LADIES AT MARKET BURTON
"What I cannot understand," said Mrs. Holmes, "is why John ever allowed
the man to come near the village at all."
"Oh, but as far as I can see, he didn't let them come in. That was all
Mary's doing." Ursula pulled a cushion down more comfortably between
her shoulders and smiled at the circle of interested faces.
"Mary? Why Mary?" asked Anne, whose round little mouth perpetually
opened in search of information, as though she were a bird awaiting a
gift of worms.
Sarah Bannister also looked up from her knitting. "Yes, Ursula, why
Mary?"
"Oh, that socialist creature you know--your friend, Sarah. He began it
all. Mary brought him to Anderby and rubbed his chest with Elliman's
Embrocation because he had a cold, and he started agitating among the
labourers--and then the band played. Of course we all know that Mary's
awfully well-meaning, and all that, but, really, one would have thought
she'd have had a little more sense."
Since her return from the Hardrascliffe nursing-home, Ursula had
become an increasingly intimate member of the circle of Robson women.
Their "quaintness" amused her, when the activities of a smarter set
of sporting friends proved too strenuous, and her position as the
mother of the only male Robson of the rising generation was agreeably
important.
"You need not call him my friend, Ursula," snapped Sarah, who alone
was not overcome by the charm of her cousin-in-law's society. "The
young man would have had impertinence enough to argue with Mr. Asquith
himself, but he hadn't brains to upset a single creature in the
village, I know--not alone, anyway."
Mrs. Holmes shook a doleful head. "Well, I don't know what we're all
coming to, I'm sure. What do you think Emily said to me this morning?"
"Is Emily the cook or the parlourmaid?" asked Anne.
"Emily is the parlourmaid of course--that girl who Mrs. Thomson
recommended to me and thought was so nice, only she would breathe on
the silver before she polished it, which I always think is such an
infectious habit, don't you, with all this influenza and germs about?
Though, since the doctor at Harrogate told me I ought to spend my
winters abroad, I'm sure I hardly dare to think of a germ without
swallowing a formamint, nasty though they are. But Emily came to me
just when I was having a little dry toast with my tea in bed--all the
doctor will allow me during this new treatment--and said to me 'Please,
m'm, may I go to a dance to-night in the village?' And I said, 'Emily,'
I said, 'you can never complain of the way I have treated you, always
having the same as we have in the dining-room, and there's no more
beautiful food within twenty miles of Market Burton I'm sure. And if
it was a question of a night out to go and see your young man's people,
it would be a different matter. But a dance!' I said, 'This is too
much. I will not have any maids learning the same steps as my nieces
dance in the Town Hall at Leeds.'"
"I don't see that that has anything much to do with it, Janet." Sarah
rose, and began to clear the parish magazines and bound volumes of
_Punch_, and baskets of sewing that were piled upon her corner table.
"I can't see why there should be a strike just round about Anderby. It
all seems very strange. I'm sure I'm sorry for Mary." Anne sighed a
little, folding up her work.
"As far as I can see, she only has herself to blame," said Ursula. "She
jolly well asked for trouble, rubbing up the backs of half the men in
the village in the way she did. Why, when I was staying there, she had
a frightful quarrel with the schoolmaster about some boy or other, and
it appears from what Foster says that this man is behind most of the
trouble."
"Foster was down there yesterday, wasn't he?"
"Yes." Ursula smiled with satisfaction. "I sent him down to see if
there was anything we could do. Of course we are _most_ sorry for them
both, especially John. For I'm sure, after the way he's worked like a
negro, getting the mortgage paid off Mary's farm, the least she could
have done was to have made things as easy for him as possible."
"Did Foster say if John was keeping well?" Sarah would have given much
to go herself to Anderby. The consciousness that in John's hour of
difficulty no one but Mary was with him, and that she apparently had
only increased his troubles, was gall and wormwood to Sarah.
