“Ah! neither had I. But then that would not be remarkable. Only she
seemed surprised to think I did not know of her, though, so far as
I can ascertain, she has never actually published anything. She is
engaged on some book of research, which she regards as an important
contribution to the literature of the times, though for the moment
the subject has escaped my memory. She is so exceedingly anxious to
meet you; in fact, she—er—suggested that I should take her with me
to call on you; but I told her that you come down here for rest and
quiet, and to escape the conventionalities of society. She is rather
a—er—persistent lady, however; and she says her admiration for you
is unbounded. So possibly, if you have no objection, it might make a
pleasant interlude if she were invited also.”
I was not very anxious to have her, but I agreed, as the Rector seemed
to wish it. Still, I am afraid my smile was a trifle ironical, as I
tailed the list with her name.
Unfortunately, the very day of the meeting was the one suddenly
selected by Abigail’s sister for her wedding; of course, I insisted
that Abigail must not miss the function, and sent her back to town the
day before. But when the preparations were divided between the three of
us, they did not amount to much in the way of extra work; and Ursula
made herself responsible for the fresh relays of tea that would be
necessary for new arrivals.
As is the custom in the country, everybody walked round the garden
to see how the things were coming on, and we all compared notes with
each other’s gardens, and, of course, everybody complimented me on the
forwardness of my things—as in duty bound, seeing they were drinking my
tea!
The V.A.D. proved a delightful girl, very nervous at first, but very
appreciative. And as all my other visitors were fully engaged in
chatting together in twos and threes, I devoted myself to the shy
outsider. The Literary Lady had not yet appeared.
“I come up every day and look over the wall at your flowers,” the girl
said. “I believe they’ve done me far more good than the tonic I’ve been
taking.”
“I invariably take a dose of them myself, when I’m run down,” I
replied. We were wandering around the narrow paths, between the beds
edged with pieces of grey stone. The paths were beginning to be weedy;
and the garden was a mixture of early and late spring flowers, owing to
the undue length of the winter.
But for the V.A.D. there were no imperfections. “I’ve never seen
cowslips like these before,” and she stooped and touched them lovingly.
“Those mahogany-coloured ones are so rich. And I like the deep
reddy-orange ones too. Oh—I like them all!” she added, with a sigh of
pleasure. “And when I was ill in London, before they sent me down here,
I felt as though I should die if I couldn’t get away somewhere, where
there were flowers and sunshine and where the trees and foliage were
fresh and clean. Wherever I looked there were grey skies, and dingy
houses, and discoloured paint, and dirty streets, and miserable-looking
squares and sooty stuff that it was pitiful to call grass, and smoke
and mud all the same colour and equally stupefying. Do you think that
dirt can get on people’s nerves?”
I nodded. Don’t I know only too well how the grime and gloom and
all-pervading sordidness of big cities can get on one’s nerves! Don’t
I know how in time they seem to corrode one’s very soul, and dull
one’s vision, till faith itself can become clouded, and hope goes, and
all one’s work seems of no avail! But the merciful Lord has provided
an antidote. It was a Tree He showed at the waters of Marah; and the
leaves of the Tree are for the healing of the nations in more senses
than one.
The girl continued her confidences: “When I lay awake at nights with
insomnia, I used to shut my eyes and think out the garden I wanted
to find. It wasn’t a grand garden, or a gorgeous one that I used to
plan—carpet bedding and terraces with beds of geraniums and peacocks
would have tired me to arrange in proper style just then. The garden I
wanted was the sort of happy place where flowers seem to grow of their
own accord with no one to worry them about tidy habits!
“And then, it was quite remarkable, the day after I arrived here, I
chanced upon the lane leading to your cottage, and there I saw the very
garden I had been so longing for, and the masses of flowers and colour
I had been quite hungry to see. I could hardly tear myself away from
the little gate. Of course, the florists wouldn’t think much of me
for saying it, but although I admire with real wonder the magnificent
blooms they exhibit at shows, I would rather have that piece of rocky
wall, with its wallflowers on the top, than the most expensive orchids
they could show me. But perhaps all this seems rather childish to you?”
