was lowered. “I think,” she said in a small voice, “that I’m going to be sick again.”
They ran, gaining the bathroom only just in time. Later, under the willow tree with Edith wrapped in Mary’s rug and imbibing warm milk with apparent enjoyment, Mary asked, “Does your tummy hurt at all?”
“Just sore.”
“It didn’t hurt before you were sick?”
“No, it never hurts.”
Not appendix, thought Mary. What’s worrying the child? “Keep still,” she said. “I haven’t got my books here yet, and so I can’t read aloud to you, but I’ll tell you a story.”
Edith settled herself comfortably, looking up at the domed roof over her head. Mary looked too. The branches sprang from the central stem and curved outward like the ribbed vaulting of some cathedral chantry, and between them the green and gold leaves were stippled on the blue sky. And it’s mine, she thought with awe. This chantry is mine. And then quickly, No, Edith’s. What story should she tell her? She didn’t know the modern children’s classics and she had to turn back to her own childhood.
The Cat That Walked by Itself.
That rather suited Edith. She was a good storyteller and presently there was color in Edith’s lips, her eyes were bright and her body relaxed. Several times during the morning Mary had been aware of singing, so muted that it had been no more than a background to the music of birds and bees, but now twelve o’clock boomed loudly and a moment later the story and the quiet were torn in pieces by the clamor of human creatures let loose. It was not the shrill noise of children let out of school but it would have been but for the restraints of age and good breeding. Then came the banging of car doors and the purring of engines starting up. Edith leapt to her feet and flew out from under the willow tree and down the garden, Mary after her. “You’ve plenty of time, darling,” she said when she had caught up with her at the edge of the copse and had her in her arms.
“Mother said I was to lie on the drawing-room sofa and not move,” said Edith.
Mary took her arms away. “Off with you then. And remember, it’s your garden and your willow tree. Come and go as you like. Good-bye, Edith.”
“ ’Bye,” called Edith. She was already climbing up the apple tree. She stepped nimbly from there to the wall, turned to wave to Mary, then climbed into the mulberry tree beyond. She’s going to be beautiful, thought Mary, watching her. She’s going to be a remarkable woman. Edith suits her. It’s a grave, still name.
She went back to the willow tree and picked up the rug and her writing things. It had been a rewarding interlude, she thought, and now she would go on with her solitary day, though not under Edith’s willow tree. The bell clanged. She ran into the house through the conservatory and went down the passage to the green door. She dragged it back as far as she could, farther than she had ever dragged it before, for the woman standing on the steps would not have been able to squeeze through the usual aperture.
“Good morning,” said Mary. “Please come in.”
“May I? How kind. I felt I couldn’t wait to welcome you to our little community. You know we’re just like one big family here. It’s so charming. My name is Hermione Hepplewhite. My dear, I won’t stay a moment, but my husband and I want you to dine tonight. Now you mustn’t refuse us, for we’ll send the car, and then you’ll have no trouble in finding the way to the manor. I’ve just dropped in after church. Unconventional of me but that’s one of the joys of the country. We’re not conventional here. Not that I ever was. I was a very unconventional girl. I like people. I like
knowing
people. How lovely your wistaria is. Your poor old cousin. Such a recluse. I don’t believe I’ve ever been inside the house. I used to inquire, you know. Bring her flowers, poor soul. How old and strange this hall is. And this pretty parlor. My dear, I feel
They ran, gaining the bathroom only just in time. Later, under the willow tree with Edith wrapped in Mary’s rug and imbibing warm milk with apparent enjoyment, Mary asked, “Does your tummy hurt at all?”
“Just sore.”
“It didn’t hurt before you were sick?”
“No, it never hurts.”
Not appendix, thought Mary. What’s worrying the child? “Keep still,” she said. “I haven’t got my books here yet, and so I can’t read aloud to you, but I’ll tell you a story.”
Edith settled herself comfortably, looking up at the domed roof over her head. Mary looked too. The branches sprang from the central stem and curved outward like the ribbed vaulting of some cathedral chantry, and between them the green and gold leaves were stippled on the blue sky. And it’s mine, she thought with awe. This chantry is mine. And then quickly, No, Edith’s. What story should she tell her? She didn’t know the modern children’s classics and she had to turn back to her own childhood.
The Cat That Walked by Itself.
That rather suited Edith. She was a good storyteller and presently there was color in Edith’s lips, her eyes were bright and her body relaxed. Several times during the morning Mary had been aware of singing, so muted that it had been no more than a background to the music of birds and bees, but now twelve o’clock boomed loudly and a moment later the story and the quiet were torn in pieces by the clamor of human creatures let loose. It was not the shrill noise of children let out of school but it would have been but for the restraints of age and good breeding. Then came the banging of car doors and the purring of engines starting up. Edith leapt to her feet and flew out from under the willow tree and down the garden, Mary after her. “You’ve plenty of time, darling,” she said when she had caught up with her at the edge of the copse and had her in her arms.
“Mother said I was to lie on the drawing-room sofa and not move,” said Edith.
Mary took her arms away. “Off with you then. And remember, it’s your garden and your willow tree. Come and go as you like. Good-bye, Edith.”
“ ’Bye,” called Edith. She was already climbing up the apple tree. She stepped nimbly from there to the wall, turned to wave to Mary, then climbed into the mulberry tree beyond. She’s going to be beautiful, thought Mary, watching her. She’s going to be a remarkable woman. Edith suits her. It’s a grave, still name.
She went back to the willow tree and picked up the rug and her writing things. It had been a rewarding interlude, she thought, and now she would go on with her solitary day, though not under Edith’s willow tree. The bell clanged. She ran into the house through the conservatory and went down the passage to the green door. She dragged it back as far as she could, farther than she had ever dragged it before, for the woman standing on the steps would not have been able to squeeze through the usual aperture.
“Good morning,” said Mary. “Please come in.”
“May I? How kind. I felt I couldn’t wait to welcome you to our little community. You know we’re just like one big family here. It’s so charming. My name is Hermione Hepplewhite. My dear, I won’t stay a moment, but my husband and I want you to dine tonight. Now you mustn’t refuse us, for we’ll send the car, and then you’ll have no trouble in finding the way to the manor. I’ve just dropped in after church. Unconventional of me but that’s one of the joys of the country. We’re not conventional here. Not that I ever was. I was a very unconventional girl. I like people. I like
knowing
people. How lovely your wistaria is. Your poor old cousin. Such a recluse. I don’t believe I’ve ever been inside the house. I used to inquire, you know. Bring her flowers, poor soul. How old and strange this hall is. And this pretty parlor. My dear, I feel
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