'You stay there and be good,' I said to him, though I know he doesn't
understand a word of English. 'He won't hurt you,' I assured the
strangers, going back to them.
'Ah,' said the elder of the two; and added, 'I used to say that to
people about _my_ dog.'
They still stood motionless, holding their skirts, the younger one
smiling at me.
'Won't you come down?' I said. 'Come in and rest a little? I can tell
you better about your road if you'll come in. Look--you go along that
path there, and it brings you round to the front door.'
'Will the dog be at the front door?' asked the elder.
'Oh no--besides, he wouldn't hurt a fly.'
'Ah,' said the elder eyeing Mou-Mou sideways, who, from his kennel, eyed
her, 'I used to say that to people about _my_ dog.'
The younger one stood smiling at me. They neither of them moved.
'I'll come up and bring you down,' I said, hurrying round to the path
that leads from the terrace on to the slope.
When they saw that this path did indeed take them away from Mou-Mou they
came with me.
Directly they moved he made a rush along his bar, but arrived too late
and could only leap up and down barking.
'That's just high spirits,' I said. 'He is really most goodnatured and
affectionate.'
'Ah,' said the elder, 'I used to say that to people--'
'Mind those loose stones,' I interrupted; and I helped each one down the
last crumbly bit on to the terrace.
They both had black kid gloves on. More than ever, as I felt these warm
gloves press my hand, was I sure that what they really wanted was an
omnibus along Oxford Street.
Once on the level and out of sight of Mou-Mou, they walked with an air
of self-respect. Especially the elder. The younger, though she had it
too, seemed rather to be following an example than originating an
attitude. Perhaps they were related to a Lord Mayor, I thought. Or a
rector. But a Lord Mayor would be more likely to be the cause of that
air of glowing private background to life.
They had been up the mountain, the elder told me, trying to find
somewhere cool to stay in, for the valley this weather was unendurable.
They used to know this district years ago, and recollected a pension
right up in the highest village, and after great exertions and rising
early that morning they had reached it only to find that it had become a
resort for consumptives. With no provision for the needs of the passing
tourist; with no desire, in fact, in any way to minister to them. If it
hadn't been for me, she said, as they sat on the cool side of the house
drinking lemonade and eating biscuits, if it hadn't been for me and what
she described with obvious gratitude--she couldn't guess my joy at
seeing them both!--as my kindness, they would have had somehow to
clamber down foodless by wrong roads, seeing that they had lost the
right one, to the valley again, and in what state they would have
re-entered that scorching and terrible place she didn't like to think.
Tired as they were. Disappointed, and distressingly hot. How very
pleasant it was up here. What a truly delightful spot. Such air. Such a
view. And how agreeable and unexpected to come across one of one's own
country-women.
To all this the younger in silence smiled agreement.
They had been so long abroad, continued the elder, that they felt
greatly fatigued by foreigners, who were so very prevalent. In their
pension there were nothing but foreigners and flies. The house wasn't by
any chance--no, of course it couldn't be, but it wasn't by any
chance--her voice had a sudden note of hope in it--a pension?
I shook my head and laughed at that, and said it wasn't. The younger one
smiled at me.
Ah no--of course not, continued the elder, her voice fading again. And
she didn't suppose I could tell them of any pension anywhere about,
where they could get taken in while this great heat lasted? Really the
valley was most terribly airless. The best hotel, which had, she knew,
some cool rooms, was beyond their means, so they were staying in one of
the small ones, and the flies worried them. Apparently I had no flies
up here. And what wonderful air. At night, no doubt, it was quite cool.
The nights in the valley were most trying. It was difficult to sleep.
I asked them to stay to lunch. They accepted gratefully. When I took
them to my room to wash their hands they sighed with pleasure at its
shadiness and quiet. They thought the inside of the house delightfully
roomy, and more spacious, said the elder, while the younger one smiled
agreement, than one would have expected from its outside. I left them,
sunk with sighs of satisfaction, on the sofa in the hall, their black
toques and gloves on a chair beside them, gazing at the view through the
open front door while I went to see how the potatoes were getting on.
We lunched presently in the shade just outside the house, and the
strange ladies continued to be most grateful, the elder voicing their
gratitude, the younger smiling agreement. If it was possible to like one
more than the other, seeing with what enthusiasm I liked them both, I
liked the younger because she smiled. I love people who smile. It does
usually mean sweet pleasantness somewhere.
After lunch, while I cleared away, having refused their polite offers
of help,--for they now realised I was alone in the house, on which,
however, though it must have surprised them they made no comment,--they
went indoors to the sofa again, whose soft cushions seemed particularly
attractive to them; and when I came back the last time for the
breadcrumbs and tablecloth, I found they had both fallen asleep, the
elder one with her handkerchief over her face.
Poor things. How tired they were. How glad I was that they should be
resting and getting cool. A little sleep would do them both good.
I crept past them on tiptoe with my final armful, and was careful to
move about in the kitchen very quietly. It hadn't been my intention,
with guests to lunch, to wash up and put away, but rather to sit with
them and talk. Not having talked for so long it seemed a godsend, a
particularly welcome birthday present, suddenly to have two English
people drop in on me from the skies. Up to this moment I had been busy,
first getting lemonade to slake their thirst and then lunch to appease
their hunger, and the spare time in between these activities had been
filled with the expression of their gratitude by the elder and her
expatiations on the house and what she called the grounds; but I had
looked forward to about an hour's real talk after lunch, before they
would begin to want to start on their long downward journey to their
pension,--talk in which, without being specially brilliant any of us,
for you only had to look at us to see we wouldn't be specially that, we
yet might at least tell each other amusing things about, say, Lord
Mayors. It is true I don't know any Lord Mayors, though I do know
somebody whose brother married the daughter of one; but if they could
produce a Lord Mayor out of up their sleeve, as I suspected, I could
counter him with a dean. Not quite so showy, perhaps, but more
permanent. And I did want to talk. I have been silent so long that I
felt I could talk about almost anything.
