[Illustration: 9065]
HRISTMAS came and went unmerrily. The old woman who took care of me had
known better days; she stayed in bed in an effort to forget. Next door,
but one, a son had returned unexpectedly from the trenches. There were
laughing, dancing and piano playing. I tried to share their happiness;
but happiness isn't the same when it is borrowed second-hand. My rooms
were cheerless and empty of all sound.
I kept thinking of my air-raid visitors, wondering where they were and
hoping that the American officer had re-found the little lady. If
he had, I felt sure he would be good to her. I told myself a foolish
fairy-story, as old houses will, of how, when the war was ended, they
would drive up to my door together, as if by accident, and exclaim,
“Why, it's the little house where we first met!” Then the TO LET sign
would be taken down and, having fetched Joan and Robbie, we would all
live together forever. With luck and love we might have smaller feet to
toddle up and down my stairs.
January, February, March commenced and ended, and the TO LET sign was
still there. It seemed that nobody would ever want me. It was April now;
to their nests in the railed-in garden of the square the last year's
birds were coming back. Trees had become a mist of greenness. Tulips and
daffodils were shining above the ground. In the window-boxes of other
houses geraniums were making a scarlet flare. Without warning the dream,
which had been no more than a dream, began to become a fact.
I had been drowsing in the sun, taking no notice of what was happening,
when I was suddenly awakened by a sharp rat-a-tat-tat. I came to myself
with a start to find that the little lady, unaccompanied, was standing
on my steps.
She knocked again and then a third time. There could be no doubt about
her determination to enter. At last the old woman heard her and dragged
herself complainingly up from the basement. When the door had been
narrowly opened, the little lady pushed it wider and stepped smartly
into the hall with an exceedingly business-like air. “I have an order
from the agents to view the house.”
“I'm 'ard of 'earing. Wot did yer say? Speak louder.”
“I have an order from the agents to look over the house.”
“Let's see your order?”
While the caretaker fumbled for her spectacles, she went on talking.
“You won't like it. There's no real sense in your seeing it. It ain't
much of a 'ouse--not modern, too little and all stairs.”
It made me furious to hear her running me down and to have no chance to
defend myself.
“Nevertheless, I rather like it and I think I'll see it,” the little
lady said.
She went from room to room, making notes of the accommodations and
thinking aloud as she set them down. “Four floors beside the basement.
On the top floor two bedrooms; they'll do for Robbie and Joan and nurse.
On the next floor one bedroom and a bathroom; I'll have that for myself.
On the second floor one big room, running from front to back; that's
where we'II have the parrot and the piano, and where I'll do my sewing.
On the ground-floor a dining-room in front and a bedroom at the back;
the bedroom at the back will do for cook. I won't have anyone sleeping
below-stairs. It's a very wee house, but tremendously cosy. And what
pretty views--the garden in the square in front, and the old grey church
with its graveyard at the back! It's all so green and quiet, like being
in the country.”
[Illustration: 0069]
She had far out-distanced the caretaker, hurrying over the first two
floors that she might get to the top by herself. Now, as she descended,
she inspected each room more leisurely. As yet she had said no word that
would indicate that she had recognised me. I wondered what her motive
had been in coming; whether she had deliberately sought me or stumbled
on me simply by accident. I would have known her anywhere, though I had
been blind and deaf, by the fragrance of Jacqueminot that clung about
her.
She had come to the tiny landing on the second floor, when something
familiar in her surroundings struck her. She stood there holding
the handle of the door and wrinkling her forehead. “It's odd,” she
whispered; “I can't understand it.” She turned the handle and entered.
The room smelt stuffy; its windows had not been opened since she was
last there. The sunlight, pouring in, revealed motes of dust which rose
up dancing every time she stirred. In the grate were the accumulated
ashes of many fires. Drawn across the hearth was the shabby couch.
Nothing had been altered since she had left it. She passed her hand
across her eyes, “It can't be; it would be too strange to find it like
that.” Then she started to reconstruct the scene as she remembered it.
“Robbie was there against the window, asking how many Huns his daddy had
brought down, and I was sitting here in the shadow, when quite suddenly
we heard his tread on the stairs. The door opened; he said something
about being sorry that he'd frightened us, and then.... Why yes, I'm
positive.” She stepped out onto the verandah and stood looking down into
the square. When she turned to re-enter her eyes were moist and shining.
“You _are_ the little house. Oh, little house, I've dreamt of you so
often. Does he dream of you too, where he is out there? Was I right to
run away and to doubt him? If you had a tongue you could tell me; did he
say hard things about me when he found me gone on coming back?”