Yet it didn’t! I knew exactly what she meant; and every flower-lover
will understand it too. There are times when I go a good deal farther
than the V.A.D., and actually object to some of the improvements on
Nature horticulturists think they can make. What is gained by trying
to produce rhododendrons looking like gypsophila, while at the same
time they are trying to get gypsophila looking like pæonies? What
purpose is served in the modern craze for getting every flower to
look like any other flower excepting itself? While I don’t mean to
imply that I am so narrow as to object to attempts at horticultural
development, there certainly are limits to desirable expansion—as
Shakespeare very well knew.
But I had no time to say more, for as she was speaking I caught sight
in the distance of a stalwart, aggressive-looking female, with an
armful of MSS. and walking-stick clasped to her waistbelt, and clad in
a long, loose, tussore silk coat (we were all wearing them short at
the moment) that she clutched to her chest with her other hand, as it
had lost its fastenings, and was threatening to blow away. Her hat was
of the fluffy “girlie” description, somewhat bizarre in shape, which
looked preposterous above the lady’s mature locks, more especially
as she had put it on hind part front, not even bothering herself to
ascertain its compass points.
Miss Togsie was blandly unconscious of any incongruity in her personal
appearance, and entered the gate with the assured step of “mind quite
oblivious of matter.” Precipitating herself on Ursula—the only hatless
person in sight, hence evidently not a fellow guest—she exclaimed in a
strident voice, “The Editor of _The Woman’s Magazine_, I believe? _So_
glad to meet you. I’ve been _longing_ to know you. _So_ kind of you to
ask me to this _delightful_ gathering——” etc.
Now, as I told Ursula later, if she had been a true friend, she would
merely have smiled sweetly and wafted the new arrival into the house,
and silenced her with refreshments. Instead of which, she meanly
disclaimed all editorial connections, and piloted her up the garden
to me. Whereupon we began all over again. I waited patiently till she
reached a semicolon, and then invited her to come indoors and have some
tea.
“No tea for _me_, thank you!” she exclaimed, in tones of stern
disapproval. “I never touch tea.”
“Perhaps you would like some milk and a sandwich?”
“Oh, no! I never take flesh foods of any description. I adhere strictly
to the fruit diet which Nature has so bountifully provided for our use.
If you happen to have a banana, or a few muscatels——” I hadn’t.
“It’s of no consequence,” she said, with an air of kindly tolerance
for my shortcomings. “I’m perfectly happy here under the blue dome of
heaven.” My other guests seemed to have had enough of her already, and
were making their way towards the house, as it was nearly time to
start the meeting; but Virginia linked her arm in that of the V.A.D.,
and followed close at my heels; for her, the lady promised to be
interesting.
“Oh, what adorable kroki!” the newcomer went on, without any break,
apostrophising a few late crocuses that were already looking jaded.
“And those daisies! I do so _love_ daisies, don’t you? ‘Wee modest
crimson-tipped flowers’—you remember the poet’s allusion, of course?
So appropriate.” The flowers she was pointing at with her knotty
walking-stick were particularly large, buxom-looking red double
daisies, a prize variety, that not even the imagination of a poet could
have described as “wee”!
“It’s wonderful how literature opens one’s eyes to the beauties of
nature. I always say ‘Read the poets,’ then it will not matter whether
you stay in town or country, nature will be an open book to you.”
(Undoubtedly the Literary Lady had arrived; and she was bent either
on improving or on impressing us!) “The poets take you into the very
_heart_ of things. ‘A primrose by a river’s brim’; where can you find a
truer picture of the simple wayside flower? And isn’t that an exquisite
line, ‘A rose by any other name would smell as sweet’? I entirely agree
with Shakespeare in this” (which was nice of her!); “it is just as I
was saying, it really doesn’t matter whether you know a single flower
individually—or whether you have ever seen a flower, in fact—all nature
can be yours. I consider it criminal to neglect the poets. Wherever the
eye wanders,” she went on, “it recalls some great truth that has been
crystallised for us by literary men” (evidently the flowers themselves
were of small count; all that mattered was what pen-and-ink could make
out of them).
“And Ladysmocks all silver white.” It was evident that she was
warming to the work and going farther afield, for here the stick
took a dangerous sweep round in mid-air (Virginia saved her head by
dodging it), and was now pointing into the copse the other side of the
garden-wall, where the anemones were still in bloom. “I simply revel
in Lady’s Smocks, don’t you?” she said ardently to Virginia, and then
smiled expansively into the copse, though there wasn’t a solitary
Lady’s Smock there.
