DOREEN'S HOME
"GOOD morning! I am working my round in this part of the world, and I
have a message for you from old Martha Tubbs. 'Tell her to come along
and hearten me up a bit, for I be terrible lonesome in bed'!"
It was Dr. Merton who stood outside Tomina's window. There was a breath
of spring in the air. Tomina had opened the window and was leaning out
of it, with somewhat wistful eyes, when the doctor had marched in at
her gate, and now was speaking to her.
He glanced at her with his keen professional eye.
"You are not looking well. What have you been doing to yourself?"
"I am not your patient any longer," said Tomina, with a little of her
old gay humour, "so don't ask inquisitive questions. And may I in
return ask you what you have been doing to yourself? You look as if you
had had a fortune left you!"
Dr. Merton certainly was in the best of spirits; there was an alert
spring in his bearing, a joyousness in his eyes that was not usually
there.
"Well, don't you think a fortune has befallen me?" he asked. "I hear
that you have been told, so I await your congratulations."
"I have been told nothing," said Tomina, looking at him in a puzzled
way.
"Surely Mrs. Francis came to see you yesterday?"
"Yes, she did."
But still Tomina remained mystified.
Dr. Merton looked at her, and his eyes began to twinkle.
"You think her wasted upon a country doctor?"
"You don't mean to say that you are the man? That she is engaged to
you?"
"Didn't she tell you so? We have known each other for a long time."
Tomina had been well trained from childhood in self-control. Her gay
life in London had been good discipline in that way. She looked up at
the doctor and smiled.
"I have been very stupid. You need not mention it to her, but I
quite misunderstood her when she was trying to tell me about it. I
am delighted, Dr. Merton. I don't know which of you I feel I ought
to congratulate more. You will make an ideal couple. And, oh, what
an amount of goodness there will be in one house! It will be almost
heaven! Or the courts of it at least."
Dr. Merton laughed.
"I assure you, we are both very human. But I felt you would be glad."
He remained talking some little time.
But when he had left her, Tomina felt almost as stupefied now by the
revulsion of feeling that passed through her, as she had before, when
she had first received the communication from Mrs. Francis which
she had so absurdly misunderstood. She went over in her mind the
conversation of the day before, and could only conclude that Mrs.
Francis's remark about Colonel Norman was quite irrelevant to the
announcement of her engagement.
"She must have thought I knew all about it, and I never had any idea!
How extraordinary that Susan should not have undeceived me! I suppose
she knows."
In she called Susan, who promptly said—
"I knew the doctor would come and tell you himself, ma'am. I saw him
coming up the path. He does deserve her, doesn't he? We've said a long
time ago they ought to make a match of it!"
"It is delightful," said Tomina.
She did not let Susan know of her mistake, but after her anguish of the
evening before, she felt she could hardly bear the relief and happiness
that came to her now.
She put on her hat and coat and, calling Thor, took a long walk. It did
her good, both mentally and physically. She came home with a soft fresh
colour in her cheeks and such light and sparkle in her eyes, that Susan
told a neighbour that Miss Gavin was getting more beautiful every day.
On the following Friday a lively discussion took place in the van upon
the merits of masterfulness in married life. Of course, the doctor's
engagement was the beginning of the discussion.
"I do say," said Mrs. Capper, "that they be a proper suited couple.
Mrs. Francis is just as gentle as the doctor be firm. There'll be no
fallin' out atween 'em!"
"Well, now," said Tomina, looking back over her shoulder at her
passengers, "do you think that the husband or the wife should rule in
the house?"
There was a good deal of laughter.
"Why, miss, the man ought to be master, Bible says."
"But if he drinks like a beast," said one young woman, sharply; "'tis
according to the natures of 'em!"
"There be Tom Lorrimer," said old Mrs. Capper, "who be under his wife's
thumb and afraid to wink his eye unless she gives 'im leave. The only
time he do be able to stand up to her is when he's had a drop too much,
and he told me he took it on purpose so as to master her!"
"I'd master him!" said another woman, vindictively.
