by E. H. Young
She found that Ethel’s labours at the Mission were not so arduous as the state of the house implied. She had bursts of feverish activity, she was constant in her attendance at the Girls’ Club and she sometimes helped her father with his correspondence, and then, for a whole day, it would seem she had nothing to do, and she would shadow Hannah about the house, as though she dreaded loneliness, watch her as she worked, without offering to help, and spend the evening turning the pages of a book, making fitful conversation, repairing, or making changes in her rather tawdry clothes. She had a misguided passion for colour and for ornaments, and the jingling of her beads was the constant accompaniment to her restless movements. Ruth, frowning over her lessons, would beg her to be quiet and one night she asked why the drawing-room fire should not be lit, so that Ethel and Miss Mole could sit there and leave her in peace.
‘We can’t afford a fire in every room in the house,’ Ethel explained.
‘Doris has one to herself, Father has another, why should the rest of us have to share one? And anyhow, it’s Miss Mole who manages the money now, so you needn’t interfere!’
Miss Mole said nothing. This remark was probably intended as a jeer at Ethel, but, at least, it recognized her own existence, and a small smile must have come on her lips, for Wilfrid, entering at that moment, gave a clap of his hands and cried, ‘I’ve been wondering who you were ever since the happy hour when I first saw you and I’ve found out at last! Good evening, Mona Lisa. And don’t pretend you don’t know it’s you I’m talking to!’
Hannah looked up, then down. ‘It’s the long nose,’ she said.
‘Not a bit of it! It’s the secret smile. It’s all the wisdom of the world.’
Ethel was at a loss and seemed distressed. Ruth glanced up curiously for an instant and then bowed her head over her books and shielded her face with her hands.
‘I can’t remember, for the moment,’ Ethel said, ‘who Mona Lisa is.’
‘A plain woman,’ Hannah said.
‘Then it’s very rude of Wilfrid,’ there was relief in Ethel’s voice, ‘to say you’re like her.’
‘On the contrary,’ he said, ‘she may be plain, but she’s the most fascinating woman in the world.’
‘Oh!’ said Ethel blankly, and, after a moment’s fidgeting, she went out of the room.
Wilfrid nodded towards the door. ‘She’s gone to look her up in the dictionary!’
‘No, she hasn’t,’ Ruth spoke dryly. ‘She’s gone up to her room and she’ll be opening and shutting drawers and banging things about for hours and I shan’t be able to go to sleep.’ Her voice rose painfully. ‘Why haven’t you more sense?’ she cried. ‘If you want to say things like that, why can’t you say them when she isn’t here?’
For the first time in weeks, Hannah forgot to be on her guard. A feeling of great mental weariness, of physical sickness, overcame her. The work slipped from her hands and she leaned back in her chair, shutting her eyes for a minute. It seemed to her horrible that Ruth should have so clear an insight into Ethel’s nature, and such bitter experience of it, that Ethel’s nature should be what it was. At Ruth’s age, Hannah had just gone to school in Upper Radstowe, with an intimate, frank knowledge of sexual processes, acquired by living on a farm, and was discovering that matters which her father had not scrupled to discuss in her presence were the subjects of sly whisperings in the school. The shock she suffered was different from the one to which Lilia piously laid claim, for Lilia was disgusted by physical details and Hannah was disgusted that anyone should consider them unclean, and she had been spared Ruth’s irritating contact with a mind subject, no doubt unconsciously, to the dictates of the body.
The crudity of this thought was distasteful to Miss Mole; the truth of it was worse. It was all very well to talk about civilization’s benefits to women and the preservation of their chastity, but what was happening to the minds of countless virgins who would never be anything else if they wished to be thought respectable? And while Ruth, like Ethel, was probably in ignorance of causes, she, too, was the unfortunate victim of effects.
Hannah sighed, and raised her eyes to find Ruth looking at her with a startled interest, and to wonder, under that look, whether her policy of self-effacement was the right one.
