite a good salary
with those Hoffmeyers."
"No English governess gets a _good_ salary in Bremen, and mine was but a
modest remuneration, so I wanted more. Do you remember Lady Penelope
Pottinger?"
"Hazily. She was pretty, wasn't she ... and very smart?"
"She was and is ... smarter than ever now--mind, I put you on your
honour never to mention it--_she's_ got my hair."
"Do you mean she asked you to sell it?"
"No, my child. I offered it for sale and she was all over me with
eagerness to purchase. Hair's the defective wire in her lighting
apparatus. Her own, at the best, is skimpy and straight, though very
much my colour, and what with permanent waving and instantaneous hair
colouring it was positively dwindling away."
"I wish you had let it dwindle."
"No, I rather like her--so I suggested she should give her own poor
locks a rest and have an artistic _postiche_ made with mine; it made
two, one to come and one to go--to the hairdresser. She looks perfectly
charming. I'd no idea my hair was so decent till I saw it on her head."
"I hope _I_ never shall," Jan said gloomily. "I think it was silly of
you, for it makes you look younger and more irresponsible than ever; and
what about posts?"
"I've got a post in view where it won't matter if only I can run things
my own way."
"Will you have to go at once? I thought, perhaps----"
"I wish to take this post at once," Meg interposed quickly, "but it
depends on you whether I get it."
"On me?"
"On no one else. Look here, Jan, will you take me on as nurse to Fay's
children? A real nurse, mind, none of your fine lady arrangements; only
you must pay me forty pounds a year. I can't manage with less if I'm to
give my poor little Papa any chirps ... I suppose that's a frightful lot
for a nurse?"
"Not for a good nurse ... But, Meg, you got eighty when you taught the
little boys, and I know they'd jump at you again in that school, hair or
no hair."
"Listen, Jan." Meg put her elbows on the table and leaned her sharp
little chin on her two hands while she held Jan's eyes with hers. "For
nine long years, except that time with the Trents, I've been teaching,
teaching, teaching, and I'm sick of teaching. I'd rather sweep a
crossing."
"Yet you teach so well; you know the little boys adored you."
"I love children and they usually like me. If you take me to look after
Tony and little Fay, I'll do it thoroughly, I can promise you. I won't
teach them, mind, not a thing--I'll make them happy and well-mannered;
and, Jan, listen, do you suppose there's anybody, even the most
superior of elderly nurses, who would take the trouble for Fay's
children that I should? If you let me come you won't regret it, I
promise you."
Meg's eyes, those curious eyes with the large pupil and blue iris
flecked with brown, were very bright, her voice was earnest, and when it
ceased it left a sense of tension in the very air.
Jan put out her hand across the table, and Meg, releasing her sharp
little chin, clasped it with hers.
"So that's settled," Meg announced triumphantly.
"No." Jan's voice was husky but firm. "It's not settled. I don't think
you're strong enough; but, even so, if I could pay you the salary you
ought to have, I'd jump at you ... but, my dear, I can't at present. I
haven't the least idea what it will all cost, but the fares and things
have made such a hole in this year's money I'll need to be awfully
careful."
"That's exactly why I want to come; you've no idea of being careful and
doing things in a small way. I've done it all my life. You'll be far
more economical with me than without me."
"Don't tempt me," Jan besought her. "I see all that, but why should I be
comfortable at your expense? I want you more than I can say. Fay wanted
it too--she said so."
"Did Fay actually say so? Did she?"
"Yes, she did--not that you should be their nurse, we neither of us ever
thought of that; but she did want you to be there to help me with the
children. We used to talk about it."
"Then I'm coming. I must. Don't you see how it is, Jan? Don't you
realise that nearly all the happiness in my life--_all_ the happiness
since the boys left--has come to me through Mr. Ross and Fay and you?
And now when there's a chance for me to do perhaps a little something in
return ... If you don't let me, it's you who are mean and grudging. I
shall be perfectly strong, if I haven't got to teach--mind, I won't do
that, not so much as A.B.C."
"I know it's wrong," Jan sighed, "just because it would be so heavenly
to have you."
