Christmas has come and gone. The little girls left us a fortnight
before, and the flat felt very quiet without them, but I busied myself
arranging for the fray. The tree was a huge success; so was the dinner
next day. Nevertheless, I shed tears on my pillow when I went to bed,
for if a solitary woman is ever justified in feeling "lone and lorn," it
is certainly at the season when everybody who possesses a family rushes
to it as a matter of course.
It was very gratifying to have made other people happy, but I had a
hungry longing to be made happy myself. By an unfortunate coincidence,
neither Kathie's greeting, nor Charmion's, nor Delphine's, arrived until
the twenty-seventh, and Aunt Eliza's turkey never arrived at all, having
presumably lost its label, and been eaten by the postman as treasure
trove. The one and only parcel from a distance came from--Mr
Maplestone! He had called the week before, and asked permission to send
evergreens from the "Hall". He said it was so difficult to get holly
with berries on it in town, and all children loved red berries.
Presumably his trees grew crackers as well as berries, for about a dozen
boxes of the most gorgeous varieties were enclosed in the crate. There
was no letter, but just a card with "For the children," written in a
corner.
On Boxing Day I made Winifred and Marion write letters of thanks--a
weary process from which they emerged splattered with tears and ink.
"Why are you laughing, Miss Harding?" they inquired resentfully. I did
not tell them that I was chuckling at my own cleverness in avoiding a
personal acknowledgment. I did not know that the Squire had ever seen
my writing, but he might have done. No risks should be run.
Delphine and her husband are settled at Davos, and he is beginning to
improve. She writes sweet little letters, and I'm sure this illness has
arrived at a providential moment. The shock of realising that her
Jacky's life was in danger was like a lightning flash lighting up a dark
landscape. In its blaze she saw revealed the true value of things, and
the sloping path on which her feet were set. I don't expect her to grow
up all at once, settle down to all work and no play, and behave as
though she were forty instead of twenty-two; I don't expect the Vicar to
give up being absent-minded and exacting; but I do honestly believe that
it will do him good to have his shock, and that he is just enough to
realise his own share of the blame. Then they will kiss and begin
again, and things will go better, because there will be understanding to
leaven love.
Talking of understandings, there was a marvellous calm in the flat
overhead for some nights in early January, and Bridget informed me that
Mr Nineteen had been taken to a nursing home to have an operation.
Since our tragic encounter, Mrs Nineteen (her real name is Travers) and
I have exchanged furtive bows when we have met in the hall. I always
felt guilty, and anxious to "make it up," and had an instinct that she
felt the same, though neither had the courage to speak; but, of course,
after the operation I had to stop and inquire. She flushed, and said,
"Pretty well, thank you. The doctors are satisfied, but it will be a
long cure." A week later I met her coming in with a book under her arm.
She had been "reading aloud. Her husband felt the time so long. For
an active man, it was a great trial to lie in bed." To judge by her
face, it was an exhausting experience to his wife to sit by his side. I
said impetuously: "If Mr Travers would allow me, I should be so glad to
read aloud to him sometimes, when you are not able to go. I am fond of
reading aloud; I believe I do it pretty well."
"I don't," she said dejectedly. "It makes me yawn. John says I
mumble." She looked at me sharply, distrustfully. "You are very kind,
but--it's too much! Why should you--"
"I'd like to, if you will let me. I--I was rude to you--that day! I've
been remorseful ever since. If you'd allow me to do this, I should feel
that I was forgiven."
"You spoke the truth," she said shortly. "And I brought it on myself.
I had no business to complain about those poor children, knowing why
they were here; but there are some moods in which one is bound to have a
vent. You hurt my pride, of course, but--it's not the first time!" She
bit her lip, turned aside for a moment, then added quickly, "I didn't
tell John!"
"Thank you. I'm glad of that. He'll be more willing to let me come.
Please tell him that I'm so sorry to have disturbed him, and want to
`make up' by helping him while he is ill. My time is my own. I can go
any day--at any time--to read any book."
She made no promise, and for several days seemed to avoid meeting me
face to face, then one morning she came to the door and asked to see me.
Some business had arisen which necessitated a day out of town. Her
husband dreaded being left alone. Did I really mean my kind offer, and
if so would to-morrow afternoon--
I went. He is a dark, sharp-featured man, with thick eyebrows and a
chronic scowl. He also looks shockingly ill, and is growing a beard.
