The Ghost and Mrs. Muir (19 page)

“Very well,” said Lucy, “I’ll be wise, and in this case I know you are right for I doubt if she would believe me.”

The years sped by, like beads told by nimble fingers on a rosary, smooth and round, full of interest for Lucy with her visits to Anna and Bill, and Celia and Cyril; and now Bill was a Member of Parliament and Anna had grown into his very gracious lady with grandchildren of her own; and Cyril was, if not a bishop, at least very comfortably settled as Canon of the Cathedral and Vicar of St. Swithins, mellowed by time so that even the ironical fact that his youngest son was a successful actor held pride for him rather than bitterness. The Bishop had died from pneumonia, the aftermath of influenza caught by him on a visit of duty to his poor; his wife lived on, still a little behind the times, suitably lodged in a small residence on the edge of the Cathedral Close; Eva had died most unromantically of German measles, protesting it was scarlet fever and that she knew better to the end; one by one all Lucy’s contemporaries were passing away, dropping from the tree of life like autumn leaves; but Lucy had never been dependent on society for happiness, and now she seemed to need it less than ever. With Martha to care for her, she lived a simple life in great contentment. In warm weather she pottered about the garden amongst her
flowers, or strolled along the level of the cliff path, watching the gulls, a sedately stout fox terrier by her side. In cold weather she sat in front of the open fire, warming her feet on the fender, listening to the radio and knitting blue jerseys for the fishermen in the North Sea. She never quite came to terms with the radio and listened to music, drama, and talks from the most prominent men and women as if they were mere puppets performing for her out of a rather special musical box that miraculously did not need winding. Often in the evenings she dozed a little, nodding over the jerseys that grew ever more and more slowly as her fingers became stiff with rheumatism.

One of her recurrent arguments with Captain Gregg was on the subject of this complaint.

“Why don’t you go to Harrogate or Droitwich? Why don’t you see your doctor?” he asked. “You’ve plenty of money.”

But poverty in her old age was Lucy’s one dread. She could not be persuaded that money that had vanished so swiftly in her husband’s lifetime might not do the same in hers, even though the proceeds from
Blood and Swash
had been invested in gilt-edged securities by the London bank into which the amazing royalties had been paid with the strictest secrecy, and indeed were still being paid, for the enterprising grandson of Mr. Sproule had but six months before brought out an edition-de-luxe, with illustrations, which made Captain Gregg chuckle every time he looked at them, portraying him, as they did, with the face of an ancient Viking, golden-haired and golden-bearded.

“You’ve plenty of money,” he repeated on this occasion.

“Taxes are going up—everything’s going up in price,” said Lucy. “I don’t want to end in the poorhouse.”

“Poorhouse be damned!” The captain snorted. “Don’t you know you could build a poorhouse and support a dozen
paupers on your present income? Go to Harrogate, woman, go to Harrogate.”

“I prefer to remain here,” said Lucy. “I am much more comfortable in my own home and I couldn’t leave Tags.”

“The dog’s name is Spot,” said the captain, “and Martha is quite capable of looking after him.”

“The last time I went to stay with Anna, Martha forgot to put sulphur in his water and he started eczema between his toes,” said Lucy.

“Better the dog should have eczema between his toes than that your legs should become stiff as pokers,” said Captain Gregg.

“I’m too old to go gadding about in strange hotels,” said Lucy. “I’ll not go.”

“You’re a pig-headed, obstinate old woman,” said the captain, “and if I didn’t think you quite capable of leaving my house as an annex to the Battersea Dog’s Home, I’m damned if I’d come and visit you any more.”

“Now I never thought of that,” said Lucy with her old twinkle in her eye. “What a good idea!”

“Oh, you—women!” growled Captain Gregg and left her.

The years sped by, and now spring was here once more, thrusting her green spears up through the rich, dark earth, till the flower-beds were full of new life and golden with daffodils; and Lucy, too, was drawn out into the golden sunshine to tend to the blooms she loved so well; but the sun’s rays held no warmth for her old bones, and she shivered as she stooped over the flowers, and made no real protest when Martha coaxed her to go in.

“I’ll come, I’ll come,” she said, for she suddenly felt very tired as well as cold, and there was a curious pain in her left wrist running up the whole arm; yet she must pause on the way to tuck in a trailing strand of the Montana clematis
that had fallen from its place on the arbour. She felt so tired that she could scarcely raise her hands above her head to push in the straggler, and would have left it for the gardener to attend to if Martha had not come again to the door and advised her to let it be.

