MRS. FOSTER
Daphne had come to say good-bye to Mrs. Foster.
This lady lived in a kind of model cottage in a garden in Ham Common. It
was not at all like the ideal, 'quaint' model cottages that one sees
advertised by well-known firms of furnishers, though it might have been.
Mrs. Foster was rebellious to Waring, and sincerely disliked anything
modern.
The little drawing-room, and indeed every other room in the house, was
principally furnished by photographs and groups of her son Cyril--Cyril
as a very plain boy, in a skirt, with hardly any eyes or hair, and a
pout; Cyril as a 'perfect pet' of a sailor, at six. Then Cyril in
cricketing groups (how he stood out against the other ordinary
boys!)--in Etons (looking neat and supercilious), and then in his
uniform, in which he looked simply lovely.
Daphne had an intense and growing desire to please his mother. In fact,
curiously, she was more anxious to gain her approbation than that of
Cyril himself. To this end she usually remade her hats, when possible,
in the train on her way to Ham Common, and her pocket when she arrived
there was usually filled with artificial flowers, feathers, or other
ornaments that she had taken off her hat, so as to look simple. Also she
turned it down all the way round to make it look as if it were merely a
protection from the sun--not a hat.
To-day she wore a pink-spotted muslin dress and a straw hat, with pink
ribbon. She certainly looked extremely pretty, and not at all what she
had such a dread of before Mrs. Foster, smart. Mrs. Foster had a horror
of smartness in the _jeune fille_.
Daphne delighted her. She was a very sentimental woman, with a strong
theoretical bias for the practical. She was by way of teaching Daphne
housekeeping and how to manage on a small income (of which art she knew
very little herself, but was supposed to know a great deal because she
wore a kind of cap). She had a pretty, delicate, kind face, and was
wearing large wash-leather gloves, in case she should wish to do a
little gardening later on.
Daphne had still much of the child in her, and there was nothing she
enjoyed quite so much as gardening with Mrs. Foster, and occasionally
stopping to eat a gingerbread-nut, and hear something about Cyril and
the brilliant remarks he had made as a child.
Mrs. Foster had a chiffonnier of a kind Daphne had never seen before,
which fascinated her because such queer delightful things came out of it
in the middle of the morning--slices of seed cake, apples, and the
gingerbread-nuts. There were pink shavings in the fireplace, and
wherever there was not a photograph of Cyril there was one of the Prince
Imperial. Evidently he had been the passion of Mrs. Foster's earlier
life. She loved to tell the story of how she had seen him at
Chislehurst, and how she thought he had looked at her.
There were other nice things in the cottage: there were two rather large
vases of pink china on which were reproduced photographs of Cyril's
great-uncle and great-aunt--one in whiskers, the other in parted but
raised hair with an Alexandra curl on the left shoulder. In these vases
folded slips of paper called spills were kept. A modern note was struck
by the presence of a baby Grand--a jolly, clumsy, disproportioned
youthful piano, rather like a colt, on which Daphne played Chopin to
Mrs. Foster, and sometimes The Chocolate Soldier to Cyril; and Mrs.
Foster, at twilight, sometimes played and even sang, "_I cannot sing
the old songs, they are too dear to me,_" which her mother used to sing,
or, coming a little nearer to the present, "_Ask nothing more, nothing
more, all I can give thee, I give,_" a passionate song of the early
eighties.
No one, except Daphne, ever did ask any more.
The whole thing was, to Daphne, a treat. Something in the atmosphere of
Ladysmith Cottage--that was its name--fascinated and amused her.
Mrs. Foster was a widow. Her husband had been a distinguished soldier.
Almost the whole of her extremely small income had been devoted to
Cyril's education, and with the assistance of an uncle who took interest
in him, he had been got into the Guards, where he existed happily with a
comparatively small allowance.
Mrs. Foster had not been at all surprised or annoyed at his wishing to
marry at twenty-two. She thought it extremely natural. It seemed to her
very sensible of Daphne to accept him, and that she was the most
fortunate girl in existence.
"I hope your sister doesn't mind my taking you away from the gay,
fashionable world for a day?" she archly asked.
"Oh no, of course not. We're going in the country next week, so I wanted
to see you."
"Cyril's at Aldershot. I don't think he'll be able to come down this
afternoon. He can't get away this week, I'm afraid."
"I shall see him before I go," said Daphne.
"Do you have a letter from him every day, darling?"
"Oh yes, a few lines."
"He is a noble boy!" said Mrs. Foster enthusiastically. "How he always
hated writing letters! I remember how I guided his little hand to write
his first letter to his uncle, General Rayner. Just as we got to the end
of the letter Cyril suddenly jumped up and threw over the table. The
letter was simply drenched in ink. Dear boy! I've got it still.... Oh,
you must come into the garden, Daphne. I've something new to show you. A
friend of mine has just let her house. She didn't know what to do with
her dovecot--nobody wanted it--so she's given it to me. Come and see the
dear little creatures--they are so pretty."
They went out into the garden and stood looking at a sort of depressed
pigeon-house.
Mrs. Foster made strange noises, which she thought suitable to attract
the inmates, and Daphne saw two doves who struck her as if they had
married in haste and were repenting at leisure.
"Why don't you let them go free?" suggested the girl. "Just think how
happy and delighted they'd be."
"I doubt it. I don't think they'd know what to do with their freedom.
They're not used to my garden yet, that's what's the matter. I do wish
they would coo; perhaps they will a little later on." (This was a
favourite expression of Mrs. Foster's.) "I want to see one perched on
your shoulder, Daphne. It would make such a pretty picture."
"I'd rather give them something to eat," said Daphne.
Mrs. Foster started.
"Oh yes, of course. I fed them all yesterday afternoon, but I forgot
about them this morning. Henry! Henry!"
