IV
This was the story which had to be rearranged for Lilla’s benefit, but Hannah trusted to the inspiration of the moment and wasted no time which could be spent on the beauty of the October day. The sun shone with the peculiar brightness of autumn and, in passing through the trees and gilding them, it seemed to borrow as it gave and strike the heaps of fallen leaves with added strength. The streets had the white, swept appearance given by the East wind, chimneys and roofs made sharp lines on the blue sky, and sounds of voices, footsteps, cars and carts and horses, had an unusual resonance. Michaelmas daisies and dahlias flowered in the gardens, there were berries on the rowan trees, the world seemed to be flying every flag it had, and, when Hannah crossed The Green, the fall of a chestnut sounded stealthy, as though its descent were a little shameful in the general glory. It lay among the leaves, a glossy roan, bursting from its green, spiked shell, and she stooped to pick it up, but left it lying there. When the children came out of school one of them would find it and, for her, to remember the feeling of that polished ball was just as good as to handle it. Indeed, she thought, it was better, for the good thing remembered or hoped for had a blessed superiority over the thing grasped, and she fancied that God, finding the decent order of his plans upset by the wilfulness of the creatures for whom he made them, had been tenderly inspired with this idea of compensation.
“And a good thing, too!” she muttered, glancing at the clock on the otherwise conscientiously Early English Church.
There was no time to go round the hill and look at the river: she must go down Chatterton Street, which had a turning into Channing Square, and risk encountering Mrs. Widdows. The risk was not great. She would be dozing, poor thing, over the fire in the stuffy little sitting-room, while the woman she had dismissed with contumely—that was a good word, though Hannah was never sure how to pronounce it—was taking a part in this fine pageant. She realized that her contribution was purely spiritual: there was nothing ornamental in her appearance and her clothes were always of a useful shade, but she held up her head and walked briskly, enjoying the snap of twigs and the sibilance of leaves under her feet.
The narrow road she was following widened at its juncture with several others. The Avenue was stately on her left hand, another road, shaded by trees, came curling up from the river: on her right, a broader one skirted that edge of the Downs which she could reach by the short ascent in front of her, and the ends of all these roads were held together, as in a knot, by a drinking fountain for men and beasts.
It was hard to believe that the big, sprawling city was so near. This was a place for leisure, for genteel strolling, for long crocodiles of schoolgirls who must partake of the elegant beauties of nature among their other forms of nourishment, and ladies in small bonnets and bustles should have been walking under the trees. Here there was no impingement of new on old or of shabbiness on prosperity, and Hannah would have felt less affection for this part of Upper Radstowe, lovely as the trees made it, if it had not grown out of the older one and if she had not known that her own country, wild under its demureness, grey-rocked under its springy turf, lay just across the water.
The Downs were not the country, but they came as near it as they could. They stretched away, almost out of sight, rimmed by distant roads and houses on all sides but the cliffed one, and great trees as well as hawthorn bushes grew there. A double row of elms marched straight towards Lilla’s house and, as Hannah walked in their dappled shadows, she heard the thud of hooves and the creak of leather and the jingle of steel, and it seemed to fit the mixed character of the Downs that these riders should be on hired horses, that the sheep, industriously nibbling, should have dirty fleeces, and that voices thick with the Radstowe burr should come from the throats of youths kicking a football. But always, even, it seemed to Hannah, when it rained, the clouds sailed higher over that part of the world than elsewhere, and she had heard Lilla say that, except on Saturdays and Sundays, the view from her windows had almost the appearance of a private park. Unfortunately, Lilla’s house, which was already discernible as a red and white blot beyond the trees, could not be mistaken for one of England’s stately homes. It had been built for Ernest’s father towards the end of his life, and the attempt to produce something like a small Elizabethan manor house had been frustrated by his determination that there should be no misunderstanding about its origin, and below the flat gables of the top storey, bow windows and a porch bulged on the ground floor; the tiles were the reddest procurable and white stucco concealed the bricks. The garden was separated from the road by its own width of greensward guarded by posts and chains, and this indication that the Spenser-Smiths had more than enough garden to spare was callously interpreted by urchins as an invitation to swing on the chains. Even Lilla’s ointment had a fly in it, Hannah thought, beaming on a culprit who had expected a frown, and she blinked affectedly, for her own amusement, when she opened the gate and met the full glare of white and red and yellow under the sunshine.
