Ten minutes later there was yet another interruption. This time it was
the owner of the Buff Orpingtons, who had arrived at the back door to
inquire if I was wanting any eggs—she’d brought eight with her, and
expected another one to-night, which she’d send up—her hens had just
started laying again, etc.
I fairly blessed the individual who had first set going the fable that
I was expecting visitors.
I told Abigail that it was a matter of perfect indifference to me
whether all the fowls in the district did, or did not, accommodatingly
lay nine, or even ten, eggs for my especial benefit; but what did
matter to me was whether I could, or could not, get nine or even ten
minutes of uninterrupted peace, in order to finish my letters before
the postman arrived. (He always calls obligingly at five o’clock for my
afternoon mail.) And I requested that she would kindly take in any and
everything that came during the next hour (so long as it didn’t need
paying for!); only, for pity’s sake, would she cease opening that door
and seeking advice on the subject.
After that I was left severely alone. From time to time I heard voices
in the rear; there was one very loud series of bumps and bangs—I
concluded it was the missionary report being introduced to the table.
But I worked on, and had just sealed up my last budget of proofs, and
addressed it to the printers, when the postman appeared. I heaved a
sigh at the amount of stuff he carried away. The shower had passed over
without even damping the blossoms. I would have some tea, and then
start watering.
The postman was speaking to someone at the gate. No, it wasn’t Abigail.
I heard him say, “Yes; this is Rosemary Cottage.” I was gathering up
my papers as footsteps dragged themselves along the path—“dragged” is
the only word for it—and before I had time to step outside to see who
was there, two female forms, one ample and one spare, made for the
door opening into the living-room, precipitated themselves into the
room, and sank into the nearest chairs, in the last stages of panting
exhaustion; while the ample one, in a coat and skirt of a large black
and white plaid, buttoned and piped with cerise, exclaimed—
“At last! Well, of all the out-of-the-way forsaken places! We’ve been
tramping nearly all day, trying to get here from that wretched station!
We must have walked miles—_miles_—up and down hill, only it was _all_
uphill; we found ourselves in woods with no possibility of ever
getting out again; we got into lanes that ended nowhere, and when we
got there it was the wrong place; we tried to take a short cut across
some fields, and got stuck in a bog; we met a flock of wild cows, and
the top of that hedge positively ran into me like needles. When we did
chance to find a house, hoping it was yours, it never was; the people
always told us to go on and ask further directions at the next house we
came to, but each time there wasn’t another house. Why ever didn’t we
take that fly at the station! But there, he could never have driven us
over all the huge stone walls we’ve had to climb! We’ve been walking
for hours on end—_hours_—haven’t we, dear?”
“Dear” nodded feebly. She was leaning back in the easy-chair with
closed eyes. Her hat—of a remarkable shape—was trimmed with what looked
like a kitchen flue-brush standing straight upright at the back; at
least, it would have been upright if her hat hadn’t shifted askew;
at the moment the flue-brush was inclining towards her left ear. Her
costume was mustard colour, with spasms of black. She must have been
_very_ pleased with it when she bought it, otherwise she could never
have induced herself to get inside it!
I soon found that the ample one did not require any reply other than
the feeble nod, as it would have impeded her eloquence. She went on—
“I think, if you don’t mind, we won’t go upstairs till we’ve had some
tea. We are absolutely prostrate, aren’t we, dear?” The flue-brush
dipped slightly. “Could we have some tea at once?”
“Certainly,” I said with alacrity. I had already decided that tea was
the only possible way to relieve the strain of the situation, and I
rang the bell.
Abigail, after one comprehensive glance at the callers, fetched my
very best afternoon tea-cloth, which she displayed on the table to
the utmost advantage, that not an Irish inlet or a bit of lace border
should be lost on the visitors. When she does not approve of any
callers, or does not consider them quite in keeping with the family
traditions, she invariably makes a terrific splash in front of them,
getting out the special silver and the finest china, and serving with
an air of withering superiority, as though she said, “Behold! this
is how _we_ live every day; very different from what _you’ve_ been
accustomed to!”
