Читать книгу Memoirs of a Midget - Walter de la Mare - Страница 16

Chapter Eleven

If it was the child of wrath in me that hungered at times after the night, woods, and solitude to such a degree that my very breast seemed empty within me; it was now the child of grace that prevailed. With girlish exaggeration I began torturing myself in my bed with remorse at the deceit I had been practising. Now Conscience told me that I must make a full confession the first thing in the morning; and now that it would be more decent to let Fanny “tell on me.” At length thought tangled with dream, and a grisly night was mine.

What was that? It was day; Mrs Bowater was herself softly calling me beyond my curtains, and her eye peeped in. Always before I had been up and dressed when she brought in my breakfast. Through a violent headache I surveyed the stooping face. Something in my appearance convinced her that I was ill, and she insisted on my staying in bed.

“But, Mrs Bowater.…” I expostulated.

“No, no, miss; it was in a butt they drowned the sexton. Here you stay; and its being Christmas Eve, you must rest and keep quiet. What with those old books and all, you have been burning the candle at both ends.”

Early in the afternoon on finding that her patient was little better, my landlady went off to the chemist’s to get me some physic; I could bear inactivity no longer, and rose and dressed. The fire was low, the room sluggish, when in the dusk, as I sat dismally brooding in my chair, the door opened, and a stranger came in with my tea. She was dressed in black, and was carrying a light. With that raised in one hand, and my tea-tray held between finger and thumb of the other, she looked at me with face a little sidelong. Her hair was dark above her clear pale skin, and drawn, without a fringe, smoothly over her brows. Her eyes were almost unnaturally light in colour. I looked at her in astonishment; she was new in my world. She put the tray on my table, poked the fire into a blaze, blew out her candle at a single puff from her pursed lips, and seating herself on the hearthrug, clasped her hands round her knees.

“Mother told me you were in bed, ill,” she said, “I hope you are better.”

I assured her in a voice scarcely above a whisper that I was quite well again.

She nestled her chin down and broke into a little laugh: “My! how you startled me!”

“Then it was you,” I managed to say.

“Oh, yes; it was me, it was me.” The words were uttered as if to herself. She stooped her cheek over her knees again, and smiled round at me. “I’m not telling,” she added softly.

Her tone, her expression, filled me with confusion. “But please do not suppose,” I began angrily, “that I am not my own mistress here. I have my own key—”

“Oh, yes, your own mistress,” she interrupted suavely, “but you see that’s just what I’m not. And the key! why, it’s just envy that’s gnawing at the roots. I’ve never, never in my life seen anything so queer.” She suddenly raised her strange eyes on me. “What were you doing out there?”

A lie perched on my lip; but the wide, light eyes searched me through. “I went,” said I, “to be in the woods—to see the stars”; then added in a rather pompous voice, “only the southern and eastern constellations are visible from this poky little window.”

There was no change in the expression of the two eyes that drank me in. “I see; and you want them all. That’s odd, now,” she went on reflectively, stabbing again at the fire; “they have never attracted me very much—angels’ tin-tacks, as they say in the Sunday Schools. Fanny Bowater was looking for the moon.”

She turned once more, opened her lips, showing the firm row of teeth beneath them, and sang in a low voice the first words, I suppose, of some old madrigal: “‘She enchants me.’ And if I had my little key, and my little secret door.… But never mind. ‘Tell-tale Tit, her tongue shall be slit.’ It’s safe with me. I’m no sneak. But you might like to know, Miss M., that my mother thinks the very world of you. And so do I, for that matter; though perhaps for different reasons.”

The calm, insolent words infuriated me, and yet her very accents, with a curious sweet rasp in them, like that in a skylark’s song when he slides his last twenty feet from the clouds, were an enchantment. Ever and always there seemed to be two Fannies; one visible, her face; the other audible, her voice. But the enchantment was merely fuel for the flames.

“Will you please remember,” I broke out peremptorily, “that neither myself nor what I choose to do is any affair of yours. Mrs Bowater is an excellent landlady; you can tell her precisely what you please; and—and” (I seemed to be choking) “I am accustomed to take my meals alone.”

The sidelong face grew hard and solemn in the firelight, then slowly turned, and once more the eyes surveyed me under lifted brows—like the eyes of an angel, empty of mockery or astonishment or of any meaning but that of their beauty. “There you are,” she said. “One talks like one human being to another, and I should have thought you’d be grateful for that; and this is the result. Facts are facts; and I’m not sorry for them, good or bad. If you wish to see the last of me, here it is. I don’t thrust myself on people—there’s no need. But still; I’m not telling.”