"I'd like to see my husband a masterin' of me. The woman should be
missus of her house. She be in it an' keeps it; the man be only there
nights and the evenin's!"
"It's like this, miss," said the oldest woman there; "there be some men
born to be masters, but there be others that be best managed for. If
a man be born and bred to rule, his wife had best give in for sake of
peace, but if he be a poor weak sort o' chap, 'tis for the good of all
that his wife rules for 'im!"
"I believe you are right," said Tomina, thoughtfully. "Circumstances
alter cases. I used to think a man was a tyrant if he insisted upon
having his own way, but if it is a good way, the woman ought to yield."
Then Mrs. Judd, of the general shop spoke. "There be grand talk now of
women rulin' in Parlyment and havin' their votes. Miss Merryweather
believes in that; she gave us a long talkin' to one day, but I says to
'er—
"'Miss Merryweather,' I says, 'you may be very clever-headed, but
when it comes to makin' yourself heard in the Public Halls in that
there Parlyment House, why, my John would roar you down easy! If the
Almighty,' I says, 'wanted you to up and speak in Parlyment, he'd have
given you a voice to do it,' I says.
"Then she says to me, 'Do you know some women's voices carry farther
than men's; what about actresses?'
"'I don't know nothin' about actresses,' I says; 'they be not for
respectable ladies to copy.'
"And, of course, 'tis not only the voice, if men have always made laws
for hundreds of years, doesn't it follow that they be more clever at
it than the women? 'Tis just because 'tis a new thing that these here
women be wantin' to try their hand at it. They've nothin' else to do.
Let 'em get married, and have a dozen children to wash and feed and
clothe and a house to keep clean, an' a husband to cook for, they
wouldn't have the time or thought to be wantin' to be standin' amongst
the men in Parlyment!"
"But all women can't marry, Mrs. Judd," said Tomina, "and some think
that they could make better laws for women than the men can do."
There was a chorus of dissent at this.
"We'd rather the gentlemen ruled us than the ladies," said one. "A
gentleman—well, be he not so sharp-eyed and inquisitive as a lady?"
Here the van stopped to take up Mrs. Cayley.
Tomina greeted her warmly, and made her comfortable in the corner
behind her.
"We've been talking about husbands and wives, Mrs. Cayley, and which of
them ought to be the ruler. What do you think? Some of us don't like
to be ruled and managed by men, and some of us do. It depends upon the
man, don't you think?"
Mrs. Cayley looked round her with her sweet, gentle smile.
"I don't think there'll be any talk of ruling, where there be love for
each other. When love rules, you only see the love, and not the rule."
The women were silent.
"Yes," said Tomina, "of course, you are right. It is love and trust
that is wanted in married life, and then there will be no talk of rule."
Her thoughts went to Colonel Norman.
"My love was not deep enough or we should never have separated," she
said to herself. "I feel now that, if he were to want me, I would never
wish to have any other will but his."
The talk went on in the van, but Tomina did not join in. She gazed
wistfully and dreamily in front of her, and it was only when she
arrived at Damerton that she roused herself to her usual business.
A few days after this, she received a letter from Tom, the first he had
sent her since he sailed.
"DEAR OLD TOMMIE,"
"I am not a good fist at yarning with my pen, but I feel I treated you
a bit shabbily. My great happiness made me a selfish brute. Isn't she
wonderful? Are you two real friends? I want you to be. Have you gone to
stay with her yet? Take the first train and go! I want you to tell me
about her. She, like myself, is a bad correspondent; she never tells
what I want to know, and how can she? I charge you to do it, and you'll
earn my everlasting gratitude. Write me twenty pages. Don't stint paper
or ink. Tell me all about her, how she looks, where she is when you're
writing, what she is doing, what gown she is wearing, whether that rare
smile of hers creeps over her face. It comes so slowly and it goes so
quickly, but I learnt to watch for it, and whilst it lasted it warmed
my heart and made me feel I could go through fire and water to get it
again. Oh, Tommie, I can tell you I feel in a desert, stranded and
forlorn. My only comfort is living once again that blessed fortnight
in imagination. I shall hope for continual letters from you when you
get to her. Do go at once. She like's you, and she'll be lonely; she'll
miss me, though she is never one to proclaim it. This postbag is being
closed.