The tiresomeness of it is that when intimate friends call, who really
matter, the handmaiden treats the tea-table most casually; they
evidently don’t count if they are known to be above reproach!
From the look she gave the strangers, I knew we should have it all,
and we did! She was wonderfully quick in getting both the tea and her
smartest cap and apron. She put as much silver as she could squeeze on
the table; she got out some egg-shell china plates for the bread and
butter, and the old cut-glass for the preserves. She opened new jars
of plum, black-currant, strawberry and raspberry jam; she turned out
preserved ginger into a blue Chinese bowl; she put lemon-curd into a
quaint brown dish, and honey in a lustre saucer. She hunted out all
the cake we possessed, and opened a tin of apricots; she mashed up
sardines with Worcester sauce, and heaped it on pale lettuce leaves,
and she garnished some thin slices of ham most artistically with lemon
and cucumber and flowering sprigs of rosemary. All this while the
ample one was explaining to me how marvellously things were managed
in London, the miles you could ride in a motor-bus for twopence, the
cleanliness and speed and safety of the Tube, the ever-recurring
convenience of a halfpenny in a tramcar, and the luxury of a taxi; and
then more moans to think of the miles they had covered without meeting
either motor-bus, Tube, tramcar or taxi.
When the table seemed on the very verge of breaking down with its
abundance, and they had just drawn up their chairs, Abigail asked in
clear tones that the visitors were bound to hear, “Would you wish me to
bring in the cold duck, madam?” (“Madam” indicates company; “ma’am” is
ordinary every-day.) I wasn’t exactly anxious to bestow my to-morrow’s
dinner on the strangers, for I had reckoned to make the duck do for
twice; but, of course, under the circumstances, I was bound to ask
sweetly, “Oh, would you care for a little roast duck? It’s _cold_,”
I added, by way of disqualifying the joint a little in their eyes.
Fortunately they preferred ham, but it was satisfactory that at least
they knew we had roast duck in the larder.
After sitting up and taking a little nourishment, the wilted ones
revived perceptibly, and even began to be gracious. I am afraid I am
not very fond of the graciousness of that type of woman; she does get
it so mixed up with patronage. But I buoyed myself up with the thought
that perchance I was entertaining angels unawares—though they didn’t
look like it!
The ample one continued to be voluble. I did not interrupt her with
questions, because I find it is usually as well to let a situation
explain itself; it usually does in time. Besides, I didn’t quite know
what to say. I couldn’t exactly ask, “Who are you? where have you come
from? and why have you singled me out for this particular visitation?”
Yet the longer I waited, the more awkward it became to open inquiries.
“You have a very well-trained maid, I see,” the large plaid continued,
“that is to say, for the country”—with emphasis, to show me that there
were obvious deficiencies, only she was willing to make allowances for
them. “It’s the first thing I always notice in a house. We are used to
such excellent service—_most excellent_ service, aren’t we, dear?”
Dear agreed, but not very heartily; she seemed to ponder for a moment
before she said her customary “Yes.”
“That is one reason why I always hesitate about leaving home.” (How I
wished she’d hesitated a little longer! The sun was getting behind the
fir-trees, and I did so want to start watering!) “You have some garden,
I see, but it wants planning, doesn’t it? I wish you could see ours
at home; it would give you some ideas. We have a man in occasionally;
but we always superintend him ourselves. I’ll tell you how we have it
arranged. In the centre is a square lawn, and in the middle of this
we have a round bed with scarlet geraniums in the centre, and a ring
of calceolarias round them, and then outside that, at the edge of the
bed, you understand, all round, you know, we have lobelias, little blue
flowers, you know. You’ve no idea how bright and effective it is. And
then in the border all round the garden by the fences, we have standard
roses about a couple of yards apart, and a row of scarlet geraniums.
It’s so bright, and doesn’t cost so much when you buy them by the dozen.
