COMFORTABLE PLANS
Had the Day of Judgment or any other devastating crisis been fixed for
the morrow, that would not have delayed Mrs. Hancock's retirement to
her bedroom not later than eleven the night before. Sometimes, and not
rarely, she went upstairs at half-past ten in order to get a good night
before the fatigues of the next day, whatever they might happen to be,
but in no case, unless by chance she went to the theatre in town, was
she later than eleven. She did not always go to bed immediately on
arrival in her room; frequently, after she had played her invariable
game of patience, while Filson brushed her hair, she read a book,
since, as she so often lamented, she had so little time for reading
during the day; sometimes she sat in front of her fire making further
plans for her comfort.
To-night plans occupied her for a considerable time, and though they
directly concerned Edith, they might still be correctly classified as
bearing on her own comfort. She had literally enjoyed half an hour's
conversation with Edward after dinner; this had been of a highly
satisfactory character, for she had ascertained that he was making a
really substantial income, and that he had investments, all of a sound
character, which already amounted to over thirty thousand pounds. This,
in the event of his death--to which apparently he did not mind alluding
at all--he was prepared to settle on his wife. The house next door
was freehold property of his, and, though he had contemplated selling
that and purchasing one that was more of the size to which Edith was
accustomed, he seemed perfectly ready to fall in with Mrs. Hancock's
clearly expressed wish that he should remain where he was, for the
wrench of parting with Edith at all was only tolerable to her if the
parting was not to be more than a few yards in breadth. The question
of the garden-gate in the paling did not, however, fill him with any
intense enthusiasm, and she, after making it quite clear that he was
not expected to pay for it, let the subject drop. But she intended
to give Ellis the necessary instructions all the same, for she was
quite sure he would like it when it was done. Furthermore, he had not
expressed the least curiosity as regards what allowance or dowry she
was intending to give Edith, which showed a very proper confidence. He
could not, in fact, have behaved with greater delicacy, and yet that
delicacy had put Mrs. Hancock, so to speak, rather in a hole. She had
to determine, by the light of her own generosity alone, what she was
prepared to do.
It was this point that now occupied her, after she had written a note
to the stores, ordering a footstool nine inches high, covered in a
dark red shade of russia leather.... So _that_ was off her mind.
Edward had given quite a warm welcome to the scheme of the Egyptian
expedition, and had expressed his readiness to take no holiday this
summer, but have his vacation then. In this case, marriage in November,
a month's honeymoon with his bride, and a reunion with Mrs. Hancock
at Cairo, was an ideal arrangement. All this kindled Mrs. Hancock's
sense of generosity, for it would relieve her of the expense of Edith
on the Egyptian tour, and in the first glow of her gratification, she
proposed to herself to settle on Edith a sum that should produce four
hundred pounds a year. She was almost surprised at herself for this
unhesitating open-handedness, and sat down to consider just what it
meant.
Four hundred a year represented a capital of over ten thousand pounds.
That seemed a great deal of money to put without restriction into the
hands of a girl who hitherto had been accustomed to control only an
allowance for dress and pocket-money paid quarterly. It would be much
more prudent, and indeed kinder, to give her, at first anyhow, till by
experience in household management, she became accustomed to deal with
larger sums, a quarterly allowance as before. Four hundred a year was
more than double what she had been accustomed to, and no doubt Edward,
who was clearly the soul of generosity, would give her no less. Edith
would then be mistress, for her own private expenses alone, of no
less than eight hundred a year. This was colossal affluence; enough,
carefully used, for the upbringing and support of an entire family. She
could never spend eight hundred a year, and there was no need for her
to save, since she was the wife of a well-to-do husband, and heiress
to a considerable fortune. So much money would but be a burden to
her. If her mother allowed her two hundred a year, that added to what
Edward would no doubt insist on giving her--Mrs. Hancock had settled
that he would certainly give as much as she had originally thought of
giving--would make her a more than ample allowance.