"Oh, he was going on all right so far, I believe. Though of course
all this sort of thing must be fearfully bad for him. I really can't
imagine what Mary was doing to let it happen. If she had any of the
influence you all used to boast she had over the village, I'm sure
she could have stopped it. From what Foster gathered, she just was as
tactless as she possibly could have been--slanged the men fearfully
when they might have come in, and lost her temper absolutely at the
end. Really, you know, one sometimes wonders what she'll do next.
She either has extraordinary notions of behaviour or very little
self-control--though, of course, I always feel inclined to excuse her a
great deal, because she hasn't any children."
"Well, I'm sure if Mary was wise, she would take John away from
Anderby," commented Louisa. She was now helping Sarah, who arranged
plates of queen cakes and jam tarts on the corner table as grimly as
though she were laying out a corpse. "After a stroke he ought not to
have to face all these new conditions."
"No, I'm sure." Janet Holmes sighed sympathetically. "I know so well
what it is for an invalid with shattered nerves to have to face all
sorts of changes. When I came back from Harrogate, absolutely exhausted
by the treatment there, and found that Lily had given notice, and I had
to engage a new cook----"
"Pass me the kettle, please, Anne. Janet, I suppose you are allowed to
have a cup of tea?" interrupted Sarah.
"No milk, please--I'm not allowed a drop of lactic matter just yet."
"You know, what I think is so queer about Mary," continued Ursula from
the sofa, "is that she always seems so awfully pleased with herself.
Of course I'm _very_ fond of Mary, mind you, and I wouldn't say a word
against her; but you know she really did sometimes seem to think she
was God Almighty in that village, and I'm sure she was never quite
as considerate to John as she might have been. Though there are some
people, of course, who just aren't capable of deep feeling."
"Well, this must be rather a shock to her," murmured Anne timidly. "I'm
sure she must be very fond of Anderby. It's such a pretty home."
"Oh, I don't know. Women with that rather domineering temperament love
a fight, don't they? And then it won't do her any harm really, just
seeing that every one isn't ready to lick her boots. It's poor John I'm
so sorry for."
The teapot arrived on a silver tray carried by a starched maid, and the
ladies put aside their work, and turned their attention to tarts and
bread and butter.
"Well, I don't think it would do Mary any harm to hear a little
advice----" began Ursula, when the door opened again and Mary walked in.
There was a sudden silence.
"I saw when I passed the window that Millie was helping in the room,
so I just came straight in," she said, drawing off her gloves and
coming forward to Sarah. "John's up the garden with Tom, Sarah. They'll
probably like a bit of talk together. I'm glad I've just come in time
for tea."
She took her cup and sat down beside Louisa in the big arm-chair
left vacant for Sarah. She did not know that it was Sarah's chair.
She did not know anything except that it was a relief to sit in this
comfortable room where life was shaken by such small emotions and
crises passed like the ripples made by a draught across the tea-cups.
She stirred the hot fragrant tea and selected with pleasure an iced
cake from the dish Louisa passed her. Every one seemed very silent.
That was nice. She had talked so much lately. There was too much
talking down at Anderby.
"Those were lovely damsons you sent me," she remarked pleasantly to
Sarah. "I bottled them at once and they were a splendid colour."
What a blessed comfort to talk of something beside the strike! She took
a bite of sugar cake and stretched her long limbs in the cushioned
chair. Still nobody spoke.
"It was dusty driving along," she said.
There was a pause.
"I'm glad you were able to get away," Louisa ventured at last. "We were
afraid you wouldn't be able to come."
"Why not? We were busy this morning, but one can generally get away
in the afternoons before leading time, and a change is rather nice.
Besides, it's a long time since we were here--not since John was ill."
"But--when things are rather difficult just now?" suggested Ursula.
"Difficult? What do you mean by difficult?" asked Mary irritably.
Of course, if they were going to spoil her respite by hinting and
fidgeting, she might as well have stayed at home.
"Well, I didn't know if you would be able to leave, now that you are
having trouble on the farm." Ursula stirred her tea meditatively.
