The Lady of the Basement Flat Part 11

Well, as I said before, three months have pa.s.sed by. Spring has turned into summer, and every day the garden brings fresh, delightful surprises. Uninteresting green sprouts burst into unexpected bloom; the rock garden is a blaze of purple and gold; blackened stems of creepers have disappeared beneath festoons of leaves and flowers.

Charmion and I wear muslin dresses, and eat our meals in the arbour, and lie in hammocks in the little orchard, and rejoice in every moment of the long sunshiny days. Down at the bottom of our hearts, I think we both have a feeling that this is just a little rest by the way. It won't last; we don't even wish it to last. Life is too strenuous to pa.s.s in a summer garden; but we needed a rest and it is very, very good for a change. We pack boxes of flowers and send them to the hospitals, and every Sat.u.r.day afternoon we invite parties of working girls from the nearest towns. They arrive in weird garments, very loud as to colour, and befeathered as to hats, and the village worthies look askance at them, shrug their shoulders, and think small beer of us for entertaining such odd guests.

For three months our lives have been indeed the "annals of a quiet neighbourhood," and then suddenly, last week, something happened!

I said suddenly--I might have said instantaneously, without any exaggeration. The position was this. Scene, a sloping roadway just outside the village area. The stage set with the three princ.i.p.al figures. Enter from left wing, General Underwood, reclining in his bath-chair, being taken for a short ride by his affectionate kinsman, Robert Maplestone. Enter from right wing, Evelyn Wastneys, bearing for home. So far, so good. A similar encounter has happened many times before, but this time the sight of my white-robed figure seemed to upset the Squire's equanimity. He stopped the chair, and turned his head over his shoulder, looking backward over the road along which he had come.

It afterwards transpired that the General's valet had been left behind to finish some small duty, and was momentarily expected to follow. At that moment he did appear, and involuntarily Mr Maplestone lifted his hands to wave an imperious summons.

I have said that the road is sloping; just at this point it is very sloping indeed, therefore the bath-chair darted forward, and spun downward with incredible speed. I have a kaleidoscopic picture in my brain which seems to consist of a lot of waving arms--the poor General's arms waving for help, the Squire's arms sawing the air as he raced in pursuit, further back in the road the valet's arms thrown to the sky in an agony of dismay, while down towards me, ever faster and faster, spun that runaway chair.

I had to stop it somehow! There was no one else to do it, so it was "up to me" to do my best. There was no time to be nervous, no time even to think. I stood braced in the middle of the road, and caught at the steering handle as it flashed by. My weight was light, and the General was heavy. I expected to have to hold hard, but what really happened was startling and unexpected, for the steering handle whirled straight round, struck me a severe blow on the arm, and--toppled me right over on to the foot of the chair! I sat down heavily on the General's feet, and the front wheel tore whirling streamers from the bottom of my skirt.

The chair swayed, jerked, slackened its speed; two strong hands stretched out and checked it still further; a second pair of hands gripped hold, and brought it to a stand.

Now came the moment when I ought to have been acclaimed, and overwhelmed with grateful acknowledgments as an heroic rescuer, who had risked her own life to save a feeble and suffering old man; but not at all! Quite the contrary! No sooner was his flight safely stopped than the General turned and roared at me with furious voice:--

"You sat on _my feet_! You are sitting on my _feet_!--I, with the gout!

Get up! _Get up_!"

Then he turned to Mr Maplestone, and roared at him:--

"What on earth did you _mean_ by letting go?"

Then Mr Maplestone turned to the valet, and roared at him:--

"Why the d.i.c.kens couldn't you _come_, instead of hanging about all day?"

Then they all turned on me, and chorused, "Get up! _Get up_!" and I tried to get up, and the caught streamers of my dress held me fast, and I sat down heavily again--_plop_, right on top of the poor gouty feet.

The General roared more loudly than before, the two other men called out, "Oh, oh!" and I felt as if I should go into hysterics myself. It was a most lacerating scene.

Mr Maplestone took out his penknife and hacked at the ends of my skirt; the valet, who was the only calm and sensible one of the party, lifted me up, and supported me in his arms till I was set free. Then he let go suddenly, and I was so weak and giddy that I nearly fell down a third time. The General closed his eyes and emitted heart-rending groans, and the valet nipped hold of the handle of the chair and made for home as fast as he could go. I stood in the midst of my rags and tatters, and Mr Maplestone stood by my side.

"I hope you are not hurt."