"Adieu.
"Your devoted Twin,
"Tom."
"Oh dear, oh dear!" sighed Tomina. "How foolish young husbands are! He
little knows, poor boy, how indifferent Doreen is to both of us. And
how can I force myself upon her before she asks me? Is that all the use
I can be to him now, a kind of mirror reflecting for his benefit all
she says and does?"
But she was not surprised to get a letter from Doreen in a week's time
to ask her for a "short visit."
She once again placed Joe in charge of her van, and went to the Dower
House at Walburton.
Doreen met her at the station in a pretty little pony-trap. She told
Tomina it was her cousin's wedding gift to her. She was looking
brighter and happier, and talked away about her house and garden the
whole time. It was a drive of two and a half miles, and they arrived
at the house just before dusk. The last rays of the setting sun were
gilding all the windows as they entered.
"It's a good omen for your visit," said Doreen, pleasantly. "Now you
must not expect perfection, though I have aimed at it, and some of the
rooms are still in rather an unfinished state. But don't you think I
have a sweet house?"
Tomina could quite satisfy her on that point. Indeed, the quaint,
old-fashioned cottage, with its low, long irregular rooms, and
beautiful oak beams and panelling would have satisfied any artist's
heart. Doreen had good taste; and every room was a picture of dainty
freshness and comfort. They had a cosy tea in the drawing-room, and as
it was still early spring, a bright wood fire was very acceptable.
Tomina tried to feel that this was Tom's home, but she could not
picture it.
When Doreen took her into the third sitting-room, she looked at the
rose-covered chintzes, and the fragile Chippendale chairs and tables,
and asked—
"Is this Tom's smoking-room?"
Doreen raised her eyebrows.
"This is the morning room. I write and work here, of course. I dare say
Tom will be able to bring his pipe in when he likes."
"But have you no man's room?" questioned Tomina, persistently. "When he
is home, where is he to sit?"
"With me, I should think," said Doreen, and a cold inflection was in
her tone. "Considering how much he will be away, I have not, I confess,
furnished a room for his sole and absolute use."
Tomina was silent.
"There is a room—the housekeeper's," went on Doreen, in milder tones,
"that I dare say Tom may like to use. My maids will not want it. I only
keep two, and they have such a beautiful kitchen that they do not need
a servants' hall. But there will be plenty of time to furnish that
later."
"Oh yes," said Tomina, quickly, "you will be able to do that, of
course. I know Tom's ways when he is at home, and he would be bound to
have a den of his own."
After dinner they sat over the fire and talked. But Tomina wisely kept
off the subject of her brother as long as she could.
"What will you do with yourself when your house and garden is in
perfect order, and you have no more planning and contriving?" she asked
Doreen.
Doreen sat back in her chair with clasped hands in her lap. She was
always composed and still, her face was a striking contrast to Tomina's
sparkling vivacious one. Her eyes were clear and steady, as she
answered slowly—
"I shall live in my books when I am not gardening."
"What kind of books do you live in?"
"It depends on my mood," said Doreen. "Poetry when I am feeling flat
and dull. Philosophy when I want to think."
"You read to take yourself away from your surroundings?"
"Yes, always."
"I don't. I like to get knowledge for practical purposes. But then
it is only lately that I have tried to do useful things, and I am so
ignorant! You would laugh to see some of my purchases in the Damerton
book shop. Handbooks on cookery, of course, and medicine in the home,
and the first course in nursing and ambulance, and dog diseases, and
scientific dressmaking, and bee keeping, and gardening."
"But why have you so many hobbies?"
"Oh, they're not hobbies exactly, only I don't feel so lamentably
ignorant when I drive my van. My passengers appeal to me on every kind
of topic. Two of them had a dispute on the efficacy of onions for
poultices the other day. I had never heard of the onion cure. They
expect me to be a regular encyclopædia of knowledge. And I don't like
disappointing them."
"I wonder how soon you will tire of that van?"
