Transcriber's notes: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.
New original cover art included with this eBook is granted to the
public domain.
[Illustration: THE CROWD OF VILLAGERS WHO ASSEMBLED
TO SEE THE START ACKNOWLEDGED THAT TOMINA WAS
SUITABLY EQUIPPED FOR HER POSITION.]
TOMINA IN RETREAT
BY
AMY LE FEUVRE
AUTHOR OF "A BIT OF ROUGH ROAD," "A DAUGHTER OF THE SEA,"
"HER HUSBAND'S PROPERTY," "THE MENDER,"
ETC., ETC.
LONDON
THE RELIGIOUS TRACT SOCIETY
4, BOUVERIE STREET, E.C.4
MADE IN GREAT BRITAIN
Printed by William Clowes and Sons, Limited, London and Beccles.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER
I. A DOCTOR'S PRESCRIPTION
II. SETTLING DOWN
III. TOMINA'S SCHEME
IV. THE CARRIER'S VAN
V. A STRAY CHILD
VI. AN UNWELCOME PASSENGER
VII. TWO VISITORS
VIII. UP A TREE
IX. THE FLOWER-SHOW
X. A STRICKEN WOMAN
XI. IN A SICK-ROOM
XII. DAWN
XIII. THE FIRST EFFORT
XIV. TOM'S NEWS
XV. A SAILOR'S BRIDE
XVI. A QUIET CHRISTMAS
XVII. AN ENGAGEMENT
XVIII. DOREEN'S HOME
XIX. TOMINA'S DESPERATION
XX. HER INSPIRATION
XXI. CONGRATULATIONS
XXII. WEDDED
TOMINA IN RETREAT
CHAPTER I
A DOCTOR'S PRESCRIPTION
"YOU want to bury me," Tomina said in a slow sweet-toned voice, "but if
you do, are you certain of my resurrection?"
"I want to bring you back to a normal woman's life. The pace you have
been going would kill a strong man. You have no right to complain of a
worn-out body, of shattered nerves, of sleepless nights, for you have
reaped that which you have sown."
Doctor and patient faced each other in the handsome consulting room in
Harley Street.
Tomina sat back in her chair, looking very fragile and white. She was
a slim young creature, clad in irreproachable London garments. Her
bright brown eyes seemed the most vivid part of her; they were now
twinkling with the irrepressible humour that always bubbled up in her
at the most inopportune moments. She had a small oval high-bred face,
with clear-cut features and a most determined mouth and chin, but she
was too thin to be beautiful. She looked as if a breath of wind would
blow her away; and yet when she opened her mouth to speak, she gave
every one the instant impression of a hidden force and vitality under a
somewhat placid and indifferent surface.
"I don't think I am such a wreck," she said slowly. "I only want to
sleep, and sleep won't come. Now, Dr. Carisbrooke, if I follow your
prescription, where can I bury myself? You don't advise an ordinary
rest cure. I would not go to one if you did; I am dead tired of the
Riviera. I have been to India, Cairo, and Spain; I would not find
Continental cities a rest."
"Why do you butterflies of fashion think you must leave your own island
to have a quiet rest?"
"Because we want to get away from our friends and acquaintances,
and—perhaps from our doctors."
She flashed a mischievous glance at him.
The old doctor who had helped her into the world, and who had at
different intervals prescribed for her and watched over her for many
years, looked at her with grave compassionate eyes.
Tomina went on talking.
"Motors find out every quiet corner in England. I have tried week-ends
in country cottages—you know I have. The mice, the owls, the early
morning birds, especially the fiendish cock, are worse than dear
London's hoots and toots and rumbles."
"I know a few corners unfrequented by motors. If you will really take
my advice, I will find—"
"The necessary grave? Thank you. Well, how long must I stay in it?"
"Six months at least. Possibly a year."
"Have mercy!"
But Tomina surrendered, and a quarter of an hour later was driving home
in her neat little brougham, having promised her doctor to leave town
the end of the ensuing week. He was to find her retreat and arrange
everything for her comfort.
