The Scent of Water

by Elizabeth Goudge

  The willow curtain was parted and a brown barelegged girl in a shrunken cotton frock stood in the aperture. In a flash the expression of peace on her thin face was covered by one of alarm and she would have flown like a bird had Mary not been instantly ready to forestall flight. “Come here, please,” she said. Her hand was held out but the voice was the one that no child had ever disobeyed in her teaching days. This child was immobilized by it. She stood where she was, shaking from head to foot. “Come right inside, please,” said Mary. “Come and sit here by me.”

  Impelled by the kind, commanding voice Edith came closer. But she would not sit down. She stood by Mary, looking down at her, her eyes dark with hatred. Mary got to her feet and in her turn stood looking down at Edith, for she must get the ascendancy now, quickly. Hatred, even in a child, or perhaps especially in a child, was a thing of such strength that if it was not overcome at once its growth was quickly a stranglehold. Smiling at Edith she said, “What is your name?” There was no answer and she repeated the question. “What is your name?”

  “Edith.”

  “You live next door?”

  The child nodded sullenly, kicking at a tussock of grass with her sandal.

  “Edith, I am sorry if by coming to live here I have trespassed in your garden. This is your garden, isn’t it? And is this willow tree your special place? I am sorry. But the garden is not taken from you. We’ll share it together but it will really be yours, and I will only work in it and sit on the lawn because you allow me to. But I won’t sit under this tree again. This, under the tree, is all yours. I won’t come here again. Come and look at the herbaceous border with me and we’ll think what it would be nice to plant in it.”

  Edith followed her and they walked along the moss-grown path together. She was unresponsive but when Mary talked quietly of the flowers they would have, looking down at the thin, clever, sensitive brown face, it was attentive and without hatred.

  “Did you think I’d be in church?” Mary asked, when they had twice been the length of the border.

  Edith spoke for the first time and her voice, as Mary had expected, was low and rapid with a timbre of music in it. “Yes. Everybody goes to church at eleven.”

  “Not you?”

  “I was sick this morning. Mother said I needn’t. I don’t like church. Rose and Jeremy do. Rose likes wearing her hat and Jeremy likes the mouse.”

  “There are three of you?”

  “Two really. Rose and Jeremy. I’m only adopted.”

  Mary took Edith’s hand and held it firmly. She did not consider herself an intuitive woman but she spoke now without premeditation. “Will you help me with something? My cousin, Miss Lindsay, had a collection of little treasures that she used to keep under a glass case in the window of the parlor. Mrs. Baker put them way for safety. I want to unpack them and put them back where they used to be. Will you help me?”

  Edith was transformed. The sun bursting out from behind a cloud, or a leaping lark exploding into song could scarcely have been more miraculously lovely than the change from misery to joy in her face. “Hurry!” she said, tugging at Mary’s hand.

  They ran across the lawn together, Edith racing ahead. Mary had opened the parlor window at the bottom that morning and the child was in the room and dancing with impatience by the time she had reached the conservatory. The night before she had found the glass case and the stand and put them on the table but she had waited for the daylight to unpack the little things. “They’re here,” she said, pulling out the top drawer of the escritoire. But it held only a collection of shabby leather-covered books that looked like old diaries. The two cardboard boxes containing the little things were in the second drawer.

  “You have one box to unpack and I’ll have the other,” she said to Edith.

  She lifted the glass case off the stand and they sat down together on the floor and began slowly to undo the tissue paper and cotton wool in which Mrs. Baker had wrapped the little things. It was hard to tell which of them was the more excited. One by one they appeared, the treasures of silver and gold, of jade, pinchbeck, glass, ebony and ivory, and Edith greeted each of them with delighted recognition. “Here’s the mandarin who nods his head. Here’s the peacock and the ivory mouse. Here’s the little thimble and scissors in the silver basket. Here’s the bluebird in the cage of golden wire. The lantern with the ruby glass. The dwarf with the red cap. The telescope with Brighton Pier at the end when you look through it. The elephant with a house on his back.” Her voice murmured on in a happy monotone as she deftly put the little things back on the black velvet of the shelves. When Mary placed anything there she immediately altered the position, but without rudeness, and smiling shyly at Mary. Only she knew where they all had to be.

