Duly shaved with one of Stanley's razors, bathed, and breakfasted, Felix
was on the point of getting into the car to return to Joyfields when he
received a message from his mother: Would he please go up and see her
before he went?
He found her looking anxious and endeavoring to conceal it.
Having kissed him, she drew him to her sofa and said: “Now, darling,
come and sit down here, and tell me all about this DREADFUL business.”
And taking up an odorator she blew over him a little cloud of scent.
“It's quite a new perfume; isn't it delicious?”
Felix, who dreaded scent, concealed his feelings, sat down, and told
her. And while he told her he was conscious of how pathetically her
fastidiousness was quivering under those gruesome details—fighting with
policemen, fighting with common men, prison—FOR A LADY; conscious too
of her still more pathetic effort to put a good face on it. When he had
finished she remained so perfectly still, with lips so hard compressed,
that he said:
“It's no good worrying, Mother.”
Frances Freeland rose, pulled something hard, and a cupboard appeared.
She opened it, and took out a travelling-bag.
“I must go back with you at once,” she said.
“I don't think it's in the least necessary, and you'll only knock
yourself up.”
“Oh, nonsense, darling! I must.”
Knowing that further dissuasion would harden her determination, Felix
said: “I'm going in the car.”
“That doesn't matter. I shall be ready in ten minutes. Oh! and do you
know this? It's splendid for taking lines out under the eyes!” She was
holding out a little round box with the lid off. “Just wet your finger
with it, and dab it gently on.”
Touched by this evidence of her deep desire that he should put as good a
face on it as herself, Felix dabbed himself under the eyes.
“That's right. Now, wait for me, dear; I shan't be a minute. I've only
to get my things. They'll all go splendidly in this little bag.”
In a quarter of an hour they had started. During that journey Frances
Freeland betrayed no sign of tremor. She was going into action, and,
therefore, had no patience with her nerves.
“Are you proposing to stay, Mother?” Felix hazarded; “because I don't
think there's a room for you.”
“Oh! that's nothing, darling. I sleep beautifully in a chair. It suits
me better than lying down.” Felix cast up his eyes, and made no answer.
On arriving, they found that the doctor had been there, expressed
his satisfaction, and enjoined perfect quiet. Tod was on the point of
starting back to Transham, where Sheila and the two laborers would
be brought up before the magistrates. Felix and Kirsteen took hurried
counsel. Now that Mother, whose nursing was beyond reproach, had come,
it would be better if they went with Tod. All three started forthwith in
the car.
Left alone, Frances Freeland took her bag—a noticeably old one, without
any patent clasp whatever, so that she could open it—went noiselessly
upstairs, tapped on Derek's door, and went in. A faint but cheerful
voice remarked: “Halloo, Granny!”
Frances Freeland went up to the bed, smiled down on him ineffably, laid
a finger on his lips, and said, in the stillest voice: “You mustn't
talk, darling!” Then she sat down in the window with her bag beside
her. Half a tear had run down her nose, and she had no intention that
it should be seen. She therefore opened her bag, and, having taken out a
little bottle, beckoned Nedda.
“Now, darling,” she whispered, “you must just take one of these. It's
nothing new; they're what my mother used to give me at your age. And for
one hour you must go out and get some fresh air, and then you can come
back.”
“Must I, Granny?”
“Yes; you must keep up your strength. Kiss me.”
Nedda kissed a cheek that seemed extraordinarily smooth and soft,
received a kiss in the middle of her own, and, having stayed a second by
the bed, looking down with all her might, went out.
Frances Freeland, in the window, wasted no thoughts, but began to run
over in her mind the exact operations necessary to defeat this illness
of darling Derek's. Her fingers continually locked and interlocked
themselves with fresh determinations; her eyes, fixed on imaginary
foods, methods of washing, and ways of keeping him quiet, had an almost
fanatical intensity. Like a good general she marshalled her means of
attack and fixed them in perfect order. Now and then she gazed into her
bag, making quite sure that she had everything, and nothing that was
new-fangled or liable to go wrong. For into action she never brought any
of those patent novelties that delighted her soul in times of peace. For
example, when she herself had pneumonia and no doctor, for two months,
it was well known that she had lain on her back, free from every kind
of remedy, employing only courage, nature, and beef tea, or some such
simple sustenance.
Having now made her mental dispositions, she got up without sound and
slipped off a petticoat that she suspected of having rustled a little
when she came in; folding and popping it where it could not be suspected
any more, she removed her shoes and put on very old velvet slippers. She
walked in these toward the bed, listening to find out whether she could
hear herself, without success. Then, standing where she could see
when his eyes opened, she began to take stock. That pillow wasn't very
comfortable! A little table was wanted on both sides, instead of on one.