Her stepmother's house in Park Lane was very crowded when she returned
to it. Lady Gavin's "At Homes" were much appreciated. She was a woman
to whom philanthropy and politics appealed very strongly, but she was
also one of Society's favourites, and Tomina in her present mood rather
shrank from joining the gay throng. But she pressed her lips together
and did it, and was the life and spirit of her little circle for the
next hour.
Then she went upstairs to her luxurious room, and as it was early
March, drew up a chair in front of her blazing fire and began to think.
In a flash she reviewed her life.
Up to seven years old, she and her beloved twin brother, Tom, had
revelled in a country home. Then came their father's second marriage;
the country house was shut up and finally sold. London—a boarding
school for Tom, a governess for herself. Occasional visits to Scotland
and the sea, then the death of her father. After that, more schoolroom
life—a year in Germany, another one in Paris. And then Tomina came
home to take part in the tireless nerve-racking life of a "débutante"
in Society. She was highly strung, clever, and thorough in all her
undertakings.
She pursued the goddess of pleasure with a zest that made her
stepmother uneasy. Lady Gavin was kind to her stepdaughter, and no girl
had more opportunities of getting the most out of town life than she
had for several years. Many wondered that she did not marry, but Tomina
kept her own counsel.
She was bright, she was good company, and a general favourite. But her
dearest friends always complained that she would not confide in them.
Now, as she looked into the flames of her fire, Tomina's bright eyes
shadowed. She remembered too well the passage in her life which had
altered her whole outlook, and made her pursue her gaiety with such
reckless "abandon" and such a determined indifference to the needs of
her physical being.
She was twenty-seven now, and she had pretty well exhausted all her
resources for killing time. Motoring, yachting, golfing, travelling—she
had had a surfeit of them all. She dragged her weary feet through
endless receptions and social crushes, listened with an aching head to
operas and concerts, looked out with weary eyes at all the best plays,
and acknowledged to herself as she leant back in her cushioned chair
that she was bored to death.
"I don't care to live, but I don't want to die," she murmured, and her
eyes began to twinkle in spite of herself. "Who or what in the wide
world could satisfy me? I feel I am a superfluity. I think if somebody
or something wanted me, I could continue to exist. As it is, how
delighted some of my acquaintances will be when I disappear from their
society for a time! Shall I ever come back, I wonder?"
A knock at the door interrupted her musing. It was her stepmother.
"Well, Tomina, you have been to the doctor's. My dear child, you do
look worn! What did he say?"
Lady Gavin settled herself down upon a comfortable couch and looked at
her stepdaughter a little critically.
"He has told me to cut and run," Tomina responded in a brisk tone. "You
won't miss me, and if you do want a girl in the house, have Madge—she
will be in the seventh heaven at the very thought."
"Where does he want you to go? To the Riviera?"
"No, to some ungetatable place in England. I am to vegetate and imbibe
unpolluted air, and invoke Nature to be my nurse. You know the jargon.
He is a little crazed over country life."
"My dear, how dreadful! He does not expect me to go with you?"
Tomina smiled, and her smile irradiated her face with sunshine.
"No, dear, he is not quite so cruel. I am to be buried for about a
year."
"Perhaps," said Lady Gavin, slowly, "it is the best thing you can
do. Your nerves seem all gone to pieces, and you will return to us
thoroughly refreshed and rejuvenated. But I think he might have sent
you to the Continent. Will you take your maid?"
"Not Juliette. She would never stand the dullness. I shall take no one.
I am going to try the simple life."
"You have often tried that at our week-end cottages."
"But not alone."
Lady Gavin looked at her in a perplexed fashion.
"You won't be long away, Tomina. I am quite positive that you will
never stand the loneliness of it."
"I don't know. Spring is coming, and spring has still a fascination for
me."
