IN THE CHURCH PORCH
It was somewhere about the second week in December that Trix became the
recipient of another letter, a letter quite as amazing, perplexing, and
extraordinary as that which she had perused in the summer-house at
Llandrindod Wells. They had returned to London in October.
The letter was brought to her in the drawing-room one evening about nine
o'clock. Mrs. Arbuthnot had gone out to a Bridge party.
Trix was engrossed in a rather exciting novel at the moment, a blazing
fire and an exceedingly comfortable armchair adding to her blissful state
of well-being. Barely raising her eyes from the book, she merely put out
her hand and took the letter from the tray. It was not till she had come
to the end of the chapter that she even glanced at the handwriting. Then
she saw that the writing was Miss Tibbutt's.
Now, a letter from Miss Tibbutt was of such extremely rare occurrence
that Trix immediately leapt to the conclusion that Pia must be ill. It
was therefore with a distinct pang of uneasiness that she broke the seal.
This is what she read:
"My Dear Trix,--
"I have made rather an astounding discovery. At least I feel sure I've
made it, I mean that I am right in what I think. I have no one in whom I
can confide, as it certainly would not do to speak to Pia on the
subject,--I feel sure she would rather I didn't, so I am writing to you
as I feel I must tell someone. My dear, it sounds too extraordinary for
anything, and I can't understand it myself, but it is this. Pia knows the
under-gardener at the Hall, really knows him I mean, not merely who he
is, and that he is one of the gardeners, and that he came to these parts
last March, which, of course, we all know.
"I found this out quite by accident, and will explain the incident to
you. You must forgive me if I am lengthy; but I can only write in my own
way, dear Trix, and perhaps that will be a little long-winded.
"Yesterday afternoon, which was Saturday, Pia and I motored into Byestry,
as she wanted to see Father Dormer about something. I went into the
church, while she went to the presbytery. I noticed a man in the church
as I went in, a man in workman's clothes, but of course I did not pay any
particular attention to him. I knelt down by one of the chairs near the
door, and just beyond St. Peter's statue. I suppose I must have been
kneeling there about ten minutes when the man got up. He didn't
genuflect, and I glanced involuntarily at him. He didn't notice me,
because I was partly hidden by St. Peter's statue. Then I saw it was the
under-gardener,--Michael Field, I believe his name is.
"My dear, the man looked dreadfully ill, and so sad. It was the face of a
man who had lost something or someone very dear to him. He went towards
the porch, and just before he reached it, I heard the door open. Whoever
was coming in must have met him just inside the church. There was a sound
of steps as if the person had turned back into the porch with him. Then I
heard Pia's voice, speaking impulsively and almost involuntarily. At
least I felt sure it was involuntarily. It sounded exactly as if she
couldn't help speaking.
"'Oh,' she said, 'you've been ill.'
"'Nothing of any consequence, Madam,' I heard the man's voice answer.
"'But it must have been of consequence,' I heard Pia say. 'Have you seen
a doctor?'
"'There was no need,' returned the man.
"Then I heard Pia's voice, impulsive and a little bit impatient. She
evidently had not seen me in the church, and thought no one was there.
"'But there is need. Why don't you go and see Doctor Hilary?'
"'I am not ill enough to need doctors, Madam,' returned the man.
"'But you are,' returned Pia, in the way that she insists when she is
very anxious about anything.
"I heard the man give a little laugh."
"'It is exceedingly good of you to trouble concerning me,' he said, 'and
I really don't know why you should.'
"'Oh,' said Pia quickly, 'you need not be afraid that I, personally, wish
to interfere with you again. You made it quite plain to me months ago
that you had no smallest wish for me to do so. But, speaking simply as
one human being to another, as complete and entire strangers, even, I do
ask you to see a doctor.'
"Then there was a moment's silence."
"'I think not,' I heard the man say presently. 'I am really not
sufficiently interested in myself. Though--' and then, Trix dear, he half
stopped, and his voice altered in the queerest way,--'the fact that you
have shown interest enough to ask me to do so, has, curiously enough,
made me feel quite a good deal more important in my own eyes.'
"'You refused my friendship,' I heard Pia say, and her voice shook a
little.
"'I did,' said the man in rather a stern voice.
"Again, Trix dear, there was a little silence. Then Pia said:
"'I don't intend again to offer a thing that has once been rejected. I
shall _never_ do that. But because we once were friends, or at all
events, fancied ourselves friends, I do ask you to see Doctor Hilary.
That is all.'
"She must have turned from him at once, because she came into the church,
and went up the aisle to her own chair. She knelt down, and put her hands
over her eyes; and, Trix dearest, she was crying. I am crying now when I
think about it, so forgive the blots on the paper. A minute later I heard
the door open and shut again, so I knew the man had gone. I got up as
softly as I could, and slipped out of the church. It would never have
done for Pia to see me, and I was so thankful to St. Peter for hiding
me.