"Not just yet."
"But you will not want to spend the rest of your life in that part of
the country?"
"I shall never go back to London."
"You will stagnate there."
"That is what Alice Merryweather always says. But I find I am always
making new discoveries and learning new things."
"You ought to marry," Doreen said, looking at her with sombre eyes.
"You have taken up a 'rôle' that does not suit you. A woman carrier
to my mind ought to be a gaunt, big-limbed, hard-featured person. You
don't look as if you could weather a puff of wind!"
"There I am a fraud, for I've weathered many storms, and have never
been in better health all my life. And marriage is not necessarily the
sole aim and object of a woman's life. I could not undertake it without
real love!"
The words slipped out of her lips before she thought. But Doreen looked
at her with a calm smile.
"Love is tempestuous, and uncertain, it never lasts. I do not think I
know a single couple amongst my married friends who keep their love
after ten years of married life. They get accustomed to each other,
indifferent I should say. Love is 'not' necessary, Tomina. It is a
waste of one's heart's blood often."
Tomina shook her head.
"I can't argue with you. A married life without love must be like—well,
like bread without any butter."
"Bread is very wholesome," said Doreen, with the shadow of a smile.
Then she rose from her seat and stood with her back to the fire, and
her hands clasped behind her. Looking at Tomina almost tenderly, she
said: "I feel so many years older than you, Tomina. It is difficult to
kindle a fire when it has burnt out and there are only ashes left. It
will never be kindled again in my heart. It is of no use us uttering
all these platitudes; you are not pleased with my attitude towards your
brother, but you need not be afraid. I mean to be serene, and helpful;
he will never find that I shall fail him."
"But he does love you so intensely," said Tomina; "it is such waste on
his part, is it not?"
"No, I think I like it. It soothes and comforts me."
"But why should he give you so much and you give him so little?"
Tomina's tone vibrated with feeling.
"I am giving him a great deal, and he knows it. As you said just now,
marriage is not the sole aim and object of a woman's life. It was not
mine, and I told him so. I warned him beforehand what I could give him
and what I could not. And if you leave us alone, you will find we shall
be as united a couple as the majority are."
"I shall never mention the subject again," said Tomina, quietly.
And she did not.
The following morning she was shown the quaint old garden, and Tomina
fell in love with it at once. Crocuses and early daffodils were
springing under the old red brick walls, the brown buds on trees and
shrubs were swelling visibly, and birds were singing ecstatically as
they flew here and there collecting for their nests. Doreen pointed out
the wooden seats in sheltered corners, and said she meant to bring her
writing and books out of doors as soon as the weather became warm.
"Do you know where I first got my love for a garden?" she said. "It was
about six years ago before I went out to Australia. I visited a convent
in France, and they took me into the garden, where some of them were
gardening, and some of them walking about and reading their books. It
was summer-time, and the peace and stillness under the shady trees,
and the sweet scent of the lilies and heliotrope and lemon verbena
followed me for years. It made me wish to be a nun. And when I came
into this legacy, my cup of happiness seemed full. I shall wander round
and imbibe all the scents and sounds and sweetness that will be here.
You see it in spring now. You have no idea of the wealth of bloom and
beauty that will come by-and-by!"
"You are making one envy you," said Tomina, with her gay laugh. "I can
see you on a summer's morning. It seems to suit you. You must always
wear a white gown rather long in the skirt, so that you can trail
properly over the green lawns, with a basket of roses hanging on your
arm, and a book in your hand. Then you can pose by a sundial, and
follow with your eyes the flight of rooks or doves from a dovecote. Oh,
it will be charming! But there must be an observer somewhere, or your
dream-garden will never be described in the orthodox fashion."
"You are laughing at me! I shall welcome no intruder. It is the peace
and privacy that I shall value. Can't you understand a little? I have
been at every one's beck and call since I left school, always making
myself agreeable when I did not feel so, always entertaining, always
talking small talk, paying empty compliments, making friends with
people I thoroughly despised, accepting their hospitality, joining in
empty chatter, in gay trivialities, never having a moment to myself,
smiling when my heart was aching, pretending and posing and acting day
after day, till my soul sickened and withered under it all!"
