Читать книгу White Banners - Lloyd C. Douglas - Страница 3

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AFTER so long a pause that Marcia felt sure whoever it was must have gone away, the front door bell rang again, a courteously brief "still waiting".

It would be a neighbour child on the way home from school with a handful of basketball tickets. Or an agent tardily taking orders for cheap and gaudy Christmas cards.

The trip down to the door would be laborious. Doctor Bowen had wanted her to avoid the stairs as much as possible from now on. But the diffident summons sounded very plaintive in its competition with the savage swish of sleet against the windows.

Raising herself heavily on her elbows, Marcia tried to squeeze a prompt decision out of her tousled blonde head with the tips of slim fingers. The mirror of the vanity table ventured a comforting comment on the girlish cornflower fringe that Paul always said brought out the blue in her eyes. She pressed her palms hard on the yellow curls, debating whether to make the effort. In any event she would have to go down soon, for the luncheon table was standing exactly as they had left it, and Paul would be returning in half an hour.

Edging clumsily to the side of the bed, she sat up, momentarily swept with vertigo, and fumbled with her stockinged toes for the shapeless slippers in which she had awkwardly paddled about through two previous campaigns in behalf of humanity's perpetuity. When done with them, this time, Marcia expected to throw the slippers away.

Roberta eagerly reached up both chubby arms and bounced ecstatically at the approach of the outstretched hands. Wallie scrambled up out of his blocks and detonated an ominously sloppy sneeze. "Hanky," he requested, with husky solemnity.

"Well—I should say so," agreed Marcia. "Please don't tell me you've been taking cold again."

Wallie denied the accusation with a vigorous shake of his head, whooped hoarsely, and began slowly pacing the intermittent clatter of their procession down the dingy stairway, the flat of his small hand squeaking on the cold rail of the ugly yellow banister.

The bulky figure of a woman was silhouetted on the frosted glass panels of the street door. Wallie, with a wobbly index finger in his nose, halted to reconnoitre as they neared the bottom of the stairs, and his mother gave him a gentle push forward. They were in the front hall now, Marcia irresolutely considering whether to brave the blizzard. Wallie decided this matter by inquiring who it was in a penetrating treble, reinforcing his desire to know by twisting the knob with ineffective hands. Marcia shifted Roberta into the crook of her other arm and opened the door to a breath-taking swirl of stinging snow, the first real storm of the season.

Outlandish in a shabby plush coat much too large for her—though she was by no means a small person—and an equally frowsy old fur hat drawn down over her brows, the caller displayed a large red apple from which an incredibly long peeling dangled. Obviously expecting her pantomime to speak for itself, the woman—heavy-eyed, pale—silently produced another inch or two of apple-skin tape projected through the slot of an ingenious little knife firmly clutched in a blue-chapped, shivering fist.

"But I mustn't stand here in this storm," protested Marcia. "You'll have to step inside. And please shut the door quickly," she added over her shoulder as she retreated into the comparative warmth of the living-room, the apple-person following with Wallie reeling alongside, gazing up at her inquisitively.

"Sorry to have bothered you," regretted the pedlar. It was a singularly low-pitched voice registering the last extremity of weariness, perhaps something of battered refinement too. The grey eyes were cloudy and seemed reluctant to draw a clear focus, though this might be attributed to fatigue rather than a calculated evasiveness.

Murmuring a non-committal acceptance of the apology, Marcia eased Roberta's undependable feet on to the sewing-machine table and stretched out a hand towards the magical tool.

"How much is it?"

"A quarter."

"I'll take one," said Marcia, glancing up to meet the grey eyes squarely for the first time. Then she added, "Please", with a slight inclination of her head which seemed to invest the trivial transaction with something like dignity. She was a little surprised at her suddenly altered attitude towards this taciturn woman with the pallid face, the puzzling eyes, and the impossible clothes. It had been habitual with Marcia to make short work of door-to-door canvassers.

Politely but without effusion the pedlar produced a barely audible "Thank you", and began rummaging—rather ineffectually, for her hands were stiff with cold—in the depths of a capacious old shopping-bag bulging with demonstration apples, while Marcia studied the impassive face at close range. It appeared to mask a personality intended for and probably accustomed to better things than the house-to-house vending of a cheap kitchen gadget. Or perhaps it had a secret to conceal. The woman was a curious bundle of inconsistencies, the dowdy old hat and the rough hands being so shockingly unrelated to the disciplined voice and eyes which testified to a well-furnished mind.