The doorstep was spotless, the knocker gleamed, potted chrysanthemums were arranged in tiers in the porch, and Hannah had her nose against a flower and was savouring its sweet bitterness, when the door opened. From the parlourmaid’s point of view, this was a bad beginning, and either in punishment or on her quick estimate of this caller’s place in the world, she took Hannah to a small room which had a feeling of not being lived in. Here the humble and the suppliant sat on the edges of the chairs; here were kept the books which were not obviously the ones for the Spenser-Smiths to possess. The classics, Hannah guessed, were displayed somewhere to advantage, and these were the pickings from bookstalls, children’s books and those by writers of whose eminence and respectability Lilla was not assured.
Hannah took down a volume and prepared to wait, but Lilla, apparently, was anxious to know the worst as soon as possible, and after tactfully showing annoyance that Hannah should have been left in a room without a fire, she took her cousin into a drawing-room bright with gay cretonne, a wood fire and sunshine, and asked cheerfully if this were her free afternoon.
“Well, yes, as you might say and in a manner of speaking, it is. And a very nice afternoon, too. It will help us through the winter, as they always say. And this is a very nice room. You see, Lilla, all’s right with my world.”
“I’m very glad to hear it,” Mrs. Spenser-Smith said with reserve. She had had some experience of Hannah’s high spirits. “Are you going to stay to tea?”
“If you press me like that, dear, of course I will. Time exists for me no longer, unless I’m hungry, and there are ways of misleading one’s stomach. By staying in bed till ten o’clock, I can manage on a cup of tea till the middle of the day; you’re giving me a free meal and I shall be in bed with a book before the pangs begin again.”
“For goodness sake,” said Lilla, who had rung the bell, “don’t talk any of your nonsense while Maud’s bringing in the tea. And afterwards, you’d better tell me what you mean by it.”
“I mean,” said Hannah, when the ban of silence was removed, “that I’m resting at present, as we say on the stage. Remark the pronoun, Lilla. I was on the stage once, you know. In a crowd. And they let me wear my own clothes!”
“Then, if I were you,” said Lilla, “I should be careful not to mention it. How you could do it! But I don’t suppose you really did. And true or not, if you say things like that, what’s going to become of you?”
“It was a virtuous crowd,” Hannah said meekly. “We were all booing a bad man. You can’t ask more than that. I booed for a week and they picked up another shabby female in the next town.”
“I don’t want to hear about it,” Lilla said. “For your own sake, you’d better not tell me what you know I shan’t approve of.”
“Ah,” said Hannah, “what’s your little scheme?”
Lilla tightened her lips. “I don’t know that I’m justified in having one.”
“That doesn’t matter in the least, dear.”
“It matters to me,” she said, and then, with a quick change from the noble to the practical, she asked sharply, “Did you get a month’s wages?”
A little shamefaced, Hannah nodded her head. “I did. I managed to be unbearably irritating without being actually rude, so she could neither keep nor rob me. It took some doing, I can tell you. And I was longing to be rude—personally abusive, you know—but there, I don’t suppose you do; you’re so genteel.”
Lilla pushed a cushion behind her back, wreaking on the impassivity of down the annoyance which would have made as little permanent impression on Hannah. “And where are you staying now? You didn’t go the same night, I suppose?”
“No. The next morning—in a cab.” She spoke slowly and her eyes had the fixity of careful thought. “A horse cab, with a beery, bottle-nosed old man on the box.”
“I don’t want details.”
“They’re part of the story and old bottle-nose is the knight-errant. It’s a pity his type is dying out. They know a lot about life, those old men, and I like them. They always believe the worst and they don’t mind a bit. He knew what had happened at once and I’m sorry to tell you that he winked at me. No, I didn’t wink back, but I let him know that I knew how and then I told him I wanted some cheap lodgings and he said he knew the very place for me. And so he did. He took me to a house in Prince’s Road, quite near your place of worship, dear, and I’m sure you’ll feel quite happy about me because Mrs. Gibson is a member of the congregation. I would have let you know sooner, but I’ve been so busy in the free library, looking at the advertisements.”
“Nothing,” said Lilla after a pause, “could have been more unfortunate.”
“Why? I call it very lucky. Only a pound a week for a bed-sitting room, a shilling in the slot for the gas fire, and a share of Mrs. Gibson’s dinner for practically nothing. She’s far too generous, but I try to help her and she says she finds my conversation very bright.”
“Most unfortunate!” Lilla repeated. “And why that cabman should have taken you to one of the houses I should have wished you to avoid, is more than I can understand.”
“It seems quite respectable,” Hannah murmured. “Mr. Blenkinsop lives there, you know.”
“Of course I know it! But I suppose you don’t see much of him?”
“As much as I can,” Hannah answered cheerfully. “But he’s rather a shy bird. And if you’re worrying about what I’ve told these people, you can set your mind at rest. The name of Spenser-Smith has never passed my lips. Mrs. Gibson wouldn’t feel at ease with me if she knew I had such grand connections.”