“Your ceiling is very low, isn’t it?—still, for a cottage, it isn’t a
bad-sized room; and I see you’ve made the best of it with your little
bits of things put about.” I do wish you could have heard the charming,
indulgent condescension with which she said “your little bits of
things”! “Though I don’t think I’ve ever seen yellow walls before—very
_quaint_, of course, but—er—rather peculiar. Don’t you think so, dear?”
Dear said she did. But I don’t know why, seeing that she was carrying
about more yellow on her mustard person than I had in the whole of the
house!
“I _wish_ you could see our _lovely_ dining-room at home,” the plaid
continued. I murmured inarticulations, as there was a pause where I
was evidently intended to say something. “It has a dark red paper on
the wall. We have just furnished it with fumed oak. I think fumed oak
is _so_ artistic. We have a most _handsome_ sideboard that will only
just stand across one end of the room. I don’t mind telling you that
it cost fifty pounds originally, but as the people to whom it belonged
were a little unfortunate, we got it—well, we didn’t give quite that
much for it; but you’d never know. It was just as good as new. And we
have aspidistras and a _beautiful_ palm in copper flower-pots—really
exquisite works of art they are; and they go so well with the fumed
oak, don’t they, dear?”
By the time I had been taken over their _beautiful_ drawing-room, we
had finished tea—happily, for I already saw a _beautiful_ best bedroom
suite looming ahead.
Having made a most excellent, not to say solid, meal, the voluble one
shoved her chair back and said—
“I feel all the better for that cup of tea. Now, I think, if you’ll
show us the way, we’ll go upstairs and have a good wash, and make
ourselves presentable—not that you dress much for dinner, I suppose?”
I conclude I, too, was all the better for my cup of tea, for I felt
myself warming to the work—and I led the way washstandwards most
cordially. I didn’t take them out into the hall to the more modern
staircase, I opened the door in the corner of the room, and revealed
the steep stone stairs; and you should have heard their gurgles and
squeals.
“Oh, dearest, _do_ look. _Isn’t_ it primitive? And do you go up and
down this every day?”
“Oh, no,” I couldn’t help replying. “We only use this when visitors are
here. On ordinary occasions we get in and out of the bedroom windows,
and hop down the honeysuckle.”
She drew herself up reprimandingly; she evidently wished me to
understand that, though she was willing to treat me as an equal so long
as I behaved myself, she couldn’t allow any undue familiarity on my
part.
“I don’t suppose _you_ would see anything unusual in such an approach
to the upper storeys, having been used to it all your life,” she said
distantly; “but accustomed as _we_ are to our magnificent staircase at
home—wide enough to drive up a carriage and pair, isn’t it, dear?”—
“Er—nearly——” (Dear was the more truthful of the two, I fancy.)
“—And our beautiful pile carpet, in rich reds and blues, and the
thickest of stair-pads underneath, till you would think you were
walking on real Turkey carpet, this naturally strikes us as—how shall I
put it so as not to hurt your feelings?—as—as very humorous, you know!”
“I quite understand,” I said, as we entered my bedroom.
She walked straight over to the window and looked out.
“Not a house to be seen anywhere,” she exclaimed dismally, “whichever
way you look; nothing in sight but those everlasting tree-covered
hills.”
As she seemed inclined for a lengthy soliloquy, I poured out some
water and indicated the soap-dish, as politely as I knew how, to Dear,
who had taken off her hat and coat, and seemed almost grateful for my
attentions. I noticed that Abigail had been up and had adorned the
towel-horse with my finest damask towels with embroidered ends, and had
got out a rare and treasured bedspread made entirely of lace, that had
just been sent me as a present from Venice, and had put it over the bed
in place of the old-world patchwork quilt that I infinitely prefer in
the cottage; it was so much more in keeping with the surroundings.
The ample one turned with a sigh from the depressing outlook that was
so deficient in motor-buses and halfpenny car rides and taxis and
houses, and said, evidently striving to make the best of a bad job, “At
any rate you’ve tried to make it look as nice as you can inside. Do you
know, I rather like that bedspread”—as though conveying a real favour
on the article in question. “It reminds me of an _exquisite_ bedspread
we have at home something like it, only ours is linen, with shamrocks
on it in solid embroidery.” And she flung down her coat and other
_impedimenta_ on the top of the lace in a way that made me tremble for
its safety. “It’s _something_ like ours—don’t you think so, dear?”