"Well, my dear Trix, wasn't it amazing? And one of the most amazing
things was that the man's voice and way of speaking was quite educated,
not the least as one would suppose a gardener would speak.
"I went to the post-office and bought some stamps, though I really had
plenty at home, and loitered about for nearly a quarter of an hour. Then
I thought I had better go and find Pia. I met her coming out of the
church. She was very pale; but she smiled, and wanted to know where I'd
been, and I told her to the post-office. And then we drove home together.
Pia laughed and chatted all the way, while my heart was in a big lump in
my throat, and I could hardly keep from crying, like the foolish old
woman that I am. I ought to have been talking, and helping Pia to
pretend.
"She has been quite gay all to-day, and oddly gentle too. But you know
the kind of gayness. And to-night my heart feels like breaking for her,
for there is some sad mystery I can't fathom. So, Trix dearest, I have
written to you, because I cannot keep it all to myself. And I am crying
again now, though I know I oughtn't to. So I am going to leave off, and
say the rosary instead.
"Good night, my dear Trix.
"Your affectionate old friend,
"Esther Tibbutt.
P.S. I wish you could come down here again. Can't you?"
Trix leant back in her chair, and drew a long breath. The novel was
utterly and entirely forgotten. So _that_ was what Pia's letter had
meant. It was this man she had been thinking of all the time. A dozen
little unanswered questions were answered now, a dozen queer little
riddles solved.
Trix slid down off her chair on to the bear-skin rug in front of the
fire. She leant her arms sideways on the chair, resting her chin upon
them. Most assuredly she must place the whole matter clearly before her
mind, in so far as possible. She gazed steadily at the glowing coals,
ruminative, reflective.
And firstly it was presented to her mind as the paramount fact, that it
was the mention of this man--this Michael Field, so-called--that had been
the direct cause of Pia's odd irritability, and not the indirect cause,
as she most erroneously had imagined. Somehow, in some way, he had caused
her such pain that the mere mention of his name had been like laying a
hand roughly on a wound. Secondly, though Trix most promptly dismissed
the memory, there was Pia's hurting little speech, the speech which had
followed on her--Trix's--theories promulgated beneath the lime trees. In
the light of Miss Tibbutt's letter that speech was easy enough of
explanation. Had not Pia had practical proof of the unworkableness of
those theories? Proof which must have hurt her quite considerably. How
utterly and entirely childish her words must have seemed to Pia,--Pia who
_knew_, while she truly was merely surmising, setting forth ideas which
assuredly she had never attempted to put into practice. Thirdly--Trix
ticked off the facts on her fingers--there was the amazing little game of
cross-questions. That too was entirely explained. How precisely it was
explained she did not attempt to put into actual formulated words.
Nevertheless she perceived quite clearly that it was explained. And
lastly there was Pia's letter to her, the letter which had vainly tried
to hide the bitterness which had prompted it. Clear as daylight now was
the explanation of that letter. Buoyed up by Trix's advice, by Trix's
eloquence, she had once more attempted to put the high-sounding theories
into practice. And it had proved a failure, an utter and complete
failure.
All these things fell at once into place, fitting together like the
pieces of a puzzle, an unfinished puzzle, nevertheless. The largest
pieces were still scattered haphazard on the board, and there seemed
extremely little prospect of fitting them into the rest. How had Pia ever
met the man? What was he doing at Chorley Old Hall? And why was he
pretending to be Michael Field, when she--Trix--now knew him to be Antony
Gray? The last two proved the greatest difficulty, nor could Trix, for
all her gazing into the fire, find the place they ought to occupy. She
remembered, too, her own idea regarding the colour of that bubble. Was it
possible that she had been right in her idea? Verily, if she had been, in
the face of this new discovery, it opened up a yet more astounding
problem. Pia actually and verily in love with the man, a man she believed
to be under-gardener at the Hall,--Pia, the distant, the proud, the
reserved Pia! It was amazing, unthinkable!
Trix heaved a sigh; it was all quite beyond her. One thing alone was
obvious; she must go down to Woodleigh again as soon as possible.
Certainly she had no very clear notion as to what precise good she could
do by going, nevertheless she was entirely convinced that go she must.
And then, having reached this point in her reflections, she returned once
more to the beginning, and began all over again.
And suddenly another idea struck her, one which had been entirely omitted
from her former train of thought. Was it possible that Mr. Danver knew of
the identity of this Michael Field? Was it possible, was it conceivable
that he held the key to those greatest riddles? Truly it would seem
possible. His one big action had been so extraordinary, so mad even, that
it would be quite justifiable to believe, or at least conjecture, that
minor extraordinary actions might be mixed up with it.
