A STRICKEN WOMAN
"HERE'S our carrier!"
This joyful cry came from a little group of women standing at the door
of the big marquee.
Tomina beamed upon them, and they pressed round her eagerly.
"Miss, my George has got second prize for his 'taties.' Them were what
you brought back last market day!"
"And Mrs. Grabbs be carryin' on disgraceful inside, because her husband
who have took first prize for veg'tables four years runnin' has only
got a second this year!"
"Me dear, this is my darter to law—married my Ben last Thursday—him
that you took up on the road when his horse had cast a shoe!"
Colonel Norman saw at once that he was not wanted, so he raised his hat
and strode away and Tomina heaved a sigh of relief when he did so.
She went into the tent and amused herself with her humble friends for
quite a long while. Then Harry found her out.
"Oh, Tommie, let me stay with you, and do come and see some darling
little ducks that are going to be sold. Do you think we had better buy
just a little one? I think Susan would like it."
"I'm going home, dear; will you come with me or stay with Susan a
little longer?"
Harry looked wistfully round, and Tomina shook her head and laughed at
him—
"You know you want to stay, and I think you had better. I don't think
we'll try any ducks at present."
"I wish you'd stay a little longer," the child said.
"I couldn't. I've had enough. I'm longing to get away. Will you take a
message to Mrs. Francis from me?"
Harry was only too delighted.
"Tell her that Miss Gavin did not feel very well, so has gone home.
Don't forget! Run up to the Terrace and tell her now."
Tomina sent him off, then slipped across the lawn, and was making her
way down the drive when she heard rapid steps behind her, and Dr.
Merton overtook her.
She coloured up a little when she saw him.
"I heard you were ill," he said, "so felt it my duty to pursue you."
"'Not very well' was my message," said Tomina; "I suppose Harry gave it
in exaggerated form."
"Are you tired out?"
Tomina looked at him and laughed.
"Your face is convicting me of fraud, but you yourself taught me that
we are made up of parts, and my spirit part is sick and tired of the
chatter and inquisitive inquiries of old acquaintances. I could not
face them again, so I left without wishing my hostess good-bye."
"I'll walk a bit of the way with you. I have to see a patient in
Honeycombe."
"Who? Is any one ill?"
"Old Martha Tubbs. It's a heart case."
"I know her. She came in my van only last Friday, and beguiled a very
warm journey with delightful reminiscences of her youth."
"She's subject to heart attacks. You might go and see her. She would
like a visit from you."
Tomina made a slight grimace.
"I don't like sick people. I'm not a parson or even a parson's wife."
"No, but you have been given the wonderful and yet dangerous gift of
winning hearts. I hear a good deal as I go round of yourself, and your
van. Don't disappoint any poor soul who trusts in your friendship."
"But I assure you it isn't my fault if they place their trust in an
untrustworthy person! Every one who knows me will tell you that I am
absolutely unreliable. My old women amuse me, and I try to amuse them.
I consider them my guests as long as they are in my van, but when they
leave it, I forget all about them!"
"Are you sleeping better?" Dr. Merton asked irrelevantly.
"Is this a professional walk?" Tomina asked, laughing. Then she added:
"Yes, I am. The rest cure is doing me good. My body performs all its
functions as it should do—I sleep, I eat, I walk as any other healthy
person does, but the rest cure hasn't touched my mind—my spirit, shall
I say? And if I treat you as my father confessor, Dr. Merton, I must
admit that I am restless, and discontented, and dissatisfied. I'm
beginning to wonder what my part is in life; why I was born, if the
world wants me. I told you I was self-centred. I go round and round
myself and turn myself inside out, until I get perfectly giddy. But as
yet, I can find no solution to the problem.
"I may be supposed to be living in a grave, to be buried in the
country, but I've never done so much thinking in all my life as I have
done lately. I thought I was ready to stagnate, to live as a vegetable,
to take each day as it came, but my brain gives me no rest. It's at it
morning, noon, and night! Do you think now, truthfully, that I've any
right to go on living? Harry has been making me read the Bible. What an
awful Book it is for making you see what an infinitesimal atom you are
in the Universe!"
"I know quite well what is your vocation," said Dr. Merton, briskly;
"and strangely enough, you have discovered it yourself. Do you know
what you are called about here?"
"Do tell me."
"Tomina the Carrier."
"Well? You don't think a carrier's van fills my horizon in the
Universe?"
"I think to be a carrier fulfils the very highest purpose in life.
Think it out for yourself. And remember Who was our great Example in
that way."
"You are a very extraordinary man!" Tomina exclaimed. "I really don't
see at present what you are driving at!"
She knitted her brows, and walked on in silence for some minutes, then
she said with emphasis: "I believe that I am the object of a deep
and wide-laid conspiracy down in this part of the world. Every one
with whom I come in contact determines to reform me. I've had a Bible
pedlar, and Harry, and an old saint of a woman, and you, and even Alice
Merryweather. And you each have a dig at me in turn. I suppose I am too
unused to such tactics to be prepared beforehand to avoid and resist
them."