"I shall have to go upstairs for the money," said Marcia, when the merchandise had changed hands. "Will you watch my baby?"

The cryptic eyes lifted, lighted, and a smile nervously twitched the corners of the drooping mouth. Muttering something about the snow on her coat, the woman unbuttoned the ill-fitting garment and tossed it aside. The uncouth hat was tugged off also, dishevelling a thick mop of well-cared-for, blue-black hair and releasing a crackle of electricity. Without the hat and coat she was only forty, perhaps a little less than that if she were entirely well and contented.

"But I don't like to have you climb those steep stairs for me," she protested. "Perhaps you'd better not."

"I really shouldn't," confided Marcia. Then, impulsively, "Would you mind? It's on my dressing-table, a brown leather purse, first door to the right at the head of the stairs." She slipped her hands under Roberta's arms to reclaim her, but the caller ignored the gesture and cuddled the baby closer to her abundant breast. The grey eyes searched Marcia's youthful face for a moment disconcertingly.

"Do you think," inquired the gently reproving voice, "that you ought to let a stranger ramble about through your house hunting for your pocket-book?"

Marcia flushed a little and felt very young and foolish.

"It does sound reckless, when you put it that way," she admitted, adding with a naïveté that brought a puckery smile to the visitor's lips, "What are we going to do about it?" Then, suddenly inspired, "My husband will be here in a little while. Could you wait?"

"Gladly," sighed the caller. "I have been on my feet all day." She sank into the nearest chair and softly rubbed her white chin against the top of Roberta's silky head.

"It's chilly in here." Marcia stooped over the wood-basket and dragged the metal screen aside from the cold grate. "The furnace runs low at this time in the afternoon, and I can't do anything about it."

"Let me make that fire for you. I'm bigger than you are." Again little Roberta was transferred and the stranger knelt before the grate.

"Nobody could be bigger than I am," murmured Marcia. She sat interestedly surveying the slow but competent movements of her mysterious guest. The shoes were badly worn, but they had once been good—expensively good. Whoever had wanted that hat had not bought those shoes. Marcia felt that the shoes were authentic. So was the black crêpe frock. It was old, but it fitted. The fire blazed, and with much difficulty the weary woman rose to her feet, clutching the mantel for support. Marcia tried to keep the pity out of her tone when she said cordially, "Now draw up a chair close to it. You must be half-frozen."

There was silence between them for some time, the stranger leaning forward with her elbows on her knees and her chin cupped in both hands, staring into the crackling flames. Presently she straightened, and turning towards Marcia asked wistfully if she might hold the baby again.

Silently complying, Marcia went through the double doorway into the dining-room and began to clear the table. Wallie hovering close. "Mum-mee!" he wheedled shrilly. "Can I have a piece o' bread-n-butter-n-sugar?"

Marcia led the way into the diminutive pantry. Wallie gleefully chirping redundant comments on his good fortune while his mother laid out the makings of a snack. Suddenly his improvised refrain was broken off short. At the same instant Marcia sensed another presence, and glancing around was startled to see her strange visitor standing in the passage. She had Roberta closely nestled in her arms. Her pale lips were parted, revealing sound white teeth tightly locked. The grey eyes were importunate—and ashamed.

"Perhaps you would like some too." Marcia tried to make the invitation sound half-playful, hoping to safeguard the woman's self-respect if she could.

"Oh—please! If you would." The deep-pitched voice was husky. "I haven't had anything to eat since morning and I'm not so very long out of the hospital."

"You should have told me," chided Marcia gently. "Do help yourself—and there's some cold tongue in the refrigerator. I'll make you a cup of tea. Not much wonder you're fagged. Was it an operation?" Proceeding into the cold kitchen, she lighted the gas under the kettle.

"I don't know," replied the half-starved woman indifferently, surrendering Roberta and taking up the bread-knife in a shaky hand. "Maybe they do call it an operation." She began eating ravenously.

Shocked by the exhibition of such hunger as she had never seen so candidly displayed, Marcia retreated a step, fumbling at her beads with agitated fingers. She felt rebuffed too, for surely her solicitous query had deserved a better reply than this casual impertinence.

"I mean," explained the woman, her articulation muffled by the food she was wolfing, "is it an operation when you have a baby? I know," she continued, between spasmodic swallowings, "that it's an operation when you have something unhealthy that has to be cut out of you, but having a baby is the most natural thing in the world, or at least it would seem so, seeing how long it was going on before there were any surgeons or hospitals."

