CHAPTER II
The rocking had begun again, the slow, rhythmic rocking that seemed to draw the past out like a charm, in spite of the continuous protest of the angry chair. It altered in character, however, after a while, the swing of the rocker dwindling at times until it almost stopped, and then beginning again with a gentle push. It was as soothing as the sleepy surge of a summer sea, urged by some impulse into a gentle swell, only to smooth itself out into stillness and slumber again. Even the angry chair seemed to be getting drowsy as well, and was silent at times for as much as a minute. At the end of the minute it would break out again into a raucous yelp, like the spasmodic effort of a tired dog. Gradually, however, both rocker and rocked came to a trance-like quiet. In the gold of the morning sun and of her own special private glory, Mrs. Clapham sat and slept.
She slept for about an hour, and was unaware that more than one person had been near her while she dreamed, peeping in at her through the window, or laying a gentle hand on the loose latch. Members of the Chorus appeared from time to time, only to back away again with a portentous finger on their lips. Mrs. James, indeed, at a second attempt, had actually penetrated into the sacred place, with infinite care setting at Mrs. Clapham’s elbow a covered plate of soup. The young school teachers had looked in for a word on their way home, and had gone on again with hushed steps, taking with them that vision of tired thankfulness and infinite peace. Mrs. Clapham, of course, knew nothing of all this, but it soothed her even in sleep. The atmosphere of kindly interest, combined with the sun, lay softly about her like a silken shawl.
It was the rush of the children that awoke her at last, the feet of the home-coming children on the hill. Twice a day they streamed past Mrs. Clapham’s cottage, and always the sound of their coming was like the sound of a river in spate. One said to oneself, “What is it? What is it?” and then knew it to be the feet of the new generation on the road. The patter and clatter of those feet wove themselves into the last of Mrs. Clapham’s dream. She heard the clink of clogged soles, the lighter slither of leather, the whistles and cries of the boys, the running chatter of little girls. And, long after the stream had passed on, it seemed to her that she heard other feet on the hill—the thin little dragging feet of little Libby and Baby Steve....
She was almost sorry when she found that she had slept, for there is no divider, either in joy or sorrow, so great as sleep. The first ecstasy of her pleasure was over and gone. She felt almost as if the tremendous event had happened yesterday instead of to-day, and was vexed to have missed even a moment of the precious thrill. At the same time, she felt better for the rest, both in body and mind. Both her back and her knee had ceased to ache, and her head felt business-like and cool. The pleasure was still there, of course, and would rise to transport again, but just for the moment her brain was at work upon it rather than her soul.
It is true that the sense of miracle came hurrying back when she discovered the plate of smoking soup. The poor, however, are accustomed to presents of this kindly sort, and it was only important because it had happened to-day, when kindness kept adding itself to kindness, and beauty to beauty, and joy to joy. She knew it was Mrs. James who had brought the soup because it had come in Mrs. James’s best wedding-present china.Thatwas the miracle, if you like; the thing that would not have happened on any other day, but that simply couldn’t help happening on a day like this. Mrs. Clapham felt touched almost to tears by this exhibition of delicate taste, running her fingers appreciatively over the flowered border. It was like Mrs. James’s refined ways to have brought her the best china, knowing that even the best food tastes better out of a beautiful dish.
She drank the soup gratefully, glad that she had no need to set about any cooking for herself, and ate a piece of her own excellent currant bread. Her currant loaves, indeed, were quite famous in the district, so much so that there were people who ordered them from her every week. Miss Marigold was fond of them, too, and so was Tibbie—Tibbie, who wrote that even the children said she could not make them like Granny! Miss Marigold was to have a loaf as a wedding-gift when next she came home; in the excitement of moving she must not forget that. But once up at the new house she would have plenty of time for her loaves—loaves fit to set before the King, if by any chance the King, or the local gentry, who unconsciously ranked so much higher in her country mind, should honour her with a call.
She felt so energetic after the sleep and the soup that she longed to begin pulling the cottage to pieces at once. The almshouse was furnished, of course, and after a fashion that took your breath, but she had no doubt that there would be room for her few bits of sticks as well. They would be Tibbie’s and the children’s after she was gone, and in any case she did not want to part with them just yet. The apparently lifeless furnishings of a house register always the joys and sorrows of those to whom they belong, and everything in the cottage was beautiful to Mrs. Clapham because here Tibbie had lived and laughed.
But of course there could be no moving for a day or two yet, even although already she was hungering to be off. It would seem almost indecent to grab at the house like that; greedy, anyhow, and not quite nice. In any case, she felt sure it would have to be cleaned first, just as the spot she was leaving would have to be scrubbed throughout. Still, there was no reason why she shouldn’t take a look at the place, and amuse herself by making her joyful plans. Her heart rose and danced again at the pleasing prospect, as the motes danced in the silently passing sun. With hands that trembled a little she washed Mrs. James’s china and set it aside to return, and then climbed the stairs to the little bedroom to tidy herself and change.
