"We built a ship upon the stairs,
All made of the back bedroom chairs,
And filled it full of sofa pillows,
To go a-sailing on the billows.
"We took a saw and several nails,
And water in the nursery pails;
And Tom said, 'Let us also take
An apple and a slice of cake;'--
Which was enough for Tom and me
To go a-sailing on, till tea.
"We sailed along for days and days,
And had the very best of plays;
But Tom fell out and hurt his knee,
So there was no one left but me."
"So there was no one left but me," repeated the weak child-voice.
Matthew rose from the third stair from the bottom, where he had been
sitting, and stumbled somewhat blindly into the parlour, where he sat
down on the slippery horse-hair sofa. He cleared his throat and blew
his nose, and there was an expression on his face which was seldom seen
there.
"And ther' was no one left but me." The forlorn weak voice repeating
that, moved him strangely. Keturah was the last of the children. There
had been six babies before Keturah, and none had lived beyond babyhood.
At that moment he forgot how naughty she was, how unregenerate! He only
remembered that she used to lay her baby face against his, and that she
said "dada" the very first word she spoke.
A hundred pretty scenes of her first years flashed into his
recollection. His suspicions of the curate were forgotten, and in their
place came cold-handed fear to fill his heart with the dread that
Keturah might not get well.
* * * * *
After all, one honest man can recognise another, whether he wear an M.B.
waistcoat or a baker's apron. Anyhow, the curate so far won upon
Matthew Moulder that he persuaded him to allow the district nurse to be
sent to sit up with Keturah till she was "round the corner," and that
the nurse might keep a sharp look out for the recurrence of "the grey
look."
As Keturah grew better, Matthew made, with his own hands, and at the
instigation of the curate, a whole series of fantastic little loaves
that she might the better "fancy her tea."
"My Dada don't say much, but I knows now that 'e _do_ like me," said
Keturah, in a burst of confidence to Thomas Beames, and Thomas, with
that caution for which the Cotswold folk are justly famed, replied--
"Mebbe 'e do. But folks when they be growed up be oncommon akard
'times."
* * * * *
"As for that there doctor," said Mrs. Moulder to a bosom friend, "'e's
the most commandingest gent I ever see. But 'e _do_ get 'is own way.
'E and that curie between them come over Matthew something wonderful;
they flaunted their brandy in 'is very face, and 'e never said nothink.
They giv' 'er champang one night, as she was so low, an' 'e hopened the
bottle 'imself. But I will say this for 'em, they always says to
Keturah, when they giv' 'er them liquors, 'Now, remember, you're never
to tech this when you be got well. You're to be a tea-totaller like
your dada.' An' Matthew, 'e took 'er to Weston 'is own self. 'E do
seem more set up about Keturah than 'e was. But, mark my words, if you
wants to call your 'ouse your own, don't you let that there doctor
inside of it, that's all."
Curiously enough, it was Matthew Moulder who was grateful to the doctor.
*VI*
*MRS. CUSHION'S CHILDREN*
She was rather like her name, for she seemed specially created to make
life easier for other people.
A short, comfortably stout, elderly woman, with a round, rosy face and
kind blue eyes beaming behind steel-rimmed spectacles. On Sundays the
spectacles had gold rims and were never seen on any other day.
To be taken as a lodger by Mrs. Cushion implied introductions and
references--from the lodger--and Mrs. Cushion was by no means too easily
pleased. If neither the vicar, the doctor, nor the squire could
guarantee your integrity and personal pleasantness, there was no hope of
obtaining Mrs. Cushion's rooms. Moreover, she preferred gentlemen. She
was frankly emphatic about that.
To be sure, in wet weather "they did make a goodish mess," what with
tackle and muddy boots and the many garments that got soaking wet and
had to be dried. But then, they _did_ go out for most of the day, and
that gave a body time to clear up after them. And when they'd had their
dinners they put their feet on the mantelpiece--"I always clears all my
own things off of it except the clock"--and they smoked peaceably till
they went to bed. "Now, ladies"--it was clear that Mrs. Cushion was not
partial to ladies--"they did stay indoors if there cum so much as a spot
of rain." And they rang their bells at all sorts of awkward times. "You
couldn't be sure of 'em like you was of gentlemen. When a gentleman
settles down, he settles down, and you knows where you are, and what's
more, you knows where _'e_ is. Now, ladies, as often as not, 'ud be
upon you in your kitching before you so much as knew they was in the
passage--an' it were onsettlin'."