"Oh, not at all!" I said bitterly. I was aching from head to foot. To judge from my sensations, my right arm was paralysed for life. In some mysterious way a wheel seemed to have pa.s.sed over my feet, and my toes burned like fire. Perhaps they were broken--I could not tell. I had likewise several sc.r.a.pes and a whole army of bruises, and the skirt of one of my nicest afternoon frocks was torn into ribbons. And not one word of thanks or appreciation. No wonder I was riled. "Oh, not at all. I _like_ it! I am only sorry that I have contrived to hurt General Underwood. Perhaps you will kindly convey my apologies."

He looked at me critically. Aches don't show on the surface, and I expect I looked rather red than pale. The only visible signs of damage were the ends of muslin and lace which strewed the road. He looked at them and said solemnly:--

"Your dress is spoiled! I'm afraid it was partly my fault. I had to get you free, and it was not a moment for deliberation. I'm sorry!"

He really _sounded_ sorry, and that smoothed me down. I murmured that it didn't matter--only a muslin dress--not his fault, while he went on staring fixedly. Then at last he spoke, and what he said gave me an electric shock of surprise.

"It's a good thing," he said, "it wasn't the one with the frills!"

_The one with the frills_! For a moment my mind was a whirling void; I was too stupefied to think. Then gradually it dawned upon me that he must be alluding to a dress the skirt of which was composed entirely of tiers of flounces. It was a new and favourite possession, and I also was glad that it was spared. But--why should Mr Maplestone--

I gaped at him, and said:--

"_Why_?"

And he said lucidly:--

"Well, there would have been more to catch, wouldn't there? Besides--"

He flushed, and lapsed into silence. Evidently it was inadvisable to continue the subject.

I gathered together my jagged ends, and turned to walk homeward, rather wondering what was going to happen when I began to move. I found I _could_ walk, however, which proved that no bones were broken; but it was a halting performance, and hurt more than I chose to show. If I limped _too_ much, in common politeness Mr Maplestone would be obliged to offer help. I had a vision of Charmion's face if she looked out of the window and beheld us walking arm in arm up the drive!

"Why do you smile?" cried the voice by my side. There was positive offence in the tone, and, as I looked my amazement, he continued accusingly, "You always smile. Every time we meet. It must be an annoyance to stumble against me wherever you go. Yet you smile! And to-day you are hurt, and you still smile!"

"I smile at my thoughts," I said grandiloquently. "And you are wrong, Mr Maplestone. It doesn't annoy me at all. Why should it? You are as free to walk about as I am. I have no right to complain. And my conscience is clear! _I_ have done nothing of which I have reason to be ashamed."

"You mean," he cried, "you mean that?--"

Then his voice broke off sharply, and his forehead wrinkled in dismay.

"_What's that_? That mark on your arm. _Blood_?"

He pointed. I looked, and sure enough a dull red patch was spreading over the muslin sleeve of my dress. The blow had evidently cut the skin, and this was the result. I felt dreadfully sorry for myself, and rather faint, and altogether considerably worse than I had done before, as a result of beholding these visible signs of injury. So, I was content to see, did Mr Maplestone himself. He really looked horribly worried and distressed, and kept glancing at me with anxious eyes, as if every moment he expected me to collapse.

But he never offered his arm! He came with me as far as the gate, and then held out his hand in farewell. It would have been churlish to refuse, so I put my own hand in his just for a moment.

"Don't shake it, please," I said. "It hurts." And then, because it _did_ seem such an odd thing to say, I smiled again, a feeble watery smile.

He dropped my hand like a hot coal, and fled.

I limped into the house and told Charmion all about it, and cried quarts. I was mottled all over, black and blue.

CHAPTER TEN.

MRS MERRIVALE CONFESSES.

Next morning a groom came over with kind inquiries from the Hall. Mr and Mrs Maplestone were anxious to hear if Miss Wastneys had recovered from the shock of yesterday. Miss Wastneys returned thanks for kind inquiries. She was suffering a good deal of pain, but her injuries were not serious.

Recovered, indeed! When I was a ma.s.s of bruises and aches, to say nothing of jumpy nerves. I was not inclined to make light of my injuries to Mr Robert Maplestone.

Later on the General's valet made his appearance.

"General Underwood was anxious to hear how Miss Wastneys was this morning. He was distressed to hear that she had been hurt."

That was more tactful! Moreover, on receiving the bulletin, the man informed our maid that the old gentleman was rarely upset because he had been rude to the young lady. As soon as he was able he was coming in person to apologise.

Charmion listened quietly to the repet.i.tion of this announcement. When the maid left the room, she turned to me as I lay on the sofa, being very sorry for myself, and lifted inquiring brows.

"Well, Evelyn. You know what this means?"

I did, or thought I did, but prevaricated, feeling self-conscious.

"What?"