The next evening Ethel crossed the little landing to the lonely flat, and gave the invitation from F to G.
A good deal to her amusement, she found the gaunt spinster knitting babies' socks, with a basket containing several completed pairs beside her. She picked a pair up, and said with a kind little smile:
"I hardly expected to find you doing this."
"Of course not," in a short way, that sounded uncivil without being so.
"It's an occupation about as much suited to me as teaching music."
"I wonder why you do it?"
"I do it for bread, naturally. They bring in a few shillings. It is just a fluke that I can make them at all. I know as much about a needle ordinarily as a flying-machine; but I learnt to knit once under protest.
I sprained my ankle and was laid up for some weeks, and I told the doctor I should go stark, staring mad if he kept me shut up in a house doing nothing. He said knitting was a very good preventive to madness, and he'd send his wife along. She was a great missionary worker, and she pounced on me like a hawk, and started me off knitting socks for little gutta-percha babies somewhere in the Antipodes, almost before I knew where I was.
Such insanity!... as if white babies wanted to be bothered with socks, much less black ones! I told the doctor it was adding insult to injury to al ow it to appear I hadn't more common sense than to occupy my time with garments for the heathen. As if there weren't too many garments in the world already, half the community over-dressed, and ready to sell its soul for more.
'Leave them clean and healthy and naked, that's my advice, doctor,' I told him; 'and if you weren't afraid of you wife you'd agree.'"
Ethel leaned against the table, enjoying the rugged face and comical y twisted mouth.
"But I thought you were a clergyman's daughter?" she said.
"So I am; but I don't see why I shouldn't be credited with a little common sense even then. I know they haven't much as a rule; what with their sewing-classes, and praying-classes, and mothers' meetings smothering up their minds til they can't see beyond their noses. I never had much to do with that part of it. They didn't like me well enough in the vil age to want to pray with me nor sew with me; which was just as well, for if I'd prayed, I should have implored the Almighthy to open their minds a little, and widen their views, and give them each a good thick slab of devilry to counteract their general soppiness and short-sighted stupidity.
Ugh!... to hear some of those soppy folks praying to be delivered from the Evil One, and to have strength given them to cast the devil from their hearts! Just as if the devil had time to bother with that sanctimonious, chicken-hearted crew. He wasn't very likely to do them the compliment of acknowledging their existence."
"Did no one do any parish work then?"
"Oh, yes, the doctor's wife did most of it. And when a new doctor came they daren't for the life of them have a word to say to him, for fear of the next prayer-meeting, when she would preside. You see, she'd pray for the lost sheep in the fold for about half an hour, and how he went to the wolf for healing, which was the new doctor - instead of the saviour, which was her husband, the old one, and drew lurid pictures of the fiery poisons and deadly draughts the wolf gave the poor sheep to kil him instead of cure him."
"And what became of the new doctor?"
"Oh, of course he had to go - which was a pity, as he was the first person with a sense of humour who ever entered that vil age as a resident. One could positively talk sense to him, without being regarded as a lunatic. As a rule, you had to feign imbecility there if you didn't want to be considered mad.
I had just made up my mind to learn to knit men's ties, instead of babies' socks, when he departed" - and she looked at Ethel with a grimness, and at the same time a lurking humour, that made it quite impossible for Ethel to keep her face.
"And did you change your mind then?" seeing the gaunt spinster was not in the least annoyed at her for laughing.
"Yes; I stuck to the babies' socks. I thought on the whole it was less incongruous for a woman with a face like mine to work for a baby than a man.
And that's the nearest I ever got to a love affair. Just to wonder if I'd knit a man a tie, and change my mind, and knit socks for a little black heathen whelp instead."
"O dear!" said Ethel, with a little smothered gasp, "you don't mind if I laugh, do you? You really are very amusing."
"Amusing!..." with a little humorous snort. "Wel , I don't mind amusing you; but I do think it's about the most monstrous thing in the way of a practical joke I know, for Nature to create a creature like me, with a natural inclination to want a mate. Just as if any man could bear to get up every morning of his life and see me there."
"Nonsense," Ethel exclaimed. "Basil thinks you are very attractive."
"Does he?" drily. Then, with a sudden, swift humour, "Perhaps it's a pity I didn't learn to knit ties after all!"
"Tel him about why you didn't instead - and abouth the village and the doctor's wife. He'll be so interested. You will be a positive godsend to him. May I tel him to expect you to tea to-morrow?"
"Yes. Tel him, to add to the humour of the situation, I'll bring across a baby's sock to knit. We're both so likely to have a mutual interest in babies."
Ethel kept Basil entertained most of the evening with the account of her interview, rather to the annoyance of Doris, who, for some vague reason, was not at al pleased about the new acquaintance.