“For my own part, I must say I prefer Doxies,” said Virginia sweetly.
“‘The Doxy over the dale,’ as Shakespeare so beautifully expresses it.
Don’t you just _love_ them?”
The V.A.D. had turned her back on us and was studying the distant hills.
“Virginia,” I interpolated hurriedly, for I scented trouble immediately
ahead, “isn’t that the Rector coming up the lane? Then we must be
getting indoors.”
But the Literary Lady had not nearly said all she had come intending
to say; so she told me as we walked to the house that she herself was
engaged on a most exhaustive literary work, entitled, “The Cosmic
Evidences of Woman’s Supremacy.”
“Yes,” I said, in a blank tone of voice that wasn’t intended to commit
me to anything. I’ve handled many similarly exhaustive MSS. in my time,
and I’ve met many authoresses of the same, and my one terror was lest
she should start to give me a detailed synopsis of each chapter. But
fortunately we reached the house before she could get fairly launched.
* * * * *
After the opening hymn and prayer, the Rector briefly sketched his idea
in calling the meeting together, and, after reminding us how desirable
it was at a time like this that some active campaign should be set
afoot to combat the drunkenness that had been such a bane to our land,
he asked if any ladies who had suggestions to make would kindly speak
briefly and to the point. Hardly had he sat down before the Literary
Lady was on her feet urging upon us all the necessity for giving up our
inebriate habits! You would have thought she was addressing loafers
inside a public-house.
I sat as patiently as I could waiting for her to sit down and give
place to someone else, who, at least, knew whom they were addressing.
But next moment I found, to my amazement, that she was lecturing us
on the advantages of a fruitarian diet, assuring us that most of the
evils flesh is heir to (including drunkenness) would be done away with
if we only chained our appetites to fruit. She was blissfully unaware
that the cause of all the trouble in our district was—cider! After
every form of food that was not fruit had been abused, she passed on—by
a transition that seemed easy to her, but unaccountable to everyone
else—to the question of woman’s suffrage, and we learnt that another
cause for drunkenness was to be found in the fact that women had had no
votes. And then it dawned upon me that we had let ourselves in for an
afternoon with some irresponsible crank.
It really seemed as though she meant to go on for ever. The Rector’s
gentle and courteous attempts to stem the rushing torrent were not of
the slightest avail. He tried to interpolate a remark now and again,
but she never even heard him; she was addressing us at the very top of
her voice. Of course he ought to have stopped her at the very outset;
but then the situation was one he had never before been called upon to
face in the whole of his seventy years; hers was the first female voice
to be raised in our parish in defiance of the Rector!
Equally, of course, I ought to have stopped her; but one hesitates
to take the initiative in such a case when there is a chairman, and
eventually I let matters get quite beyond me. I did rise at the back of
the room and try to ask a few questions, but all in vain; the speaker
never paused, and at last I meekly sat down again, while Virginia and
Ursula, with the V.A.D. between them, suffocated in their handkerchiefs
and showed distinct signs of getting out of hand! Besides what _can_
anyone do under such circumstances? I asked Ursula, who once attended
election meetings, what it was usual to do, and she said, “You just
turn them out when they talk too much.” But who was to turn her out?
And how do you set about it?
It was evident from her absurd and illogical statements that neither
the Fruitarians nor the Woman’s Suffrage party owned her or would have
authorised her to advocate their claims. She was merely one of those
women one meets occasionally who take up every new craze that comes
along, and get on their feet and speak about their latest hobby, in
season and out of season, having not the slightest sense of proportion,
and of the fitness of things. Such a woman loves to hear her own voice,
and imagines that other people love to hear it too!
After half an hour of this sort of thing the lady of the Manor took her
departure—not very quietly either! As I stepped outside in the porch
to bid her a mournful “Good-bye,” she pressed my hand and murmured—
“You poor dear! Do let me know who finally chokes her!”
* * * * *
How we should have silenced her eventually I don’t know, but the matter
was taken out of our hands by no less important a personage than
Johnny, the boy who delivered the bread from the village shop.