No lady was ever allowed to set foot in Mrs. Cushion's hospitable house
in May or June or the first part of July. Those months were sacred to
the fishers; but as a favour to one of the references she would
sometimes consent to take a lady in August.
The vicar, my old friend, was my reference, and he stood surety for my
general "peaceableness." He assured Mrs. Cushion that so long as I
might sleep with my back to the light that I would not want to alter
everything in my bedroom (one lady lodger had done this, and Mrs.
Cushion never forgot or forgave the "'ubbub" that ensued), that I was in
search of perfect quiet in which to finish a book, and lastly he got at
Mrs. Cushion through her kind heart--declaring that I was a delicate,
muddly, incapable sort of person who required looking after.
So at the beginning of a singularly sunny August I went down to
Redmarley to take possession of two rooms in "Snig's Cottage." The
cottage stands about half a mile from Redmarley itself, high above a
bend of the river known as "Snig's Ferry," and the villagers always call
it "Snig's."
Who Snig was no one knows, for the cottage was built "nigh up on three
'undred year ago." The vicar, who is something of an antiquarian, says
even earlier. In the memory of man "Snig's" has never been bought, it
is always "left," and the heritor, so far, has never been willing to
sell, though, as Mrs. Cushion remarked scornfully, "Artises an' sich do
often come after it, an' one, an American gentleman 'e was, wanted to
buy 'un and build out at the back all over my bit o' garden and kip the
old 'ouse just as a' be for a curiositee. I let 'im talk, but, bless
you, my uncle left it to me in 'is will and I shall leave it the same in
mine; and so it'll always be, so long as there's one stone to another.
'Ouses is 'ouses in these parts."
Solid and grey and gabled, the little six-roomed house still stood in
its trim garden, outwardly the same as when the untraceable Snig first
named it. Inside, its furniture was a jumble of periods, but there were
no aspidistras, nor did any ornament cling to a plush bracket on the
walls. Jacob and Rachel were there, and the infant Samuel, and on
either side of the clock was a red-and-white china spaniel and a Toby
jug. Mrs. Cushion frankly owned that she had preferred her own "bits of
things" to some of her uncle's that were there when she came. To make
room for her mahogany sideboard she had sold an old oak chest to the
American gentleman, who was glad to give a good price for it.
"A hoak chest," said Mrs. Cushion, "is an on'andy thing to keep the
gentlemen's beverages in. One always 'as to lift everything off the top
to get inside. Now, my sideboard 'as doors and shelves all convenient
one side, and a reg'lar cellar for beverages on the other. Not but as
what folks 'ud be much better without them."
Mrs. Cushion was, herself, strong for the temperance cause, but she was
too tolerant a woman and too excellent a landlady to do more than hint
her disapproval. And by calling every form of alcohol "a beverage" I'm
certain she felt that in some inexplicable way she so rendered it more
or less innocuous. She never spoke of either wines or spirits by their
names, only collectively as "beverages."
And I speedily learned that although indulgence in such pleasures of the
table was to be tolerated, even condoned, in men, women were expected to
be of sterner stuff; and I believe my modest half-flagon of Burgundy,
reposing in meek solitude in all the roomy glory of the "cellaret,"
grieved her far more than when that same cellaret was filled by the
varied and much stronger "beverages" of her male guests. Yet she never
failed to remind me when there was only, as she put it, "one more dose,"
that I might order a fresh supply from the grocer.
Men she regarded as children. Her mental attitude towards them was that
of "boys will be boys," and they might be bald and stout, Generals or
Viceroys or Secretaries of State in their public capacity--but did such
an one become Mrs. Cushion's lodger she instantly felt called upon to
stand between him and every discomfort, to condone his vagaries, and to
give him, so far as was humanly possible, every mortal thing he wanted.