Meg loosed the hand she held and stood up. She lifted her thin arms
above her head, as though invoking some invisible power, stretched
herself, and ran round the table to kiss Jan.
"And do you never think, you dear, slow-witted thing, that it will be
rather lovely for _me_ to be with you? To be with somebody who is kind
without being patronising, who treats one as a human being and not a
machine, who sees the funny side of things and isn't condescending or
improving if she doesn't happen to be cross?"
"I'm often cross," Jan said.
"Well, and what if you are? Can't I be cross back? I'm not afraid of
your crossness. You never hit below the belt. Now, promise me you'll
give me a trial. Promise!"
Meg's arms were round her neck, Meg's absurd cropped head was rubbing
against hers. Jan was very lonely and hungry for affection just then,
timid and anxious about the future. Even in that moment of time it
flashed upon her what a tower of strength this small, determined
creature would be, and how infinitely hard it was to turn Meg from any
course she had determined on.
"For a little while, then," so Jan salved her conscience. "Just till we
all shake down ... and your hair begins to grow."
Meg stood up very straight and shook her finger at Jan. "Remember, I'm
to be a real, proper nurse with authority, and a clinical thermometer
... and a uniform."
"If you like, and it's a pretty uniform."
Meg danced gleefully round the table.
"It will be lovely, it is lovely. I've got it all ready; green linen
frocks, big _well_-fitting aprons, and such beautiful caps."
"Not caps, Meg!" Jan expostulated. "Please not caps."
"Certainly caps. How otherwise am I to cover up my head? I can't wear
hats all the time. And how could I ever inspire those children with
respect with a head like this? When I get into my uniform you'll see
what a very superior nurse I look."
"You'll look much more like musical comedy than sober service."
"You mistake the situation altogether," Meg said loftily. "I take my
position very seriously."
"But you can't go about Wren's End in caps. Everybody knows you down
there."
"They'll find out they don't know me as well as they thought, that's
all."
"Meg, tell me, what did Hannah say when she saw your poor shorn head?"
"Hannah, as usual, referred to my Maker, and said that had He intended
me to have short hair He would either have caused it not to grow or
afflicted me with some disease which necessitated shearing; and she
added that such havers are just flying in the face of Providence."
"So they are."
"All the more reason to cover them up, and I wish to impress the
children."
"Those children will be sadly browbeaten, I can see, and as for their
poor aunt, she won't be able to call her soul her own."
"That," Meg said, triumphantly, "is precisely why I'm so eager to come.
When you've been an underling all your life you can't imagine what a joy
it is to be top dog occasionally."
"In that respect," Jan said firmly, "it must be turn and turn about. I
won't let you come unless you promise--swear, here and now--that when I
consider you are looking fagged--'a wispy wraith,' as Daddie used to
say--if I command you to take a day in bed, in bed you will stay till I
give you leave to get up. Unless you promise me this, the contract is
off."
"I'll promise anything you like. The idea of being _pressed_ to remain
in bed strikes me as merely comic. You have evidently no notion how
persons in a subordinate position ought to be treated. Bed, indeed!"
"I think you might have waited till I got back before you parted with
your hair." Jan's tone was decidedly huffy.
"Now don't nag. That subject is closed. What about _your_ hair. Do you
know it is almost white?"
"And what more suitable for a maiden aunt? As that is to be my _rôle_
for the future I may as well look the part."
"But you don't--that's what I complain of. The whiter your hair grows
the younger your face gets. You're a contradiction, a paradox, you
provoke conjecture, you're indecently noticeable. Mr. Ross would have
loved to paint you."
Jan shook her head. "No, Daddie never wanted to paint anything about me
except my arms."
"He'd want to paint you now," Meg insisted obstinately. "_I_ know the
sort of person he liked to paint."
"He never would paint people unless he _did_ like them," Jan said,
smiling as at some recollection. "Do you remember how he utterly refused
to paint that rich Mr. Withells down at Amber Guiting?"
"I remember," and Meg laughed. "He said Mr. Withells was puffy and
stippled."
* * * * *
Tony had been cold ever since he reached the Gulf of Lyons, and he
wondered what could be the matter with him, for he never remembered to
have felt like this before. He wondered miserably what could be the
reason why he felt so torpid and shivery, disinclined to move, and yet
so uncomfortable when he sat still.