She took off the print dress and put on the gown that Tibbie had made for her long ago, a soft black gown with a little white at the throat and wrists. Even on Mrs. Clapham’s large figure it fell into the graceful lines which seemed to come as a matter of course into everything that Tibbie touched, even the cheapest satin or the harshest serge. Yet, although it was Tibbie’s work and a labour of love, Mrs. Clapham couldn’t help feeling that it was rather funereal to-day. She had worn it at Tibbie’s wedding, and it had seemed gay enough then, but at this moment of coloured splendour it seemed almost sad. She felt that she wanted to flaunt forth in something light—something more like Miss Marigold’s pale bluecrêpe de Chine! The thought of herself, however, clad after that fashion, reduced her to helpless mirth, and after shaking with laughter until she actually shook the room, she relinquished thecrêpe de Chineand recaptured her common sense.
She felt even more restless upstairs than she had felt down, and it was all she could do to keep from dragging the battered tin trunk from under the bed and beginning to pack. All the time she was dressing she kept looking about, telling herself to remember this and not to forget that. It was absurd, she said to herself, to feel as if she were leaving that very day! It wasn’t as if she hated the cottage and was thankful to go; it was more than likely that she would weep her heart out when the time came to say good-bye. Already she was inclined to be jealous of the future tenant, wondering if she would keep it as it ought to be kept. Not that she could possibly keep it as Mrs. Clapham had done; that was beyond hope. The most that could be looked for was that she wouldn’t make it an actual by-word in the row.
She planted a bonnet—the generic Bonnet, black, with a bit of velvet, a bit of ribbon, a bit of feather, a bit of jet—on the silvery smoothness of her parted hair, and was ready at last to set forth on her triumphant journey. With a humorous laugh she told herself that it was just as well she had changed her gown, or she would have been scrubbing that almshouse before she knew! Her promise to Martha Jane came back to her with the thought, making her realise how confident she had been. As if she would ever be likely to scrub floors for a woman like Martha Jane!... But again she was conscious of the narrow line that divides fortune from misfortune, triumph from disappointment, victory from defeat; and in the light of that rash promise was more thankful than ever for her escape.
With all her glory about her, however, she could afford to feel sorry for Martha Jane, and now that she had begun to think about her again, she did feel dreadfully sorry. It would have been unbecoming in a generous victor not to throw her a pitying thought, and Mrs. Clapham did more than that. She began to cast about in her mind for an olive branch of sorts, but could think of nothing available but a currant loaf. It was a small enough offering, of course, but currants were currants, nowadays, and flour was flour; and in any case a loaf of her baking would have its own prestige. In its homely way it would convey the same delicate touch that Mrs. James’s wedding-present china had conveyed so pleasingly to herself.
Making up her mind at last, she wrapped the loaf in a cloth and went briskly out. The morning sun was beginning to leave the street as she emerged, tending to become an afternoon sun and moving slowly towards the west. Nevertheless, she did not feel that it was deserting her because it was passing on. It had stayed with her all the morning, like a royal guest at a humble feast; now it was going before her to shine for her in her new home.
Exalted though she was by her recent great success, she could not help feeling a little nervous about her visit. Martha Jane might possibly refuse to let her in, insult her, perhaps, or, at the very least, try to take the gloss off her conquest with ribald jeers. On the other hand, she might possibly find her crying—a lonely, unwanted woman, hurt by another of life’s jars. Mrs. Clapham felt like crying herself when she thought of that. Of course she might have gone out to pour the tale of her wrongs into some sympathetic ear, and in that case there would be nothing for the bearer of branches to do but to turn again in her tracks. But the latter had scarcely swung round on her step before she became aware that at least she must be at home, for, outside the kitchen window that was almost level with the road, Emma was standing, bending and peering in.
Fear, devastating and intense, came upon Mrs. Clapham when she beheld Emma. There was something almost gloating in the way she stooped to the low window, something of the intent Roman waiting for “thumbs down.” So interested was she that she did not hear the closing thud of Mrs. Clapham’s door, or even the sound of her footsteps coming up the street. There was no smile on her lips as she stooped and stared, and for once its absence was actually more alarming than its presence. Mrs. Clapham’s picture of Martha Jane crying or cursing gave place to others infinitely worse. Now she beheld her dangling from a hook in the ceiling or prostrate with prussic acid on the floor. Her heart beat so violently that she could scarcely breathe, and her stout arms dithered so that she nearly dropped the loaf....
She was close upon Emma when the latter suddenly saw her and straightened herself with the click of a clasped knife. “Eh, but you give me a fright!” she began, gaspingly, and then stopped. An extraordinary change came over her as her eyes fastened themselves on Mrs. Clapham’s bonnet and gown. Her arms dropped to her sides as if torn away by some unseen hand. Her mouth opened, her jaw dropped ... her eyes went dead, her face white....
Mrs. Clapham was more frightened than ever when she saw Emma looking like that. “There’s nowt wrong, is there?” she cried at her sharply, shaking with fear. “What’s making you look so strange, Emma? Is owt wrong with Martha Jane?”
But the amazing transformation which had come upon Mrs. Catterall had passed even before she had finished. The dull colour came back into Emma’s face and the watchful yet blank look into her eyes. Her arms came up slowly and folded themselves to their usual place. And then, as Mrs. Clapham still stood panting and shaking, she started her slow smile....
“I don’t know asyou’dcall it wrong,” she answered her gently, in her expressionless tones, “though I wasn’t brought up myself to consider it right. But there, I reckon everyone knows their own business best,” she went on, moving to one side. “Anyway, as you’re here, you’ll happen look for yourself....”