There was a fire in the drawing-room the next evening and there was a feeling of holiday in the house. Robert Corder was speaking at some meeting outside Radstowe and would not be back that night, and Hannah prepared a supper of surprises, such as they could not often have, for he was a hearty eater and needed solid fare. The family had the grace to recognize her efforts: Ethel pathetically did her best to pretend she had no grudge against Wilfrid or Miss Mole, Ruth openly enjoyed the food, Wilfrid forebore to flatter or to tease, and Hannah told herself that this was a very good imitation of a temporarily happy family.
When the meal was over Ruth was left in the dining-room to do her work, as she had desired, in peace, but Hannah lingered to repair the fire and gather up the mending which was her nightly occupation.
‘Now you’ll be all right, won’t you?’ she said cheerfully.
Ruth’s small, worried face became more strained. ‘I didn’t say I wanted to be alone,’ she said, and Hannah realized that her apparent sullenness was embarrassment. ‘I only wanted to be quiet. You sit so still. You’re not like Ethel. And she’ll be happier, alone, in there with Wilfrid.’
‘And I’d rather stay here,’ said Hannah, and neither of them spoke again until Ruth pushed her books aside and said she was going to bed.
‘Good night,’ Hannah said, with a cool nod and smile.
Ruth stooped to the fire and warmed her hands and then, with a little catch of her breath, she went away.
‘I shall get her yet!’ Hannah said to herself.
At some time during that night, she woke with a start. She had been dreaming a variation of a dream she often had. The scene was always the same. Somewhere in the neighbourhood of her cottage, in one of the low-ceilinged rooms or in the orchard, she was supremely happy, bewildered, or in great distress, and to-night trouble had been predominant. She thought the pain of it must have waked her, or her own cry, but as she lay, trying to compose herself, she heard a sound outside her door and the turning of the handle.
‘Who is it?’ she said and, under the influence of her dream, her voice was not quite steady.
‘It’s only me, Miss Mole. I thought I heard funny noises.’
Hannah fumbled for the matches and lit the candle by her bed. Ruth stood in the doorway, clad only in her nightgown, with her feet bare, and in the uncertain light she looked like a little wraith with frightened eyes.
Hannah swung herself out of bed. ‘Get in, quick!’ she cried. She threw the bed-clothes over Ruth and put on her own dressing-gown. ‘What is it?’ she asked briskly. ‘Burglars?’
‘I don’t know.’ Ruth’s teeth were chattering. ‘I’d been dreaming.’
‘Ah – so had I,’ Hannah said.
‘I’d been dreaming – and I expect I’m being silly, but I wish I needn’t sleep in that dressing-room. It’s bad enough when Father’s there, but to-night his room was so empty or so – or so full. And I couldn’t find the matches to light the gas, and I thought I heard someone moving, so I ran up here. I’m sorry, Miss Mole.’
‘Don’t mention it!’ Hannah said, making a funny face and sitting on the bed. ‘If it’s burglars, I propose to stay here. No good interfering with them. Might cause bad feeling. We’ll give them a few minutes to help themselves, and when I think they’ve gone I’ll go and look for them.’
Ruth laughed, and it was the first time Hannah had heard her do it naturally. ‘I don’t suppose it was burglars at all. They wouldn’t come to a house like this, would they? But I don’t want to go back to that room, Miss Mole.’
‘You shan’t. I’ll go. We don’t mind each other’s sheets, do we? And you’ll feel happy up here, won’t you, with my little ship on the mantelpiece, and you’ll go to sleep?’
&nbs
p; Ruth nodded. ‘Where did you get your little ship?’
‘Off the mantelpiece in my old home in the country. I’ll tell you about it some day.’
‘Whereabouts in the country?’
‘Over the hills – but not very far away.’ She was silent for a minute or two, looking down. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘I should think they’ve gone by this time. Good night. Promise you’ll go to sleep.’
‘Won’t you be frightened yourself?’
‘Not a bit. I met a burglar once and liked him. I’ll tell you about that, too, in the day-time. I shall have to put out the candle, you know.’
‘I know. I don’t mind. Miss Mole –’ darkness made this confession easier – ‘I don’t believe I really believed there were burglars at all.’
