It is a subject of burning curiosity with every woman in Stowel to know
whether it is a fact that the Taylors have taken to having late dinner
instead of supper since Mrs. Taylor's uncle was made a K.C.B. There
was something in a remark made by Miss Frances Taylor which distinctly
suggested that such a change had been effected, but Stowel, on the
whole, is inclined to discredit the rumour. A portrait of the General
has been made in London, from a photograph in uniform which Mrs. Taylor
has of him, and it has been framed, regardless of expense, by the
photographer in the High Street. Mr. Taylor at one time had thought of
having the whole thing done in London, but it had been decided by an
overwhelming majority that it would be only fair to give the commission
to provide the frame to some one in our own town; and Mr. and Mrs.
Taylor have granted a permission, which amounts to a command, that the
portrait of "Sir John" shall be placed in the window for a week before
it is sent home, so that Stowel may see it--for the Taylors, it should
be remembered, do not receive every one at their own house.
To-day I met the younger Miss Blind--Miss Lydia, she is generally
called--at the window of the photographer's, to which she had made a
pilgrimage, as we all intended to do, to see the famous picture.
Probably she had stood there for some time, for she turned nervously
towards me, and said in a tone of apology and with something of an
effort in her speech, "I used to know him."
"Ah!" I replied. "I suppose he has often been down to stay with the
Taylors?"
"He has not been once in twenty years," said Lydia. I was thinking of
other things, and I do not know why it suddenly struck me that there
was a tone of regret, even of hopelessness, in Miss Lydia's voice, and
that she spoke as one speaks, perhaps, when one has waited long for
something.
Lydia Blind is a tall woman with a slight, stooping figure. Sometimes
I have wondered if it is only her sister's constant ill-health that has
made Miss Lydia stoop a little. There is something delicately precise
about her, if so gentle a woman can fitly be described as precise.
Perhaps her voice explains her best, as a woman's voice will often do;
it is low and of a very charming quality, although broken now and then
by asthma. Each word has its proper spacing, and does not intrude upon
the next; each vowel possesses the rare characteristic of its proper
sound. I have never heard her use an out-of-the-way expression; but
her simple way of speaking has an old-fashioned gracefulness about it,
and her manner, with all its simplicity, is dignified by reason of its
perfect sincerity. Her eyes are large and gray, and set somewhat far
apart; her hair is worn in a fringe so demure and smooth, so primly
curled, that it has the appearance of plainly-brushed hair. It is Mrs.
Fielden who says that no good woman can do her hair properly, and she
wonders if St. Paul's recommendations as to plain braids has for ever
stamped the hairdresser's profession as a dangerous art.
To-day when I met Lydia it struck me suddenly to wonder how old she is.
Perhaps something in the insolent youthfulness of the springtime
suggested the thought, or it may have been because Miss Lydia looked
tired.
When one meets a friend in Stowel High Street, it is considered very
cold behaviour merely to bow to her. Not only do we stop and chat for
a few minutes, but it is the friendly fashion of the place for ladies
to say to each other, "Which way are you going?" and to accompany their
friend a little way along the sunny, uneven pavement, while offers to
come in and rest are generally given and accepted at the end of the
promenade. Of course it is quite unusual for gentlemen to be detained
in this way, and I am sure it cost Miss Lydia an effort to suggest to
me that I should come in and sit down for a little while, and that she
only did so because I seemed tired. Also I think that a man with a
crutch and with but one leg--and that one not very sound--is not
considered such a source of danger to ladies living alone as a strong
and hale man is supposed to be. We stopped at the little green gate in
the village street, with its red flagged pathway beyond, bordered with
spring flowers--wall-flowers, early blooming in this warm and sheltered
corner, forget-me-nots and primroses, while a brave yellow jasmine
starred with golden flowers covered the walls of the cottage. I asked
after her sister's health, and Miss Lydia begged me to come in and rest
for a few minutes; which I did, for I was horribly tired. But this was
one of Miss Belinda's bad days, and her sister, who watches every
variation in colour in the hollow cheeks and deep-set eyes of the
invalid, saw that she was unable to speak, and motioned me out of the
room. She showed me into her own little sanctum, and gave me a
cushioned chair by the window, and said: "Do wait for a few minutes and
rest. I can see that my sister wants to say something to me, but she
is always more than usually inarticulate when she is in one of these
nervous states."