"Well," said Dr. Merton, smiling, "did you not come down here to be
made a new creature? I'm sure you were a wreck when I saw you. All eyes
and bones! You are putting on weight, and losing your wrinkles, but
body and soul are so closely united that I want you to be a thorough
cure. You do need reforming. I could wish you no better fate than to be
reformed and transformed, inside and out. Good-bye. I am going in here."
He turned in at a cottage gate, leaving her very abruptly.
Tomina walked on, slowly and thoughtfully, home.
Life went on very quietly with her after this. She had a visit from
Mrs. De Bullon and from Mrs. Norton-Dynevor. But she told them frankly
that she acknowledged no social claims at present, and would not be
able to return their calls.
One call she did make, and that was to see old Mrs. Cayley in her own
home. Her son had died, and had left no money to her. She was in great
trouble at having to leave her cottage, but would not be able to afford
to keep it up. She confided all her trouble to Tomina. And as she
sat in her sweet old kitchen, she made a pathetic picture of patient
resignation. Looking round at all her quaint old bits of crockery and
furniture, she said—
"I've had these for fifty years or so, miss. It do seem sad to say
good-bye to 'em, but my time is gettin' short, and I shan't have no
frettin' about makin' a will, or such like, if I have nothin' to leave.
My daughter-in-law be wild to have my bits in her house, but I'd rather
see them sold right out than see 'em lose all their gloss and shine in
her dusty rooms. She be one who never was taught to use elbow grease,
and a wipe with a greasy cloth be quite enough in her eyes. She be too
grand to work, and her young girl that cleans be just one like herself,
or would be if she could!"
"But, Mrs. Cayley, you mustn't go away from your dear old cottage,"
said Tomina. "I shall see you don't. Just leave it to me. Don't you
give another anxious thought. I can give you ten shillings a week just
as easily as your son did!"
Mrs. Cayley stiffened in her chair, and her old head held itself very
erect.
"My dear miss, I've never taken charity from any gentlefolk yet. My son
was different. It's more than kind of you, and I give you my grateful
thanks for thinking of such a thing. But I couldn't think of taking all
that money from you!"
Tomina looked quite taken aback.
"Oh, well, I'm sorry; I've made a blunder, but nowadays there are
always funds for elderly people. I know heaps of societies—public money
you know; there are lots for poor gentle-people. I have a governess who
thankfully receives enough to pay her rent. You wouldn't mind money
through a fund, would you? I'll work it somehow, and if the neighbours
are curious, don't satisfy their curiosity. Ask them to ask me, and
I'll deal with them."
Tears came into Mrs. Cayley's eyes.
"I've no business to be proud, miss. You'll lift a heavy burden off me,
if you can manage it. 'Tis just an answer from my Heavenly Father!"
"There, that's right. I'll let you know in a day or two about it. I
shan't forget. And perhaps one day you'll ask me to tea. I feel, when
I'm sitting in this sweet old room, that we've gone back a hundred
years. I wish my cottage was like it!"
As Tomina walked home, her heart was aglow.
"I'm so thankful I knew of her difficulty. Why, it will only mean £26
a year. It's a trifle to keep her and her treasures together. I can
easily work it through a society if it will be a sop to her pride.
She's an old dear! I begin to wish I had been born in her class of
life!"
And before a week was over, it was all arranged, and old Mrs. Cayley
was ensured peace and comfort for the remainder of her years.
One afternoon, Tomina was standing at her gate, looking dreamily across
at the rookery opposite. There was a disturbance of some sort going on.
She fancied some jackdaws who built in the old church tower had come
across to pilfer, and had been caught and punished.
She quite started when Mrs. Herbert's voice broke in upon her.
"May I come in?"
Tomina unwillingly moved aside, and held out her hand, but she smiled a
welcome. Tomina would smile at her greatest enemy, she could not help
it, and when once accused by one of her friends of insincerity, she
responded—
"Oh, what is a smile? Just a movement of the lips. It doesn't express
my feelings. I take good care of that."
She took Mrs. Herbert into her sitting-room.
"I have really come to ask you if you would stop at the Rectory gate
on your way to Damerton to-morrow. My parlourmaid is in agonies with
toothache. She wants to go to the dentist's, and our horse is lame, so
I cannot drive her."
"I'll take her with pleasure," said Tomina. She could not resist
adding: "You have become reconciled to my van, have you not?"
"Well, yes, I have," said Mrs. Herbert with a little hesitation. "I see
the boon it is to the village. The idea shocked me, but I suppose it is
all right; my husband thinks so."
"I don't see that it has worked any harm," said Tomina.