She rose, and with one light foot on my fender, surveyed herself for a moment with infinite composure in the large looking-glass that spanned the chimney-piece.

And I?—I was exceedingly tired. My head was burning like a coal; my thoughts in confusion. Suddenly I lost control of myself and broke into an angry, ridiculous sobbing. I simply sat there, my face hidden in my dry, hot hands, miserable and defeated. And strange Fanny Bowater, what did she do?

“Heavens!” she muttered scornfully, “I gave up snivelling when I was a baby.” Then voice, manner, even attitude suddenly changed—“And there’s mother!”

When Mrs Bowater knocked at my door, though still in my day-clothes, I was in bed again, and my tea lay untasted on a chair beside it.

“Dear, dear,” she said, leaning anxiously over me, “your poor cheeks are red as a firebrand, miss. Those chemists daren’t put a nose outside their soaps and tooth powders. It must be Dr Phelps to-morrow if you are no better. And as plump a little Christmas pudding boiling for you in the pot as ever you could see! Tell me, now; there’s no pain anywhere—throat, limbs, or elsewhere?”

I shook my head. She sprinkled a drop or two of eau de Cologne on my sheet and pillow, gently bathed my temples and hands, kindled a night-light, and left me once more to my own reflections.

They were none too comfortable. One thing only was in my mind—Fanny Bowater, her face, her voice, every glance and intonation, smile, and gesture. That few minutes’ talk seemed now as remote and incredible as a nightmare. The stars, the woods, my solitary delights in learning and thinking were all suddenly become empty and meaningless. She despised me: and I hated her with a passion I cannot describe.

Yet in the midst of my hatred I longed for her company again, distracting myself with the sharp and clever speeches I might have made to her, and picturing her confounded by my contempt and indifference. But should I ever see her alone again? At every sound and movement in the house, which before had so little concerned me, I lay listening, with held breath. I might have been a mummy in a Pyramid hearkening after the fluttering pinions of its spirit come back to bring it life. But no tidings came of the stranger.

When my door opened again, it was only to admit Mrs Bowater with my supper—a bowl of infant’s gruel, not the customary old lady’s rusk and milk. I laughed angrily within to think that her daughter must have witnessed its preparation. Even at twenty, then, I had not grown used to being of so little consequence in other people’s eyes. Yet, after all, who ever quite succeeds in being that? My real rage was not that Fanny had taken me as a midget, but as such a midget. Yet can I honestly say that I have ever taken her as mere Fanny, and not as such a Fanny?

The truth is she had wounded my vanity, and vanity may be a more fractious nursling even than a wounded heart. Tired and fretful, I had hardly realized the flattering candour of her advances. Even her promises not to “tell” of my night-wanderings, implied that she trusted in my honour not to tell of her promise. I thought and thought of her. She remained an enigma. Cold and hard—no one had ever spoken to me like that before. Yet her voice—it was as if it had run about in my blood, and made my eyes shine. A mere human sound to set me sobbing! More dangerous yet, I began to think of what Miss Bowater must be thinking of me, until, exhausted, I fell asleep, to dream that I was a child again and shut up in one of Mrs Ballard’s glass jars, and that a hairy woman who was a kind of mixture of Mrs Bowater and Miss Fenne, was tapping with a thimbled finger on its side to increase my terror.

Next morning, thank Heaven, admitted me to my right mind again. I got out of bed and peered through the window. It was Christmas Day. A thin scatter of snow was powdering down out of the grey sky. The fields were calm and frozen. I felt, as I might say, the hunger in my face, looking out. There was something astonishingly new in my life. Everything familiar had become a little strange.

Over night, too, some one—and with mingled feelings I guessed who—must have stolen into my room while I lay asleep. Laid out on a bedside chair was a crimson padded dressing-jacket, threaded with gold, a delicate piece of needlework that would have gladdened my grandfather. Rolled up on the floor beside it was a thick woollen mat, lozenged in green and scarlet, and just of a size to spread beside my bed. These gifts multiplied my self-reproaches and made me acutely homesick.

What should I do? Beneath these thoughts was a quiet fizz of expectation and delight, like water under a boat. Pride and common sense fought out their battle in my mind. It was pride that lost the day. When Mrs Bowater brought in my breakfast, she found her invalid sitting up in Fanny’s handsome jacket, and the mat laid over the bedrail for my constant contemplation. Nor had I forgotten Mrs Bowater. By a little ruse I had found out the name and address of a chemist in the town, and on the tray beside my breakfast was the fine bottle of lavender water which I had myself ordered him to send by the Christmas Eve post.