I have been thinking a good deal about old maids lately--one has time
to think about all manner of subjects when one is lying down most of
the day. Mrs. Fielden is of opinion that an old maid may have an
exaggerated sense of humour. To my mind her danger may be that she is
always rather pathetically satisfied with everything. She prefers the
front seat of a carriage and the back seat of a dog-cart, and the leg
of a chicken and a tiny bedroom. Doubtless this is a form of
self-respect. This suitability of tastes on the part of an old maid
enables her to say, as she does with almost suspicious frequency, that
she gets dreadfully spoiled wherever she goes. Adaptability to
environment is the first law of existence, and yet there may have been
times, even in the life of an old maid, when she has yearned for the
wing of a chicken.
The little room into which Miss Lydia ushered me was plainly furnished,
but Miss Lydia says that she is always getting something pretty given
to her to add to her treasures. Her room is, indeed, rather suggestive
of a stationer's shop window, where a card with "Fancy goods in great
variety" is placed. It would not be unkind to hint of some of the
articles on the table and on the wall-brackets that they must have been
purchased more as a kindly remembrance at Christmas-time or on
birthdays than from any apparent usefulness to the recipient. There
are three twine-cases from which the scissors have long since been
abstracted by unknown dishonest persons; and there are four ornamental
thermometers, each showing its own fixed and unalterable idea
respecting the temperature of the room. A large number of unframed
sketches which children have given her are fastened to the wall by
pins, or hung on tacks whose uncertain hold bespeaks a feminine hand on
the hammer. There are several calendars, and there is quite an
uncountable collection of photograph frames, which fall over unless
they are propped against something. Most of the photographs are old
and faded, and they are nearly all of babies. Babies clothed and
unclothed; babies with bare feet and little nightshirts on; babies
sucking their thumbs; babies lying prone on fur carriage-rugs; babies
riding on their mammas' backs, or sitting on their mammas' knees;
babies crowing or crying. No one who has a baby ever fails to send
this maiden lady a photograph of it.
Miss Lydia settled me with some cushions in my chair, and shut the
doorway leading to her bedroom beyond, where I caught sight of a
painted iron bedstead, and a small indiarubber hot-water bottle hanging
from one of its knobs. It is Miss Lydia's most cherished possession,
and she generally speaks of it reverently as "the comfort of my life."
Poor Miss Lydia! Hers must be, I think, a lonely life, sacrificed
patiently to an invalid and almost inarticulate sister, and yet it is
the very solitude of this little chamber which is one of the few
privileges to which she lays claim. It is to this little room, with
its humble furnishings, that all her troubles are taken, and it is here
by the window that she can sit with folded hands and think perhaps of
something in life which surely poor Lydia has missed. It is here she
prays for those whose sins weigh far more heavily upon her than they do
upon themselves, and it is here that she can pause and question with
gentle faith the perplexities of life.
Miss Lydia tells my sister that she makes a thorough examination of her
room every night before she goes to bed, to see if there is a burglar
concealed anywhere. The movable property in the tiny house is probably
not worth many pounds, as a pawnbroker appraises things, and it would
be a hardened thief that could deprive the sisters of their small
possessions; but the dread remains--the dread of burglars and the dread
of mice. Were it not for the look of the thing, she would almost
rather discover a burglar than a mouse--"for at least burglars are
human," she explains, "and one might be able to reason with them or
pray for them, but who shall control the goings of a mouse?"
Sometimes these fears become quite a terror to Lydia Blind, and she
once said that she felt so defenceless that she thought it would be a
great comfort to have a male defender to protect her.
It is the only unmaidenly remark she ever made, and it makes her blush
in the dark when she thinks of it. She believes every one remembers it
with as vivid a distinctness as she does, and she trembles to think
what sort of construction may have been put upon her words by
ill-natured or thoughtless persons. It is a real trouble to her; but
then all her troubles are real, and so are her bitter repentances over
perfectly imaginary sins. But she has her little room and her faded
photographs--life has its consolations.