And then, from that, Trix turned to a somewhat more detailed
consideration of Pia's position. One point presented itself quite
definitely and clearly to her. It was certainly evident from that
memorable letter of Pia's, that she _did_ regard this man as a social
inferior, from which fact it was entirely plain that she had no smallest
notion of his real identity. Trix clasped her hands beneath her chin,
shut her eyes, and plunged yet deeper into her reflections. They were
becoming even more intricate.
Now, would it be a comfort to Pia to know that this man was by birth her
social equal, or would it, in view of the fact that he had in some way
shown her what she had called "a glimpse of the hairy hoof," appear to
her an added insult. Trix pondered the question deeply, turning it in her
mind, and sighing prodigiously more than once in the process.
And then, all at once, she opened her eyes. Where, after all, was the use
of troubling her head on that score. Comfort or not, who was to tell Pia?
Most assuredly Trix couldn't. She had considered that question already,
weeks ago in fact, and answered it in the negative. Of course it was
quite possible that she was being somewhat over-sensitive and
ultra-scrupulous on the subject. But there it was. It was the way she
regarded matters.
Trix sighed deeply. It was all terribly perplexing, and Tibby's letter
was quite horribly pathetic. Anyhow she would go down to Woodleigh as
soon as she possibly could.
She had been so entirely engrossed with her reflections, that she had
quite forgotten the passing of time. It was with a start of surprise,
therefore, that she heard the door open. At the selfsame moment the clock
on the mantelpiece chimed the hour of midnight. Trix got to her feet.
"My dearest," exclaimed Mrs. Arbuthnot, "not gone to bed yet! And all the
beauty sleep before midnight, they tell us. Not that you need it except
in the way of preservation, dearest. For I always did tell you,
regardless of making you conceited which I do not think I do do, that I
have admired you from the time you were in your cradle. Well, food is the
next best thing to sleep, so come and have a sandwich and some sherry. I
am famished, positively famished. And I ate an excellent dinner, I know;
but Bridge is always hungry work. Bring the tray to the fire, dearest. I
see James has put it all ready. And ham, which I adore. It may be
indigestible, though I never believe it with things I like. Not merely
because I like to think so, but because it is true. Nature knows best, as
she knew when I was a child, and gave me a distaste for fat which always
upset me, and a great appreciation for oranges which doctors are crying
up tremendously nowadays."
Mrs. Arbuthnot sank down in an armchair, and threw back her cloak. Trix
brought the tray to a small table near her.
"And how have you been amusing yourself, dearest? Not dull, I hope? But
the fire and a book are always the best of companions I think, to say
nothing of one's own thoughts, though some people do consider
day-dreaming waste of time. So narrow-minded. They read novels which are
only other people's day-dreams, and their own less expensive, as saving
library subscriptions and the buying of books, besides a certain
superiority in feeling they are your own. On the whole more satisfactory,
too. Even though you know the end before you come to it, it can always be
arranged as you like, and sad or happy to suit your mood. Though for my
part it should always be happy. If you're happy you want it happy, and if
you're not, you still want it to make you. If it weren't for the
difficulty of dividing into chapters, I'd write my own day-dreams, and no
doubt have a big sale. But publishers have an absurd prejudice in favour
of chapters, and even headings, which means an average of thirty titles.
Quite brain-racking. A dear friend of mine who wrote, told me she always
thought the title the most difficult part of a book."
She helped herself to a glass of sherry and two sandwiches as she
concluded her speech.
"And did you really have a pleasant evening?" said Trix, politely
interrogative.
Mrs. Arbuthnot surveyed her sandwich reflectively.
"Well, dearest, on the whole, yes. But unfortunately Mrs. Townsend was
there. An excellent Bridge player, and I am always pleased to see her
myself, but some people are so odd in their manner towards her. Quite
embarrassing really, in fact awkward at times. Absurd, too, with so good
a player. And though her father was a grocer it was in the wholesale
line, which is different from the retail. Besides, she married well, and
doesn't drop her aitches."
Trix's chin went up. "I hate class distinctions being made so horribly
obvious," said she with fine scorn.
Mrs. Arbuthnot looked thoughtful.
"Well, dearest, in Mrs. Townsend's case, perhaps. But not always. I
remember a girl I knew married a farmer. Most foolish."
"But why, if he was nice?" demanded Trix, exceedingly firmly.
"Oh, but dearest," ejaculated Mrs. Arbuthnot, "it was so unsuitable. He
wasn't even a gentleman farmer. He had been a labourer."
"He might have been a nice labourer," contended Trix.