Her thoughts went back for a moment to the note to the stores which
lay on the table. Certainly a footstool made a motor-drive much more
comfortable, and, since Edith was going to accompany her to Bath, her
mother could not bear the thought that she should lack the comforts she
gave herself. She would order two footstools.... Without a moment's
hesitation she opened the letter and made the necessary alteration.
There! That was done. How pleased Edith would be.
She returned to the question of the allowance, viewing it, as it were,
from a rather greater distance. She hoped, she prayed that Edith would
have children, who must certainly adore their granny. Their granny
would certainly adore them, and it would be nothing less than a joy to
her to give each of them, say, a hundred pounds every birthday, to be
prudently invested for them, so that when they came of age they would
have tidy little fortunes of their own. She glowed with pleasure when
she thought of that. Children's education was a great expense, and it
would be so nice for Edward to know that, as each child of his came of
age, he would have waiting for him quite a little income of his own;
or, capitalized, such a sum would start the boys in life, and provide
quite a dowry for the daughters. At compound interest money doubled
itself in no time; they would all be young men and women of independent
means. Perhaps Edith would have five or six children, and, though Mrs.
Hancock's munificence would then be costing her six hundred a year--or
interest on fifteen thousand pounds--she felt that it would be the
greatest delight to pinch herself to make ends meet for the sake of
being such a fairy-granny. But if she was paying Edith two hundred a
year all the time the very queen of the fairy-grannies would scarcely
be able to afford all this. And she felt quite sure that Edith would
choose to have her children provided for rather than herself, for she
had the most unselfish of natures.
Hitherto Edith had received a hundred and fifty a year for dress and
travelling expenses when she went alone. She had done very well on
that, and was always neat and tidy; now without doubt her husband
would pay all her travelling expenses, since they would always travel
together. Even if she continued to give Edith a hundred and fifty
pounds a year, that, with her travelling expenses paid by her husband,
and an allowance--as before--of four hundred a year from him, would
be far more than she could possibly require. Besides, her mother had
already settled to provide lunch for her every day while Edward was
in town, and a motor-drive afterwards, while to keep the croquet-lawn
at such a pitch of perfection as so fine a player as Edward would
expect--and she was determined he should find--would mean very likely
another gardener, or, at any rate, a man to come in once or twice a
week to help Ellis. Then there was the trousseau to be thought of,
which Mrs. Hancock was invincibly determined to provide herself, and
that would cost more than the whole of Edith's allowance for the year.
Certainly, with this necessary visit to Bath, and the winter in Egypt
which she had promised Edward she would manage, and with the expense
of having Elizabeth in the house all the summer she herself would be
very poor indeed for the next year. It seemed really unreasonable that
for these twelve months she would give Edith any allowance at all. And
by that time, please God, there might be a little grandchild to begin
providing for. Evidently she would have to be very careful and saving,
but the thought of those for whom she would be stinting herself made
such sacrifice a work of joy and pleasure. But for a moment she looked
at the note to the stores again, wondering whether it would not be
possible to put one footstool between them to be shared by both. That
red leather was very expensive.
Then there were wedding presents to be thought of, and, though she was
determined to give Edith her whole trousseau, she meant to behave
lavishly in this respect, and, glowing with the prospective delight
of giving, she opened the Bramah-locked jewel safe which was let into
her bedroom wall. She quite longed to clasp round Edith's neck the
four fine rows of pearls which had come to her from her late husband,
but this was impossible, since she was convinced they were heirlooms,
and must remain in her possession till her death. There was a diamond
tiara, which, it was true, was her own property, but this was far too
matronly an ornament for a young bride; diamond tiaras also were out
of place in Heathmoor, and she had not once worn it herself in the ten
years that she had lived there; it was no use giving dear Edith jewels
that she would but lock up in her safe. Then there was an emerald
necklace of admirable stones, but it was old-fashioned, and green never
suited Edith. She disliked green; she would not wear it. But pink was
her favourite colour, and here was the very thing, a dog-collar of
beautiful coral with a pearl clasp. How often had Edith admired it! How
often had her mother thought of giving it her! There was a charming
moonstone brooch, too, set in dear little turquoises. The blue and the
pink would go deliciously together. As a matter of fact the turquoises
were rather green, too.
