I DO not know why the Driffields bothered about me unless it was from
pure kindness of heart. I was a dull little boy, not very talkative, and
if I amused Ted Driffield at all it must have been unconsciously.
Perhaps he was tickled by my attitude of superiority. I was under the
impression that it was condescension on my part to consort with the son
of Miss Wolfe’s bailiff, and he what my uncle called a penny-a-liner;
and when, perhaps with a trace of superciliousness, I asked him to lend
me one of his books and he said it wouldn’t interest me I took him at
his word and did not insist. After my uncle had once consented to my
going out with the Driffields he made no further objection to my
association with them. Sometimes we went for sails together, sometimes
we went to some picturesque spot and Driffield painted a little water
colour. I do not know if the English climate was better in those days or
if it is only an illusion of youth, but I seem to remember that all
through that summer the sunny days followed one another in an unbroken
line. I began to feel a curious affection for the undulating, opulent,
and gracious country. We went far afield, to one church after another,
taking rubbings of brasses, knights in armour and ladies in stiff
farthingales. Ted Driffield fired me with his own enthusiasm for this
naïve pursuit and I rubbed with passion. I showed my uncle proudly the
results of my industry, and I suppose he thought that whatever my
company, I could not come to much harm when I was occupied in church.
Mrs. Driffield used to remain in the churchyard while we were at work,
not reading or sewing, but just mooning about; she seemed able to do
nothing for an indefinite time without feeling bored. Sometimes I would
go out and sit with her for a little on the grass. We chattered about my
school, my friends there and my masters, about the people at
Blackstable, and about nothing at all. She gratified me by calling me
Mr. Ashenden. I think she was the first person who had ever done so and
it made me feel grown up. I resented it vastly when people called me
Master Willie. I thought it a ridiculous name for anyone to have. In
fact I did not like either of my names and spent much time inventing
others that would have suited me better. The ones I preferred were
Roderic Ravensworth and I covered sheets of paper with this signature in
a suitably dashing hand. I did not mind Ludovic Montgomery either.
I could not get over what Mary-Ann had told me about Mrs. Driffield.
Though I knew theoretically what people did when they were married, and
was capable of putting the facts in the bluntest language, I did not
really understand it. I thought it indeed rather disgusting and I did
not quite, quite believe it. After all, I was aware that the earth was
round, but I _knew_ it was flat. Mrs. Driffield seemed so frank, her
laugh was so open and simple, there was in her demeanour something so
young and childlike, that I could not see her “going with” sailors and
above all anyone so gross and horrible as Lord George. She was not at
all the type of the wicked woman I had read of in novels. Of course I
knew she wasn’t “good form” and she spoke with the Blackstable accent,
she dropped an aitch now and then, and sometimes her grammar gave me a
shock, but I couldn’t help liking her. I came to the conclusion that
what Mary-Ann had told me was a pack of lies.
One day I happened to tell her that Mary-Ann was our cook.
“She says she lived next door to you in Rye Lane,” I added, quite
prepared to hear Mrs. Driffield say that she had never even heard of
her.
But she smiled and her blue eyes gleamed.
“That’s right. She used to take me to Sunday school. She used to have a
rare job keeping me quiet. I heard she’d gone to service at the
vicarage. Fancy her being there still! I haven’t seen her for donkey’s
years. I’d like to see her again and have a chat about old days.
Remember me to her, will you, and ask her to look in on her evening out.
I’ll give her a cup of tea.”
I was taken aback at this. After all, the Driffields lived in a house
that they were talking of buying and they had a “general.” It wouldn’t
be at all the thing for them to have Mary-Ann to tea, and it would make
it very awkward for me. They seemed to have no sense of the things one
could do and the things one simply couldn’t. It never ceased to
embarrass me, the way in which they talked of incidents in their past
that I should have thought they would not dream of mentioning. I do not
know that the people I lived among were pretentious in the sense of
making themselves out to be richer or grander than they really were, but
looking back it does seem to me that they lived a life full of
pretences. They dwelt behind a mask of respectability. You never caught
them in their shirt sleeves with their feet on the table. The ladies put
on afternoon dresses and were not visible till then; they lived
privately with rigid economy so that you could not drop in for a casual
meal, but when they entertained their tables groaned with food. Though
catastrophe overwhelmed the family, they held their heads high and
ignored it. One of the sons might have married an actress, but they
never referred to the calamity, and though the neighbours said it was
dreadful, they took ostentatious care not to mention the theatre in the
presence of the afflicted. We all knew that the wife of Major Greencourt
who had taken the Three Gables was connected with trade, but neither she
nor the major ever so much as hinted at the discreditable secret; and
though we sniffed at them behind their backs, we were too polite even to
mention crockery (the source of Mrs. Greencourt’s adequate income) in
their presence. It was still not unheard of for an angry parent to cut
off his son with a shilling or to tell his daughter (who like my own
mother had married a solicitor) never to darken his doors again. I was
used to all this and it seemed to me perfectly natural. What did shock
me was to hear Ted Driffield speak of being a waiter in a restaurant in
Holborn as though it were the most ordinary thing in the world. I knew
he had run away to sea, that was romantic; I knew that boys, in books at
all events, often did this and had thrilling adventures before they
married a fortune and an earl’s daughter; but Ted Driffield had driven a
cab at Maidstone and had been clerk in a booking office at Birmingham.