Then Lady Gavin plunged into another subject which was more to her
liking, and Tomina listened with a good-natured indifference to her
stepmother's proposition of a fancy fair for a certain charitable
society which was in dire need of funds.
Her departure from town did not make much stir amongst her relations
and friends. They all knew she was not well, and thought it a wise move.
Dr. Carisbrooke was as good as his word. He came round and told her
that he had found the very place for her—a little old-world village
tucked away in a corner, two miles off any main high-road, and at the
top of such a steep stony lane that no motorist would be able to mount
it.
"It is a furnished cottage, and the tenant has suddenly come into a
property of her own and wants to let it."
"And what about servants?" asked Tomina.
He looked a little blank.
"Won't you take some of your own?"
"My dear doctor, our maids think the country only fit for the most
ignorant and depraved of our fellow-creatures. I suppose there is
somebody in the village who will do for me. I hope I am not surrounded
by other cottages and children?"
"No, I have been down to inspect it myself. It stands alone at the end
of the village, and just touches the rectory gardens."
Tomina made a little grimace.
"I hope I am not to be tucked into the pocket of the Rector?" she said.
"I believe he is a delightful sort of parson—one of the Herberts, a
county family. He won't hurt you."
Tomina looked unconvinced.
"You will be nine miles from a station, and no one owns a motor in the
village. You see, I am preparing you for the worst."
"It all sounds so awful that you cannot let me down any farther. I am
at the very bottom."
But Tomina made her arrangements for her move very quickly, and
started from Paddington Station one morning, not altogether certain
whether dislike or curiosity preponderated in her mind for this fresh
experience.
It was a wild, wet day. Rain lashed against the carriage windows. She
was alone in a first-class carriage. She had papers, flowers, a basket
of early strawberries, and the affectionate farewell of some of her
friends who came to see her off still rang in her ears.
"If I were only a poor woman," she murmured to herself, "I should enjoy
my comforts. I shall really practise the simple life for a time—not
play at it."
She looked out of the misty windows reflectively, then closed her eyes,
and, though sleep was far from her, determinedly refused to meditate
upon her past or future.
It was about four o'clock when she reached her destination. The small
country station looked deserted and depressing. Rain and wind assailed
her as she alighted on the strip of gravel bordered by wall-flowers. A
pleasant-looking station-master came up to her.
"Are you the lady for Little Honeycombe? A fly has been ordered for you
from Westlebury, and is waiting."
Tomina stepped through the tiny booking-office, and climbed into a very
ancient and musty carriage.
The driver was hidden in a big mackintosh. He seemed to take
very little interest in his fare or in her luggage. It was the
station-master who packed everything in for her, and gave her a
cheering nod as she drove off.
"'Tisn't a nice welcome for you, ma'am, but rain is good for us or
'twouldn't be sent."
Tomina's progress was slow. Having been accustomed to motors and
taxi-cabs, she thought at first that the horse never went out of
a walk. But soon the very slowness of the journey began to have
compensations.
"I don't want to hurry," she repeated to herself. "There is nothing to
hurry for—nobody waiting at the other end. If I take a week driving to
this village, it does not matter."
Arriving at the top of a hill, the fly came to a standstill. Tomina
opened the window. The rain was stopping. There was a faint yellow
light stealing across the sky, and standing talking to her driver was a
tall figure in shooting tweeds. He doffed his cap when he caught sight
of her, then strode away whistling to his dogs. Tomina put her head
out. There was a peculiar freshness and sweetness in the air. At the
bottom of another steep hill she made her driver stop.
"I will get out and walk," she said. "I want some air. What is the
matter with your horse? Is he very old?"
"No, 'tis just easy-goin'. He's a bit lazy, but we don't hurry in these
parts."
"I see you don't."
Tomina picked up her skirt. The mud and roughness of the road appalled
her, but she resolved not to be daunted. She was going to live in the
country, and if her town shoes did not suit their atmosphere, the
sooner they were discarded in favour of strong country boots the better.