But it was late; time had flown over those liberal schemes. She
locked up the coral necklace and the moonstone brooch in a drawer
by themselves--Edith's drawer she instantly christened it--said her
prayers with an overflowing heart and went to bed. Just before she
fell asleep she made up her mind to order new morocco boxes lined
with dark-blue velvet, with Edith's new initials in gilt upon them,
to hold these wedding-gifts. Then there was Edward; she must give him
something he would use and take pleasure in; there was no sense in
giving presents which were not useful.... Suddenly an excellent idea
struck her. How pleased he would be at her remembering the want he had
expressed the other day--a want that was only one item out of the gift
she contemplated. She would give him a whole set, and he might keep
them in her garden-house since he would use them here. It would be
necessary to write another letter to the stores. What a lot of things
there were to think about and provide when young people were going to
be married!
The little party which Mrs. Hancock invited to receive officially the
news of Edith's engagement were all "delighted to be able to accept,"
even though the notice was so short. Dinner-giving at Heathmoor, though
during the summer croquet and lawn-tennis parties, with iced coffee and
caviare sandwiches, were of almost daily occurrence--indeed, sometimes
they clashed--was chiefly confined to Saturday evening, when no sense
of early trains on the morrow made writing on the wall to check
conviviality. Mrs. Hancock knew that quite well, though in her notes to
her guests she had said, "if by any chance you happen to be disengaged
on Tuesday," and would have been much surprised if any previous
engagement had forced any one to be obliged to decline. Personally,
she would have liked to get together a somewhat larger gathering,
for Ellis said there was no doubt about a sufficiency of asparagus,
but Lind invariably set his hatchet-like face against a party of
more than eight, which he considered a sufficiently festive number.
In the earlier years of Lind's iron rule Mrs. Hancock had sometimes
invited a larger party, but on these occasions the service had been
so slow, the wine so sparingly administered, and Lind's demeanour, if
she remonstrated next morning, so frozen and fatalistic, so full of
scarcely veiled threats about his not giving satisfaction, that by
degrees he had schooled her into submission, and she was beginning
to consider that eight was the pleasantest number of guests, and a
quarter-to the most suitable hour, which also was Lind's choice. So on
this occasion there were the engaged couple and herself, the clergyman,
Mr. Martin, and his wife, an eminent and solid solicitor, Mr. Dobbs
with Mrs. Dobbs, and Mr. Beaumont, one of the few men in Heathmoor who
was not actively engaged all day in making money, partly accounted for
by the fact that he had a great deal already, partly that he would
have certainly lost it instead. Idle, however, he was not, for he was
an entomologist of fanatical activity. He spent most summer evenings
in spreading intoxicating mixtures of beer and sugar on tree-trunks
to stupefy unwary lepidoptera, most of the night in visiting these
banquets with a lantern, and taking into custody his inebriated guests,
and the entire day in beating copses for caterpillars, in running over
noonday heaths with a green butterfly net, and in killing and setting
the trophies of his chase. For a year or two Mrs. Hancock had spread
vague snares about him for Edith's sake, feigning an unfounded interest
in the crawlings of caterpillars and the dormancy of chrysalides, but
her hunting had been firmly and successfully thwarted by his gaunt
sister, who devoted her untiring energy to the destruction of winged
insects and the preservation of her brother's celibacy. She never went
out into Heathmoor society, though she occasionally played hostess at
singularly uncomfortable dinners at home. These entertainments were not
very popular, since escaped caterpillars sometimes came to the party,
a smell of camphor and insects pervaded the house, and Miss Beaumont
began yawning punctually at ten o'clock, until the last guest had
departed. Then she killed some more moths. But her brother was the
nucleus of Heathmoor dinners, and hostesses starting with him built
up agreeable gatherings round him, for, though Heathmoor was not one
atom more snobbish than other settlements of the kind, it was idle
to pretend that the nephew of an earl, brother of a viscountess, and
member of the Royal Entomological Society was not a good basis on which
to build a social evening. He had a charming tenor voice which he had
not the slightest notion how to use; and Heathmoor considered that,
had he chosen to go on the operatic stage, there would not have been
so much talk about Caruso; while the interest with which he listened
to long accounts of household difficulties with fiends in the shape
of housemaids was certainly beyond all praise. At home he managed the
whole affairs of the _ménage_ from seeing the cook in the morning to
giving his dog his supper in the evening, since his sister, when not
occupied with his moths, was absorbed in Roman history.