At last Tomina saw something of the fire beneath Doreen's still serene
exterior. She slipped her arm into hers and gave it a little squeeze.
"Of course, I understand, dear," she said. "Haven't I gone through it
myself? Aren't hundreds of women doing it still? And yet half of them
don't realise the pitiful slavery of it, and how they could break away
and call their souls their own if they choose. I broke away, and I
am never going back to it again. You and I are fortunate. We have no
obligations to make us do so. I know that some are nobly doing their
duty towards husbands and parents and children, and could not make a
fresh life for themselves. They must stay in it, and endure. But there
are others who could do as we have done."
Tomina's eyes were misty as she spoke. She went on—
"I seem to feel so much more for people than I used to do. I think it
is my van. I hear and see so much of human life as we go trundling
along. Sometimes I wonder, if I went back to my London life, whether
I could help any girls to escape from it, and see what a much bigger
purpose might be in their lives; and how we were sent into the world
for that purpose. But, of course, I might not succeed in making them
see it, and might only do more harm than good."
"I don't think the modern girl would stand much preaching," said Doreen.
"Perhaps not. And we are all led differently, are we not? I remember
telling my doctor that I felt like a traveller leaving the busy
high-road and turning down a green bye-lane. That was when I first
arrived in the country. Now, as I look back, what a beautiful country
my green lane has led me into, and what vistas and views I have got!"
"Views of what?" Doreen asked, looking down upon her curiously.
"Of the Golden Unseen Land," said Tomina, softly.
And Doreen said no more.
Tomina enjoyed this visit of hers. She and Doreen gardened
industriously every morning.
They drove out in the afternoon, and occasionally had to receive
callers. Long letters went out to Tom, but Tomina was the one who wrote
most, and she described her life in every detail.
Now and then in talking together over the fire in the evening, they
would touch the fringe of deep subjects. Tomina was quite ready to talk
of what she had lately experienced, but she was also ready to wait, and
draw back, if Doreen showed impatience or distaste of such talk.
Time slipped away, and then Tomina said she must return home. As London
was on her way, she determined to stay with her stepmother for a few
days before returning to Little Honeycombe.
Doreen parted from her with sincere regret. She drove her to the
station in her pony-trap.
They had been rather silent for some time, when she suddenly startled
Tomina by saying abruptly—"You spoke the other day of every one having
a high purpose in their lives. What is yours?"
"To be a carrier," said Tomina, slowly and sweetly. "Wasn't it strange
that I tumbled upon my vocation in real carelessness of soul? I mean
with God's help to be a carrier to the end of my life. The legend of
St. Christoforos has helped me so much."
Doreen looked interested.
"I used to be so fond of that story when I was a child," she said. "I
think you would always help people with their burdens, Tomina. You
are so sympathetic, and yet so gay. I am a very grave person, as you
know, and as such appreciate brightness so very much. Sometimes people
crudely imagine that the sober-looking cannot enjoy fun. Why, it is
those that feel cold that enjoy the sunshine most!"
"It's a lovely thought, isn't it?" said Tomina, with glowing eyes.
"Life does seem so hard to so many, it is like struggling through
rushing water; and if one can help each other through, it is glorious.
I have been so awfully selfish. I have sat with folded hands, refusing
to put my little finger out to help anybody. Our Rector's wife is quite
overwhelmed sometimes. I refused to go near her because she was 'good'
and tried to do me good. Oh, how I did dislike her at first, and how
much I like her now!"
"Do you? I should never like any one who 'tried to do me good.' But I
should like some one who shouldered my burden with me and stepped along
a bit of my way. And you have done that, Tomina. Life has been better
and sweeter since you came."
Tomina could not speak. When she kissed her in parting, she said—
"I shall often think of you in your retreat. We are real friends, are
we not? The recluse and the carrier!"
And at Tomina's happy laugh, Doreen gave one of her rare sweet smiles.
Tomina carried that away with her, and thought that, after all, Tom was
a lucky man.