Small wonder that her "fishing-gentlemen" took her rooms months
before-hand and year after year.
"I don't suppose as you've noticed, miss, being, so to speak, unmarried
yourself--but there's something in men-folk as seems to stop growin'
when they be about ten year old. It crops up different in different
sorts, but it's there all the same in all of 'em. And when it crops
up--no matter if 'e be hever so majestical an' say nothing to nobody,
the seein' eye can figure 'im out in tore knickerbockers an' a dirty
face same as if he stood in front of you--more especially if you've 'ad
little boys of your own."
"I suppose," I said--perhaps a bit wistfully, for Mrs. Cushion was
rather fond of referring to my spinsterhood--"it does make a great
difference.... First you know your husband so well, and then your
sons.... By the way, what was your husband, Mrs. Cushion?"
Mrs. Cushion turned very red and was manifestly uncomfortable. "I'd
rather not talk about 'im, miss," she said hastily. "He weren't an
overly good 'usban' to me ... but the children..." Here Mrs. Cushion
beamed, and with restored tranquillity continued, "The children 'ave
made it all up to me over and over."
Yet from an outsider's point of view, especially from that of one who
was "so to speak unmarried," Mrs. Cushion didn't seem to get any great
benefit from her two sons. One was in Australia and one in Canada, and
though she had been living in Redmarley some six years, I could not
discover that either had ever been home. They were not, I gathered,
particularly good correspondents, nor did they seem to assist their
mother in any way financially, or send presents home. All the same, they
were a source of pride and joy to Mrs. Cushion, and a never-failing
topic of conversation. In fact, I think that one of the things that
caused her to tolerate my sex and my spinsterhood was the real interest
I took in Arty and Bert, and my readiness to talk about either or both
at all times.
They were never quite clear to me, and this was odd, because Mrs.
Cushion was certainly graphic and vivid in her descriptions as a rule.
She would never show me their portraits because she said they "took
badly," both of them.
By my third August I could have passed a stiff examination in her
"gentlemen." I felt that I knew _them_ intimately, both as to their
appearance, manners, and taste both in viands and beverages.
There was Mr. Lancaster, who ate meat only once a day, drank white wine,
and was that gentle and considerate you'd never know he was there except
that he did lose his things so, and had a habit of putting his
coffee-cup and pipes and newspapers under the valance of the sofa.
"Faithful-'earted, I calls 'im!" said Mrs. Cushion. "Every Saturday
reg'lar he sends me the _Times_ newspaper, and it is gratifying to see a
'igh-class newspaper like that once a week. It do make me feel like a
real lady just to read the rents of them 'ouses on the back page, and it
does me no end of good to know who's preaching at St. Paul's
Cathedral--all the churches, in fact; it's almost as good as being
there."
"Wouldn't you rather have a picture paper?" I asked.
"Certainly not, miss," Mrs. Cushion replied with dignified asperity. "I
much prefer what Mr. Lancaster reads his-self, an' it's the kind thought
I values far more than the amusingness of the paper. It seems to keep
him an' me in mind of one another."
"Do your boys often send you papers, Mrs. Cushion?"
"Well ... not so to speak often.... It's difficult for them, and I dare
say the papers in those parts ain't like ours. Perhaps they wouldn't be
suitable----"
"Is Mr. Lancaster married?"
"Not to my knowledge, miss," answered the cautious Mrs. Cushion. "He
don't behave like a married man.... Not"--she added hastily, eager to
give no wrong impression--"not that 'e's ever anything but most
conformable; only there's a difference between them as is married and
them as isn't. I'm sure you see it yourself, miss, though, to be sure,
you're nothing like so set in your ways as some. If I was you, miss,"
said Mrs. Cushion, suddenly beaming upon me like a rosy sun in
spectacles, "I shouldn't give up hope. Mr. Right may come along for you
even yet. I 'ad a friend who married when she were fifty-nine.... To
be sure, 'er 'usban' was bedridden, but 'e's living to this day, an'
it's a good fifteen years ago."