The smallest boy appeared that had ever been called by that name.
"Henry, feed the doves."
"Yes, ma'am."
"Then bring the watering-can. We're going to water the flowers."
Henry, who seemed of a morose nature, went to obey.
"I'm obliged to have a boy for the knives, and he acts as a gardener
when I'm busy," explained Mrs. Foster. "There isn't much of a kitchen
garden, only a few gooseberries and apples, as you know, dear, but it's
nice to think they grow there, isn't it?"
"Very."
"Of course, I can't make much show with them. Henry always eats them
before they're ripe, which is _rather_ hard. But he's a good, honest
boy. One of his sisters has gone in for making blouses--in the village,
you know. She's a brave girl, and I feel sure will get on."
"She must be! Have you ever ...?"
"Oh _no_. Of course not. _I_ couldn't. When a woman reaches a certain
age, my dear, a certain style is necessary. I don't mean great expense,
but simple little things that would suit you, darling, wouldn't do for
me. Now that little pink thing that you're wearing--I should look
_nothing_ in it, and yet I dare say Henry's sister.... Where did you get
it, dear?"
"Well, it _came_ from Paquin's," said Daphne. "It's not new."
"Oh! Well, we mustn't be always talking of chiffons together, that's
very frivolous. You're fond of poetry, aren't you?"
"Not so very," said Daphne truthfully.
"But you would like to hear mine; I know you would, dear," said Mrs.
Foster, nodding, and patting her hand. "Dear girl, you shall. I've got a
tiny little volume, all in manuscript. It's quite a secret, darling.
Hardly any one--now--knows that I was poetical. But I can tell you
anything--you're so sympathetic. I had at one time a great wish to be a
sort of--not exactly Elizabeth Barrett Browning, or Christina
Rossetti--you know who I mean, don't you?"
"Oh yes."
"But a singer of songs--songs of feeling. Well, let us go into the
garden. I will show it to you later."
They sprinkled a few dead flowers, picked a few weeds, and then Mrs.
Foster became thoughtful, took off her gloves, and went to her room and
remained there for some time. She came down with a manuscript book in
her hand. It had a shiny cover, and in the right-hand corner a piece of
the cover was cut out. On the paper, showing through, was written in
Mrs. Foster's delicate handwriting, "Fireflies of Fancy."
"This," she said, patting it, "is my little book, and after lunch I'll
read you some of the poems, dear Daphne, though I'm not at all sure that
all of them are quite suitable for you to hear."
"Oh, Mrs. Foster!" Daphne found difficulty in believing it.
"You see," continued the delicate-looking old lady, in her sweet,
refined voice, "I was very much under the influence of the Passionate
School--Swinburne, Rossetti, Ella Wheeler Wilcox, and so on--at the time
that I wrote. My husband never wished me to publish them. He didn't like
them--he didn't understand them. I don't mind admitting to you, dear,
that since I lost him I have sent one or two of the less--well--shall we
say strongly coloured?--poems to the magazines at times, of course under
a _nom de plume_. But they were all returned. I think they were
considered too--well, too----However, I've given up the idea of making
a name as a poetess now, and very rarely show them to anybody; _very_
rarely."
Daphne answered, with absolute sincerity, that she was dying to see
them.
After lunch, when they retired to the little drawing-room, Mrs. Foster
sat down with her back to the light, and a slight flush on her cheek,
and took up the book.
Daphne sat in a low little crimson arm-chair exactly opposite her,
clasping her knees, her brown eyes fixed with the greatest interest as
Mrs. Foster turned and turned the pages as if unable to select a
suitable verse.
Then she began to read, in her soft, yet rather high voice, which seemed
suited only to gentle greetings and adieux, or quavering orders to
Henry.
"NIGHT TIME
_He glanced as he passed,
And I hope, and I quiver,
I howl and I shudder with pains;
And like a she-tiger
Or overcharged river,
My blood rushes on through my veins._"
She stopped suddenly.
"No, no, dear. I won't read this. Wait a minute. I remember now that was
the one that was returned because it was too--er----I'll find you
another one."
"Oh, do finish that one," said Daphne, "please! Isn't the light too much
for your eyes?"
She jumped up quickly and pulled down the blind an inch or two, and then
came back, having controlled herself.
Mrs. Foster looked at her rather sharply, and took no notice of what she
supposed was emotion.
"Ah, here is something more suited to you, darling."
SPRING
A QUESTION, AND AN ANSWER
_Will all the year be summer-time,
And each night have a moon?
Ah no, the Spring will quickly go,
And winter cometh soon._
_And will your clasp warm mine like wine?
And will you love me true?
Ah no, the autumn leaves arrive,
And we must bid adieu._
"That's a rather pretty thing, in its way, isn't it?" she said.
"Very."
"Here's one more.
A REMEMBRANCE
_Seems it well to see
A wild honey bee
Gold in the sun,
Ere day is done,
Sitting on a rose,
As the summer time grows._
_Ah, the bold, brave days,
Ere the glass of Time
'Neath the sun's rays,
Like a flame of fire,--
And the_ ..."
She stopped again.
"No, I don't think this is quite----"
"Do, do go on!"
Mrs. Foster looked at her.
"You have a great deal of sensibility, Daphne. I believe you have tears
in your eyes."
"No, I haven't really." She turned away her head, nearly choking.
A loud knock was heard at the front door.
Mrs. Foster looked out of the window.
"It's Cyril!" she exclaimed. "He's got away after all. Quick! Quick!"
She threw the book under a cushion and sat on it. With trembling
fingers she took up some needlework out of a basket.
"Not a word--not a word! Go and meet him in the hall, dear. He's come to
give us a surprise. I'll wait."
Blushing and laughing Daphne ran downstairs.