‘No. It was a bad dream. I was having one myself. I’m glad you woke me. I’ll buy some night-lights to-morrow. The matches are never where you want them.’
‘And they go out when you’re in a hurry. And Miss, Mole –’ this was still more difficult – ‘you won’t tell anybody will you?’
‘But, of course I shall!’ Hannah said with a mocking seriousness. ‘The first thing I shall do in the morning is to tell Doris, then your sister, then your cousin, and when your father comes home he shall hear all about it.’
Ruth laughed again, a little ghostly sound, and Hannah, as she went down the dark stairs, said to herself triumphantly, ‘I’ve got her now!’ but with her triumph a little dismay was mixed. She knew the hampering nature of possessions.
Chapter 10
Seeing those two at breakfast, the next morning, no one would have guessed that their relationships had changed. Ruth was too shy, Hannah was too wily, and they were both too cautious, to behave differently. Hannah did not want to press her victory home. The enemy would surrender unconditionally before long, and there was no need to augment Ethel’s jealousy. In Ethel’s view, Wilfrid, of course, had been talking nonsense when he implied that Miss Mole was the most fascinating woman in the world, but his nonsense usually had enough truth in it to make it sting or soothe, and poor Ethel, who could not hide her feelings, was hurt and puzzled. What made a woman fascinating to Wilfrid? she seemed to ask, as she looked from one to the other. To Ethel, at twenty-three, Miss Mole was almost old and had certainly passed the age when she could hope to be attractive. She was not good-looking, yet when she was in the room Wilfrid always watched her. Ethel liked Miss Mole and would have liked her better if Wilfrid had not liked her at all: she gave the house a feeling of safety: if it caught fire, if anybody was ill, Miss Mole would know what to do, and things had been more comfortable since she came. Ethel was grateful for her freedom from the harassing business of planning meals and trying to make Doris do her duty without disturbing their common bond in the Mission, and being reported as a stern mistress to other members of the Girls’ Club. There was every reason why Ethel should have been an inefficient housekeeper, and every reason why Miss Mole should be a good one. At forty, all distracting desires, ambitions, hopes and disappointments must have passed away, leaving the mind calm and satisfied with the affairs of every day, a state for which Ethel sometimes envied Miss Mole, more often pitied her, while always she tried to believe that Wilfrid’s flattery was a new way of winning Ethel’s attention to himself.
Naturally, no one saw Miss Mole when she was alone in her dove-cot and no one was privy to her sleeping or her waking dreams. They were all too young or too self-absorbed to understand that her life was as important to her as theirs to them and had the same possibilities of adventure and romance; that, with her, to accept the present as the pattern of the future would have been to die. This was the attitude of hope and not of discontent and what Ethel saw as the resignation of middle-age was the capacity to make drama out of humdrum things. Here was a little society, in itself commonplace enough, but a miniature of all societies, with the same intrigues within and the same threatenings of danger from outside. It had its acknowledged head in Robert Corder, who, sure of himself and his position, had no suspicion that his rule was criticized by his second-in-command, or that his subjects might rebel. In one of his public speeches, or in a sermon, he would have described the home just as Hannah saw it, as a small community in which personalities were stronger than theories of conduct, resilience more enduring than rigidity; he would have said there was no life without change and struggle, and, becoming metaphorical – Hannah enjoyed composing sermons for him – he would have likened young people to plants which must be given space and air, and their elders to the wise gardeners who would not confine or clip until the growth had attained a certain sturdiness, and he would have meant everything he said, and believed he followed his own counsels, but in his home he had planted his seedlings within a narrow compass and assumed that all was well with them. It was enough that he had given them good ground and it was their privilege and duty to prosper. He cast an eye on them, now and then, saw they were still where he had put them, took submission for content and closeness for companionship. Doubtless, he wanted them to grow – Hannah gave him credit for that – but he would have resented any divergence from the shape he liked himself and though he did not flourish his shears openly, everyone knew they were in his pocket. There was a general conspiracy to keep them there; and the struggles took place underground. He was a busy man and he was not likely to look for what was hidden.