"I don't think I should like a bedridden husband, Mrs. Cushion."
"You'll like whatever you gets, my dear, never you fear." And Mrs.
Cushion bustled out with the tray, leaving me to the rather rueful
reflection that her last speech was more complimentary to my stoicism
than to my matrimonial prospects.
"Snig's" was an ideal place to work in: quiet without being lonely;
fresh and bracing, yet seldom cold; beautiful with the homely, tender
grace of pastoral England. The doctor and his wife "over to Winstone"
were hospitable and kind, the villagers were friendly as only peasant
folk in the remote Cotswolds still are; the vicar I always look upon as
one of the most understanding and delightful people I've ever met. That
autumn the squire and his large lively family were up in Scotland, but
this only increased possibilities of work, and I stayed on at Snig's
into October.
One day the vicar summoned me to luncheon. A friend from a distance had
motored over, bringing with him his guests, a visiting parson and his
wife, to see the church and the village, and he implored my presence "to
keep Mrs. Robinson in countenance."
Not that anything of the kind was needed, for Mrs. Robinson turned out
to be a most self-sufficient and didactic lady, with "clergyman's wife"
writ large all over her. Her husband was of the conscientious, mentally
mediocre type of parson, with much energy and no imagination; and
luncheon seemed a very long meal. There appeared a curious dearth of
topics of conversation, and for lack of something better the vicar
explained my presence in Redmarley, mentioning that I had been living
for the last two months with the excellent Mrs. Cushion--"who comes, I
believe," he added, "from your part of the world."
"Caroline Cushion?" Mrs. Robinson demanded, with that air of
cross-questioning a witness which made small-talk so difficult. "If it's
Caroline Cushion, she did live in our parish, and she certainly wasn't
'Mrs.' then, but a middle-aged single woman. She left soon after my
husband got the living, but I remember her quite well--she came into a
house, or something, and went away to live in it."
"It's a curious coincidence," said the vicar easily, "but it can't be
our Mrs. Cushion, for not only is she married, but she has grown-up sons
to whom she is absolutely devoted."
"It's unlikely," said Mrs. Robinson, "that there could be two Caroline
Cushions both coming from the same village, and both inheriting property
at a distance. The matter should be looked into, for certainly with us
she passed always as a single woman, and to the best of my belief had
spent almost her whole life in the village. Is she a fairish woman,
stout, with red cheeks?"
"She is very pleasant and fresh-looking," said the vicar, looking at me
for help. "But I am quite sure she can't be the one you mean."
"I'm not at all sure of anything of the kind," Mrs. Robinson snapped.
"She may have been living a double life all these years. As I said
before, the matter should be looked into. I'd know her again if I saw
her. I never forget a face."
I don't know why it was, but I suddenly felt most uncomfortable, and was
surprised at my own passionate determination that Mrs. Robinson should
_not_ see Mrs. Cushion. We had reached the walnut stage, and I suggested
to her that she and I might go and sit in the drawing-room and leave the
gentlemen to smoke.
"My husband doesn't smoke," she said severely as we crossed the hall;
"he doesn't think it becoming in a clergyman, and I must say I agree
with him. But then _he_ is rector of the parish, and one of those--too
few, alas! in these lax days--who acts up to his convictions.... Now,
about this Mrs. Cushion...." Mrs. Robinson by this time was seated
beside me on the vicar's chesterfield. "I feel quite anxious. What can
be her reason for masquerading as a married woman here? Even if she
_had_ married since she left her old home, it's most unlikely that her
name would still be Cushion, and it's impossible that she should have
grown-up sons. Have you seen them?"
"They are both abroad," I answered, "and isn't Cushion quite a common
name in Gloucestershire?"
"Not at all; it's a very _un_common name, that's why I remember it so
distinctly--and to think she always passed for a most respectable
woman!"
"So she is," I interrupted with some heat. "A most kind and admirable
woman in every possible way. Every one here has the greatest respect
for her. She's probably a cousin of your one--who doubtless was quite
excellent also. Would you care to go out and look at the dahlias? The
vicar has quite a show."