  “Did Miss Lindsay show you her little things, Edith?” asked Mary.

  Edith shook her head. “No. I never came into the house. I used to look at them through the window. By myself. Rose and Jeremy haven’t seen them.”

  “I must have been about your age when I first saw them,” said Mary, and she told Edith about that day of her childhood, making a story of it, remembering for Edith’s benefit how the trees had seemed to move and the old wall and the door had looked like a painted picture. Edith listened gravely and when Mary had finished she said, “Yes, the trees move. I’ve never gone inside the green door, up the steps. I’ve never rung the bell.”

  “I’ll ask you and Rose and Jeremy to tea with me,” said Mary. “And you shall ring the bell and come in through the green door.”

  She had said the wrong thing. For the first time Edith’s fingers fumbled and a minute tortoiseshell cat with emerald eyes fell to the carpet. Stooping to pick it up she whispered, “By myself.”

  “I must ask the others too,” said Mary. “The first time. Other times we will be by ourselves. But if you want the little things to be a secret between you and me for the present, I’ll put them out of sight in my bedroom when you all come.”

  Edith looked up. “Not for the present. Always.”

  “It’s not right to possess beautiful things by oneself,” said Mary, “and presently you will want to share them.”

  “I won’t!” said Edith.

  Mary changed the subject. “We’ve unpacked them all,” she said. “But I’m afraid my old cousin must have given some of them away. The things I loved best when I was a child aren’t here. There was a tea set of clear blue glass and a wonderful ivory coach with Queen Mab inside. They were the best of all. You would have loved them, Edith. I wish they were still here.”

  Edith’s head was lowered. “I think,” she said in a small voice, “that I’m going to be sick again.”

  They ran, gaining the bathroom only just in time. Later, under the willow tree with Edith wrapped in Mary’s rug and imbibing warm milk with apparent enjoyment, Mary asked, “Does your tummy hurt at all?”

  “Just sore.”

  “It didn’t hurt before you were sick?”

  “No, it never hurts.”

  Not appendix, thought Mary. What’s worrying the child? “Keep still,” she said. “I haven’t got my books here yet, and so I can’t read aloud to you, but I’ll tell you a story.”

  Edith settled herself comfortably, looking up at the domed roof over her head. Mary looked too. The branches sprang from the central stem and curved outward like the ribbed vaulting of some cathedral chantry, and between them the green and gold leaves were stippled on the blue sky. And it’s mine, she thought with awe. This chantry is mine. And then quickly, No, Edith’s. What story should she tell her? She didn’t know the modern children’s classics and she had to turn back to her own childhood. The Cat That Walked by Itself. That rather suited Edith. She was a good storyteller and presently there was color in Edith’s lips, her eyes were bright and her body relaxed. Several times during the morning Mary had been aware of singing, so muted that it had been no more than a background to the music of birds and bees, but now twelve o’clock boomed loudly and a moment later the story and t
he quiet were torn in pieces by the clamor of human creatures let loose. It was not the shrill noise of children let out of school but it would have been but for the restraints of age and good breeding. Then came the banging of car doors and the purring of engines starting up. Edith leapt to her feet and flew out from under the willow tree and down the garden, Mary after her. “You’ve plenty of time, darling,” she said when she had caught up with her at the edge of the copse and had her in her arms.

  “Mother said I was to lie on the drawing-room sofa and not move,” said Edith.

  Mary took her arms away. “Off with you then. And remember, it’s your garden and your willow tree. Come and go as you like. Good-bye, Edith.”

  “ ’Bye,” called Edith. She was already climbing up the apple tree. She stepped nimbly from there to the wall, turned to wave to Mary, then climbed into the mulberry tree beyond. She’s going to be beautiful, thought Mary, watching her. She’s going to be a remarkable woman. Edith suits her. It’s a grave, still name.