"Trouble? Oh, you mean the strike?"
Then the chorus burst forth. "Yes, of course, Mary." "How are you
managing, Mary?" "What is John doing about it?" "How are you getting
the harvest in?" "How is John?" In a babble of curious voices.
Mary put down her tea-cup, and looked at them all. She seemed about to
say something. Then she changed her mind and helped herself to another
pink cake.
"Oh, we're getting on quite all right, thank you. How's the great
child, Ursula?"
"Thomas is all right, thank you, Mary. But how is John? We've all been
so anxious about him?"
"John is quite well again, thanks. How are you, Janet? Did Harrogate do
you any good?"
The inquiries had to cease for a little while, until Janet Holmes had
given a detailed account of her doctor, her ailments, her domestic
problems and her cure. Mary did not think it necessary to listen. She
ate and drank with drowsy contentment, the headache that had pursued
her during the last fortnight slowly fading under the influence of tea
and physical relaxation.
It was restful here, while Janet talked of waters and Turkish baths,
and Sarah handed cheese-cakes on fluted dishes, and Anne nervously
flicked at her tatting in the corner. Still, one would not like to stay
here always--only for a little, until the harvest was in, and the house
at Anderby quiet again, and it was no longer necessary to listen
every minute for a knock on the back door.... Here it was too quiet
though ... too quiet ... a valley ... trees in a valley.... Her
thoughts trailed off to drowsy incoherence. "... And so I said 'Dr.
Merriman, don't dream of it!' And he said 'My dear lady, that's just
what I should do if I allowed you to continue a minute longer in this
dreadful climate.'"
Like most of Janet's tales, there seemed no more reason why this should
stop than why it had begun. Ursula decided it had continued long
enough. She resumed the attack.
"Is it true that you and John are going to retire after this year?" she
asked sweetly.
Mary looked up in genuine astonishment. "Good gracious, no!"
"Well, we thought perhaps that, as John wasn't well and as after a
stroke worry and excitement are so bad for people, you wouldn't think
it wise to go on farming in Anderby."
"You see, Mary, he has always been so sensitive from a boy, to any
adverse feeling. This must have troubled him terribly," added Louisa.
Sarah, for the moment, said nothing.
Mary looked round the room upon her relatives.
"Oh!" she whispered softly.
"Of course we quite realize you're not to blame, Mary." Ursula took up
the tale. "Naturally it was awfully amusing having that young fellow to
stay and all that, and hearing his views, so different from anything
one gets about here, and, personally, I adore socialists. I've met
lots of them in the different places where I've stayed golfing, but
in a small village it's hardly wise, is it, to encourage that sort of
people?"
"It must have made a difference, John being only just better. You must
be very worried about him," insisted Louisa quietly.
"And, really, there is no need even to sell Anderby unless you liked.
You could always rent it to some one. My young cousin, Eustace Darnell,
has just left Cirencester Agricultural College and wants a farm. You
could get a good rent for it."
"And there's always Littledale, if John wanted to potter about a bit.
I'm sure it would be nice to retire. It's very pleasant here." Louisa
took the tea-cup Mary had emptied, and carried it back to Sarah at the
table.
"Of course John's only fifty-two," continued Ursula, "and that's early
to retire, but he's always been rather old for his age, hasn't he? And
now he's had a stroke, I suppose you'll have to be very careful of him.
It's really awfully risky, isn't it, keeping him at Anderby at all now
the strike's on? It must be rather trying for him."
Mary looked from one woman to another, in mute amazement.
"Well, really," she said, "anyone would think that John had to do all
the work himself from the way you talk! Why, at present things are
going on as much as usual. We have Shepherd and Foreman and Mike
O'Flynn and one or two Irish harvesters who have been with us for
several years. The only difficulty will be the leading, and then we've
planned to join up with the Willerbys and Glebe Farm people, and get
each other's corn in by turns."
Instinctively she turned a little in her chair and looked back towards
Sarah. Sarah was evidently engrossed in the delicate operation of
pouring out a second cup of tea for Louisa and paid Mary no attention.
