Memoirs of a Midget Part 17

The heavy weeks dragged slowly by, and a one-sided correspondence is like posting letters into a dream. My progress with Miss Austen was slow, because she made me think and argue with her. Apart from her, I devoured every fragment of print I could lay hands on. For when fiction palled I turned to facts, mastered the _sheepshank_, the _running bowline_, and the _figure-of-eight_; and wrestled on with my sea-craft.

It was a hard task, and I thought it fair progress if in _that_ I covered half a knot a day.

Besides which, Mrs Bowater sometimes played with me at solitaire, draughts, or cards. In these she was a martinet, and would appropriate a fat pack at _Beggar-my-neighbour_ with infinite gusto. How silent stood the little room, with just the click of the cards, the simmering of the kettle on the hob, and Mrs Bowater's occasional gruff "Four to pay." We might have been on a desert island. I must confess this particular game soon grew a little wearisome; but I played on, thinking to please my partner, and that she had chosen it for her own sake. Until one evening, with a stifled sigh, she murmured the word, Cribbage! I was shuffling my own small pack at the moment, and paused, my eyes on their backs, in a rather wry amus.e.m.e.nt. But Fate has pretty frequently so turned the tables on me; and after that, "One for his n.o.b," sepulchrally broke the night-silence of Beechwood far more often than "Four to pay."

Not all my letters to f.a.n.n.y went into the post. My landlady looked a little askance at them, and many of the unposted ones were scrawled, if possible in moonlight, after she had gone to bed. To judge from my recollection of other letters written in my young days, I may be thankful that f.a.n.n.y was one of those practical people who do not h.o.a.rd the valueless. I can still recall the poignancy of my postscripts. On the one hand: "I beseech you to write to me, f.a.n.n.y, I live to hear. Last night was full moon again. I saw you--you only in her gla.s.s." On the other: "Henry has been fighting. There is a chip out of his ear. Nine centuries nearer now! And how is 'Monsieur c.r.a.paud'?"

Wanderslore

Chapter Eighteen

At last there came a post which brought me, not a sermon from Miss Fenne, nor gossip from Pollie, but a message from the Islands of the Blest. All that evening and night it lay unopened under my pillow. I was saving it up. And never have I pa.s.sed hours so studious yet so barren of result. It was the end of February. A sudden burst of light and sunshine had fallen on the world. There were green shining gra.s.s and new-fallen lambs in the meadows, and the almond tree beyond my window was in full, leafless bloom. As for the larks, they were singing of f.a.n.n.y. The next morning early, about seven o'clock, her letter folded up in its small envelope in the bosom of my cloak, I was out of the house and making my way to the woods. It was the clear air of daybreak and only the large stars shook faint and silvery in the brightening sky.

Frost powdered the ground and edged the gra.s.ses. But now tufts of primroses were in blow among the withered mist of leaves. I came to my "observatory" just as the first beams of sunrise smote on its upper boughs. Yet even now I deferred the longed-for moment and hastened on between the trees, beech and brooding yew, by what seemed a faint foot-track, and at last came out on a kind of rising on the edge of the woods. From this green eminence for the first time I looked straight across its desolate garden to Wanderslore.

It was a long, dark, many-windowed house. It gloomed sullenly back at me beneath the last of night. From the alarm calls of the blackbirds it seemed that even so harmless a trespa.s.ser as I was a rare spectacle. A tangle of brier and bramble bushed frostily over its grey stone terraces. Nearer at hand in the hollow stood an angled house, also of stone--and as small compared with Wanderslore as a little child compared with its mother. It had been shattered at one corner by a falling tree, whose bole still lay among the undergrowth. The faint track I was following led on, and apparently past it. Breathless and triumphant, I presently found myself seated on a low mossy stone beside it, monarch of all I surveyed. With a profound sigh I opened my letter:--

"BURN THIS LETTER, AND SHOW THE OTHER TO M.

"DEAR MIDGETINA,--Don't suppose, because I have not written, that f.a.n.n.y is a monster, though, in fact, she is. I have often thought of you--with your stars and knick-knacks. And of course your letters have come. My thanks. I can't really answer them now because I am trying at the same time to scribble this note and to correct 'composition' papers under the very eyes of Miss Stebbings--the abhorred daughter of Argus and the eldest Gorgon.

Dear me, I almost envy you, Midgetina. It _must_ be fun to be like a tiny, round-headed pin in a pin-cushion and just mock at the Workbox. But all things in moderation.

"When the full moon came last I remembered our _vow_. She was so dazzling, poor old wreck. And I wondered, as I blinked up at her, if you would not some day vanish away altogether--unless you make a fortune by being looked at. I wish I could. Only would they pay enough? That is the question.