Well, as they were having a little nap, poor things, I would tidy up the
kitchen meanwhile, and by the time that was done they would be refreshed
and ready for half an hour's agreeable interchange of gossip.
Every now and then during this tidying I peeped into the hall in case
they were awake, but they seemed if anything to be sounder asleep each
time. The younger one, her flushed face half buried, in a cushion, her
fair hair a little ruffled, had a pathetic look of almost infantile
helplessness; the elder, discreetly veiled by her handkerchief, slept
more stiffly, with less abandonment and more determination. Poor things.
How glad I was they should in this way gather strength for the long,
difficult scramble down the mountain; but also presently I began to wish
they would wake up.
I finished what I had to do in the kitchen, and came back into the hall.
They had been sleeping now nearly half an hour. I stood about
uncertainly. Poor things, they must be dreadfully tired to sleep like
that. I hardly liked to look at them, they were so defenceless, and I
picked up a book and tried to read; but I couldn't stop my eyes from
wandering over the top of it to the sofa every few minutes, and always I
saw the same picture of profound repose.
Presently I put down the book, and wandered out on to the terrace and
gazed awhile at the view. That, too, seemed wrapped in afternoon
slumber. After a bit I wandered round the house to Mou-Mou. He, too, was
asleep. Then I came back to the front door and glanced in at my guests.
Still no change. Then I fetched some cigarettes, not moving this time
quite so carefully, and going out again sat on the low terrace-wall at a
point from which I could see straight on to the sofa and notice any
movement that might take place.
I never smoke except when bored, and as I am never bored I never smoke.
But this afternoon it was just that unmanageable sort of moment come
upon me, that kind of situation I don't know how to deal with, which
does bore me. I sat on the wall and smoked three cigarettes, and the
peace on the sofa remained complete. What ought one to do? What did one
do, faced by obstinately sleeping guests? Impossible deliberately to
wake them up. Yet I was sure--they had now been asleep nearly an
hour--that when they did wake up, polite as they were, they would be
upset by discovering that they had slept. Besides, the afternoon was
getting on. They had a long way to go. If only Mou-Mou would wake up and
bark.... But there wasn't a sound. The hot afternoon brooded over the
mountains in breathless silence.
Again I went round to the back of the house, and pausing behind the last
corner so as to make what I did next more alarming, suddenly jumped out
at Mou Mou.
The horribly intelligent dog didn't bother to open more than an eye,
and that one he immediately shut again.
Disgusted with him, I returned to my seat on the wall and smoked another
cigarette. The picture on the sofa was the same: perfect peace. Oh well,
poor things--but I did want to talk. And after all it was my birthday.
When I had finished the cigarette I thought a moment, my face in my
hands. A person of tact--ah, but I have no tact; it has been my undoing
on the cardinal occasions of life that I have none. Well, but suppose I
_were_ a person of tact--what would I do? Instantly the answer flashed
into my brain: Knock, by accident, against a table.
So I did. I got up quickly and crossed into the hall and knocked against
a table, at first with gentleness, and then as there was no result with
greater vigour.
My elder guest behind the handkerchief continued to draw deep regular
breaths, but to my joy the younger one stirred and opened her eyes.
'Oh, I do _hope_ I didn't wake you?' I exclaimed, taking an eager step
towards the sofa.
She looked at me vaguely, and fell asleep again.
I went back on to the terrace and lit another cigarette. That was five.
I haven't smoked so much before in one day in my life ever. I felt quite
fast. And on my birthday too. By the time I had finished it there was a
look about the shadows on the grass that suggested tea. Even if it were
a little early the noise of the teacups might help to wake up my guests,
and I felt that a call to tea would be a delicate and hospitable way of
doing it.
I didn't go through the hall on tiptoe this time, but walked naturally;
and I opened the door into the kitchen rather noisily. Then I looked
round at the sofa to see the effect. There wasn't any.
Presently tea was ready, out on the table where we had lunched. At least
six times I had been backwards and forwards through the hall, the last
twice carrying things that rattled and that I encouraged to rattle. But
on the sofa the strangers slept peacefully on.
There was nothing for it now but to touch them. Short of that, I didn't
think that anything would wake them. But I don't like touching guests; I
mean, in between whiles. I have never done it. Especially not when they
weren't looking. And still more especially not when they were complete
strangers.
Therefore I approached the sofa with reluctance, and stood uncertain in
front of it. Poor things, they really were most completely asleep. It
seemed a pity to interrupt. Well, but they had had a nice rest; they had
slept soundly now for two hours. And the tea would be cold if I didn't
wake them up, and besides, how were they going to get home if they
didn't start soon? Still, I don't like touching guests. Especially
strange guests....
Manifestly, however, there was nothing else to be done, so I bent over
the younger one--the other one was too awe-inspiring with her
handkerchief over her face--and gingerly put my hand on her shoulder.
Nothing happened.