Unable to find any Abigail at the kitchen door, he had come along to
the other door to know how many loaves I required. From my seat in the
room I tried to indicate, by dumb pantomime, that I wanted one loaf;
Miss Smith caught sight of him, and remembering that she was two miles
away from any bread if he overlooked her, she told him in a clear voice
not to forget to leave her a loaf. Then everyone else in the room woke
up to the fact that Johnny was outside, and with one accord they all
asked him if he had remembered them, or told him how many loaves to
leave, and no one troubled in the slightest whether it interfered with
the speaker or not. In fact, they seemed to enjoy the clatter they were
making.
Johnny, being attacked by so many voices at once, stood on the doorstep
and addressed the room stolidly and respectfully—
“I’ve lef’ your loaf on the window-ledge, Miss Primkins; an’ I put
two for you in the fork of the apple-tree, Miss Robinson, so’s the
dog can’t get at it, as he’s loose; an’ Miss Jones, your’n is on the
garden seat; and I’ve a-put Mrs. Wilson’s a-top of the wood-pile wiv
a bit of paper under it”—(undue favouritism to Mrs. Wilson, we all
thought!)—“an’ I’ve lef’ your nutmegs and soda and coffee on the
doorstep, Miss White; and I driv a cow out of your garden, what had got
in, Miss Parker; the gate was lef’ open; but he’s latched up all right
now——”
At this intelligence the room gave a general shuffle, preparatory to a
stampede. Why, a cow might have got into every garden! Who could tell?
And only those who have cherished gardens in the country know what
terrible import lurked in the words, “The gate was lef’ open!”
The Rector, seeing where matters were trending, said we would close
with a hymn. Before he had given out more than one line, Ursula did
what she had never done before, and has never done since—raised the
tune! She said it was sheer hysterics made her do so. At any rate we
all took it up vigorously, because we saw the Literary Lady was trying
to add a postscript to her previous remarks. It’s true, Ursula started
us on a six-lined tune, whereas the verses were only four lines each,
but I fortunately discovered it in time, and repeated the last two
lines to save the situation.
The people all left hurriedly as soon as the Benediction had been
pronounced; most of them looking unutterable things at me for having
let them in for such a time! The Literary Lady alone seemed to have
enjoyed herself, and went away leaving the bundle of MSS. she had
brought, after telling me that she intended to call on me the very
next afternoon and bring me “The Cosmic Evidences,” as she felt sure
it would be the very thing for my magazine. The unkindest cut of all,
however, was the farewell remark made by the Vicar’s niece, as she was
adjusting her bonnet-strings—
“I can’t think why on earth you ever asked that individual to address
us; but I suppose she is some personal friend of yours?”
* * * * *
When the two girls and I were left alone with the general disorder that
always prevails after one’s guests have gone, Ursula made some tea, and
Virginia brought in what was left of the festal fare, and we sat around
the fire and ate in melancholy silence.
“I’m going to town by the very first train to-morrow,” I said at last.
“So ’m I!” fervently ejaculated the other two in unison. “And may I
never set eyes or ears on that fruit creature again,” added Virginia,
as she set down her plate, with an air of a pain in her chest, after
her sixth cucumber sandwich.
But, though I escaped the lady’s next call, I had not got to the
end of her. She sent an avalanche of MSS. to my office, and called
persistently in person. Howbeit, she never was troubled to walk beyond
the inquiry office, and her MSS. were always returned to her with the
utmost promptitude.
* * * * *
Some weeks later Virginia and I, after doing some shopping in the
stores, turned into the refreshment-room for lunch. I do not know any
place where a more varied assortment of feminine idiosyncrasies thrust
themselves upon one’s notice than in the ladies’ luncheon-room; neither
do I know any place where you can hear, within a given space of time,
more particulars of the births, marriages, ailments and deaths—plus a
wealth of intervening data—of people you know nothing about, than in
that self-same room.
We had hardly taken our seats at a table before we were accompanying
our next-door neighbour to a dentist, she being in a state of
_complete_ nervous prostration (full symptoms given), and having four
teeth extracted (_most_ obstinate one that came out in eleven separate
pieces) with gas that wouldn’t “take” (italicised description of
what the victim underwent, and was conscious of, in her half-gone
condition). After this we dallied through an exceedingly comprehensive
catalogue of what she had been able to take in the way of nourishment
since the momentous occasion; and finally received, with breathless
interest, the important information as to the exact date when she would
be once more fully equipped for dinner-parties.