"What I am writing about now is not the moon, but--don't be amused!--a Man. Not Monsieur c.r.a.paud, who is more absurd than ever; but some one you know, Mr Crimble. He has sent me the most alarming letter and wants me to marry him. It is not for the first time of asking, but still a solemn occasion. Mother once said that he was like a coquette--all attention and no intention. Sad to say, it is the other way round. M., you see, always judges by what she fears.

_I_ by what this Heart tells me.

"Now I daren't write back to him direct (_a_) because I wish just now to say neither Yes nor No; (_b_) because a little delay will benefit his family pride; (_c_) because it is safer not to--he's very careless and I might soon want to change my mind; (_d_) because that's how my fancy takes me; and (_e_) because I love you exceedingly and know you will help me.

"When no answer comes to his letter, he will probably dare another pilgrimage to Beechwood Hill, if only to make sure that I am not in my grave. So I want you to tell him _secretly_ that _I have received his letter and that I am giving it my earnest attention_--let alone my prayers. Tell me exactly how he takes this answer; then I will write to you again. I am sure, Midgetina, in some previous life you must have lived in the tiny rooms in the Palace at Mantua--you are a born _intrigante_.

"_In my bedroom, 11 p.m._--A scheme is in my mind, but it is not yet in bloom, and you may infer from all this that I don't _care_.

Often I wish this were so. I sat in front of my eight inches of grained looking-gla.s.s last night till it seemed some G.o.d(dess) _must_ intervene. But no. My head was dark and empty. I could hear Mr Oliphant cajoling with his violin in the distance--as if music had charms. Oh, dear, they give you life, and leave you to ask, Why. You seem to be perfectly contented in your queer little prim way with merely asking. But f.a.n.n.y Bowater wants an answer, or she will make one up. Meanwhile, search for a sc.r.a.p of magic mushroom, little sister, and come nearer! Some day I will tell you even more about myself! Meanwhile, believe me, pet.i.tissimost M., your affec.--F.

"PS.--_Burn this._

"PPS.--What I mean is, that he must be _made_ to realize that I will not and cannot give him an answer before I come home--unless he hears meanwhile.

"Burn this: the _other_ letter is for show purposes."

f.a.n.n.y's "other" was more brief:--

"DEAR MIDGETINA,--It is delightful to have your letters, and I am ashamed of myself for not answering them before. But I will do so the very moment there is a free hour. Would you please ask mother with my love to send me some handkerchiefs, some stockings, and some soap? My first are worn with weeping, my second with sitting still, and my third is mottled--and similarly affects the complexion. But Easter draws near, and I am sure I must long to be home. Did you tell mother by any chance of your midnight astronomy lesson? It has been most useful when all other baits and threats have failed to teach the young idea how to shoot. Truly a poet's way of putting it. Is Mr Crimble still visiting his charming parishioner?

"I remain,

"Yours affec'ly,

"f.a.n.n.y BOWATER."

Slowly, self-conscious word by word, lingering here and there, I read these letters through--then through again. Then I lifted my eyes and stared for a while over my left shoulder at empty Wanderslore. A medley of emotions strove for mastery, and as if to rea.s.sure herself the "tiny, round-headed pin" kissed the signature, whispering languishingly to herself in the great garden: "I love you exceedingly. Oh, f.a.n.n.y, I love you exceedingly," and hid her eyes in her hands. The note-paper was very faintly scented. My imagination wandered off I know not where; and returned, elated and dejected. Which the more I know not. Then I folded up the secret letter into as small a compa.s.s as I could, dragged back a loose, flat stone, hid it away in the dry crevice beneath, and replaced the stone. The other I put into my silk bag.

I emerged from these labours to see in my mind Mrs Bowater steadfastly regarding me, and behind her the shadowy shape of Mr Crimble, with I know not what of entreaty in his magnified dark eyes. I smiled a little ruefully to myself to think that my life was become like a pool of deep water in which I was slowly sinking down and down. As if, in sober fact, there were stones in my pocket, or leaden soles to my shoes. It was more like reading a story about myself, than _being_ myself, and what was to be the end of it all? I thought of f.a.n.n.y married to Mr Crimble, as my mother was married to my father. How dark and uncomfortable a creature he looked beside f.a.n.n.y's grace and fairness. And would Mrs Crimble sit in an arm-chair and watch f.a.n.n.y as f.a.n.n.y had watched me? And should I be asked to tea? I was surprised into a shudder. Yet I don't think there would have been any _wild_ jealousy in my heart--even if f.a.n.n.y should say, Yes. I could love her better, perhaps, if she would give me a little time. And what was really keeping her back? Why did every word she said or wrote only hide what she truly meant?