Once when we bicycled past the Railway Arms, Mrs. Driffield mentioned
quite casually, as though it were something that anyone might have done,
that she had worked there for three years.
“It was my first place,” she said. “After that I went to the Feathers at
Haversham. I only left there to get married.”
She laughed as though she enjoyed the recollection. I did not know what
to say; I did not know which way to look; I blushed scarlet. Another
time when we were going through Ferne Bay on our way back from a long
excursion, it being a hot day and all of us thirsty, she suggested that
we should go into the Dolphin and have a glass of beer. She began
talking to the girl behind the bar and I was horrified to hear her
remark that she had been in the business herself for five years. The
landlord joined us and Ted Driffield offered him a drink, and Mrs.
Driffield said that the barmaid must have a glass of port, and for some
time they all chatted amiably about trade and tied houses and how the
price of everything was going up. Meanwhile, I stood, hot and cold all
over, and not knowing what to do with myself. As we went out Mrs.
Driffield remarked:
“I took quite a fancy to that girl, Ted. She ought to do well for
herself. As I said to her, it’s a hard life but a merry one. You do see
a bit of what’s going on and if you play your cards right you ought to
marry well. I noticed she had an engagement ring on, but she told me she
just wore that because it gave the fellows a chance to tease her.”
Driffield laughed. She turned to me.
“I had a rare old time when I was a barmaid, but of course you can’t go
on for ever. You have to think of your future.”
But a greater jolt awaited me. It was halfway through September and my
holidays were drawing to an end. I was very full of the Driffields, but
my desire to talk about them at home was snubbed by my uncle.
“We don’t want your friends pushed down our throats all day long,” said
he. “There are other topics of conversation that are more suitable. But
I do think that, as Ted Driffield was born in the parish and is seeing
you almost every day, he might come to church occasionally.”
One day I told Driffield: “My uncle wants you to come to church.”
“All right. Let’s go to church next Sunday night, Rosie.”
“I don’t mind,” she said.
I told Mary-Ann they were going. I sat in the vicarage pew just behind
the squire’s and I could not look round, but I was conscious by the
behaviour of my neighbours on the other side of the aisle that they were
there, and as soon as I had a chance next day I asked Mary-Ann if she
had seen them.
“I see ’er all right,” said Mary-Ann grimly.
“Did you speak to her afterward?”
“Me?” She suddenly burst into anger. “You get out of my kitchen. What
d’you want to come bothering me all day long? How d’you expect me to do
my work with you getting in my way all the time?”
“All right,” I said. “Don’t get in a wax.”
“I don’t know what your uncle’s about lettin’ you go all over the place
with the likes of them. All them flowers in her ’at. I wonder she ain’t
ashamed to show her face. Now run along, I’m busy.”
I did not know why Mary-Ann was so cross. I did not mention Mrs.
Driffield again. But two or three days later I happened to go into the
kitchen to get something I wanted. There were two kitchens at the
vicarage, a small one in which the cooking was done and a large one,
built I suppose for a time when country clergymen had large families and
gave grand dinners to the surrounding gentry, where Mary-Ann sat and
sewed when her day’s work was over. We had cold supper at eight so that
after tea she had little to do. It was getting on for seven and the day
was drawing in. It was Emily’s evening out and I expected to find
Mary-Ann alone, but as I went along the passage I heard voices and the
sound of laughter. I supposed Mary-Ann had someone in to see her. The
lamp was lit, but it had a thick green shade and the kitchen was almost
in darkness. I saw a teapot and cups on the table. Mary-Ann was having a
late cup of tea with her friend. The conversation stopped as I opened
the door, then I heard a voice.