On our right two more were discussing, with gusto, the doings (none
of them, apparently, what she ought to have done) of a bride who had
recently entered their family.
Our own corner of the room was so engaging that we did not notice
the newcomers who were finding seats at other tables. But suddenly,
above the general chatter, there arose the sound of a strident voice
that there was no possibility of mistaking. Virginia and I gasped
simultaneously; and there, a short distance away from us (though,
fortunately with its back towards us), we beheld the fluffy hat
(rightside front this time), above a screw of hair, and the long
tussore coat of recent blessed memories! The Literary Lady had a friend
with her, but obviously the friend didn’t count for much, she hadn’t
a chance; at most she only squeezed in a word when the other made a
semi-pause for breath. We sat spell-bound, and this is what we heard:
“Now, dear, what are you going to have? They have soup, roast beef,
roast lamb and mint sauce, roast mutton” (and so on, she declaimed
the menu to the bitter end, while a long-suffering waitress stood
first on one tired foot and then on the other). “Oh, but you must
have something more than a bun. . . . Nonsense, that was hours ago;
I had mine late, too, but I’m quite ready for lunch. . . . On strict
diet, are you? That doesn’t count. Specialists always say that sort of
thing; that’s what you pay the money for; but it doesn’t follow that
you do what they say. Why, you’d starve to death if you did, and then
you’d have to go to them again and pay another fee—though I dare say
that’s their idea. . . . You would like a little roast lamb? Well, I
might manage a little, too, if it is _very_ hot; but I expect they’ve
only got it about lukewarm. If the roast lamb isn’t quite . . . what?
It’s _cold_? All the joints are cold? The waitress says it’s _cold_,
dear! Isn’t it simply ridiculous in a place like London never to be
able to get a hot lunch! . . . What? The grill is hot? But, my good
girl, I don’t want any grill. . . . And the soup and fish? I don’t want
either soup or fish. . . . No, and I don’t want hot steak-and-kidney
pie. I wanted hot roast lamb. Still, if you haven’t it, I suppose it
isn’t your fault. All the same, it does seem as if you are—— . . . .
Sausages, did you say? They would be rather nice. Now are _they_ hot
or cold, which? . . . _Smoked??_ Only _smoked_ sausages?? Did you ever
know such a place! . . . What do you say to oysters? . . . You thought
I only took fruit? I tried that for a little while; my last doctor but
one was very keen on it; but if you believe me, I was losing _pounds_
a week! I should have been a perfect skeleton by now if I’d gone on.
So I went to another man, and he insisted—absolutely _insisted_ that I
must take food containing a larger percentage of proteids. And I wasn’t
sorry; I never had any faith in that fruit idea, only I met that doctor
when I was at the Hydro, and he begged me to try it. A most charming
man, and he took the _greatest_ interest in my writings; but someone
told me only last week that he has a wife who is a positive—— . . .
. Salmon? Is there salmon? I didn’t notice it. That wouldn’t be bad,
would it? and the very best thing you could have as you’re dieting; so
digestible, I always find. Now where’s that girl gone? I declare they
slip away the minute your back’s turned, and they don’t give you a
moment to look at the menu. Is that our waitress over there? I think it
is; she has on an apron just like the girl who was here. . . . That’s
true, now you mention it; their aprons are all alike. Still, I think
that was the one, and she’s gone over there on purpose to be out of
reach. But I’ll go to her.”
