II
Sunday came and with it church in the morning; then two interminable hours after lunch, during which Stephen changed her necktie three times, and brushed back her thick chestnut hair with water, and examined her shoes for imaginary dust, and finally gave a hard rub to her nails with a nail pad snatched brusquely away from Puddle.
When the moment for departure arrived at last, she said rather tentatively to Anna: “Aren’t you going to call on the Crossbys, Mother?”
Anna shook her head: “No, I can’t do that, Stephen—I go nowhere these days; you know that, my dear.”
But her voice was quite gentle, so Stephen said quickly: “Well then, may I invite Mrs. Crossby to Morton?”
Anna hesitated a moment, then she nodded: “I suppose so—that is if you really wish to.”
The drive only took about twenty minutes, for now Stephen was so nervous that she positively flew. She who had been puffed up with elation and self-satisfaction was crumbling completely—in spite of her careful new necktie she was crumbling at the mere thought of Angela Crossby. Arrived at The Grange she felt over life-size; her hands seemed enormous, all out of proportion, and she thought that the butler stared at her hands.
“Miss Gordon?” he inquired.
“Yes,” she mumbled, “Miss Gordon.” Then he coughed as he did on the telephone, and quite suddenly Stephen felt foolish.
She was shown into a small oak-panelled parlour whose long, open casements looked on to the herb-garden. A fire of apple wood burnt on the hearth, in spite of the fact that the weather was warm, for Angela was always inclined to feel chilly—the result, so she said, of the English climate. The fire gave off rather a sweet, pungent odour—the odour of slightly damp logs and dry ashes. By way of a really propitious beginning, Tony barked until he nearly burst his stitches, so that Angela, who was lying on the lounge, had perforce to get up in order to soothe him. An extremely round bullfinch in an ornate, brass cage, was piping a tune with his wings half extended. The tune sounded something like “Pop goes the weasel.” At all events it was an impudent tune, and Stephen felt that she hated that bullfinch. It took all of five minutes to calm down Tony, during which Stephen stood apologetic but tongue-tied. She hardly knew whether to laugh or to cry at this very ridiculous anticlimax.
Then Angela decided the matter by laughing: “I’m so sorry, Miss Gordon, he’s feeling peevish. It’s quite natural, poor lamb, he had a bad night, he just hates being all sewn up like a bolster.”
Stephen went over and offered him her hand, which Tony now licked, so that trouble was ended; but in getting up Angela had torn her dress, and this seemed to distress her—she kept fingering the tear.
“Can I help?” inquired Stephen, hoping she’d say no—which she did, quite firmly, after one look at Stephen.
At last Angela settled down again on the lounge. “Come and sit over here,” she suggested, smiling. Then Stephen sat down on the edge of a chair as though she were sitting in the Prickly Cradle.
She forgot to inquire about Angela’s dog-bite, though the bandaged hand was placed on a cushion; and she also forgot to adjust her new necktie, which in her emotion had slipped slightly crooked. A thousand times in the last few days had she carefully rehearsed this scene of their meeting, making up long and elaborate speeches; assuming, in her mind, many dignified poses; and yet there she sat on the edge of a chair as though it were the Prickly Cradle.
And now Angela was speaking in her soft, Southern drawl: “So you’ve found your way here at last,” she was saying. And then, after a pause: “I’m so glad, Miss Gordon, do you know that your coming has given me real pleasure?”
Stephen said: “Yes—oh, yes—” Then fell silent again, apparently intent on the carpet.
“Have I dropped my cigarette ash or something?” inquired her hostess, whose mouth twitched a little.
“I don’t think so,” murmured Stephen, pretending to look, then glancing up sideways at the impudent bullfinch.
The bullfinch was now being sentimental; he piped very low and with great expression. “O, Tannebaum, O, Tannebaum, wie grün sind Deine Blätter” he piped, hopping rather heavily from perch to perch, with one beady black orb fixed on Stephen.
Then Angela said: “It’s a curious thing, but I feel as though I’ve known you for ages. I don’t want to behave as though we were strangers—do you think that’s very American of me? Ought I to be formal and standoffish and British? I will if you say so, but I don’t feel British.” And her voice, although quite steady and grave, was somehow distinctly suggestive of laughter.
Stephen lifted troubled eyes to her face: “I want very much to be your friend if you’ll have me,” she said; and then she flushed deeply.
Angela held out her undamaged hand which Stephen took, but in great trepidation. Barely had it lain in her own for a moment, when she clumsily gave it back to its owner. Then Angela looked at her hand.
Stephen thought: “Have I done something rude or awkward?” And her heart thumped thickly against her side. She wanted to retrieve the lost hand and stroke it, but unfortunately it was now stroking Tony. She sighed, and Angela, hearing that sigh, glanced up, as though in inquiry.
The butler arrived bringing in the tea.
“Sugar?” asked Angela.
“No, thanks,” said Stephen; then she suddenly changed her mind, “three lumps, please,” she had always detested tea without sugar.
The tea was too hot; it burnt her mouth badly. She grew scarlet and her eyes began to water. To cover her confusion she swallowed more tea, while Angela looked tactfully out of the window. But when she considered it safe to turn round, her expression, although still faintly amused, had something about it that was tender.
And now she exerted all her subtlety and skill to make this queer guest of hers talk more freely, and Angela’s subtlety was no mean thing, neither was her skill if she chose to exert it. Very gradually the girl became more at her ease; it was uphill work but Angela triumphed, so that in the end Stephen talked about Morton, and a very little about herself also. And somehow, although Stephen appeared to be talking, she found that she was learning many things about her hostess; for instance, she learnt that Angela was lonely and very badly in need of her friendship. Most of Angela’s troubles seemed to centre round Ralph, who was not always kind and seldom agreeable. Remembering Ralph she could well believe this, and she said:
“I don’t think your husband liked me.”
Angela sighed: “Very probably not. Ralph never likes the people I do; he objects to my friends on principle I think.”
Then Angela talked more openly of Ralph. Just now he was staying away with his mother, but next week he would be returning to The Grange, and then he was certain to be disagreeable: “Whenever he’s been with his mother he’s that way—she puts him against me, I never know why—unless, of course, it’s because I’m not English. I’m the stranger within the gates, it may be that.” And when Stephen protested, “Oh, yes indeed, I’m quite often made to feel like a stranger. Take the people round here, do you think they like me?”
Then Stephen, who had not yet learnt to dissemble, stared hard at her shoes, in embarrassed silence.
Just outside the door a clock boomed seven. Stephen started; she had been there nearly three hours. “I must go,” she said, getting abruptly to her feet, “you look tired, I’ve been making a visitation.”
Her hostess made no effort to retain her: “Well,” she smiled, “come again, please come very often—that is if you won’t find it dull, Miss Gordon; we’re terribly quiet here at The Grange.”