Indisposed to debate whether childbirth should be considered as an institution or an operation, but personally interested in babies as individuals, Marcia inquired, "What did you do with it?"

"He's at the hospital. They said he could be adopted."

"Have you no friends?"

"No, that is—not here."

"Relatives?"

"Well, none wanting a baby." She turned to cut another slice of bread.

"That's too bad," sympathized Marcia. "There's your tea on the kitchen table. Come, Wallie. You run in now and sit by the fire. Go on—quickly. Do as Mother tells you."

"I don't want to," squeaked Wallie. "I want to watch the lady eat."

Marcia was devastated with chagrin, wondering whether an apology on behalf of her unfortunate offspring would ease the strain, when the problem was solved for her by a good-natured laugh and a mumbled "I don't wonder".

Unable to think of anything appropriate to say, Marcia smiled faintly and led her reluctant child into the living-room, where she lowered Roberta into the perambulator and returned to her task at the dining-table, for some moments mechanically moving the dishes about, wishing this awkward situation had not arisen. She hoped the woman would go soon. Surely she had enough to worry her without adding anything more. Paul would be here at any moment. He would go popping through the kitchen immediately on his way to the furnace. He would discover this famished woman and interest himself in her predicament. Anyone could see at a glance that she shouldn't be turned out into the storm. And it would be quite right and proper to ask her to stay if they could afford it, or had a suitable place for her. Paul would think they had. He was so hopelessly impractical, so heart-breakingly in debt, so childishly indifferent to their plight. And in a month there was to be the hospital and the nurses and the doctor—without the slightest vestige of a plan for these imperative expenses. Poor Paul. He should have married someone who knew how to manage... . No—she would have to see to it that the unhappy creature was out of the house before Paul arrived. For the moment Marcia quite forgot the real reason for the woman's tarrying.

Resolutely she gathered up a double handful of dishes and carried them to the kitchen sink. The stranger promptly joined her there, turned back her sleeves, and began drawing hot water into the dishpan.

"You'll not need to help," said Marcia crisply. "There aren't many. I can easily do them alone. Thanks—just the same." She tried to make the dismissal significant without being unkind.

"Where do you keep the aprons?" inquired the woman, unimpressed by Marcia's rather stiff repudiation of her proffered services.

"But—really—" Marcia was being very firm now. "I prefer to do them myself."

She accented every word, secretly reproaching herself for having to offend the grateful tramp.

Pretending not to realize this sudden shift of mood, the stranger smiled indulgently and began washing the dishes. The food had braced her up and every motion testified to an amazingly prompt revival of latent energy. Marcia decided to make a last stand. Time was passing rapidly. On the verge of tearful exasperation, she said: "You have your own work to do, and I'm keeping you from it. I'll go and get your money for you at once. My husband might be delayed. And it is getting dark. I mustn't detain you."

Flicking the hot suds from her hands, the woman followed as far as the dining-room without comment and stacked up the rest of the dishes. Marcia made an impatient little gesture of bafflement, her knuckles digging into her forehead. Weak in the knees, she slumped into a chair by the grate, hoping to recover her strength for the painful trip upstairs. Minutes passed. The energetic clatter of dishes had subsided now and now the unwelcome volunteer in the kitchen could be heard walking about. She was coming quietly into the living-room. Marcia glanced up dully, relieved to see the woman take up the frumpy old coat and the mangy hat and the preposterous shopping-bag from the chair where they had sprawled in an untidy pile.

"I'm going up for the money now," said Marcia weakly. "Thank you for doing the dishes."

"I'll be in the kitchen," replied the woman, draping her effects over her arm.

That was ever so good, thought Marcia. The poor dear had caught the idea that she must go and was planning to leave by the back door to avoid a collision with the man of the house. Perhaps she had divined that she was expected to be gone when he came. Pulling herself together, Marcia dragged her burdensome body up the stairs and down again, wincing at every step of the return trip. There was a mighty stamping of snowy feet on the front porch as she hurried through the dining-room. Perhaps the worrying incident could be closed in the nick of time.

At the kitchen doorway she stopped and speechlessly surveyed a dismaying scene. In apparent contentment, the woman was seated in the corner with a pan in her lap, peeling her experimental apples with one of her patent knives. She looked up brightly and smiled.

"Pie," she explained—and then added irrelevantly, "My name is Hannah."