“Well there, miss, you did take me in that time,” she assured me. “And more like a Valentine than a Christmas present; and its being the only scent so-called that I’ve any nose for.”

Clearly this was no occasion for the confessional, even if I had had a mind to it. But I made at least half a vow never to go star-gazing again without her knowledge. My looks pleased her better, too, though not so much better as to persuade her to countermand Dr Phelps. Her yellowish long hand with its worn wedding-ring was smoothing my counterpane. I clutched at it, and, shame-stricken, smiled up into her face.

“You have made me very happy,” I said. At this small remark, the heavy eyelids trembled, but she made no reply.

“Did,” I managed to inquire at last, “did she have any breakfast before she went for the doctor?”

“A cup of tea,” said Mrs Bowater shortly. A curious happiness took possession of me.

“She is very young to be teaching; not much older than I am.”

“The danger was to keep her back,” was the obscure reply. “We don’t always see eye to eye.”

For an instant the dark, cavernous face above me was mated by that other of birdlike lightness and beauty. “Isn’t it funny?” I observed, “I had made quite, quite a different picture of her.”

“Looks are looks, and brains are brains; and between them you must tread very wary.”

* * * *

About eleven o’clock a solemn-looking young man of about thirty, with a large pair of reddish leather gloves in his hand, entered the room. For a moment he did not see my bed, then, remarking circumspectly in a cheerful, hollow voice, “So this is our patient,” he bade me good-morning, and took a seat beside my bed. A deep blush mounted up into the fair, smooth-downed cheeks as he returned my scrutiny and asked me to exhibit my tongue. I put it out, and he blushed even deeper.

“And the pulse, please,” he murmured, rising. I drew back the crimson sleeve of Fanny’s jacket, and with extreme nicety he placed the tip of a square, icy forefinger on my wrist. Once more his fair-lashed eyelids began to blink. He extracted a fine gold watch from his waistcoat pocket, compared beat with beat, frowned, and turned to Mrs Bowater.

“You are not, I assume, aware of the—the young lady’s normal pulse?”

“There being no cause before to consider it, I am not,” Mrs Bowater returned.

“Any pain?” said Dr Phelps.

“Headache,” replied Mrs Bowater on my behalf, “and shoots in the limbs.”

At that Dr Phelps took a metal case out of his waistcoat, glanced at it, glanced at me, and put it back again. He leaned over so close to catch the whisper of my breathing that there seemed a danger of my losing myself in the labyrinth of his downy ear.

“H’m, a little fever,” he said musingly. “Have we any reason to suppose that we can have taken a chill?”

The head on the pillow stirred gently to and fro, and I think its cheek was dyed with an even sprightlier red than had coloured his. After one or two further questions, and a low colloquy with Mrs Bowater in the passage, Dr Phelps withdrew, and his carriage rolled away.

“A painstaking young man,” Mrs Bowater summed him up in the doorway, “but not the kind I should choose to die under. You are to keep quiet and warm, miss; have plenty of light nourishment; and physic to follow. Which, except for the last-mentioned, and that mainly water, one don’t have to ride in a carriage to know for one’s self.”

But “peace and goodwill”: I liked Dr Phelps, and felt so much better for his skill that before his wheels had rolled out of hearing I had leapt out of bed, dragged out the trunk that lay beneath it, and fetched out from it a treasured ivory box. On removal of the lid, this ingenious work disclosed an Oriental Temple, with a spreading tree, a pool, a long-legged bird, and a mountain. And all these exquisitely tinted in their natural colours. It had come from China, and had belonged to my mother’s brother, Andrew, who was an officer in the Navy and had died at sea. This I wrapped up in a square of silk and tied with a green thread. During the whole of his visit my head had been so hotly in chase of this one stratagem that it is a marvel Dr Phelps had not deciphered it in my pulse.

When Mrs Bowater brought in my Christmas dinner—little but bread sauce and a sprig of holly!—I dipped in the spoon, and, as innocently as I knew how, inquired if her daughter would like to see some really fine sewing.

The black eyes stood fast, then the ghost of a smile vanished over her features; “I’ll be bound she would, miss. I’ll give her your message.” Alone again, I turned over on my pillow and laughed until tears all but came into my eyes.

All that afternoon I waited on, the coals of fire that I had prepared for my enemy’s head the night before now ashes of penitence on my own. A dense smell of cooking pervaded the house; and it was not until the evening that Fanny Bowater appeared.

