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Lady of the Basement Flat

<h3>Chapter Nine.</h3> <h4>An Encounter in Force.</h4> It is three months since we came to Pastimes, and until last week the days have slipped by happily and peacefully enough, but without any happenings worthy of record. We returned the Vicar’s call, and were asked to tea to meet ourselves, when Mrs Merrivale took the opportunity to ask me the address of my dressmaker! Two staid dames, who lived in small villa residences, left cards at the door, an attention which we duly returned in kind. The important people in the neighbourhood have left us severely alone, whirling past our gates to pay assiduous calls on General Underwood. He is the local hero, and we are the hard-hearted strangers who did Something—nobody knows precisely what—but Something mean, and underhand, and altogether unwomanly about a lease, and so forced the poor dear General to endure draughts and cold rooms, and seriously retarded his progress towards health! It’s no use pretending that I am not sorry about it, for I am; but all the same, they have been happy months. Charmion has seemed so much brighter and more contented, and that itself means much to me, and we have been as happy as bees in our beloved garden, bullying our one man into preparing what he considers absolutely mad effects, and working with him to keep him up to the mark. We have flagged one path, and turfed over another, raised some beds, and sunk others, and contrived a really glorious hot-weather arbour, a good six yards in diameter, and open on three sides, to secure plenty of fresh air and an absence of flies. Charmion has hardly gone out of the gate, except to church on Sundays, but I take a constitutional every day, and scour the country-side. My first encounter with the Squire came off about the third week we were here, and my imaginings were wrong in all but two unimportant points. Mrs Maplestone wears voluminous sables and clothes of antique cut; but they look quite charming and appropriate, for—she is antique herself! She is the Squire’s mother, not his wife. He hasn’t got a wife; never has had one, and never will. Hates all women and their ways. Avoids feminine society, and has never been known to pay a girl five minutes’ attention in his life! Such is the village verdict as repeated to me through Bridget, who has a flair for gossip, and is one of those wonderful people who cannot walk half a mile along a solitary country lane, without hearing, or seeing, or mentally absorbing some interesting item about the lives of her fellow-creatures! Every night when she brushes my hair she recounts these items to me, and I pretend to be uninterested, and listen with all my ears. In any case, Mr Maplestone seems very kind and attentive to his mother. I met them (as fancy painted!) when I was coming home from a trudge along the damp lanes, and was looking considerably blown and dishevelled. They were getting out of their car just outside the gates of Uplands—a most malapropos position!—but without the least hesitation he lifted his hat, and bowed, so that I was spared the troubled uncertainty which I had imagined. I can’t say he looked amiable, but at least he was polite, and I was so relieved that I bowed back with quite a broad smile. Mrs Maplestone looked at me more in sorrow than in anger. I suppose she was thinking, “So young and so unkind!” An hour later, from an upstairs window, I saw the car whizzing homewards along the road. It did not stop at our gate. I rather wished it would. After that we were constantly meeting. There seemed a fate in it. If I darted into the post office to buy a penny stamp, he was there buying tobacco. (You do buy tobacco in village post offices!) If I cut across fields and sat on a stile to rest, he came whistling from the opposite direction, and I had to get up to let him pass. If in leaving the house I turned to the right, I met him advancing to the left. If I turned to the left, behold he was striding manfully to the right! Each meeting was the result of absolute chance, but Mistress Chance can play curious pranks at times, and it really seemed as though she was taking a mischievous delight in bringing about these unwished-for encounters. We always bow ceremoniously to each other; he always frowns, and I always smile. Theoretically I am annoyed and indignant; but at the critical moment the comical side of the situation sweeps over me, and out flashes the smile before I can force it back. It is so absurd to see a big grown man sulking like a child! Quite a good thing he does not intend to marry. His wife would have a nerve-racking time. Well, as I said before, three months have passed 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 pass 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 Saturday 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 principal 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 dickens 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 passed over my feet, and my toes burned like fire. Perhaps they were broken—I could not tell. I had likewise several scrapes 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. <hr /></div> <div class="bodytext"> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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