Mrs. Arbuthnot sighed. "In himself, possibly. But it wouldn't do. The
irritation afterwards. We are told to avoid occasions of sin, and it
would not be avoiding occasions of ill-temper if you married a man like
that. Beer and muddy boots, to say nothing of inferior tobacco. The
glamour passed, though for my part I cannot see how there ever would be
any glamour, probably infatuation, the boots--you know the kind, dearest,
great nails and smelling of leather--the beer and the tobacco would be so
terribly obvious. No, dearest, it doesn't do."
Trix was silent. After all wasn't she again arguing on a point regarding
which she had had no real experience? Pia had tried the experiment, and
declared it didn't work; and that, in the case of a man who _was_ of
gentle birth, though posing as a labourer. In her own mind she felt it
ought to work,--of course under certain circumstances. It was not the
birth, but the mind that mattered. And, if there were the right kind of
mind, there most certainly would not be the boots, the beer, and the
tobacco. Trix was perfectly sure there wouldn't be. But it evidently was
no atom of good trying to explain to other people what she meant, because
they entirely failed to understand, and she was not certain that she
could explain very well to herself even what she did mean.
It was not in the least that she had ever had the smallest desire to run
counter to these conventions in any really important way, but she did
hate hard and fast rules. Why should people lay down laws, as rigid as
the laws of the Medes and Persians on matters that did not involve actual
questions of right and wrong! There were enough of those to observe,
without inventing others which were not in the least necessary.
It was all horribly muddling, and rather depressing, she decided. She
finished her sandwich and glass of sherry, swallowing a little lump in
her throat at the same time. Then she spoke.
"Aunt Lilla," she said impulsively, "I want to go down to Woodleigh."
Mrs. Arbuthnot looked up.
"Woodleigh, dearest. You were there only a little time ago, weren't
you?"
"It was in August," said Trix. "And, anyhow, I want to go again. You
don't mind, do you?"
Mrs. Arbuthnot took another sandwich.
"That's the fifth," she said. "Disgraceful, but all the fault of Bridge.
Why, of course not, if you want to go. But what made you think of it
to-night?"
Trix leant back in her chair. "I had a letter from Miss Tibbutt," she
said.
Mrs. Arbuthnot laid down her sandwich. She regarded Trix with anxious and
almost reproachful eyes.
"Oh, my dearest, nothing wrong I hope? So inconsiderate of me to talk of
Bridge. I saw a letter in your hand, but no black edge. Unless there is a
black edge, one does not readily imagine bad news. Not like telegrams.
They send my heart to my mouth, and generally nothing but a Bridge
postponement. So trivial. But it is the colour of the envelope, and the
possibility. Ill news flies apace, and telegrams the quickest mode of
communicating it. Except the telephone. And that is expensive at any
distance." Mrs. Arbuthnot paused, and took up her sandwich once more.
"Oh, no," responded Trix, answering the first sentence of the speech.
Experience, long experience had taught her to seize upon the first
half-dozen words of her aunt's discourses, and cling to them, allowing
the remainder to float harmlessly into thin air. Later there might be the
necessity to clutch at a few more, but generally the first half-dozen
sufficed. "Oh, no; no bad news. But Miss Tibbutt is not quite satisfied
about Pia."
That was true, at all events.
Mrs. Arbuthnot made a little clicking sound with her tongue, expressive
of sympathy.
"Oh, my dearest, I know that term 'not quite satisfied.' So vague. It may
mean nothing, or it may mean a good deal. And we always think it means a
good deal, when it is probably only influenza. Depressing, but not at all
serious if taken in time. And ammoniated quinine the best thing possible.
Not bitter, either, if taken in capsule form. But I quite feel with you,
and go-by all means if you wish. And take eucalyptus, with you to avoid
catching it yourself. So infectious, they say, but not to be shirked if
one is needed. I would never stand in the light of duty. The corporal
works of mercy, inconvenient at times, and I have never been to see a
prisoner in my life, but perhaps easier than the spiritual, except the
three last. You always run the risk of interference with the first of the
spiritual, so wiser to leave them entirely to priests. When do you want
to go, dearest?"
Trix came to herself with a little start. She had lost the thread of Mrs.
Arbuthnot's discourse.
"The day after to-morrow, I think," she said, reflectively. "I can wire
to-morrow and get a reply."
Mrs. Arbuthnot got up.
"Then that's settled. Don't look anxious, dearest, because there is
probably no cause for it. Though I know how easy it is to give advice,
and how difficult to take it, even when it is oneself. Though perhaps
that is really harder, being often half-hearted. And now we will go to
bed, and things will look brighter in the morning, especially if it is
fine. And the glass going up as I came through the hall. Quite time it
did. I always had sympathy with the boy in the poem--Jane and Anne
Taylor, wasn't it?--who smashed the glass in the holidays because it
wouldn't go up. It always seems as if it were its fault. Though I know
it's foolish to think so. And there is the clock striking one, and I
shall eat more sandwiches if I stay, so let us put out the light, and go
to bed."