Dear had her face in the soft delicious lather of the rainwater, and
didn’t reply.
“But”—at this point transformation came over the black and white
plaid—“I’ve only just noticed it! This is a _double_ bed! Look, dear,
it’s a DOUBLE bed! And I most distinctly said in my letter it was
imperative that we have two single beds; the same room would do, I
said—no need to go to the expense of two rooms—but on no account
a double bed. As I can’t possibly rest unless I have the bed to
myself—I’m a _very_ light sleeper, whereas my friend sleeps rather
heavily, not to say—er—sonorously, don’t you, dear?—I must simply
insist that you have this bed taken down and two single ones put up in
its place. Had I _seen_ the rooms before I engaged them I shouldn’t
have taken a place with such a desolate outlook; but as we’ve had the
expense of coming here, I don’t mind staying if you undertake to have
the beds changed; and they must both be feather beds, too. Now, can you
do this?”
“I’m afraid I can’t!” I said. “But if——”
“There can be no ifs; I put everything quite clearly in my letter. I’ve
got a copy of it here. I wrote——”
“My dear lady, if you will sit down in that easy-chair, we’ll make
everything still clearer.” She was beginning to prance around the room.
Dear, unmoved, was having a very thorough wash. So the light sleeper
sank into the chair and rummaged in her hand-bag, presumably for the
copy of the letter in question.
I tried to speak as lightly and soothingly as possible, for she was
fairly bursting with indignation! “Now, please understand that I am
delighted to give a meal to any wayfarer who, like yourself, arrives
hungry and tired at my door. I’m glad for them to come in and have
a rest, and even a wash and brush up, if they want it. But, when an
absolute stranger, of whom I know nothing, demands my own bed, and my
feather bed into the bargain, then I must protest! That feather bed is
one of my most cherished possessions!”
“But you expected me?”—sitting bolt upright.
“I certainly did not!”
“Didn’t I write and tell you we would arrive to-day?”
“I’ve neither heard of you, nor from you, in my life before!”
“But this is Rosemary Cottage?”
“It is.”
“Then you _must_ be Miss Flabbers!”—with an air of finality.
“I’m sorry, but I’m _not_!”
At this, Dear dropped the soap with a sudden splosh into the water and
looked round in frozen astonishment. (The merest wraith of it remained
two hours later when Abigail emptied the water. It was a new cake, too!)
At the name of Flabbers, light came. Miss Flabbers is a gentlewoman in
somewhat reduced circumstances, who lives in a cottage a good mile and
a half away. Presumably she was going to add to her income by taking in
boarders.
“If it’s Miss Flabbers whom you are wanting,” I continued, filling up
a painful silence, “her house is called Rose May Cottage. I expect you
got the names confused in your mind.”
“There! It’s all _your_ fault,” said the ample one, turning irritably
to her companion; “you said it was Rose May Cottage when you read
the first letter: but I said that was an absurd name, and it must be
Rosemary it was intended for—country people _do_ write so badly. I do
_wish_, dear, you would be careful to be more accurate; if only you
had said the right name I might have been saved all this trouble—and
expense, because of course I shall _insist_ on paying for our tea——”
(she didn’t though!) “and think how many miles I’ve walked, and now I
suppose I’ve to do it all again. How I wish I’d listened to that old
man at the station and gone with——”
She paused suddenly and threw up her hands; and then there arose that
cry common to all womankind the world over, when they are weary with
their pilgrimage, footsore and travel-stained; the cry that must have
rent the air in the olden days when Sarai trailed after Abram across
the plains of Mamre, even as it sounds to-day from Yokohama to Land’s
End:
“_Where’s our luggage?_”
There was a perceptible gasp—and then, “Yes; _where’s our luggage?_”
faintly echoed Dear, as she nervously clutched her gloves with feverish
haste and pinned them on her head, and then wildly tried to get her
arms into her hat.