There was no odorator, and she did not see one of those arrangements!
All these things would have to be remedied.
Absorbed in this reconnoitring, she failed to observe that darling Derek
was looking at her through eyelashes that were always so nice and black.
He said suddenly, in that faint and cheerful voice:
“All right, Granny; I'm going to get up to-morrow.”
Frances Freeland, whose principle it was that people should always be
encouraged to believe themselves better than they were, answered. “Yes,
darling, of course; you'll be up in no time. It'll be delightful to see
you in a chair to-morrow. But you mustn't talk.”
Derek sighed, closed his eyes, and went off into a faint.
It was in moments such as these that Frances Freeland was herself. Her
face flushed a little and grew terribly determined. Conscious that she
was absolutely alone in the house, she ran to her bag, took out her sal
volatile, applied it vigorously to his nose, and poured a little between
his lips. She did other things to him, and not until she had brought him
round, and the best of it was already made, did she even say to herself:
'It's no use fussing; I must make the best of it.'
Then, having discovered that he felt quite comfortable—as he said—she
sat down in a chair to fan him and tremble vigorously. She would not
have allowed that movement of her limbs if it had in any way interfered
with the fanning. But since, on the contrary, it seemed to be of
assistance, she certainly felt it a relief; for, whatever age her spirit
might be, her body was seventy-three.
And while she fanned she thought of Derek as a little, black-haired,
blazing-gray-eyed slip of a sallow boy, all little thin legs and arms
moving funnily like a foal's. He had been such a dear, gentlemanlike
little chap. It was dreadful he should be forgetting himself so, and
getting into such trouble. And her thoughts passed back beyond him to
her own four little sons, among whom she had been so careful not to have
a favorite, but to love them all equally. And she thought of how their
holland suits wore out, especially in the elastic, and got green behind,
almost before they were put on; and of how she used to cut their hairs,
spending at least three-quarters of an hour on each, because she had
never been quick at it, while they sat so good—except Stanley,
and darling Tod, who WOULD move just as she had got into the comb
particularly nice bits of his hair, always so crisp and difficult! And
of how she had cut off Felix's long golden curls when he was four, and
would have cried over it, if crying hadn't always been silly! And of
how beautifully they had all had their measles together, so that she had
been up with them day and night for about a fortnight. And of how it was
a terrible risk with Derek and darling Nedda, not at all a wise match,
she was afraid. And yet, if they really were attached, of course one
must put the best face on it! And how lovely it would be to see another
little baby some day; and what a charming little mother Nedda would
make—if only the dear child would do her hair just a little differently!
And she perceived that Derek was asleep—and one of her own legs, from
the knee down. She would certainly have bad pins and needles if she did
not get up; but, since she would not wake him for the world, she must do
something else to cure it. And she hit upon this plan. She had only to
say, 'Nonsense, you haven't anything of the sort!' and it was sure to go
away. She said this to her leg, but, being a realist, she only made
it feel like a pin-cushion. She knew, however, that she had only to
persevere, because it would never do to give in. She persevered, and
her leg felt as if red-hot needles were being stuck in it. Then, for
the life of her, she could not help saying a little psalm. The sensation
went away and left her leg quite dead. She would have no strength in it
at all when she got up. But that would be easily cured, when she could
get to her bag, with three globules of nux vomica—and darling Derek must
not be waked up for anything! She waited thus till Nedda came back, and
then said, “Sssh!”
He woke at once, so that providentially she was able to get up, and,
having stood with her weight on one leg for five minutes, so as to be
quite sure she did not fall, she crossed back to the window, took
her nux vomica, and sat down with her tablets to note down the little
affairs she would require, while Nedda took her place beside the bed, to
fan him. Having made her list, she went to Nedda and whispered that
she was going down to see about one or two little things, and while she
whispered she arranged the dear child's hair. If only she would keep
it just like that, it would be so much more becoming! And she went
down-stairs.