Her bright eyes roved here and there—from a bush of tender green buds
all glittering with raindrops to some patches of exquisite moss on a
bank. The yellow light grew brighter, birds began to sing, the smell of
the fresh moist earth was almost as good as a tonic. Tomina's aching
head was soothed.
When the top of the hill was reached, she looked down over a stretch
of green valley. Somewhere in a hollow a church clock rang out. She
counted the strokes. Five o'clock. In a flash, she saw her stepmother's
drawing-room with its heavy perfume of spring flowers, its guests in
fashionable garments, their soft voices relating the latest scandal in
town, and outside the hum and roar of the city life going by.
Her driver accosted her.
"Be you goin' to ride agen?"
"I suppose so. How long is this going on?"
"Another five mile or so."
"How awful! Who was that man who spoke to you?"
"'Twill be the new squire at Corring. St. Vincent they call him."
"Where is Corring?"
He pointed with his whip to a clump of trees down at the bottom of the
hill.
"See them 'chimleys?' That be the house—just done up fine. Charlie
Simmonds got the job from Westlebury, but there was a Lunnon chap down
who fussed round. We drives through the village."
Tomina did not feel interested. She got into the fly, and when a little
later they rumbled through a cobbled street with thatched cottages on
either side, she did not even look out.
Her walk uphill had refreshed her, but strangely tired her, and she
actually fell into an uneasy doze which lasted until with a big jolt
the fly stopped.
"Are we there?" she called out, awaking with a start.
"'Tis a steep pull up."
"You want me to walk?"
She sprang out, and found herself looking up a steep lane. Cottages
seemed to rise higher and higher until they clustered round a rugged
old grey tower with a steeple.
"Little Honeycombe Church," announced the driver.
Then he started his horse. Tomina slipped behind the fly, and brought
up the rear.
"Little Honeycombe," she murmured to herself. "I wonder if I shall get
any honey out of you?"
She was conscious as she struggled up the steep street of various heads
peeping out at the cottage doors and windows.
Halfway up she met the white-haired Rector. He lifted his hat, then
held out his hand.
"We don't need an introduction. Welcome to Honeycombe. I have heard
about you, of course, and I have taken the liberty of sending in a few
flowers. We are next-door neighbours, you know."
"I shall not be a very neighbourly person, I am afraid," said Tomina.
Her face was grave, but her eyes smiled.
"You are coming here to regain health, I hope, and the sun is shining
out after a day of storm and wet. It's a good omen."
Tomina felt irritated, why she did not know.
"I'm going to my funeral," she said, humour getting the better of her
annoyance, and she passed on up the street with a little smiling nod.
"I want to be alone," she said to herself. "I will not be befriended so
quickly."
The top of the lane was reached at last. Then they passed a
school-house, the church, the rectory in its grounds with a high stone
wall round it, and finally they came to the cottage.
Seen in that March evening's sun, Tomina was forced to own that she
could find no fault with its outward appearance.
It stood back in a green garden. A grass lawn stretched across from a
yew hedge to an old red brick wall. In the centre was an old-fashioned
mulberry tree. There was a wide porch painted green, a border of
daffodils under the low broad windows. The cottage itself was white
with a thatched roof, and the upstair windows were framed with red
japonica in full bloom. Tomina opened the wooden gate and went slowly
up the path. The front door stood open.
A very small lobby and rather steep stairs at once confronted her. For
a moment she hesitated. And then an oldish woman, upright but very
small, came briskly forward.
"Good afternoon, ma'am. I saw your carriage, so I slipped over, and the
fire is burning brightly. Our Rector, he thought you'd like me to be
here to welcome you. I did for the lady which has left, and not having
a family and being a widow and having lived in good service—"
"You thought you would suit me," said Tomina, looking at her kindly.
"I'm very glad to see you, for I'm tired, and I want somebody to do
everything for me. May I see the rooms?"
She was shown into the biggest sitting-room. A very pleasant,
simply-furnished room it was.