Mr. Martin and his wife were the first to arrive, and, as usual, the
vicar took up his place on the hearthrug with the air of temporary
host. This, indeed, was his position at Mrs. Hancock's, for it was
he whom she always left in charge of the men in the dining-room when
the ladies left them to their wine, with instructions as to where the
cigarettes were, and not to stop too long. It was his business also,
at which he was adept, to be trumpeter in general of the honour and
glory of his hostess, and refer to any late acquisition of hers in the
way of motor-cars, palings, or rambler roses. In this position of host
he naturally took precedence of everybody else, and his _mot_ "Round
collars are more than coronets" when conducting the leading lady to
the dining-room in the teeth, you may say, of a baronet, dazzled
Heathmoor for weeks whenever they thought of it. His wife, a plump
little Dresden shepherdess, made much use of the ejaculation, "Only
fancy!" and at her husband's naughtier sallies exclaimed, "Alfred,
Alfred!" while she attempted to cover her face with a very small hand
to hide her laughter. Soon they were joined by Mr. and Mrs. Dobbs, and
shortly after by Mr. Beaumont, who looked, as was indeed the case, as
if he had been running.
Mrs. Hancock's dinners were always admirable, and since Mrs. Williams
kept a book of all her menus there was no risk of guests being
regaled with dishes they had lately partaken of at the house. The
conversation, if anything, was slightly less varied, since, apart from
contemporaneous happenings that required comment, the main topics of
interest were rather of the nature of hardy perennials. Mr. Beaumont's
sister was always inquired after, and usually the opinion of his uncle
with regard to the latest iniquity of the Radical government. Weather,
gardens, croquet were questions that starred the conversational heavens
with planet-like regularity, moving in their appointed orbits, and Mr.
Dobbs filled such intervals as he could spare from the mastication of
his dinner with its praise.
"Delicious glass of sherry, Mrs. Hancock," he said, very early in the
proceedings. "You can't buy sherry like that now."
Mr. Martin's evening clothes were not cut so as to suggest his
profession. He based his influence not on his clothes, but on his
human sympathy with the joys and sorrows of his friends. "There is a
time to mourn, to weep, to repent," he said once in a sermon; "but
undoubtedly there is a time to be as jolly as a sand-boy." He did not
approve of teetotalism; any one could be a teetotaller. You are more
of an example by partaking of the good things of this world in due
moderation. He drank half his glass of sherry.
"I always tell Mrs. Hancock that her wine would cause a Rechabite to
recant," he observed gaily.
Mrs. Martin covered her face with her hand and gave a little spurt of
laughter. This was an old joke, but social gaiety would speedily become
a thing of the past if we never appeared to be amused at familiar
witticisms.
"Alfred, Alfred!" she said. "How can you? Is not Alfred wicked?"
Conversation became general.
"And have you begun croquet yet this year, Mr. Holroyd?" asked Mrs.