She was dressed in a white muslin gown with a wreath of pale green leaves in her hair. “I am going to a party,” she said, “so I can’t waste much time.”

“Mrs Bowater thought you would like to see some really beautiful needlework,” I replied suavely.

“Well,” she said, “where is it?”

“Won’t you come a little closer?”

That figure, as nearly like the silver slip of the new moon as ever I have seen, seemed to float in my direction. I held my breath and looked up into the light, dwelling eyes. “It is this,” I whispered, drawing my two hands down the bosom of her crimson dressing-jacket. “It is only, Thank you, I wanted to say.”

In a flash her lips broke into a low clear laughter. “Why, that’s nothing. Really and truly I hate that kind of work; but mother often wrote of you; there was nothing better to do; and the smallness of the thing amused me.”

I nodded humbly. “Yes, yes,” I muttered, “Midget is as Midget wears. I know that. And—and here, Miss Bowater, is a little Christmas present from me.”

Voraciously I watched her smooth face as she untied the thread. “A little ivory box!” she exclaimed, pushing back the lid, “and a Buddhist temple, how very pretty. Thank you.”

“Yes, Miss Bowater, and, do you see, in the corner there? a moon. ‘She enchants’ you.”

“So it is,” she laughed, closing the box. “I was supposing,” she went on solemnly, “that I had been put in the corner in positively everlasting disgrace.”

“Please don’t say that,” I entreated. “We may be friends, mayn’t we? I am better now.”

Her eyes wandered over my bed, my wardrobe, and all my possessions. “But yes,” she said, “of course”; and laughed again.

“And you believe me?”

“Believe you?”

“That it was the stars? I thought Mrs Bowater might be anxious if she knew. It was quite, quite safe, really; and I’m going to tell her.”

“Oh, dear,” she replied in a cold, small voice, “so you are still worrying about that. I—I envied you.” With a glance over her shoulder, she leaned closer. “Next time you go,” she breathed out to me, “we’ll go together.”

My heart gave a furious leap; my lips closed tight. “I could tell you the names of some of the stars now,” I said, in a last wrestle with conscience.

“No, no,” said Fanny Bowater, “it isn’t the stars I’m after. The first fine night we’ll go to the woods. You shall wait for me till everything is quiet. It will be good practise in practical astronomy.” She watched my face, and began silently laughing as if she were reading my thoughts. “That’s a bargain, then. What is life, Miss M., but experience? And what is experience, but knowing thyself? And what’s knowing thyself but the very apex of wisdom? Anyhow it’s a good deal more interesting than the Prince of Denmark.”

“Yes”, I agreed. “And there’s still all but a full moon.”

“Aha!” said she. “But what a world with only one! Jupiter has scores, hasn’t he? Just think of his Love Lanes!” She rose to her feet with a sigh of boredom, and smoothed out her skirts with her long, narrow hands. I stared at her beauty in amazement.

“I hate these parties here,” she said. “They are not worth while.”

“You look lov—you look all right.”

“H’m; but what’s that when there’s no one to see.”

“But you see yourself. You live in it.”

The reflected face in the glass, which, craning forward, I could just distinguish, knitted its placid brows. “Why, if that were enough, we should all be hermits. I rather think, you know, that God made man almost solely in the hope of his two-legged appreciation. But perhaps you disapprove of incense?”

“Why should I, Miss Bowater? My Aunt Kitilda was a Catholic: and so was my mother’s family right back.”

“That’s right,” said Miss Bowater. She kissed her hand to looking-glass and four-poster, flung me a last fervid smile, and was gone. And the little box I had given her lay on the table, beside my bed.

I was aroused much later by the sound of voices drawing nearer. Instinctively I sat up, my senses fastened on the sound like a vampire. The voices seemed to be in argument, then the footsteps ceased and clear on the night air came the words:—

“But you made me promise not to write. Oh, Fanny, and you have broken your own!”

“Then you must confess,” was the cautious reply, “that I am consistent. As for the promises, you are quite, quite welcome to the pieces.”

“You mean that?” was the muffled retort.

“That,” cried the other softly, “depends entirely on what you mean by ‘mean.’ Please look happy! You’d soon grow old and uglier if there was only that scrap of moon to light your face.”

“Oh, Fanny. Will you never be serious?”—the misery in the words seemed to creep about in my own mind for shelter. They were answered by a sparkling gush of laughter, followed by a crisp, emphatic knock at the door. Fanny had returned from her party, and the eavesdropper buried her face in her pillow. So she enjoyed hurting people. And yet.…