Appallingly simple, Tomina told herself. The walls were whitewashed;
the carpet was a green felt. There was a straight narrow couch, an oak
gate table, two oak armchairs with green cushions, and an oak press in
the corner. No pictures on the walls; no curtains. On the opposite side
of the lobby was a tiny room with table, a glass cupboard of china,
and four rush chairs. But on each table was a big jar daffodils and
narcissus.
"It is austere and pure," murmured Tomina to herself, "but can I live
up to it?"
Without a word she mounted to her bedroom.
Whitewashed walls again, a broad low bed, and the same severe style of
furniture.
"Miss Wadhurst would have no hornyments," said the woman, quickly
reading Tomina's silent disapproval. "She were one for air and health
and cleanliness, and were that tidy it was a pleasure to clean up for
her."
"Yes, it all looks beautifully clean. Will you see to my luggage and
pay for the carriage? Here, take my purse. And then could you bring me
some hot water?"
Susan Jobson walked down the stairs with uplifted head and heart.
This was a true lady, she assured herself, worthy of her service, for
she trusted her on the spot before she really knew her.
The hot water was brought, and then a little later, Tomina descended
the steep stairs to find a fire crackling in the biggish sitting-room
and Susan bustling about preparing a little meal.
"Shall we say a tea dinner, ma'am, for to-night, being now six o'clock?
I've taken the liberty to order a few things from the shop. The Rector
thought I might."
"I'm not hungry," asserted Tomina—"anything will do."
Then she sauntered out into the tiny red-tiled kitchen, peeped into the
still tinier back kitchen and larder, and then found her way out at the
back of the house.
Here was a delightful old garden, originally an apple orchard, with
winding paths between herb beds and herbaceous borders. The most
delicious scent was in the air. She looked about and found it came from
a sweet-briar hedge that ran the whole length of the garden. At the
end of it was a small lawn surrounded by old apple trees, and under
a bit of old brick wall was a seat. Tomina seated herself upon it,
disregarding the dampness of the wood.
She lifted her head. The scent of the wood smoke from the cottage
mingled with that of the wet sweet-briar hedge, and she opened her
lips to inhale it. A blackbird from behind her suddenly burst into his
liquid melody of song. There was a hush and stillness around. She sat
with folded hands; the little creases upon her forehead and between her
eyes smoothed themselves out, and she murmured to herself—
"I believe I am going to like it here."
She sat on unheeding of time. The yellow light in the sky slowly faded
away, the blackbird finished his song, and only the fussy twittering
of the birds getting ready for bed remained. And then up the path came
Susan.
"Oh, ma'am, you'll really catch your death of cold if you sit there
without a wrap on. And your repast is waiting for you."
Tomina laughed outright.
"I feel more ready for my 'repast' than I did when I arrived. Now, tell
me, what did your former lady do all day long?"
"Miss Wadhurst, ma'am, was a lady of great talents. She painted
beautiful pictures, and could darn a tablecloth so as you couldn't see
the darn at all. She was always doing, Miss Wadhurst was. She was out
and in all day long, and when it rained she would say to me: 'Now,
Susan, for a long day at dressmakin'.' And her dresses were that well
cut and finished, and had the style too, that was the envy of the
village."
"I suppose she was too busy to read," said Tomina, stifling a yawn.
"There are no books in the house, I notice."
"I really don't think," said Susan slowly and meditatively, "that she
required to read. She knew such a lot, you see, ma'am. It was all
stored in her head."
"Oh, what a paragon!"
Tomina almost danced into the house. The fresh keen air was already
bracing her. She sat down to a fried chop and potatoes, a baked
apple, and a cup of tea which would have frightened her doctor by its
strength. The country bread and butter pleased her.
After her meal was over, she had some further talk with Susan, and
engaged her definitely as her one and only factotum. Then she retired
to her bedroom, and spent quite half of the ensuing night in sleep—a
thing which she had not done for months past.