Perhaps it was because, on one or two occasions when she had remained out later than she should, she had met the music-teacher and encountered a fierce and disapproving glare. Doris was quite wil ing to be relieved of her charge occasionally, but she did not at al appreciate the idea of a strong-minded individual, who would certainly not hesitate not only to condemn her selfishness, but to look her scorn of it.
On the evening of Dudley's visit, when she first found the gaunt spinster at the flat, she had gone to bed feeling out of sorts with herself and all the world.
She hated having been caught in her selfish forgetfulness; she hated the idea of the opposite tenant coming in to help Ethel; she hated being Doris Hayward and living in a stuffy Hol oway flat. It caused her to turn her thoughts more seriously to a way of escape, and, as a natural sequence, to how much Dudley's attentions might mean.
And further, if they were meant in earnest, how she would feel about marrying him. She made no pretence to herself of loving him; personal y, she thought love mostly sentimental nonsense; but she liked being with him, and she liked going about with him.
On the other hand, he was not rich, and she hated poverty. If she waited a little longer, a richer man might turn up?... or, again, he might not, and Dudley might change his mind. Certainly it was very awkward to know which was the wisest course, but in the meantime it would be just as wel to keep Dudley attracted.
To this end she gave her hair an extra curl on Saturday evening, and arose betimes on Sunday morning for further preparations. Ethel took a bow off her hat, ironed, and remade it, and finally put the finishing touches to her appearance.
"You look very nice," she said. "I hope you'll have a splendid day.
Rund and show yourself to Basil."
Basil told her she would certainly be the belle of the luncheon party, and final y she departed feeling very pleased with herself.
Dudley was waiting for her at Paddington, and his eyes showed plainly that he echoed Basil's opinion, though he did not actually express it in words.
"How did you leave Basil?" he asked. "I wish I felt happier about him."
"He is much brighter altogether. I real y think Ethel might have come, as the tenant of the opposite flat would have been only too pleased to go and sit with him. She never seems to have any pleasure, does she?
But it is real y her own fault. I would have stayed at home to-day if she would have let me."
"I think I'm rather glad she wouldn't; though I am sorry she could not have had the treat as wel . We are going to have a lovely day, in spite of its being so late in the year."
As it was only a smal birthday luncheon, and the others of the party had either gone overnight or lived near, they were easily able to get a compartment to themselves, and Dudley was conscious of a pleasurable quickening of his pulses at the prospect of the long tête-à-tête.
And indeed it was not surprising, for Doris looked adorably pretty and winsome, and many a wiser man might have shared his pleased anticipation. Moreover, Doris was not in the least stupid or vapid, however selfish and shallow her nature; and if she chose she could be a very pleasant companion.
And to-day she did so choose, hovering still in indecision over the subject that had fil ed her thoughts often of late.
Finally, it chanced that during much of the day they were thrown together, and all the time she thought how nice it was to be of so much consequence to any one; while he enjoyed again the sense of her clinging, engaging dependence.
And when they were once more alone in a commpartment, steaming back to town, it was not in the least surprising that, almost before he knew it, Dudley was pouring into her ears a tale of love.
True, it was a very calm and col ected tale, but it was none the less genuine for that; and from the bottom of his heart he believed that she, above all women, was the one he desired as his wife. Transports of any description were foreign to his nature. He imagined they always would be.
Joyous excitement and enthusiasm he left to Hal, except such enthusiasm as he kept for old ruins and ancient architecture. Stil , it warmed all his blood and quickened al his pulses to have his way at last, and hold Doris in his arms, and try to kiss away the unshed tears and the little droop from her lips.
He took her home from the station, but did not go in because of the lateness of the hour, and the probability that Basil was just getting off to sleep; only kissing her again with a certain old-fashioned, deferential air and promising to come in the course of a day or two to see Ethel and Basil.
Doris let herself in with somewhat mixed feelings.
She had had a delightful day and thoroughly enjoyed it, but, now that the die was cast, and the difficult point settled, she found herself beginning to be more critical of Dudley.
She wished he were not quite so old-fashioned, nor so good. She was a little afraid she would find his sterling qualities distinctly boring, and his high standard a difficult and tiresome one to bother with.
And then, of course, there was Hal. Hal never had liked her and probably never would. Not that it mattered very much. In fact, it was rather pleasant than otherwise to think of Hal's discomfiture and dismay, Doris wondered if she would expect to live with them, and made up her mind then and there, very decisively, that she would never agree to anything of the kind.
She had suffered quite enough from Ethel's superiority, without encountering a second edition in Hal. As she thought of it, and of how she would checkmate Hal's possible plans to make her home with them, she smiled to herself a little cruel y in the darkness.