Mary tried to finish her cake. The icing broke off into hard, jagged
pieces in her mouth. It was difficult to swallow. Oh, but this was a
dreadful place, she thought. What business was it of these women to
torment her? Of course they wanted her and John to come and live in
Market Burton. They were probably jealous, because she was still young
enough to appreciate life at Anderby.... Trees of the valley, they were
jealous of those who stood out upon the hill-tops and battled with the
storm. They would try to draw her down, woo her with warmth and ease,
and whisper that the fight was too hard, the uplands too bleak--hold
out as a threat the danger to John.... Knowing perhaps, that her
conscience was already over-burdened, and that when she thought of her
possible complicity in John's illness she lost all sense of reason and
proportion.
"Oh, we know of course you'd never let him do _that_ sort of work,"
smiled Ursula ingratiatingly. "It's just the strain of working with
unfriendly people, and knowing that at any moment there may be more
trouble. Of course, when you're down amongst it all, I don't suppose
you have quite the same chance of realizing what it all means as we
have here. You're very busy, I know--always such a good manager.
Naturally you haven't much time for fussing about other things--but we
really have been wondering a little how John will stand the strain."
Mary rose. To herself she said, "I can't stand this much longer."
Aloud, she laughed lightly.
"Well, you must all remember we've got to get the harvest in
somehow--and, after all, Ursula, I have the best opportunity of knowing
what's right for John. Sarah, I wonder if you'd let me take one or two
tomatoes from your greenhouse. John does like them, and we have none at
Anderby.... No, don't bother to come, please."
She had to escape from the room somehow. It was intolerable, full
of jagged glass ornaments, and crude woolwork and tongues that cut
like glass. These women would drive her mad. As though she had never
contemplated the possibility of retiring!
"I'll come with you." Sarah spoke to her for the first time that
evening.
"No, please don't bother," begged Mary desperately. "I really know
where they are, and I only want a few."
Sarah picked up a shawl and followed her from the room without further
comment.
The garden was full of slanting amber light and mellow tranquillity.
Across the hedge, they could hear the click of mallets on croquet
balls, and the intermittent calling of tennis scores from the
neighbouring club.
Sarah and Mary walked down the gravel path, between an autumn riot of
herbaceous borders and laden apple-trees. For a little while both were
silent, and Mary hoped, against all knowledge of Sarah's character,
that no further reference would be made to the conversation in the
drawing-room. She bent over a tall cluster of Japanese anemones.
"How fine these are this year," she remarked, "I never knew such a lot
of blossoms. They're so useful for vases too."
Sarah disregarded her attempted evasion.
"Mary," she announced abruptly, "John will have to give up farming."
Mary began to defend herself with unnecessary vigour.
"Oh, what nonsense you are all talking! John's all right. He is really.
Why, think how young he is! You're always saying that your father
didn't retire and was killed by an accident, when he was ninety-two.
John's better. Really he is."
"You know he isn't, Mary."
"Yes, he is. He is really. The doctor said that if he was kept quiet
there's no reason why----"
"Exactly. _If_ he was kept quiet. Now John has had a stroke, Mary.
He's a big heavy man and easily upset. He isn't clever like you." Mary
started at the compliment. "He'll find it very hard to get used to the
new ways."
"But this won't last long. We're getting along very nicely and the men
are bound to come in sooner or later. Things will be just the same
again."
"You know that isn't true," said Sarah quietly. "Things will never be
the same again. You're deceiving yourself, Mary. You don't like the
idea of giving up farming because you're still young and have had a
hard time, I know, to set things right at Anderby. But if you keep on,
this will kill John."
"Why, what nonsense! John's quite a young man. What's fifty-two? What
should we do, retiring at our age? Settle down here in Market Burton?
That would kill him far more likely. Why, the strike will be over
before harvest is in. I never heard such a lot of fuss about nothing in
my life!"
