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Give me books and I dont want people.
Well, upon my word! . . . I like that. After me dragging all this way . . . not to speak of being perched up to-morrow before a churchful of people, for them to stare at!
Chapter VIII
The end of September brought day after day of soft, steamy mists, which saturated everything with moisture, and by night fell as a fine rain that turned low-lying parts of the garden to a bog. Did you mount to the roads on the high level you were in the clouds themselves; they trailed past you like smoke. There was no horizon seaward. At a little distance from the shore the grey water became one with a bank of vapour; the yellow cliffs vanished; suns neither rose nor set.
It was between nine and ten oclock, the hour of day at which the little town was liveliest. Shopkeepers had opened their shutters, saw-dusted and sprinkled their floors, picked over their goods, unlocked their tills and tied on clean white aprons. They might now be seen sunning themselves in their doorways, exchanging the time of day with their neighbours, or shooing off the dogs which, loosed from chain and kennel, frolicked, yapped and sprawled over the pavement. Mounted butcher-boys trotted smartly to and fro. A fisherman, urging a sluggish horse and laden cart uphill, cried mackerel at two a penny. And, from big houses and little, women were emerging, on foot or in donkey and pony-chaises, to do their marketing, chat with one another, glean the news that had accumulated overnight. For every one knew everybody else in Buddlecombe, and was almost more interested in his neighbours business than in his own. You could not, vowed Mahony, enter a shop for a pennorth of tin-tacks the selling of which was conducted as if you had all eternity to spare for it; what with the hunting up of a small enough bit of paper, the economical unravelling of a tangled length of twine without learning that Mr. Joness brindled cow had calved at last, or that the carrier had delivered to Mr. Du Cane still another hogshead of brandy-wine. This, together with many a sly inquiry as to where you yourself might be bound for, or the trend of your own affairs. Alongside the rampart stood half a dozen ancient men of the sea, discussing, with vigour, God knew what. A bottle-nosed constable, stationed in the middle of the road to superintend a traffic that did not exist, gossiped with the best.
Well, look here, Poll, I can ask Purd about it if you like. He may know, and if e doesnt, e can easily find out I mean whether old S. is really going to hop the twig or what. Purd has strings e can pull.
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But he had hardly dozed off, when they were roused by Cuffy starting up in his sleep, screaming: No, no! . . . dont hit him . . . oh, DOGGY!
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But what next? what in all the world next? To this question he could find no answer. Nor was he helped by staring at the sea, or the golden, lemon-shaped moon that now came up on its back from behind the dark mass of the cliffs. The purchase of a third practice was beyond him: if he went from here he went empty-handed. Possibly he might get for the house what he had given for it though he had discovered that it was both damp and in need of repair but this sum would not suffice to set him up anew. No, the outlook was darker than, a moment before, the night had been; no moon rose for him. And he lay long wakeful, grappling in a cold sweat with the many small practical details of the break details which it is so easy to overlook in the taking of sweeping decisions, yet which afterwards rise up like mountains and following the square of silver that flooded in through the uncurtained window, and slowly moved across the bed on its passage from wall to wall. With the glimmer of the material dawn, however red behind those cliffs that had delivered up the moon, great Jupiter hanging like a globe of silver above them there came to him, too, the dawning of a possible solution. But at the first hint of it he flung restlessly over on his side, unable to bear its weight. A bolder hand than his was needed, to sweep away the cobwebs of prejudice and nervous aversion in which he had spun himself. It took Mary to do it; and she did; though not till she had talked herself hoarse in an attempt to make him see reason, begging him to hold the field and show fight; till her head swam with listening to his monotonous: What now? Where can I go? Then, abruptly determined, she cut the knot by facing him and answering squarely: Why, home again! words which first made Mahony wince, then snort with contempt. But he had no other suggestion to offer or none but the fatuous one Mary had already smiled at, that, he having given up practice, they should retire to some tiny cottage, do without domestic help, see no company, and live on the slender sum that came to them from Australia. I think we could be very happy and content, love, living so just you and I. If a soul can be said to laugh, then, in spite of her trouble, Marys soul rocked with laughter at this fresh sample of Richards fantasy. Oh, was there ever such an unpractical old dreamer? . . . such an inability to see things as they were. No doubt he pictured a show cottage, wreathed in roses and honeysuckle, where they would pass idyllic days. The slow death-in-life of such an existence, the reaction of his haughty pride against the social position or want of position that would be forced upon them, was hidden from him. Perhaps mercifully hidden . . . and Mary sighed.
