The Good Comrade Part 9

For a moment Julia's eyes showed her surprise; an apology was not what she expected, and, to tell the truth, it did not altogether please her. She knew that she and her father had no right to it while the money was unpaid.

"Please do not apologise," she said; "there is no need, I quite understand."

"I was labouring under a false impression," Rawson-Clew explained.

She nodded. "I know," she said, "but it is cleared up now; no one who spoke with my father could possibly imagine he lived by his wits."

Which ambiguous remark may have been meant to apply to the Captain's mental outfit more than his moral one. When Rawson-Clew knew Julia better he came to the conclusion it probably did, at the time he thought it wise not to answer it.

"Here is your basket," he said; "I think it is clean now."

She made a movement to take it, but her arm was numb and powerless from the blow she had received; it was the right shoulder which had been struck, and that hand was clearly useless for the time being; with a wince of pain, she stretched out the left.

But he drew the basket back. "You are hurt," he said.

"No, I'm not, nothing to speak of; it only hurts me when I move that arm; I will carry the basket with the other hand."

"How far have you to go?"

She told him to the village and back.

"You had better go straight home at once," he said.

"I can't do that," she answered. She did not explain that she did not want to, the pain in her shoulder not being bad enough to make her want to give up this first hour of freedom. "My shoulder does not hurt if I do not move it," she said; "I can carry the basket with the other hand."

"Perhaps you will allow me to carry it for you?" he suggested; "I am going the same way."

"No, thank you," she returned. "Thanks very much for the offer, but there isn't any need; I can manage quite well. I expect you will want to go faster than I do." She spoke decidedly, and turned about quickly; as she did so, she caught sight of the bottle of peach-brandy in the gra.s.s.

"Oh, there's the brandy," she exclaimed; "I mustn't go without that."

He fetched the fortunately unbroken bottle and put it in the basket, but he did not give it to her.

"I will carry this," he said; "if our pace does not agree, if you would prefer to walk more slowly, I will wait for you at the beginning of the village."

Julia rose to her feet, there was no choice left to her but to acquiesce; from her heart she wished he would leave the basket and go alone; she wished even that he would be rude to her, she felt that then he would have been nearer her level and her father's. She resented alike his presence and his courtesy, and she could not show either feeling, only accept what he offered and walk by his side, just as if no money was owed, and no letter, condescendingly cancelling the debt, had been written. She grew hot as she thought of that carefully worded letter, and hot when she thought of her father's relief thereat. And here, here was the man who must have dictated the letter, and probably paid the debt, behaving just as if such things never existed. He was walking with her--she could not give him ten yards start and follow him into the village--and making polite conversations about the weather, and the road, and the quant.i.ty of soup that had been spilled.

She pulled herself together, and, feeling the situation to be beyond remedy, determined to bear herself bravely, and carry it off with what credit she could. She glanced at the more than half-empty soup can. "I am afraid you are right," she said; "there is a great deal of it gone; still, that is not without advantage--I shall be sent to take some more in a day or two."

"You wish that?" he inquired.

"Yes," she answered, "I find the exercise beneficial; I have had too much pudding lately."

He looked politely surprised, and she went on to explain.

"It is very wholesome," she said, "but a bit stodgy; I think it is too really good to be taken in such large quant.i.ties by any one like me.

It is unbelievably good, it makes one perfectly ashamed of oneself; and unbelievably narrow, it makes one long for bed-time."

She broke off to smile at his more genuine surprise, and her smile, like that of some other people of little real beauty, was one of singular charm.

"Did you think I meant actual pudding?" she asked. "I didn't; I meant just the whole life here; if you knew the people well, the real middle cla.s.s ones, you would understand."

"I think I can understand without knowing them well," he said; "I fancy there is a good deal of pudding about; in fact, I myself am feeling its rather oppressive influence."

"The town is paved with it," Julia declared. "I thought so this afternoon. I also thought, though it is Tuesday, it was just like a spring Sunday; every day is like that."

Rawson-Clew suggested that many people appreciated spring Sundays.

"So do I," Julia agreed, "but in moderation; you can't do your washing on Sunday, nor your harvesting in spring. An endless succession of spring Sundays is very awkward when you have got--well, week-day work to do, don't you think so?"

He wondered a little what week-day work she had in her mind, but he did not ask.

"Are you living with a Dutch family?" he inquired.

She nodded. "As companion," she said; "sort of superior general servant."

"Indeed? Then it must have been you I saw yesterday; I thought so at the time; you were driving with some Dutch ladies."

Julia was surprised that he had seen and recognised her. "We went for an excursion yesterday," she said; "they called it a picnic."

She told him about it, not omitting any of the points which had amused her. Could Joost have heard her, he would have felt that his suspicion that she sometimes laughed at them more than justified; but she did not give a thought to Joost, and probably would not have paused if she had. She wanted to pa.s.s the present time, and she was rather reckless how, so long as Rawson-Clew either talked himself, or seemed interested in what she said; also, it must be admitted, though it was to this man, it was something of a treat to talk freely again. So she gave him the best account she could, not only of the excursion, but of other things too. And if it was his attention she wanted, she should have been satisfied, for she apparently had it, at first only the interest of courtesy, afterwards something more; it even seemed, before the end, as if she puzzled him a little, in spite of his years and experience.

He found himself mentally contrasting the life at the Van Heigens', as she described it, with that which he had imagined her to have led at Marbridge, and, now that he talked to her, he could not find her exact place in either.

"You must find Dutch conventionality rather trying," he said at last.

"I am not used to it yet," she answered; "when I am it will be no worse than the conventionality at home."

He felt he was wrong in one of his surmises; clearly she was not really Bohemian. "Surely," he said, "you have not found these absurd rules and restrictions in England?"

"Not the same ones; we study appearances one way, and they do another; but it comes to the same thing, so far as I am concerned. One day I hope to be able to give it up and retire; when I do I shall wear corduroy breeches and if I happen to be in the kitchen eating onions when people come to see me, I shall call them in and offer them a share."

"Rather an uncomfortable ambition, isn't that?" he inquired. "I am afraid you will have to wait some time for its fulfilment, especially the corduroy. I doubt if you will achieve that this side the grave, though you might perhaps make a provision in your will to be buried in it."

Julia laughed a little. "You think my family would object? They would; but, you see, I should be retiring from them as well as from the world, the corduroy might be part of my bulwarks."

"I don't think you could afford it even for that; do you think women ever can afford that kind of disregard for appearances?"

"Plain ones can," she said; "it is the only compensation they have for being plain; not much, certainly, seeing what they lose, but they have it. When you can never look more than indifferent, it does not matter how much less you look."

"That is a rather unusual idea," he remarked; "it appears sound in theory, but in practice--"

"Sounder still," she answered him.

He laughed. "I'm afraid you won't make many converts here," he said, "where nearly every woman is plain, and according to your experience, every one, men and women too, think a great deal of looks; at all events, correct ones."

"They do do that," she admitted; "they just worship propriety and the correct, and have the greatest notion of the importance of their neighbours' eyes. It is a perfect treat to be out alone, and not have to regard them--this is the first time I have been out alone since I have been here."