Never did I spend a more trying half-hour than the one that followed.
Mrs. Robinson kept returning to the subject of Mrs. Cushion with a
persistency worthy of a better cause; and I, for no reason that I could
formulate, kept heading her off and trying to turn her thoughts down
other paths. It was Mrs. Cushion's sons that seemed to annoy her most,
and I had the queer, wholly illogical feeling that Mrs. Robinson would,
unless prevented, snatch them away from Mrs. Cushion, and that it was up
to me to prevent anything of the kind. So nervous did I feel that I
accompanied the party to see the church and the village, and only
breathed freely again when Mr. Vernon's car had borne Mr. and Mrs.
Robinson away in a direction wholly opposite to Snig's.
As his guests vanished over the bridge in the direction of Marlehouse,
the vicar sighed deeply. "Now, why," he demanded, "should Vernon have
brought those people to me? I suppose he was so bored himself he had to
do something. She's his cousin, I believe, and what a trying lady!"
"Did you 'ave a nice party, miss?" asked Mrs. Cushion an hour or so
later, as she brought in my tea.
"Curiously enough, there was a clergyman and his wife from your old
home, Mrs. Cushion. I wonder if you remember them? A Mr. and Mrs.
Robinson."
"I suppose you didn't happen to name me, miss?" Mrs. Cushion asked--I
thought a trifle nervously.
"Well, I didn't, but the vicar did."
"Yes, miss, and did Mrs. Robinson seem to remember me?"
"She remembered some one of your name, Mrs. Cushion, but it couldn't
have been you--perhaps you have relations in her parish?"
"May I make so bold, miss, as to ask exactly what she did say?"
"That it was a _Miss_ Cushion she knew, who left soon after her husband
got the living."
"I dare say she did," said Mrs. Cushion grimly; "and there was many as
would have gone, too, if they'd had the chanst. If it's not taking a
liberty, miss, was you exactly _draw'd_ to Mrs. Robinson?"
"Certainly not," I replied. "I couldn't get on with her at all. Are
they popular in the parish?"
"It's not for me to say, miss. I left two months after they did come.
They was new brooms, you see, and swep' away a lot of old customs. They
wasn't like the Reverend 'ere--he's all for 'live and let live'--but
they was all for making every one live as they thought proper. I don't
say they was wrong, and I don't say they was right, but whichever it
was, it weren't peaceable.
"But," concluded Mrs. Cushion, "I've no business gossiping here, and you
wanting your tea."
So she left me to my tea and the reflection that she had neither
contradicted nor confirmed Mrs. Robinson's statement.
During the next couple of days I was conscious of a certain constraint
in our, hitherto, completely cordial relationship. Mrs. Cushion was just
as careful as ever for my comfort--everything was just as well done, and
meals as punctual, and rooms spick and span as before; but I missed
something. I missed the interest she used to take in me and the interest
she allowed me to take in her. She was still the perfect landlady, but
I grievously missed the frank and genial human being.
I had lunched with the vicar and his guests on Tuesday. On Friday
afternoon Mrs. Cushion got a lift into "Ziren" to do some shopping, and
I had to take my own letters to the post office. I met the vicar on his
way to call on me, and he turned back and walked with me, and I speedily
perceived that something worried him. The vicar is stout and gouty, and
walks but slowly. We only just caught the post, and then he asked me to
go with him to the vicarage to look at a black dahlia in his garden
before the first frosts took it.
In the garden he stopped long before we came to the dahlias and
exclaimed, "I've heard from that vexatious woman."
"Mrs. Robinson?"
"Yes; just read her letter."
"DEAR MR. MOLYNEUX," it ran, "I feel it is my duty to tell you that I
have been making inquiries about Caroline Cushion, and there is no
question whatever that she is the same person who was living here when
my husband and I first came to the parish. It happens that Mrs. Bayley,
widow of the former incumbent, is at present staying with Lady Moreland
at the Manor, and I called upon her the day I returned from Mr.