"And if the strike is over, what then, Mary?" Sarah smiled down at her
strangely. "What about John in the months to come, when every little
hitch will seem to mean another strike, and there are new rules and
regulations to deal with, and union officials and all that?"
"Yes, but there's me. I can deal with them. John's had hardly anything
to do with all this business."
What right had Sarah to raise all the tormenting doubts and suggestions
of the last few days, just when Mary had buried them so carefully deep
down in her mind? It was insufferable interference!
"While John is at Anderby, he will always be among it all. You can't
alter that, Mary."
"Oh, of course I know you want to get him back here! You'd like him
under your thumb again, as he was at Littledale. You've always been
jealous of me, and thought I shouldn't appreciate him properly!"
"Well, Mary, and if I have? Do you appreciate him properly?"
The old brick wall beyond the fruit trees shone darkly red. David's
hair was red.... The scent of the flowers was heavy on Mary's nostrils,
as their scent had been that afternoon in the cornfield, when the
shadow of John's horse had fallen across the wheat....
"What do you mean?" gasped Mary. "What do you mean?"
"I don't think you always bear in mind that John gave up his farm at
Littledale, and took over Anderby and your father's debts and has
worked as though he was your servant instead of your husband ever since
he married you. If he hadn't had your mortgage to pay, he'd be a rich
man now. If he hadn't worked so hard, he mightn't have had a stroke. If
you don't care enough for him to give up your own will on his account,
at least you owe it to him after all he's done for you."
Mary was silent at last. The flush had faded from her cheeks. She
stood, white and motionless, the bruised anemones between her hands.
"Mind you. I know this isn't easy. You haven't had such an easy time
at Anderby that you can give way now without minding. It's always the
things that have been most a burden that are hard to give up; but, if
you don't, it'll kill John."
"I can't do it." Mary's voice was devoid of all expression now. The
hands that held the flowers twisted a little as though in pain. "You
don't know what I've given up to Anderby. You can't."
Sarah looked at her for a little while in silence. Then she spoke, and
Mary had never before heard her voice so gentle.
"Mary, you don't think I've loved my brother all his life, and watched
him and you these ten years, without knowing a little about you both,
do you? I'm a cross old woman, and not very happy, but that doesn't
prevent me from having eyes in my head. You're young and vigorous, and
you want to use your youth. It seems dull to you to come and live among
a lot of old maids and worn out men and women in Market Burton. Well,
it is dull. But it's what we've all got to face sooner or later."
"But they can't do without me in the village."
"Can't they? Do you really think that, Mary? How old are you?"
"Twenty-eight."
"And you think that at twenty-eight--or indeed at any age--you've got
enough wisdom to make yourself necessary to a whole village? My dear
child, no one's ever necessary to anybody else's welfare really."
"But it's so cowardly to give up at the first difficulty."
Sarah smiled again, and plucked an anemone before she answered.
"There are more sorts of courage than one, Mary, and perhaps the rarest
kind of all is the courage that can give way graciously when it's too
late to fight any more. I couldn't do it myself, but I know."
"But I've paid for my right to Anderby!"
"And you think because you've paid you can expect your money's worth?
Why, I thought you were less of a child than that."
From the tennis court across the hedge came a girl's clear voice.
"Look out! That'll be a love set if you're not careful, David!"
Mary turned upon Sarah with sudden anger.
"Did you? Well, then, you were mistaken. This is all just a conspiracy.
You're all against me because you're jealous. You're out of things
yourselves and don't want anyone else to be in them. Well, you'll see.
I'll keep Anderby and I'll fight it out and I'll take care of John so
that he'll be all right and you'll all see what fools you've made of
yourselves. I'm sorry to sound rude, Sarah, but I've made up my mind."
"Oh, very well." There was pity as well as bitterness in Sarah's voice.
"But you'll have to change in the end. If you won't give way on your
own, things will make you. And that's much worse really."
"Don't you think," asked Mary slowly, "that it's time we got those
tomatoes?"