Other people, as usual, knew more about his family than he did, and he took his place at the supper-table one evening, wearing an expression that boded trouble. He always tried to translate his anger into grief and this produced a look which demanded recognition, or threatened to turn sour and, as it was better to meet him half-way than to sit in an awed silence, Ethel asked anxiously if he felt unwell.
‘If I did,’ he said, ‘I hope I should be able to hide it. I have had a distressing experience. Two, in fact.’
‘But it was the Education Committee Meeting this evening, wasn’t it?’ Ethel asked.
‘Exactly,’ he said. He looked coldly at Wilfrid. ‘I want to talk to you after supper. And as though one misfortune were not enough, I met Samuel Blenkinsop on my way home. I had not seen him since he gave his very dull paper on Charles Lamb, and I must own that he had the decency to seem embarrassed.’ He looked round the table, waiting for his cue, but no one risked a question or a comment. To ask why Mr. Blenkinsop looked embarrassed would be to admit stupidity: a comment made at this dangerous moment when some disaster was hanging over Wilfrid’s handsome head, would certainly be the wrong one, to be silent was almost an affront, and if the younger people heard, in Hannah’s voice, a gallant attempt to save the situation, she knew it herself as the result of an irresistible curiosity.
‘You mean,’ she suggested, ‘he was ashamed of his paper. He’d been trying to forget it and when he saw you the horror swooped on him. I know the feeling.’
‘I mean nothing of the sort, Miss Mole.’ He paused to look a little inquisitively, but more repressingly, at the maker of this rather surprising speech. ‘He would be fortunate if he had nothing else to be ashamed of.’
Swiftly she had to readjust her view of that stolid young man, working out chess problems in his quiet room, and, before she knew it, she had said incredulously, not unhopefully, ‘has he robbed the bank?’
She was conscious, at once, of consternation in the room, like a thin fog through which the familiar appeared slightly distorted. With a stealthy movement, Wilfrid had taken his handkerchief from his sleeve and was wiping his nose very thoroughly and Ethel was looking from her father to Miss Mole, uncertain and frightened of his reaction, half-suspicious of her intention; the quick little frown of Ruth’s anxieties had come and gone. Evidently, this was considered a frivolous question to ask of a man who was in earnest; it had a levity unsuitable in Miss Mole and to the occasion and all she could do now was to look inquiringly stupid.
Mr. Corder’s grief had been re-translated into an astonished anger. ‘If that was meant to be humorous, Miss Mole, I’m af
raid it is not successful.’
‘No, no, it wasn’t!’ Hannah protested. ‘But –’ now that she was attacked, she was at liberty to strike back and there was a gurgle of laughter under her voice, ‘it would have been funny if he’d really done it!’
‘Oh, Miss Mole!’ Ethel gasped.
‘Out of character,’ Miss Mole explained neatly, holding up her small head.
‘So you are acquainted with Mr. Blenkinsop?’ Robert Corder asked slowly, as though he were on the track of a crime.
‘I’ve seen him –’ Hannah began, and Robert Corder interrupted her with a betraying sharpness.
‘Not in the chapel!’ he said, and she knew it was only pride that prevented him from asking the questions she did not mean to answer.
She had had her little fling and it had done her good, though she feared Wilfrid would suffer for it, and while the interview in the study was taking place Ethel was looking at her resentfully.
‘You shouldn’t make Father angry’! she exclaimed.
‘Did I?’ said Hannah. She was holding out a spoonful of a treacly concoction of malt she had persuaded Ruth to take and, under her little air of command, she was afraid Ruth would refuse it, in token of loyalty to her father. She was wonderfully relieved when Ruth docilely put her lips to the spoon. ‘Good girl!’ she said. ‘I always used to spit it out. Dozens of bottles were bought for me and not a speck of it did I swallow. Kept it in my mouth – and ran.’
‘If Wilfrid gets into trouble with Father, he’ll be sent home,’ Ethel mourned, ‘and he isn’t happy there. His mother doesn’t understand him.’