Dobbs. "I suppose you will carry off all the prizes again, as you
always do. I wish you would make Mr. Dobbs take to it instead of
spending all his time catching slugs in the garden. So much better for
him."
"Do not listen to Mrs. Dobbs, Holroyd!" cried the vicar. "I use my
authority to forbid your listening to Mrs. Dobbs. The slugs spoil the
flowers, and, like a greedy fellow, I want every flower in Heathmoor
for Trinity Sunday."
"Alfred! Alfred!" said his wife.
"Yes, my dear, and you will never guess what Mrs. Hancock has just
promised me. While she is at Bath I may order Ellis to send a basket
of her best flowers up to the church every Sunday. No limitation over
the basket, mind you. It shall be a clothes-basket! And as for best
flowers--well, all I can say is that any one who hasn't seen Mrs.
Hancock's tulips this year doesn't know what tulips can be."
Mr. Dobbs, who ate with his head perpendicularly above his plate,
looked up at his wife.
"I told you salmon could be got, my dear!" he said.
"You shall have it," she said, "but don't blame me for the fishmonger's
book."
Mr. Martin laughed joyfully.
"My wife tells me I mustn't play golf so much," he said, "because it
gives me such an appetite that I eat her out of hearth and home. But I
tell her it is one of my parochial duties. How can I get to know the
young fellows of the place unless I join in their amusements? They will
never tell me their difficulties and temptations unless they have found
me in sympathy with their joys. And if when I am playing with them
there is trouble in the long grass, and occasionally a little word, a
wee naughty little word slips out--("Alfred, Alfred!")--you may be sure
that I never seem to hear it."
"Well, I do call that tact!" said Mrs. Hancock genially. "But you must
take a little cucumber with your salmon, Mr. Martin. This is the first
cucumber Ellis has sent me in."
"A gourd--a positive gourd," said Mr. Martin, taking a slice of this
remarkable vegetable. "Jonah and his whale could have sat under it."
"Is not Alfred wicked?" said his wife.
"And you are really off to Bath the day after to-morrow?" asked he.
"And are going to drive all the way in your car? Though, of course,
with a car like yours it is no distance at all. Sometimes I see your
car on one horizon, and then, whizz, you are out of sight again over
the other. But no noise, no dust, no smell. But the speed limit, Mrs.
Hancock? I am tempted to say no speed limit, either."
He refrained from this audacious suggestion, and continued--
"Such an excellent steady fellow, too, you have in Denton. I always see
my friend Denton coming in during the Psalms after he has taken your
car home, and if he has to leave again in the middle of the sermon,
I'm sure he only does at the call of duty what half the congregation
would do for pleasure if they had the courage. They have my sympathy.
How bored I should get if I had to listen to a long-winded parson every
Sunday."
Mrs. Hancock cast an anxious eye on the asparagus. But there was a
perfect haystack of it.
"How much I enjoyed your sermon last Sunday," said she, "about the duty
of being cheerful and happy, and doing all we can to make ourselves
happy for the sake of others. Oh, you must take more asparagus! Ellis
would be miserable if it was not all eaten. It is only the second time
we have had it this year."
For the moment she thought of telling Mr. Martin to supply himself with
asparagus while she was at Bath. But the duty of making herself happy
prevailed, and she refrained, for it occurred to her that Ellis might
dispatch daily bundles early in the morning in cardboard boxes, so
that they would reach Bath in time to be cooked for dinner. The hotel
commissariat would certainly not rise to asparagus so early in the
season.
Mrs. Martin in the meantime, with one sycophantic ear open to catch her
husband's jokes, was full of fancy ejaculations to Mr. Beaumont, who
was describing to her the romantic history of the female oak-egger,
which exercised so extraordinary a fascination on all young males for
miles around. Here Mr. Dobbs was lacking in felicity, for he remarked
that a great many unmarried young ladies would be glad to know how
the female oak-egger did it. But Mr. Beaumont made it unnecessary for
Mrs. Dobbs even to frown at him, so rapidly did he wonder whether it
was called an oak-egger because it laid upwards of a million eggs.
