Free The Wooden Shepherdess by Richard Hughes Page B

for the letter itself, reading it made her heart sink: it was all about places, with next-to-no people—and as for Augustine, it gave her no news at all. It mentioned—barely—“a child I met bathing last week”; but said nothing at all about anyone else he had met, not even its parents! Just only one child, and otherwise buildings and woods.... Laying it down, she thought of that Moslem painting of bows firing arrows without any archers and battering-rams knocking walls down with no one to wield them.... What could excuse him for writing this Baedekerstuff to his sister, his nearest friend in the world? It saddened her, seeing how far he and she had somehow drifted apart....
    But then came Wantage, bearing a fresh lot of toast with a message from Mrs. Winter who asked, Could the Mistress spare time to see Nellie a minute before Miss Polly’s lessons? And Mary had to say Yes, she would ring.
    Just as a stop-gap arrangement, Nellie was giving Polly “first lessons”: she bicycled down every day with her ten-months child in a basket strapped to her handlebars. Three weeks only remained, however, before Miss Penrose the proper governess came—bespoken since soon after Polly was born, as one must if one wanted a good one (and that reminded Mary: she’d best take a look, Mrs. Winter had said that as well as repainting the schoolroom needed repapering). Three more weeks—if it even lasted that long, with Nanny so jealous that things were already well-nigh impossible! Nannies were like that, apparently: really Augustine was right, it was utterly mad having servants.
    And now she had got to see Nellie. She dreaded the interview: dear little Syl was all poor Nellie had left in the world, and half last night—till three o’clock struck, and her stiffening brain was longing for sleep—Susan Amanda’s loving mother had pictured against the darkness horrible pictures of babies torn from the breast.... No one had said it of course; but what was the need? For it stood out a mile that with Nellie’s living to earn little Syl must be put in a Home.
    *
    That pickle-dish was a “treasure,” so Mary stowed it away in the treasure-drawer up in her private retreat before even ringing the bell. But the parcel’s wrappings already had found their way to the Housekeeper’s Room, where Wantage had gone to borrow some scissors to cut out the stamps. “The blunt ones,” Mrs. Winter said firmly (her best embroidery pair might never be used for paper). “So George still collects stamps, do ’e?”
    George was brother Ted’s eldest boy back in Coventry. “George?” Mr. Wantage said absently: “George ...” Then, after a long pause: “Yes ’e do.”
    He snipped, but without sitting down: for gone were the days when he used to spend half his off-duty hours slumped in the big basket-chair over there by the window! Indeed he seldom nowadays came here at all except (as iron custom dictated for butlers) to meals. The Room just wasn’t the same place it used to, since Nell. Not that he’d got any grouch against Nellie herself the poor thing, and one must make allowances: still, her sitting silent for hours on end staring into the ferns in the fireless grate, or loving her babe like an octopus loving its only fish of the week—it gave you the creeps! But even that wasn’t the lot (and he quivered his nose).
    Mrs. Winter looked at him, troubled. A shame that his habits should have to be upset by Nell! Poor old Fred, there wasn’t much comfort for middle-aged bones in his pantry; but what could she do, when her sister just couldn’t bear to go home to that lonely old place till she had to? She must sit somewhere.... The Schoolroom was being repainted against that governess came—and as for the Nursery, Nanny would never let Nellie sit there!
    Meanwhile Mr. Wantage sniffed as he snipped, convinced that his