After his bath, on that first night in London, tucked into a little bed
with a nice warm eiderdown over him, he still felt that horrid little
trickle of ice-cold water down his spine and could not sleep.
His cot was in Auntie Jan's room with a tall screen round it. The rooms
in the flat were small, tiny they seemed to Tony, after the lofty
spaciousness of the bungalow in Bombay, but that didn't seem to make it
any warmer, because Auntie Jan's window was wide open as it would
go--top and bottom--and chilly gusts seemed to blow round his head in
spite of the screen. Ayah and little Fay were in the nursery across the
passage, where there was a fire. There was no fire in this wind-swept
chamber of Auntie Jan's.
Tony dozed and woke and woke and dozed, getting colder and more forlorn
and miserable with each change of position. The sheets seemed made of
ice, so slippery were they, so unkind and unyielding and unembracing.
Presently he saw a dim light. Auntie Jan had come to bed, carrying a
candle. He heard her say good night to the little mem who had met them
at the station, and the door was shut.
In spite of her passion for fresh air, Jan shivered herself as she
undressed. She made a somewhat hasty toilet, said her prayers, peeped
round the screen to see that Tony was all right, and hopped into bed,
where a hot-water bottle put in by the thoughtful Hannah was most
comforting.
Presently she heard a faint, attenuated sniff. Again it came, this time
accompanied by the ghost of something like a groan.
Jan sat up in bed and listened. Immediately all was perfectly still.
She lay down again, and again came that sad little sniff, and
undoubtedly it was from behind the screen that it came.
Had Tony got cold?
Jan leapt out of bed, switched on the light and tore away the screen
from around his bed.
Yes; his doleful little face was tear-stained.
"Tony, Tony darling, what is the matter?"
"I don't know," he sobbed. "I feel so funny."
Jan put her hand on his forehead--far from being hot, the little face
was stone-cold. In a moment she had him out of bed and in her warm arms.
As she took him she felt the chill of the stiff, unyielding small body.
"My precious boy, you're cold as charity! Why didn't you call me long
ago? Why didn't you tell Auntie Jan?"
"I didn't ... know ... what it was," he sobbed.
In no time Tony was put into the big bed, the bed so warm from Auntie
Jan's body, with a lovely podgy magic something at his feet that
radiated heat. Auntie Jan slammed down the window at the bottom, and
then more fairness! She struck a match, there was a curious sort of
"plop," and a little fire started in the grate, an amazing little fire
that grew redder and redder every minute. Auntie Jan put on a blue
dressing-gown over the long white garment that she wore, and bustled
about. Tony decided that he "liked to look at her" in this blue robe,
with her hair in a great rope hanging down. She was very quick; she
fetched a little saucepan and he heard talking in the passage outside,
but no one else came in, only Auntie Jan.
Presently she gave him milk, warm and sweet, in a blue cup. He drank it
and began to feel much happier, drowsy too, and contented. Presently
there was no light save the red glow of the fairy fire, and Auntie Jan
got into bed beside him.
She put her arm about him and drew him so that his head rested against
her warm shoulder. He did not repulse her, he did not speak, but lay
stiff and straight with his feet glued against that genial podgy
something that was so infinitely comforting.
"You are kind," Tony said suddenly. "I believe you."
The stiff little body relaxed and lay against hers in confiding
abandonment, and soon he was sound asleep.
What a curious thing to say! Jan lay awake puzzling. Tragedy lay behind
it. Only five years old, and yet, to Tony, belief was a more important
thing than love. She thought of Fay, hectic and haggard, and again she
seemed to hear her say in her tired voice, trying to explain Tony: "He's
not a cuddly child; he's queer and reserved and silent, but if he once
trusts you it's for always; he'll love you then and never change."
Jan could just see, in the red glow from the fire, the little head that
lay so confidingly against her shoulder, the wide forehead, the
peacefully closed eyes. And suddenly she realised that the elusive
resemblance to somebody that had always evaded her was a likeness to
that face she saw in the glass every time she did her hair. She kissed
him very softly, praying the while that she might never fail him; that
he might always have reason to trust her.