Then Mrs. Hancock called the attention of the table generally to the
fact that the gooseberry tartlets were the produce of the garden--the
first of the year--and Mr. Martin alluded to the Feast of the Blessed
Innocents, saying that even massacre had a silver lining, though not
for the massacred. A savoury of which Mr. Dobbs was easily induced to
take a second helping brought dinner to what musicians call "a full
close."
Then came the moment of the evening. Port was ruthlessly supplied by
Lind to all the guests, whether they wanted it or not, and Mrs. Hancock
rose with her kind brown eyes moist with emotion.
"Ladies and gentlemen," she said, "I have a toast to propose. I ask
you to drink the health of my dear daughter and of Edward Holroyd, my
future son-in-law. Your health, my dear, dear children!"
Mr. Beaumont instantly led off the musical honours on so high a note
that those of the party who could sing followed with faint gasps and
screams. And, under cover of the hubbub of comment and congratulation
that followed, shyly and eagerly Edith's eye sought her future husband.
And when his eye met hers she felt her heart rap out a tumultuous dozen
of unbidden beats, fast and sweetly suffocating. Then she blushed
furiously at a sudden self-accusation of indelicacy, of unmaidenness.
But her heart acquitted her of the indictment. Was it not right to give
that tattoo of welcome?
* * * * *
The start for Bath was made in strict accordance with the scheduled
plan. Filson, with the heavy luggage on the top of the motor,
accompanied by Lind, her lunch, and a freshly cut bundle of asparagus
destined for Mrs. Hancock's dinner in the evening, left the house in
such good time that she had to wait twenty-five minutes at the station,
which it took exactly three to reach. The motor returned in time for
Lind to serve Mrs. Hancock's breakfast with all the finish and decorum
to which she was accustomed. Then the new nine-inch footstool--Mrs.
Hancock had decided against the extravagance of two--the map of the
route, the large luncheon-basket, the adjustable card-table, the
writing-case, a couple of new volumes from Mudie's, cloaks of varying
thickness, and the great green russia leather travelling sack were
conveniently bestowed, and full five minutes before the appointed time
the car slid silently away from the door, with all possible provision
made for a comfortable journey.
The first five minutes were spent in verifying the presence of all
these conveniences, and Mrs. Hancock sank back on her carefully
adjusted cushions.
"There!" she said. "We are in for it now, dear; and if all goes as
well as it has begun we shall be at Bath by five. How much nicer than
all the fuss of crossing London, and the risk of having somebody put
into our carriage. Fancy our never having thought of motoring to Bath
before! Oh, look, there is Mr. Martin going to play golf! How early we
all are this morning! And perhaps we shall see Mr. Beaumont with his
butterfly net. Then as soon as we get into the main road I shall have
a look at the morning paper. There has not been a minute to glance at
it yet; or perhaps you would look at it for me, dear Edith, and tell me
what there is. The motion always makes the print dance a little before
my eyes. I expect the time will slip by so that we shall be astonished
when we find we are at Bath, and very likely not be at all tired. And
you must be on the look-out for anything interesting, and write to
Edward about it, in case, when he comes down for a Sunday, he comes by
motor. Then he will be on the look-out and see it, too. Why, we are at
Slough already! There is the Great Western line. Filson's train will go
along there. If she had started three or four hours earlier her train
might have gone by as we passed, and she could have looked out of the
window and seen us. That would have been a coincidence!"