Lunch revived her a little, the hot chicken soup, the filleted sole and creamed lettuce and potatoes, the chocolate soufflé, cooked as only Martha knew how.

“You don’t think we’re being too extravagant, Martha?” Lucy asked anxiously as she sank into her armchair after the meal and watched Martha pile logs on the coal fire to make the warm blaze she loved.

“Lor’ bless you, no, mum,” replied Martha easily. “What you eat wouldn’t plump up a sparrer, so why not ’ave the best, and you got ter be warm, ain’t you?”

“I don’t want to end in the poorhouse,” said Lucy. “We were once nearly made …” What was the word? “We were once nearly made …” What could it be? And why couldn’t Martha help her, standing there with her red face, and her mouth a little open … and how old she looked … there was no need for her to look so old, her face was a mass of wrinkles. Why Martha was two years younger than she was and she was sure she didn’t look like that, and if she wasn’t going to give her the word she wanted why was her mouth open?

“Oh, do close your mouth, Martha,” she said crossly, “gaping at me like a codfish.”

“Which I was on’y standin’ ’ere, mum,” said Martha with mournful dignity, “because I thought you were wishful ter speak ter me. I’ve me work ter do as well I know.” She went out, her skirts rustling indignation around her.

“Bankrupt,” that was the word.… She would think of it as soon as Martha had gone … Martha had gone and she hadn’t turned on the what-you-call-it, and she knew she
liked a little music after her lunch. She leaned over and turned on the switch of the radio; but she had eaten later than usual and there was no music, “a talk for schools” … Cyril had done well at school, much better than dear Anna, but Anna was now a lady and wore a fine gown … if only Anna lived a little nearer; but her husband was ruling the country, so of course she must be with him in London, even if it did mean leaving her mother alone … alone, that was a sad word. A tear rolled down her cheek, and she wiped it away like a child with the back of her hand; at least Tags was there at her feet … no Spot … Tags had been that other dog … the dog that Miles had dug out of the rabbit burrow … she hadn’t thought of Miles for years. How happy he had made her that spring, and how miserable! But that was life … light and shade … a coming in of the tide and a going out. Miles was dead … Captain Gregg had told her of his death some years ago … poor Miles, to die so young … if only they had met sooner she might have kept him from drinking or gambling or whatever his trouble had been. Edwin had gambled though … secretly on the stock market … she had never understood about that hidden thing in him … bankrupt … that was a terrible thing to be … she must really insist on Martha being more economical … it was dreadful to be … there now, she had forgotten the word again … it seemed so easy to forget words now … she was so tired … so tired. Her head nodded sideways and she fell asleep.

But the rest did not refresh her as it usually did, and she felt so irritable and out of sorts when she awoke, that she snapped at Martha again when she brought her in her afternoon cup of China tea and the sponge fingers she liked to eat with it.

The radio was playing music now, “You’d look sweet
upon the seat of a bicycle made for two” … one of the old songs. That had been one of the grievances she had had against Edwin … he would not allow her to have a bicycle. Not that she had wanted to ride one with him … she had wanted to ride away from him, into the country on summer afternoons … away from her overpowering in-laws … but old Mrs. Muir had considered bicycling unladylike … poor Edwin, perhaps he would have liked to ride away, too … perhaps that was why he had tried to make a fortune, perhaps he had been as frightened of the tempers of his mother and sisters as she had been and saw an escape from servitude in riches. I’ll ask him as soon as we meet, she thought … but Edwin is dead, how can I meet him?… and do I really want to?

She dozed again to the lilting music of a Strauss waltz, her rheumaticky fingers clasping the white bone knitting needles on which the fisherman’s jersey grew so slowly. She felt too tired on awakening to make her usual change of dress for her solitary dinner, which she scarcely touched, and very soon afterwards she laboriously climbed the stairs to her bedroom.

Her hair seemed unnecessarily tiresome … she could scarcely hold up her arms to tend its vagaries … the hairpins seemed to think they were nesting birds clinging to their resting places … and the pain in her left arm was worse … it made her feel breathless and very cross.

“Well, Lucia,” said the captain’s voice, close to her.