Vernon's, that I might make searching inquiries as to where Caroline
Cushion had lived before she left for Redmarley, where I understand she
was left a cottage by her uncle, her mother's brother. Mrs. Bayley
remembered her perfectly well, and, I must say, spoke highly of her.
But she was as astonished as I was to hear she was posing as a married
woman with a family, for she had lived in this parish from her youth up.
I grieve much that I should have to bring this life of duplicity to
light; and I feel it is only right to let you know, that you may take
steps to sift the matter and bring the woman to a proper sense of her
wrong-doing. For if during the years she lived here she really
possessed a husband and children, she shamefully neglected them; and if
she is unmarried the case is infinitely worse. Please let me know the
result of your investigations.
"Yours sincerely,
"ELAINE M. ROBINSON."
In silence I gave back the letter to the vicar and involuntarily I
shivered, for the wind was very cold.
"Well?" he asked impatiently, "what do you make of it?"
"I can't make anything of it. The whole thing's a mystery."
Then I told him of my tea-time conversation with Mrs. Cushion, and of
the curious constraint in her manner ever since: of how unhappy it made
me, and how cordially I detested Mrs. Robinson and wished her far
further than the Forest of Dean--though to the Redmarley folk the Forest
of Dean is indeed as the ends of the earth.
"If I know anything of human nature," said the vicar, punctuating his
remarks with vicious flicks of the finger upon Mrs. Robinson's envelope,
"Mrs. Cushion is as honest and straightforward a woman as ever stepped,
a _good_ woman, a kindly woman. Has she never said anything to _you_
about her husband?"
"Only once. I asked about him, and I saw it was a painful subject, so I
never mentioned him again. I fear he was an unsatisfactory person."
"But what am I to say to this pestiferous woman? If I don't answer her,
she's capable of coming over here and setting the whole village by the
ears.... I should like," he added vindictively, "to throw a stone
through her window." As he spoke I was reminded of Mrs. Cushion's
remark, "There's something in men-folks as seems to stop growin' when
they be about ten year old": for although the vicar is stout and bald,
and his close-cropped beard and moustache quite white, yet there and
then I seemed to see "a little boy in tore knickerbockers and a dirty
face same as if 'e stood in front of me."
"Wait a day or two," I suggested; "she won't expect an answer by return
because you've got to make your 'investigations,' you know."
He groaned. "How can I? If there's one thing I wholeheartedly abhor
it's poking and prying into another person's affairs--it's so ...
ungentlemanly. I wouldn't do it to my worst enemy, but when it's a
decent, kindly body who has been my right hand in every good thing
that's been done in this village ever since she came.... Look here, my
dear. Perhaps you--without hurting her feelings--could find out
something to satisfy Mrs. Robinson. It would come better from you."
I doubted this, but I promised the poor worried vicar to do my best. I
walked back to Snig's as fast as I could, for I was chilled to the bone.
It certainly was a very cold east wind.
Mrs. Cushion was back when I arrived. A bright fire blazed on my hearth
and hot muffins awaited me for tea. She looked cold and depressed, and
she had no news for me either of the fashions in the "Ziren" shop
windows or of acquaintances she had met. Even references to her beloved
boys failed to elicit more than monosyllables.
Next morning she began to cough. For a day and a half she struggled on
doing her household work as usual. Through the night I heard her
coughing so incessantly that I got up and went across to her room. It
had turned very cold, and in spite of her protests, I lit a fire and did
what I could to relieve her, in the shape of hot black-currant tea and
rubbing her with embrocation. I also took her temperature, which was
104 deg.!
In the morning she was so ill that she consented to stay in bed, and I
sent a note to the doctor by the boy that brought the milk.
When he came he declared Mrs. Cushion to be down with influenza, and
that she must be very careful. He would send in the parish nurse that
morning and a woman to do for me. If a trained nurse should be
necessary, he'd get one, but he thought if I could stay for a day or two
to superintend things we could manage. Warmth, rest, and quiet in bed
till her temperature went down were all that was necessary.