Lilla assumed the expression with which she tried to counter Hannah’s attacks. It was almost, but not quite, blank. She gave the cushion another push and said, “I was thinking of this silly way of talking about theatres. It doesn’t do, Hannah. It may be bright,” she made the word astonishingly acid, “but it will be remembered against you. The fact is—mind, I’m not sure about it, but I do want you to be careful—there’s a chance that I can get you a post as Mr. Corder’s housekeeper.”
“Who’s he? Oh, I know. The minister. Does he want one?”
“No,” said Lilla, compressing her lips again, “but I think he ought to have one.”
“Then he’s doomed,” said Hannah. “Thank you, Lilla. I take this very kind. What’s the salary?”
“Nothing’s settled. You mustn’t count on it. Mr. Corder is a widower and he’s talking it over with his daughter.”
“Oh, he’s got a daughter.”
“Two,” said Lilla. “Ruth is still at school and somebody ought to look after her. The other night at the Literary meeting—”
“Was Mr. Blenkinsop amusing?” Hannah interpolated.
“No. He didn’t seem to be thinking about what he was saying.”
“No wonder!” Hannah murmured. “But go on, dear, go on. At the Literary meeting—?”
“Ruth had a large hole in her stocking. It looks so bad. Ethel’s useless, she’s always at the Mission, and I’ve been thinking for some time that they ought to have a responsible woman in the house. There’s only a skimpy little servant and there’s a young man cousin who lives with them—Mr. Corder’s son is at Oxford and, between you and me, Hannah, I make that possible—and I don’t think it’s quite nice, but I wasn’t going to suggest anything until I could recommend somebody. There are plenty of women in the chapel who would jump at the chance, but I was fond of Mrs. Corder—”
“Say no more, dear!” Hannah exclaimed. “I understand it all! You want a good, solid sandbag to fill up the gap; you want a watchdog, of no breed or beauty, but warranted to bark; your affection for the poor woman’s memory is stronger than his and you’re not going to let him forget her altogether. Quite right!” Hannah’s thin, odd face was glowing, her eyes, greener than usual, shone. “It’s not complimentary to me, but it’s magnificent and I’ll bark like fury. And they say women are not loyal to each other! Why, already, I feel like a sister to Mrs. What’s-her-name myself!”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Mrs. Spenser-Smith. “I liked Mrs. Corder well enough. She was rather a nonentity, compared with him, poor little woman, but I believe she did her best, and when I see that Patsy Withers making eyes at him—”
“I’ll remember the name,” Hannah said.
“You haven’t got the post yet,” Lilla said sharply, “and I don’t believe you’re really fit for it. I’ve stretched a point, Hannah. I don’t suppose you could produce a written character which Mr. Corder would look at twice, and goodness knows what you’ve been doing all these years, and if you go, I do hope you’ll remember that I’ve practically guaranteed you. And, by the way, I’ve said nothing about our relationship. I thought it wouldn’t be fair to either of you. I want you to go there on your own merits. I mentioned this to Ernest and he quite agrees.”
Hannah smiled with pleasant maliciousness and said nothing, but she gave the impression of being ready to say a good deal and Lilla went on hastily. “I’ll let you know what happens. I shall see him at the weeknight service.”
“But won’t he want to see me?”
“Not necessary,” said Mrs. Spenser-Smith in her best Spenser-Smithian manner.
“Not advisable, you mean! I daresay you’re right. What sort of man is he? Is he brisk and hearty, or one of those gentle paw-folders?”
“That isn’t funny, Hannah, it’s vulgar; I might say irreverent. Do try to remember you’re a lady.”
“But I’m not. I come of the same stock as you do, Lilla, and we know what that is. Simple yeoman stock, and my father often dropped his aitches and so did yours. I know you don’t like remembering it, but there’s the fact. I happened to be educated above my station—though you, of course, were not!—and there are times when I revert—revert, Lilla! But I’ll try to behave myself and I’ll keep my eye on Patsy. Thank you for the tea, and now I’ll go back to Mrs. Gibson and cobble up some of my underclothes, though I hope they’ll be a matter of indifference to the Reverend Corder.”
“There you are again!” Lilla said with a sigh, and she offered her cool, rosy face to be kissed.
“It’s only a bit of fun between us girls!” Hannah cried, and as she brushed her cheek against her cousin’s, she added, “You’re a good soul, Lilla. I always liked you.”
“Oh, go along with you,” Lilla said good-naturedly and gently urged her to the door. There was no knowing what generous foolishness Ernest would commit, if he found her in the house when he came home.