So, far from mocking at the Workbox, I was only helplessly examining its tangled skeins. Nor was I criticizing f.a.n.n.y. To help her--that was my one burning desire, to give all I had, take nothing. In a vague, and possibly priggish, fashion, I knew, too, that I wanted to help her against herself. Her letter (and perhaps the long waiting for it) had smoothed out my old excitements. In the midst of these musings memory suddenly alighted on the question in the letter which was to be shown to Mrs Bowater: about the star-gazing. There was no need for that now. But the point was, had not f.a.n.n.y extorted a promise from me _not_ to tell her mother of our midnight adventure? It seemed as though without a shred of warning the fair face had drawn close in my consciousness and was looking at me low and fixedly, like a snake in a picture. Why, it was like cheating at cards! Fascinated and repelled, I sank again into reverie.

"No, no, it's cowardly, f.a.n.n.y," cried aloud a voice in the midst of this inward argument, as startling as if a stranger had addressed me. The morning was intensely still. Sunbeams out of the sky now silvered the cl.u.s.tered chimney shafts of Wanderslore. Where shadow lay, the frost gloomed wondrously blue on the dishevelled terraces; where sun, a thin smoke of vapour was ascending into the air. The plants and bushes around me were k.n.o.bbed all over with wax-green buds. The enormous trees were faintly coloured in their twigs. A sun-beetle staggered, out among the pebbles at my feet. I glanced at my hands; they were coral pink with the cold. "I love you exceedingly--exceedingly," I repeated, though this time I knew not to whom.

So saying, and, even as I said it, realizing that the _exceedingly_ was not my own, and that I must be intelligent even if I was sentimental, I rose from my stone, and turned to go back. I thus faced the worn, small, stone house again. Instantly I was all attention. A curious feeling came over me, familiar, yet eluding remembrance. It meant that I must be vigilant. Cautiously I edged round to the other side of the angled wall, where lay the fallen tree. Hard, dark buds showed on its yet living fringes. Rather than clamber over its sodden bole, I skirted it until I could walk beneath a lank, upthrust bough. At every few steps I shrank in and glanced around me, then fixed my eyes--as I had learned to do by my stream-side or when star-gazing--on a single object, in order to mark what was pa.s.sing on the outskirts of my field of vision. Nothing. I was alone in the garden. A robin, with a light flutter of wing, perched to eye me. A string of rooks cawed across the sky. Wanderslore emptily stared. If, indeed, I was being watched, then my watcher was no less circ.u.mspect than I. Soon I was skirting the woods again, and had climbed the green knoll by which I had descended into the garden. I wheeled sharply, searching the whole course of my retreat. Nothing.

When I opened my door, Mrs Bowater and Henry seemed to be awaiting me.

Was it my fancy that both of them looked censorious? Absently she stood aside to let me pa.s.s to my room, then followed me in.

"Such a lovely morning, Mrs Bowater," I called pleasantly down from my bedroom, as I stood taking off my cloak in front of the gla.s.s, "and not a soul to be seen--though" (and my voice was better under command with a hairpin between my teeth); "I wouldn't have minded if there had been.

Not now."

"Ah," came the reply, "but you must be cautious, miss. Boys will be boys; and," the sound tailed away, "men, men." I heard the door open and close, and paused, with hands still lifted to my hair, p.r.i.c.kling cold all over at this strange behaviour. What could I have been found out in now?

Then a voice sounded seemingly out of nowhere. "What I was going to say, miss, is--A letter's come."

With that I drew aside the curtain. The explanation was simple. Having let Henry out of my room, in which he was never at ease, Mrs Bowater was still standing, like a figure in waxwork, in front of her chiffonier, her eyes fixed on the window. They then wheeled on me. "_Mr_ Bowater,"

she said.

I was conscious of an inexpressible relief and of the profoundest interest. I glanced at the great portrait. "Mr Bowater?" I repeated.

"Yes," she replied. "Buenos Ayres. He's broken a leg; and so's fixed there for the time being."

"Oh, Mrs Bowater," I said, "I _am_ sorry. And how terribly sudden."

"Believe me, my young friend," she replied musingly, "it's never in my experience what's unprepared for that finds us least expecting it. Not that it was actually his _leg_ was in my mind."

What was chiefly in _my_ selfish mind was the happy conviction that I had better not give her f.a.n.n.y's letter just then.

"I do hope he's not in great pain," was all I found to say.

She continued to muse at me in her queer, sightless fashion, almost as if she were looking for help.