“Good-evening.”
With a start I saw that Mary-Ann’s friend was Mrs. Driffield. Mary-Ann
laughed a little at my surprise.
“Rosie Gann dropped in to have a cup of tea with me,” she said.
“We’ve been having a talk about old times.”
Mary-Ann was a little shy at my finding her thus, but not half so shy as
I. Mrs. Driffield gave me that childlike, mischievous smile of hers; she
was perfectly at her ease. For some reason I noticed her dress. I
suppose because I had never seen her so grand before. It was of pale
blue cloth, very tight at the waist, with high sleeves and a long skirt
with a flounce at the bottom. She wore a large black straw hat with a
great quantity of roses and leaves and bows on it. It was evidently the
hat she had worn in church on Sunday.
“I thought if I went on waiting till Mary-Ann came to see me I’d have to
wait till doomsday, so I thought the best thing I could do was to come
and see her myself.”
Mary-Ann grinned self-consciously, but did not look displeased. I asked
for whatever it was I wanted and as quickly as I could left them. I went
out into the garden and wandered about aimlessly. I walked down to the
road and looked over the gate. The night had fallen. Presently I saw a
man strolling along. I paid no attention to him, but he passed backward
and forward and it looked as though he were waiting for someone. At
first I thought it might be Ted Driffield and I was on the point of
going out when he stopped and lit a pipe; I saw it was Lord George. I
wondered what he was doing there and at the same moment it struck me
that he was waiting for Mrs. Driffield. My heart began to beat fast, and
though I was hidden by the darkness I withdrew into the shade of the
bushes. I waited a few minutes longer, then I saw the side door open and
Mrs. Driffield let out by Mary-Ann. I heard her footsteps on the gravel.
She came to the gate and opened it. It opened with a little click. At
the sound Lord George stepped across the road and before she could come
out slipped in. He took her in his arms and gave her a great hug. She
gave a little laugh.
“Take care of my hat,” she whispered.
I was not more than three feet away from them and I was terrified lest
they should notice me. I was so ashamed for them. I was trembling with
agitation. For a minute he held her in his arms.
“What about the garden?” he said, still in a whisper.
“No, there’s that boy. Let’s go in the fields.”
They went out by the gate, he with his arm round her waist, and were
lost in the night. Now I felt my heart pounding against my chest so that
I could hardly breathe. I was so astonished at what I had seen that I
could not think sensibly. I would have given anything to be able to tell
someone, but it was a secret and I must keep it. I was thrilled with the
importance it gave me. I walked slowly up to the house and let myself in
by the side door. Mary-Ann, hearing it open, called me.
“Is that you, Master Willie?”
“Yes.”
I looked in the kitchen. Mary-Ann was putting the supper on a tray to
take it into the dining room.
“I wouldn’t say anything to your uncle about Rosie Gann ’avin’ been
here,” she said.
“Oh, no.”
“It was a surprisement to me. When I ’eared a knock at the side door and
opened it and saw Rosie standing there, you could ’ave knocked me down
with a feather. ‘Mary-Ann,’ she says, an’ before I knew what she was up
to she was kissing me all over me face. I couldn’t but ask ’er in and
when she was in I couldn’t but ask her to ’ave a nice cup of tea.”
Mary-Ann was anxious to excuse herself. After all she had said of Mrs.
Driffield it must seem strange to me that I should find them sitting
there together chatting away and laughing. I did not want to crow.
“She’s not so bad, is she?” I said.
Mary-Ann smiled. Notwithstanding her black decayed teeth there was in
her smile something sweet and touching.
“I don’t ’ardly know what it is, but there’s somethin’ you can’t ’elp
likin’ about her. She was ’ere the best part of an hour and I will say
that for ’er, she never once give ’erself airs. And she told me with ’er
own lips the material of that dress she ’ad on cost thirteen and eleven
a yard and I believe it. She remembers everything, how I used to brush
her ’air for her when she was a tiny tot and how I used to make her wash
her little ’ands before tea. You see, sometimes her mother used to send
’er in to ’ave her tea with us. She was as pretty as a picture in them
days.”
Mary-Ann looked back into the past and her funny crumpled face grew
wistful.
“Oh, well,” she said after a pause, “I dare say she’s been no worse than
plenty of others if the truth was only known. She ’ad more temptation
than most, and I dare say a lot of them as blame her would ’ave been no
better than what she was if they’d ’ad the opportunity.”