Mrs. Herbert began to talk then about the flower-show at the Hall.
"You disappeared so suddenly that we feared you were not well. But
your maid told me the next day when I called that you had gone out for
a walk, so I was relieved. I suppose you have not heard the sad news
about Mrs. Norman. I think you just know her, do you not?"
"I hope nothing has happened to her?"
"Mrs. Francis came in to tell me about it yesterday. She is an old
friend of hers, and we always think between ourselves that she and
Colonel Norman will come together. They have been seeing a good deal of
each other lately. Poor Mrs. Norman has been doing too much, rushing
about from one place to another. She was dining at the Hall with her
son two nights ago, and just after dinner insisted on going home to
water her garden, she said. Mrs. Francis said the Colonel seemed
anxious about her, as she had been complaining of severe headache that
day, and tried to dissuade her from leaving. She insisted on gaining
her point, as she always does. And yesterday, she had a seizure of some
sort. She lies helpless and speechless now; and Dr. Merton is doubtful
whether she will ever properly recover speech."
Tomina was shocked.
"How dreadful! It's a living death. But people always get better after
a time, don't they?"
"Not always. And her extreme restlessness and excitability has worn out
her constitution, I should say."
"Her poor son!" murmured Tomina.
"Yes, we pity him. He has never left her bedside. She knows him, but
can't speak. They have sent for two nurses and are going to have a
London opinion down, but Dr. Merton is clever enough to undertake the
case single-handed. Well, I must be going. I have my club accounts to
do."
Mrs. Herbert bustled off.
Tomina sat still in her chair and thought of the gay vivacious little
mother and the stern sombre son. Her heart ached for them both. She
wondered why such a blow had been dealt them, and wished she had been
to return Mrs. Norman's call.
"I haven't been nice to her. Suppose that it had been me stretched out
helpless and speechless on a bed? What should I do? Oh, it's awful,
awful to think of!"
In almost a panic, Tomina got up from her seat and paced the room.
"Poor old Gerald! I should like to send him my sympathy—I will write
him a note!"
So she sat down to her writing-table, and dashed off the following:—
"DEAR COLONEL NORMAN,
"It's horrible for you! And of course, worse for her. I am so sorry
for you. But she'll get over it, I'm sure she will. I should like to know
how she is. Why do such things happen?
"Your very sympathetic
"TOMINA."
Then she called Susan.
"How can I get this note to Yockley Court?"
"I really don't know, ma'am. 'Tis a long way. Shall I run out in the
village and see if I can get a boy to take it? The milkman told me that
the poor lady was taken ill there."
"See if you can get some one to take it. I will give them half a crown."
The half-crown won its way, and a lad started off with Tomina's note.
She spent a restless and preoccupied day. Harry was spending the day at
the Hall. When he returned, she welcomed him with extra warmth.
"I am feeling so dull, Harry; come and talk to me. What have you been
doing?"
"Finding snails in the ivy with Mr. Drake," Harry answered quickly.
"Mrs. Francis went away to see a poor sick lady, and then the Squire he
came into the garding and scolded me for turning the hose on a tabby
cat. I just had to, when she got on a branch of a tree and looked at me
so proudly. You would have done it, Tommie, I know you would. And I had
tea in the housekeeper's room, and Pratt said to Mrs. Wood that 'twas
a pity the Squire didn't marry, for he'd be left alone soon, and Mrs.
Francis would be at Yockley Court. Where is Yockley Court, Tommie, and
who lives there? They wouldn't tell me—"
"You shouldn't listen to servants' talk, Harry, and if you do, never
repeat it to me," said Tommie, severely.
And then she said to herself—
"I wish I hadn't sent that note. He will have quite enough sympathy
from her. Perhaps he had reason for talking as he did when I last saw
him. He wanted me to see that he was quite indifferent to me now. I am
very glad."
But in a few days, she received a little note from Colonel Norman.
"MY DEAR TOMINA,
"Forgive me, but I cannot address you so formally as you do me. Thank
you for your dear little note. My mother is going on well, they say,
but she has not quite recovered her speech yet, and will be helpless
for a long time, I fear. Is it too much to ask you if you would come
and see her one day? She loves visitors even now, and the days are long
and weary to her.
"Always yours,
"GERALD."
"I cannot face a sick-room," was her instantaneous thought.
But in a fortnight's time, she went.
She drove over one bright afternoon in the hired trap. She had never
seen Yockley Court, and was surprised to find it such a beautiful old
place. It was a grey-stone manor-house with a stone roof of the Tudor
period. There were stone-flagged walks and terraces, and the cold
grey-stone was brightened by the brilliant display of summer flowers.
The entrance-hall was very handsome with its carved oak panelling, and
tubs of bright begonias stood grouped round a fountain at the farther
end under a glass cupola. She was led upstairs by an old butler, who
told her with a shake of his head, that the mistress was very ill.