“I wish you wouldn’t come bursting in on me like that,” said Lucy irritably.

“You’re tired, me dear,” said the captain, “but never mind, you’ll feel better soon.”

“Of course I’ll feel better soon,” snapped Lucy. “I’d feel better now if you’d go away and let me get to bed.”

The door opened and Martha came in with a glass of hot milk on a silver salver.

“Are you all right, mum?” she asked solicitously. “You didn’t eat more’n a bite of yer good dinner, and I thought you’d better ’ave a drop of somethin’ ’ot ter go ter bed on.”

“Oh, do go away,” said Lucy impatiently, “every one interrupting me! How can I get to bed?”

“W’y there’s on’y me, mum,” said Martha, “there’s no one ’ere on’y me. Now drink your ’ot milk ter please old Martha—there’s a dear.”

“I don’t want any hot milk—I hate hot milk,” said Lucy petulantly.

“Now, now, just take a drop,” urged Martha, putting the glass in her hand.

“There’s scum on the top,” said Lucy—that wasn’t the right word.

“Scum! There’s never,” said Martha.

“Scum—scum—scum,” said Lucy, like a spoiled child, “take it away—go away, you bad thing.”

“Now, now, don’t get in a state, mum,” said Martha.

“I’m not in a state,” said Lucy. “I just want to be left alone. Go away when I tell you—bossing me—everyone bossing me—go away.”

“Very well, mum,” said Martha in a hurt voice, “though bossing I never intended, and on’y brought the milk for yer good,” and she went out.

“Call her back,” ordered Captain Gregg, “call her back at once, Lucia.”

“No,” said Lucy, “she’s an interfering old thing.”

“Call her back,” thundered Captain Gregg, “you can’t leave her like that—weren’t you taught as a child never to let the sun go down on your wrath in case there should be no
dawning? Call her, I say,” commanded the captain in a voice that demanded obedience.

“Everyone bossing me,” whimpered Lucy. “Oh, very well, you great bully. Martha—Martha,” she called feebly.

Martha must have been close at hand for she came on the moment.

“Yes, love,” she said eagerly. “I thought I ’eard thunder though it don’t seem the time of year.”

“I’m sorry I was cross,” said Lucy, and suddenly she was sorry, so sorry that she wept, turning to Martha’s greater strength for comfort.

“There, there, love,” said Martha, stroking her bent head. “I understand—you just take a drink of the good ’ot milk ter please old Martha and you’ll be right as rain—see, there ain’t no skim now,” she said, and with her little finger she hooked the cooling cream off the top of the glass.

“Thank you, Martha, you are very good to me,” said Lucy, and obediently sipped a little of the milk. “I’m a nasty, cross old woman, but I am very tired and I have a pain in my arm.”

“Strained it I shouldn’t wonder with all that there gardenin’,” scolded Martha. “You should leave all that tyin’ up and weedin’ out ter ’Uggins, which is wot you pay ’im good money for. Shall I give yer arm a rub?”

“No, thank you,” said Lucy. “I will be better in the morning. Good night, Martha—and thank you very much for looking after me so well.”

“Now don’t you start that thank-youin’,” said Martha, “for abide it I cannot. Good night, mum, sleep well and pleasant dreams.”

“Good night, Martha, and God bless you,” said Lucy.

“I was cross, I admit it,” she said as the door closed behind Martha, “but I am so tired,” and suddenly she fell back in her
chair, her head lolling back and a little sideways, her hand holding the hairbrush swinging at her side.

“And now you will never be tired again,” said the captain’s voice. “Come, Lucia, come, me dear.”

She rose to meet him, and miraculously her pain and weariness fell from her. She went to him gaily, lightly, as a young girl.

But who was that, lying back in the chair that she had just left?

“Who is she? How did she get here?” asked Lucy in surprise. “The little old woman?”

“Look again, Lucia,” said the captain very gently.

And Lucy, looking more closely, saw her rings on the woman’s fingers, her locket on the gold chain about the other’s neck.

“That—that isn’t me?” she whispered.

“It was you, Lucia,” said Captain Gregg.

“But I don’t feel like that,” said Lucy, “so little and wan and frail.”

“It is only your earthly covering,” said the captain, “and you have sloughed it as a snake sloughs the old skin for which it has no more use. Ah, Lucia, now we are together, as we were meant to be.”