The combination is enough to strike terror into the feminine soul. The
very maid who opened the door looked pityingly at me when I pronounced
his name; as for his nurse, she fairly bounced with relief when I was
announced. Her expression said as plainly as words, "I've had my turn--
now you can have yours!"
"Harding?" he said graciously. "Oh, yes! You are the woman who bangs
the doors." He let me read for two hours on end, and then said, "Stupid
book. I can't think how they ever get published!" but when I left, he
asked, "When will you come again?" which was as far in the way of thanks
as it is possible for him to get.
For the next three weeks I went constantly to the Home, and never once
did that man say a gracious word. If I arrived late, he growled and
said, "Thought you were never coming! Hardly worth beginning at all."
If I was early, his greeting was, "I was just having a nap! Haven't
closed my eyes since two this morning, and now you have roused me up!"
If I read a book, he preferred a newspaper. If I read a newspaper, it
crackled, and worried his head. If I made a remark, he disagreed; if I
was silent, "Was there _no_ news?--_nothing_ going on to tell a poor
wretch tied to his bed?" If I said he looked better, he would have me
to know that nurses and doctors alike were deluding him with lies. He
knew for a fact that he was dying fast. If I said he looked tired, he
felt better than he had done all the week. It was impossible to please
him--impossible to win a smile or a gracious word. Never have I met a
human being so twisted and warped in mind. To go into his room is like
entering a black tunnel--one leaves it with the feeling of breaking
bonds. The matron of the Home is a brisk, capable woman, with a face
full of kindly strength; we generally met and exchanged a few words on
stairs or landing, and it was easy to see that her patience was wearing
thin. There came a day when she met me with a red face, beckoned me
into her private room, and poured forth a stream of angry confidences.
"I really must speak to some one about Mr Travers. His poor wife has
enough to bear. I can't trouble her. The man is insufferable; he
upsets the whole house. His nurse has just been to me in tears.
Nothing will please him. He rings his bell all day, and half the night,
and for nothing--literally nothing! Just an excuse to give trouble. We
have honestly done our best--more than our best. With such a patient it
is easier to give in than to protest, but I'm beginning to think we've
been wrong. He is not getting on as quickly as he should. I believe
his temper is keeping him back."
"I'm sure of it! You are an expert at healing, and I'm a beginner, but
I'm a great believer in the power of the mind. He is poisoning
himself."
"He is poisoning every one else! I can't submit to have my whole house
upset. If he were fit to be moved, he should be out of it to-day. It's
all I can do to be civil, and not blaze out, and tell him what I think!"
"I shouldn't try!"
"What?" She looked at me sharply. "Ah! You agree? You feel the same?
You think I dare?"
"I do. I go a step further, and say it's your duty. He is a bully, and
probably no one has ever dared to show him how he appears to other
people, but for the time being you are in command; while he is here, he
is supposed to obey. Give it to him hot and strong! Tell him that he
is injuring himself, and is a misery to every one else--that you are
only keeping him, because it would do him harm to be removed."
"It's true!" she cried. "It's every word true. The man is a miasma."
She stared at me in sudden amaze. "Why do you laugh?"
"Oh, I was just thinking! Thinking of a man whom I used to denounce as
bad-tempered! A dear, kind, thoughtful, unselfish Englishman with a--a
bluster! I can never call it temper again, after knowing Mr Travers!
He has taught me a lesson."
She laughed, too, and shrugged her shoulders.
"Oh, that! I like a man with a will of his own, and the pluck to speak
out. A `bluster,' as you call it, clears the air, and is quite a
healthful influence; but this other!--Well, Miss Harding, you have given
the casting vote. When are you coming again?"
"Thursday afternoon, I think. Mrs Travers is busy then. Has to go out
of town."
"That's all right! Then I'll have it out with him before lunch, and
leave you to calm him down in the afternoon."
"Oh--_mean_!" I cried, but she only laughed, opened the door, and
hustled me into the hall. Evidently her mind was made up.
When Thursday afternoon arrived, it found Miss Harding entering the
ogre's bedroom with a smile tightly glued on her lips, and a heart
beating uncomfortably fast beneath her ugly flannel blouse. From the
bed a pair of gimlet-like eyes surveyed her sharply, pale lips twisted,
and showed a snarl of teeth. He volunteered no remark, however, and I
wasted not a second in opening my book, and beginning to read as a
refuge against conversation. I could feel the scrutiny of his eyes on
my face, but I read on steadily, never looking up for nearly an hour,
when the story came to an end.
"Have you had enough reading for to-day, or would you care to hear one
of the articles in this review?"