Accustomed to the resources of Stanley's establishment, or at least to
those of John's and Felix's, and of the hotels she stayed at, she felt
for a moment just a little nonplussed at discovering at her disposal
nothing but three dear little children playing with a dog, and one
bicycle. For a few seconds she looked at the latter hard. If only it had
been a tricycle! Then, feeling certain that she could not make it into
one, she knew that she must make the best of it, especially as, in any
case, she could not have used it, for it would never do to leave darling
Nedda alone in the house. She decided therefore to look in every room
to see if she could find the things she wanted. The dog, who had been
attracted by her, left the children and came too, and the children,
attracted by the dog, followed; so they all five went into a room on the
ground floor. It was partitioned into two by a screen; in one portion
was a rough camp bedstead, and in the other two dear little child's
beds, that must once have been Derek's and Sheila's, and one still
smaller, made out of a large packing-case. The eldest of the little
children said:
“That's where Billy sleeps, Susie sleeps here, and I sleeps there; and
our father sleeped in here before he went to prison.” Frances Freeland
experienced a shock. To prison! The idea of letting these little things
know such a thing as that! The best face had so clearly not been put on
it that she decided to put it herself.
“Oh, not to prison, dear! Only into a house in the town for a little
while.”
It seemed to her quite dreadful that they should know the truth—it was
simply necessary to put it out of their heads. That dear little girl
looked so old already, such a little mother! And, as they stood about
her, she gazed piercingly at their heads. They were quite clean.
The second dear little thing said:
“We like bein' here; we hope Father won't be comin' back from prison
for a long time, so as we can go on stayin' here. Mr. Freeland gives us
apples.”
The failure of her attempt to put a nicer idea into their heads
disconcerted Frances Freeland for a moment only. She said:
“Who told you he was in prison?”
Biddy answered slowly: “Nobody didn't tell us; we picked it up.”
“Oh, but you should never pick things up! That's not at all nice. You
don't know what harm they may do you.”
Billy replied: “We picked up a dead cat yesterday. It didn't scratch a
bit, it didn't.”
And Biddy added: “Please, what is prison like?”
Pity seized on Frances Freeland for these little derelicts, whose heads
and pinafores and faces were so clean. She pursed her lips very tight
and said:
“Hold out your hands, all of you.”
Three small hands were held out, and three small pairs of gray-blue eyes
looked up at her. From the recesses of her pocket she drew forth her
purse, took from it three shillings, and placed one in the very centre
of each palm. The three small hands closed; two small grave bodies
dipped in little courtesies; the third remained stock-still, but a grin
spread gradually on its face from ear to ear.
“What do you say?” said Frances Freeland.
“Thank you.”
“Thank you—what?”
“Thank you, ma'am.”
“That's right. Now run away and play a nice game in the orchard.”
The three turned immediately and went. A sound of whispering rose
busily outside. Frances Freeland, glancing through the window, saw them
unlatching the wicket gate. Sudden alarm seized her. She put out her
head and called. Biddy came back.
“You mustn't spend them all at once.”
Biddy shook her head.
“No. Once we had a shillin', and we were sick. We're goin' to spend
three pennies out of one shillin' every day, till they're gone.”
“And aren't you going to put any by for a rainy day?”
“No.”
Frances Freeland did not know what to answer. Dear little things!
The dear little things vanished.
In Tod's and Kirsteen's room she found a little table and a pillow, and
something that might do, and having devised a contrivance by which
this went into that and that into this and nothing whatever showed,
she conveyed the whole very quietly up near dear Derek's room, and told
darling Nedda to go down-stairs and look for something that she knew
she would not find, for she could not think at the moment of any better
excuse. When the child had gone, she popped this here, and popped that
there. And there she was! And she felt better. It was no use whatever to
make a fuss about that aspect of nursing which was not quite nice. One
just put the best face upon it, quietly did what was necessary, and
pretended that it was not there. Kirsteen had not seen to things quite
as she should have. But then dear Kirsteen was so clever.
Her attitude, indeed, to that blue bird, who had alighted now twenty-one
years ago in the Freeland nest, had always, after the first few shocks,
been duly stoical. For, however her fastidiousness might jib at neglect
of the forms of things, she was the last woman not to appreciate really
sterling qualities. Though it was a pity dear Kirsteen did expose her
neck and arms so that they had got quite brown, a pity that she never
went to church and had brought up the dear children not to go, and to
have ideas that were not quite right about 'the Land,' still she was
emphatically a lady, and devoted to dear Tod, and very good. And her
features were so regular, and she had such a good color, and was so slim
and straight in the back, that she was always a pleasure to look at. And
if she was not quite so practical as she might have been, that was not
everything; and she would never get stout, as there was every danger of
Clara doing. So that from the first she had always put a good face on
her. Derek's voice interrupted her thoughts:
“I'm awfully thirsty, Granny.”
“Yes, darling. Don't move your head; and just let me pop in some of this
delicious lemonade with a spoon.”
Nedda, returning, found her supporting his head with one hand, while
with the other she kept popping in the spoon, her soul smiling at him
lovingly through her lips and eyes.