Everything went smoothly. The parish nurse was a personal friend of
Mrs. Cushion. The woman sent in "mornings" was most attentive and
efficient, and the fact that she was no cook did not seem to matter, for
so much more than Mrs. Cushion could eat was sent in by sympathetic
neighbours that we lived on the fat of the land on the surplus. If there
had ever been any question as to Mrs. Cushion's popularity in Redmarley,
it was answered now, and in the most emphatic way.
Anxious inquirers came at all hours, and I spent most of my time
watching the garden that I might open the door, front or back, before
the visitor could rap--you rap with your knuckles in Redmarley, whether
the door happens to be open or shut: the latter only occurs in cold
weather or on washing-days.
One thing did strike me, and that was the number of young men and boys
who came, not only to inquire, but to bring offerings of all sorts. It
seemed to me that every male being under thirty that I had ever seen in
Redmarley, man or boy, or hobbledehoy, came to get news of Mrs.
Cushion--and I was always careful to ask their names and write them
down, for I soon discovered that their solicitude gave her pleasure.
It was the only thing that did seem to give her pleasure just then.
When the cough was easier and her temperature went down, she remained
heartrendingly weak, and at the end of six days the doctor asked me if I
thought "she had anything on her mind," for, if so, it must be got at
and lifted; for she'd never get well at this rate.
Now that she was, of necessity, rather dependent on me in a good many
small ways, Mrs. Cushion had become less reserved, more like her former
self, in fact--but yet, I always felt that there was something between
us. Her blue eyes, sometimes without the spectacles now, would follow me
about with a wistful, weighing expression that was full of dumb pain and
pathos; but naturally all exciting topics were taboo, and I had never
again, since that first afternoon, referred to Mrs. Robinson and her
disturbing revelations. One evening about nine o'clock, when Mrs.
Cushion had been in bed eight whole days, when the nurse had gone for
the night, and I was left in charge, when I had made up her fire, lit
the night-light, and arranged the hand-bell and all her possible wants
on a table by her bed--I was going back to mine, but she stopped me as I
reached the door with a faintly whispered "Miss!"
I went back to the side of the bed and looked down at her. She was very
pale, and had put on the spectacles as though to see me better in the
dim light.
"Miss," she repeated, "I can't kip it to myself no longer; that there
Mrs. Robinson was right--I wasn't never married an' I never 'ad no
children."
Mrs. Cushion's hands were picking nervously at the sheet, though her
eyes never left my face for a single minute. I seized one of the weak,
cold hands, and held it in both mine--but I could not speak.
"You'd better sit down, miss, while I tell 'ee.... All my life long
I've loved children--more especially boys. When I was a young 'ooman, I
'ad my chanst same as most. One was a school-teacher, most respectable
'e were--but I couldn't seem to fancy 'im: and t'other, 'e were a
hundertaker, and I couldn't fancy 'is trade--so there it was. An' as
time went on I did get thinkin' about the little boys as I should like
to 'ave 'ad; and they did seem to get realler and realler--Arty and Bert
did--till I sorter felt I _couldn't_ get along without 'em.... Do it
seem very queer to you, miss?"
"Not a bit, dear Mrs. Cushion."
"Now, I ast you, miss--do I look like a hold maid, or do I look like a
comfortable married woman with a family?"
"I think you look _very_ married," I exclaimed quite truthfully--"very
motherly."
"Well, so do I think--and when I came 'ere where no one knowed anything
about me excepting I was Uncle's niece, I says to myself, says I, 'You
act up to your looks, Caroline Cushion--an' then you can talk about your
children same as the rest.' I didn't trouble my 'ead about a 'usban'--I
'adn't never thought about 'im. So when folks asked me--like you
yourself, miss--I just prims up my mouth and shakes my 'ead, and they
sees as 'e weren't up to much, and they says no more. Sometimes I've
thought as it were a bit onfair on 'im, pore chap, an' 'im never done me
no 'arm--but--there.... I couldn't stop to think about 'im. 'Twere the
boys as I wanted--an' they _did_ comfort me so, miss, an' I don't know
_'ow_ as I can ever give 'em up."