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By now the evening was more than half gone, and still the gentlemen lingered; though Lizzie had sung all Richards favourite songs and pieces, some of them more than once. To pass the time, she had also sung to Cuffy; for as had happened ere this when she was dining there Nannan had knocked to say Master Cuffy could not be got to sleep, for thinking his Auntie might sing to him. Cuffy as audience was better than none, so Lizzie begged for the child to be brought in; and thereupon Cuffy appeared on Nannans arm in his little red flannel nightgown, his feet swathed in a crib blanket, his eyes alight with expectation. Seated on his mothers knee he drank in: There was a Friar of Orders Grey, and the sad ditty of Barbara Allan, himself rendering Sun of my Soul before, soundly kissed and cosseted by his aunt, who had a great liking for the little man, he was carried back to bed.
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Lost in such recollections they included the whole dirty, cold, cheerless reality of arrival; included the first breath drawn of an air that smells and tastes like no other in the world; the drive in a musty old growler reeking of damp straw, and pulled by something God might once have meant for a horse! to an hotel, the address of which he had kept to himself: Or we should have the whole lot of em trapesing after us! sunk in these memories, Mahony let a further remark of Marys pass unheeded. But when, with a raucous cry, a butchers boy stumped down the area steps, bearing in his wooden tray the very meat, red and raw, that was to be dished up on their table later on, he swung abruptly round, turning his back on a sight he could not learn to tolerate. Was there EVER such a place for keeping the material needs of the body before one? . . . meat, milk, bread! . . . theyre at it all day long. My dear, I think Ive heard you say your mothers house is not cursed with a basement? Come, love, let us accept her invitation and go down into the country. The English country, Mary! Change of air will soon put you right again, and I could do, I assure you, with a few nights uninterrupted sleep. Besides, once Im out of London, it will be easier to see how the land lies with regard to that country practice Ive set my heart on.
But, Zara . . .
Even more disturbing was the visit of Mrs. Henry which followed. Here, he could not but share Marys apprehensions lest something untoward should happen which might give servants or acquaintances an inkling of how matters stood. As for poor Mary, she grew quite pale and peaked with the strain; hardly dared let Agnes out of her sight. At dinner-parties and the best people had to be asked to meet the wife of so important a personage as Mr. Henry her eye followed the decanters their rounds with an anxiety painful to see. (Between-times, she kept the chiffonier strictly locked.) During this visit, too, the servants made difficulties by refusing to wait on the strange nursemaids, who gave themselves airs; while, to cap all, a pair of the rowdiest and worst-behaved children ever born romped in the passage, or trampled the flower-beds in the garden. No walls were thick enough to keep out their noise; any more than the fact of being in a strangers house could improve their manners. The walls were also powerless against Zaras high-pitched, querulous voice, or the good Ebenezers fits of coughing, which shook the unfortunate man till his very bones seemed to rattle. Later on, for variety, they had the shrill screaming of Amelia Grindles sick babe (with Mary up and down at night, preparing bottles); had Neds children to be tamed and taught to blow their noses; pretty Fanny tumbling into faints half a dozen times a day. Of course, there was no earthly reason why all these good people should not make his home theirs oh dear no! If Jerry got a fortnights holiday, what more natural than that he should choose to spend it in his sisters comfortable, well-appointed house, rather than in his own poky weatherboard? If Mrs. Devine wanted to take sea-air (And, really, Richard, one HAS to remember how extraordinarily kind she was to us on landing), the least one could do was to beg her to exchange Toorak for Brighton-on-Beach. Only the fact of Johns house being but a paltry half-hours walk distant, and the ozone both families breathed of the same brand, saved them from having John and Lizzie quartered on them as well.
In the meantime, however, Mary kept Emmy at her own side, in order to renew acquaintance with one she had known so well as a child.