The car ran so smoothly on the excellent surface of the Bath road that
Mrs. Hancock found that the print of her _Morning Post_ had not the
smallest tendency to "dance," and reserving, as usual, the leaders and
longer paragraphs for the digestive period after lunch, she soaked
herself gently as in a warm bath, in the announcements of the arrival
in London of people she had never seen, and the appearance at the opera
of those she had never heard of. What taste exactly was gratified
by these tit-bits of information it would be hard to say. Possibly
the sense that so many people were moving backwards and forwards
enhanced the enjoyment of her own leisure; she mentally contrasted the
bustle that was incident to journeys from Paris with her own smooth,
unhurrying progress to Bath. Edith, meantime following her mother's
suggestion that she should look out of the window in order to be able
to communicate to Edward objects of interest to be seen by the road,
soon passed from external observation to introspection.
These last four or five days since she had so unemotionally accepted
his offer of himself to her had about them something of the
unconjectured surprises of dawn, when, after a night of travel, the
darkness begins to lift off from the face of a new and unfamiliar
country. It was he, in this image, who took the place of the light,
and the country which its gradual illumination revealed, as it soaked
through and dissolved the webs of darkness, was herself. For it is an
undeniable truth that love, that absorption of self in another self,
cannot take place till the giver has some notion of the nature of the
gift that he brings, and Edith up till the present time was as ignorant
of herself as are all girls whose emotions and womanhood have never
been really roused. She had accepted her lover without knowing what
devotion meant, or who it was who accepted him, except in so far that
her name was Edith Hancock, her years twenty-four, and her complexion
fair. For the arrows of love are at the least feathered with egotism;
they will not fly unless a conscious personality enables them to steer
straight, but flutter and dip and reach no mark.
At first, frankly, she was appalled by the barrenness which the light
of her lover showed. It appeared to be level land, without streams
or inspiring hill-tops, a country uncovetable, a featureless, a
mountainous acreage. But it was not stonily barren; even her eyes,
unaccustomed to the light and that which it revealed, saw that. It
was barren but from emptiness, and empty, perhaps only as the winter
fields are bare. It was not an unkindly, an inhospitable land; the very
soil of it cried out and told her that. All day the image of her empty
country, but not unkindly, hung in her mind even as an unborn melody
hovers a little above the brain of the musician, until condensing like
dew it melts into it. And all day, but very gradually, for these dawns
of love come seldom in a blinding flash of a sun upleaping over the
horizon, but rather in a slow crescendo of illumination as of a waxing
flame that shall mount to who knows what transmitted fire, the first
wonderful twilight of the day grew rosy. And in that morning-rose,
which showed her herself, she saw also him whom it welcomed. Eagerly
and with strong sense of possession, she claimed him. It was to her
that he belonged; he was hers, to be loved and adored, but also to be
owned.
Outwardly, she was the Edith whom her mother knew, though in her spirit
were beginning those changes which must soon make her old self a thing
unrecognizable to her clearer vision. But it was scarcely strange that
Mrs. Hancock saw no hint of change, for, as may have been perceived,
she had the gift, or limitation of being completely taken up with the
surface of things; indeed, to her mind any inquiry into the mechanism
of the spirit and its pulses was of the same indelicacy as discussion
of the functions and operations of the human body. If your body was
ill you went quickly to the doctor, and did not call your friends'
attention to your infirmity; if your soul was ill----But Mrs. Hancock's
soul was never ill.
They had the satisfaction of seeing a great many more Great Western
trains at Reading, and passed out into the delectable country beyond.