“I expect it’s reposing peacefully in Miss Flabbers’ best bedroom,” I
said assuringly. “At any rate it isn’t _here_!” as I saw signs that
they were going to crawl under the bed in search of it. “The man would
be sure to deliver it there, and——”
Abigail knocked at the door and asked if she could speak to me for a
minute.
When I got outside she said, “There’s a person downstairs wants to see
you _particular_, ma’am, or I wouldn’t have disturbed you.” Abigail
divides all her sex into two classes, “persons” and “ladies,” and no
one is more careful than she to see that “persons” don’t think more
highly of themselves than their social status warrants.
I found a pleasant-faced woman who lives in a cottage near Miss
Flabbers. “Please, ma’am, Miss Flabbers has lost two ladies rather
suddint, and I wondered if you’d chanced to set eyes on ’em? Miss
Flabbers is _that_ worrit as never was; expected ’em by the eleven
train, and I misdoubt me if the cutlets won’t be a bit heavy by now,
though she’s had ’em over a saucepan of hot water ever since. She’s so
upset she don’t know what to do, yet she can’t go out to look for ’em
in case they turns up meanwhile. I thought it ’ud be just neighbourly
if I went out for her and hunted around. I know they come by that
train, for I see’d ’em myself at the station, puffeck ladies you’d have
took ’em for, only they wouldn’t have a fly. They’re not friends, no,
nor boarders, no, she wouldn’t think of having boarders, so reserved
as she is; they’re what’s called paying guests. I know, because my
son’s got a friend in the _Hargus_ office, and he told him about an
adver-_tise_ment she put in, only you wouldn’t have known it was her,
being only X Y Z on it, but the people at the _Hargus_ knew as the X Y
Z meant her, though _how_ they should know puzzles me, and they send on
the letters to her. But she’s kep’ it very private; no one knew they
was coming, so I wouldn’t dream of mentioning X Y Z to a soul. I’ve
tracked ’em up here. Everybody all over the Common and even up to the
Crag Farm has a-seed them, they’ve scoured the county for miles round.
You’d be sure to rekernize them once you’d saw them——”
I should think so! E’en the slight harebell raised its head and stared
after them whenever they passed it that afternoon, I’m certain.
By dint of shouting above her talking I managed to get her to hear that
I had them safe and sound; and should be everlastingly grateful if she
would take them off my hands and place them in the safe keeping of Miss
Flabbers.
Then I fetched them down and introduced the neighbourly soul, who, you
could see, felt elated at the distinction of being the one to take such
costumes in tow.
“Better go out of the back door,” I said, “and up the garden to the
top gate; it will save you a few steps.”
And then the ample one turned and said icily, “I suppose we must thank
you for what you have done; but I _do_ think you should have told us
_sooner_ who you were.” Yet I hadn’t told them even then!
* * * * *
It was as they were going out of the back door that Dear amazed us by
falling unexpectedly to her knees and affectionately clasping a dark
object that I had not seen in the dim recess of the lobby.
“_Here’s_ our trunks!” she shrieked hysterically.
And then both those women glared things unspeakable at me. They knew
now, what they had only suspected before, that I was a deeply-dyed
villainess with designs on them and their property.
“What’s this? Why wasn’t I told about it?” I inquired of Abigail, who,
naturally, was not missing a word.
“Old Bob brought them while you were busy. He said they were for here,
so of course I took them in, madam, as you said you were not to be
disturbed,” with an injured sniff, “and I’ve had no opportunity to tell
you since.”
The two, true to the instincts of their sex, had promptly seated
themselves on the trunks, and I feared they had no intention of
budging unless the trunks went with them. But the neighbourly person
was anxious to be on the move; she wanted the _kudos_ of walking
through the village with them in the broad daylight, so she said—
“They’ll be all right; my ’usband’ll come round for them soon as we get
back. Now don’t you worrit the least little bit.”
Thus they were got off at last.
* * * * *
“Puffeck ladies,” I said to myself as I seized the brown pitcher and
the water-can, and went out to the spring.