  She went back to the willow tree and picked up the rug and her writing things. It had been a rewarding interlude, she thought, and now she would go on with her solitary day, though not under Edith’s willow tree. The bell clanged. She ran into the house through the conservatory and went down the passage to the green door. She dragged it back as far as she could, farther than she had ever dragged it before, for the woman standing on the steps would not have been able to squeeze through the usual aperture.

  “Good morning,” said Mary. “Please come in.”

  “May I? How kind. I felt I couldn’t wait to welcome you to our little community. You know we’re just like one big family here. It’s so charming. My name is Hermione Hepplewhite. My dear, I won’t stay a moment, but my husband and I want you to dine tonight. Now you mustn’t refuse us, for we’ll send the car, and then you’ll have no trouble in finding the way to the manor. I’ve just dropped in after church. Unconventional of me but that’s one of the joys of the country. We’re not conventional here. Not that I ever was. I was a very unconventional girl. I like people. I like knowing people. How lovely your wistaria is. Your poor old cousin. Such a recluse. I don’t believe I’ve ever been inside the house. I used to inquire, you know. Bring her flowers, poor soul. How old and strange this hall is. And this pretty parlor. My dear, I feel we’re going to be great friends. It was in my stars yesterday that I should make a good friend and I took to you at once. I always know.”

  The kind flood of talk seemed to Mary to be slowly filling the little room, mounting higher and higher up the paneled walls like—no, not like honey, for there was strength and power in honey, but like warm very runny apricot jam. She pulled one of the little gold chairs forward, hoping it would bear Mrs. Hepplewhite’s weight. Laughter was rising in her, and iron determination not to dine tonight, and at the same time a liking for Mrs. Hepplewhite, and admiration for the perfection of her presentation. That was the right word, Mary thought. To say that Mrs. Hepplewhite dressed well was true but inadequate. With her immaculate makeup, in her perfect tweeds, a wreath of soft blue feathers on her beautiful blue-rinsed white hair and a single string of fine pearls around her neck, she presented the countrywoman of wealth and taste as a great actress would have done, everything she wore as integral a part of her presentation as her movements and the inflections of her voice. She was a great actress and it was the genius of the actress that Mary admired, though her liking was reserved for a woman now so buried that she might never know her. She did not believe that Mrs. Hepplewhite had been christened Hermione. What had made her choose the name? Did it symbolize for her the new woman she had put on so costingly? One could tell that the attainment had been hard, for there was a look of strain about her kind blue eyes and her color beneath her powder was too high. But for vigorous corseting, and probably dieting, she would have been stout, and Mary realized with keen sympathy that she would have liked to be stout, would have loved to let her tall upright figure sag in private moments of fatigue, but that she never did. The stiff armor of her corsets was a symbol of some dedication in her. To what? To whom? wondered Mary, and returning suddenly to the surface realized that for the last three minutes Mrs. Hepplewhite’s conversation had been mounting about her without her comprehension. “Archer shall fetch you in the Bentley at seven-thirty,” was the final sentence.

  “Mrs. Hepplewhite, I’m so sorry, but I am engaged tonight,” said Mary.

  Mrs. Hepplewhite dived cheerfully into her bag, produced a tiny diary covered in scarlet leather and flicked over its pages. “Tomorrow evening I’ve a meeting. I’m on so many committees. One likes to do what one can. Tuesday we dine out ourselves. Not Wednesday. My husband won’t be home until late on Wednesday and he’s dying to meet you. He saw you. Did I tell you? You didn’t see him. Oh dear, we go away for a long weekend. Tuesday week?”

  “Thank you,” said Mary. “Tuesday week.”

  Mrs. Hepplewhite noted the date in the little diary with a small golden pencil. “Archer, that’s our chauffeur, shall fetch you at seven-thirty. And now, my dear, I must tear myself away. We’ve weekend guests. It’s been delightful to meet you and I hope we shall see a great deal of each other. Who are you getting to do up this house for you? You must have Roundham at Westwater. We always have them ourselves. Ring them tomorrow. Tell them I recommended them. What did you say? Baker at Thornton? But, my dear, they’ll ruin the place. Cancel the order. Let me ring Roundham for you myself. I’ll do it tomorrow. Oh? Oh yes, I see. Never mind.”