"But I see no reason why you should."
"Ah, miss, you speaks so kind because you do think, 'She's ill, poor
thing, and we must yumour 'er,' but what'd the Reverend say? You may
depend as that there Mrs. Robinson 'll never let it alone. What'll 'e
say? An' if 'e says as I've got to tell every one I ain't no married
woman an' never 'ad no children, I'd rather not get well. I couldn't
face it, miss. Because I _can't_ feel as the Lard's very angry with
me--I can't."
"Mrs. Cushion, will you let me tell Mr. Molyneux, and see what he says?"
Mrs. Cushion sighed. "I suppose 'e'll 'ave to be told, an' you'd tell
him more straight-forward nor I could. It's all so mixed up like. You
see, them boys ain't never done no 'arm to any one--they so far off and
all--an' I will say this, miss, they've give me a sort of 'old over
young growin' chaps I wouldn't 'ave 'ad without 'em. Many's the young
chap as 'ave listened to a word from me about drink and the like,
because 'e's thought, 'There, she knows as it's only natural--she's got
some of 'er own--she won't be too 'ard on me'--and they did like me, I
knows they did--they did indeed, miss."
I thought of the hobbledehoys and the shy, furtive presents of eggs and
honey and tight little bunches of flowers, and an occasional rabbit--how
come by it were perhaps better not to inquire--and the inarticulate
lingering, the waiting for intelligence they were too shy to ask for--I
thought of these things, and I knew that Mrs. Cushion spoke the truth.
"Now, you, miss," the tired, whispering voice went on, "if I may say so,
you _looks_ unmarried; and yet, I do believe as you understands."
"I do, I do, Mrs. Cushion."
"It seemed some'ow as if it _'ad_ to be, and yet there's no one 'ates
lies and bedanglements more than me. An' there I've been and gone and
done it myself. But I ain't going to own it!" Mrs. Cushion added almost
fiercely. "Not if I 'ad to let Snig's an' leave these parts. I'd _far_
rather die."
By this time she was as flushed as she had been pale before, and I had
to tell her she mustn't talk any more, but leave it all till the
morning, when we'd consult the vicar.
For about an hour I sat by her bed, till her more regular breathing
showed me she had dropped off into the sleep of sheer exhaustion.
In the morning I sent a note to the vicar by one of the solicitous young
men, and by ten o'clock he was in my sitting-room, while the parish
nurse was getting Mrs. Cushion's room ready upstairs.
I told the story very briefly, and as far as possible in her own words;
and the vicar, who had been sitting at the table facing the light,
suddenly got up and stood by the fireplace, his elbow on the
mantel-shelf, shading his eyes with his hand and almost turning his back
upon me.
"And if she can't keep her children, she won't get well," I concluded.
"Of course she must keep her children," he muttered hoarsely.
"But what about Mrs. Robinson?"
He blew his nose, with his handkerchief all over his face, and then
turned on me triumphantly, handing me a letter.
"I was coming to you this morning in any case, to show you this. I
suddenly decided what to say and thought you'd like to see it. I'm glad
I wrote before you told me this. There's a decisive vagueness about it
that will, I know, command your literary respect--if nothing else."
This is what he had written:
"DEAR MRS. ROBINSON,--Of course you are right. The Caroline Cushion you
knew never was married nor had she any children; and she always was, as
you charitably supposed, an entirely respectable woman. The confusion
arose with Miss Legh and me, and I apologise for the trouble we have
inadvertently caused you. Thanking you for so satisfactorily clearing
up the matter, I am yours faithfully,
"G. W. MOLYNEUX."
The parish nurse knocked at the door. "I've put her quite straight, Miss
Legh, and the doctor said yesterday she can have anything she fancies
for her dinner."
Up the steep stairs the vicar climbed, pausing at the top to get his
breath. Mrs. Cushion was sitting up in bed, propped up with pillows.
She had on her best cap and the gold-rimmed spectacles sacred to
Sundays.
"Peace be to this house, and all that dwell in it," said the vicar from
the threshold.