Then totally unexpected difficulties began to occur with regard to the
spot where they should stop and take their lunch. Just outside Reading,
indeed, there was seen an entirely suitable place, secluded, shady, out
of the wind, and strongly recommended by Denton, but unfortunately it
was then only a quarter-past one, and Mrs. Hancock had not intended to
lunch till half-past. Therefore they pushed on, going rather slow so as
not to miss any really proper encamping ground. Ten minutes later they
were again favoured by an oak-tree and a sheltering hedge, but here
unfortunately a tramp was asleep by the wayside. At any moment he might
wake, and prove to be intoxicated, and Mrs. Hancock was quite sure she
could not enjoy her lunch in his vicinity. Further on again there was a
wayside cottage too near a proposed halting-place, for children might
come out of it and stare, and the cottage was succeeded by a smell of
brick fields. Before long Tilehurst began to show up roofs, and it was
necessary to get clear of Tilehurst on the far side before any sort
of serenity could be hoped for. Then for nearly a mile they had to
follow an impenetrable flock of sheep, and it was imperative to get
well ahead of them. Pangbourne appeared, and it was already after two
o'clock. It will hardly be credited that they had scarcely got free of
this contaminating village when a tyre punctured. A halt was inevitable
while it was being repaired, but then Denton could not eat while he
was mending it, and since they would have to stop again for Denton to
have his lunch (since he could not drive during that process), it was
better to make a halt for general refreshments when the tyre trouble
was overpast.
Mrs. Hancock looked despairingly round.
"It is most annoying," she said. "I do not know that we should not have
done better to have had lunch at an inn at Reading, or to have stopped
at that first place. Remember to tell Edward, dear, to look out for
that first place if he drives down; there is positively nowhere after
that where he can find a quiet spot. I wonder if we had better eat a
couple of biscuits now in case we can't find a suitable place soon.
Dear me, here come those sheep again! They ought not to be allowed to
drive sheep along a road that is meant for carriages. Put the window
up, dear, against the dust."
Suddenly illumination like a cloud-piercing ray shone on Edith. It
struck her that all her life had been spent in looking for a place
to have lunch in, so to speak, in putting up windows for fear of the
dust, in avoiding the proximity of tramps. Infinitesimal as was the
occasion, it seemed to throw an amazing light on to her life. Up till
the present it was hardly an exaggeration to say that anything more
important, anything more directly concerned with existence had never
happened to her. Was it this comfortable ordered life in which an
infinite agglomeration of utterly trivial things made up the sum total
that caused her lately discovered country to appear so barren? She
looked at her mother's face; it was flushed with childish annoyance,
just as it had been about three years ago when a perfectly satisfactory
housemaid gave notice because she was going to be married. Since
then she could remember nothing that had so disconcerted her mother,
except when once Denton shut the corner of the new fur carriage-rug
into the hinge of the motor-door. On both these previous occasions
she had been impressed with the magnitude of the moment; now she felt
slightly inclined to laugh. Even if the unthinkable, the supreme
disaster happened, and they did not lunch at all, would the world come
completely to an end?
But a second glance at her mother's face checked her tendency to laugh,
and encouraged a feeling that was quite as novel to her. She felt
suddenly and overwhelmingly sorry that this drive, this lunch which her
mother had planned with such care and with such pleased anticipation
of comfort, should have disappointed her. It was like a child's
disappointment over the breakage of a toy or the non-fulfilment of some
engaging expedition. There was laughter in her heart no longer; only a
tenderness, a commiseration that sympathized in womanly fashion with a
childish trouble.
It is darkest before dawn, and this Cimmerian gloom, composed of
puncture and the absence of a possible luncheon place, began to lift.
Denton was handy with his tools; the sheep were herded through a gate
into a field by the roadside, so that when they went on again there
was no further passage through the flock to be negotiated. Goring
streamed swiftly by them, and hardly were they quit of its outlying
houses when a soft stretch of grass by the roadside, uncontaminated by
tramp and untenanted by child, spread itself before their eyes. And
Mrs. Hancock, as she finished the last jam puff, was more beaming than
the sun of this lovely May afternoon.
"I'm not sure that it was not worth while going through all these
annoyances and delays," she said, "to have found such a lovely place
and to have enjoyed our lunch so much. I was afraid the jam might have
run out of the puffs; but it was as safe as if they had just come up
from the kitchen. I wish Edward was here to have enjoyed it with us.
You must tell him what a good lunch we had!"
And Edith found her mother's enjoyment as tenderly pathetic as her
disappointment had been.