Here Virginia and I narrowly escaped detection, for the Literary Lady
strode across the room, knocking down other people’s umbrellas in
passing, brushing one lady’s velvet stole from the back of a chair, and
kicking over a tray that had been put down in, apparently, the most
out-of-the-way spot in the room. Clutching the arm of the waitress who
belonged to our table and had no dealings with the other end of the
room, she demanded immediate service. Instinctively Virginia and I bent
our heads forward as low as possible over our plates, and fortunately
the wide brims of our hats helped to conceal our features. But we only
breathed freely when she returned to her seat to report to her friend—
“That waitress says the other girl will be back in a minute; but
I doubt it. There; now _she’s_ gone off too! Ah, here’s ours—at
last! Now, dear, you said sausage, didn’t you? Or did we decide on
oysters? . . . You’re right; it was salmon. I always think that
salmon—— . . . . What did you say? . . . Why, of _course_ we want
bread! We couldn’t eat it without, could we? . . . Oh, I see, you mean
bread or roll? She says will you have bread or roll, dear? . . . Yes,
rolls would be nice, but—— Waitress! Not crusty ones! . . . Well,
perhaps bread _would_ be softer for you under the circumstances. Stale
bread, waitress! Those rolls are usually as hard as—— . . . . Yes,
perhaps we _had_ better decide on what we will have to drink. I’m
going to have lime-juice. You’d better have some too. It goes so well
with salmon. . . . Of course they have coffee, if you really prefer
it; but I do think that lime-juice—— Well, if that girl hasn’t gone
off again! They do nothing but run about from pillar to post. Oh, she
is bringing the other things! _That_ isn’t brown bread, waitress! I
said _brown_ bread surely? I _must_ have said brown bread, because I
positively cannot touch anything else. Don’t you remember I called you
back and said, ‘_Brown_ bread, waitress?’ Well, if you can change it,
that’s all right. Wait a minute, though; after all, I think I’ll have
white. . . . Yes, you can leave it; but all the same, I can’t think why
people never listen to what one says.”
Here half the room broke out into an unconcealed smile; _i.e._, the
half that had found it impossible to raise their voices above hers, and
so had finally given it up as hopeless, and now devoted themselves to
listening. But all oblivious of everything but herself, she continued—
“I don’t like the look of that salmon. I feel sure it’s been frozen. Is
that the best you have? It looks to me like New Zealand or Canterbury
salmon! Really, _everything_ seems to be made in Germany nowadays,
doesn’t it? And no mayonnaise. . . ? It’s in the cruet? I never care
for that bottled stuff. . . . Oh, yes, leave it; but I wish now that
we had had oysters. . . . It’s no use offering to change it; we’ve done
nothing else so far but have wrong things brought us to have changed—or
at least it would have been changed if I hadn’t consented to put up
with the white bread. But you can bring us some lime-juice. Now don’t
forget _this_ time and bring ginger-beer. . . . Yes, lime-juice for
two. . . . But I thought you agreed to lime-juice just now? . . . Oh,
have what you like by all means; _I_ don’t mind what it is; I only
advised lime-juice because coffee is so _very_ bad for anyone on diet,
and you can’t be too careful; still, please yourself, only _do_ let us
decide on _something_, or she’ll be off again. . . . That’s it, one
coffee and one lime-juice. . . . Yes, with plenty of milk. . . . Now,
I wonder if that scatter-brained girl will go and put the milk in the
lime-juice?
“You were surprised to hear I was back in town? I returned last week.
I absolutely couldn’t have _existed_ on that benighted hill-top
another hour. . . . I knew the moment I set eyes on it that it wasn’t
sufficiently cooked. No one could be expected to eat it. She must
get us something else. Waitress! This salmon isn’t _half_-done. It’s
as soft as. . . . Oh, I see; yours is hard? Well, at any rate, it
isn’t what it ought to be. Mine is quite spongy, and this lady’s is
as hard as . . . the skin, is it? . . . this lady’s skin is just
like leather. . . . I suppose it had better be oysters. . . . Now I
wonder how much longer she’ll keep us waiting? But as I was saying,
they were the dullest, most bucolic set of people I ever came across;
not a thought above their fowls and cabbages. I tried to discuss
Art and Literature with them—simple things, not too far above their
heads, you know, just to draw them out; but they merely gazed at me
in utter blankness. . . . Yes, she has a cottage there; I’d forgotten
I mentioned it in my letter. . . . Oh, yes, I met her; in fact she
persuaded me to address a drawing-room meeting at her house; she
got it up on purpose, hearing I was in the district. I could ill
afford to spare the time from my book; but she wrote and made _such_
a point of it, that I could hardly refuse without seeming rude. She
invited a number of the local people to meet me; but a more stupid,
unimpressionable collection of—— . . . what is she like? _Most_
ordinary. As you know, I’m endowed with unusual intuition, and can
gauge people and sum them up in a _moment_, and I must say I found her
a _very_ uninteresting person—not to say exceedingly heavy.”
* * * * *
“Which only proves,” said Virginia when we got outside, “that even the
worst of us may profit by hearing the truth spoken in love!”