  They had got as far as the hall and for a moment she was crestfallen as a child, but then like a child she was happy again with a new idea. “Your hair, my dear. There’s quite a good place at Westwater, when you haven’t time to go up to town. A Belgian, a very charming man. I’ll tell him about you. No, don’t thank me. What are we here for but to help each other? Have you a dog?” They were under the wistaria and Mary speechlessly shook her head. “Oh, but you must have a dog. They’re such companions in the country. I don’t know what I’d do without my Tania, she comes everywhere with me, to meetings and church and so on. She does not mind how long she waits in the car if she has something of mine to lay her little face against, my gloves or scarf or something. It’s so touching. You must have a poodle from Tania’s kennels. They breed a wonderful strain there. I’ll give you the address. Tania’s here, outside in the car. Such a poppet.”

  Mrs. Hepplewhite’s conversation, when she was in movement, dragged one in her wake with a species of suction. Mary did not want to go out to the blue Bentley and look at Tania but she had to. Tania, very white and very small, sat on her cushion and looked at Mary very intently for some while out of black, bright, unblinking eyes. Mary’s gaze fell first, not so much because she was intimidated as because she was suddenly very tired; and Mrs. Hepplewhite, she realized, was writing out an address for her on a page torn from her diary.

  “Not a poodle, Mrs. Hepplewhite. She’s a darling but I’ve set my heart on an ordinary cottage tabby cat. For the mice. The house is full of them.”

  “Mice?” cried Mrs. Hepplewhite. “We’d a plague of them at the manor when we moved in. I got some splendid mouse stuff. Now what is it called?” She pressed her hand for a moment over her tired eyes. “Now what was it called? How stupid of me.”

  “Tell me on Tuesday week,” said Mary. “I mustn’t keep you now. Good-bye till then.” She moved back waving and smiling, for if Mrs. Hepplewhite were to remember the name of the mouse stuff there would be no escape, mounted her steps backward with great skill, waved and smiled again and pushed the green door shut. She leaned against it, exhausted. It makes it worse, she thought, it makes it much worse, that Mrs. Hepplewhite is a darling.

  2

  Mary had not lied when she had said she was engaged that evening, for she had pledged herself to spend it with Cousin Mary. The shabby old diaries that she had seen in the top drawer of the escritoire could only be hers. She had an early supper, lit a wood fire in the basket grate for the sake of
company and loveliness and sat down beside it with the diaries piled on a chair beside her.

  But she was in no hurry to open them and she sat with her hands in her lap, and gradually she became aware of miracle. Through the west window beside her the sunset shone into the room, through the flowers of the blossoming apple tree that grew close to the window. Their moving shadows lay upon the carpet, and their scent, and the twin scent of burning apple wood, faintly filled the room. The flames gave their light and through the vine leaves came the cool blue of the garden where the birds were singing. Time not so much passed as was lost, and with it her sense of possessing herself, yet she felt no sense of loss, for in the center of perfection there is nothing wanting. Circle upon circle of unknown, invisible and terrible beauty stretched from her into infinity and yet it was all here in what now held her and filled her. She was in a state of happy shame. She guessed that many restless men had been driven to the ends of the earth to find this—what should she call it?—this golden heart, yet it was hers in this miracle of light. Why should she among millions of women, some of whom toiled in great cities or rotted in refugee camps, be given this? She knew her worldliness and lovelessness. Why she? It was one of the unanswerable questions and there was nothing she could do about it except be thankful. Time returned and then it was as though a hand relaxed its strong and gentle hold. She could not have moved before, but she could now, and she got up and lit the lamp, for in the west the gold, like her own state, was now rather the remembrance than the fact of glory. She turned from it to the diaries.

  They were not diaries in the technical sense, for there were no printed headings with a particular day and date. They were blank-paged notebooks in which Cousin Mary had sometimes put the date of what she wrote and sometimes not. But she had numbered the books themselves in chronological order. The first entry began abruptly under the heading June 14th 1897. The handwriting was clear and beautiful.