Ten days later Stephen was saying to her mother: “I’ve been needing a change for a very long time. It’s rather lucky that a girl I met in the Unit is free and able to go with me. We’ve taken a villa at Orotava, it’s supposed to be furnished and they’re leaving the servants, but heaven only knows what the house will be like, it belongs to a Spaniard; however, there’ll be sunshine.”
“I believe Orotava’s delightful,” said Anna.
But Puddle, who was looking at Stephen, said nothing.
That night Stephen knocked at Puddle’s door: “May I come in?”
“Yes, come in do, my dear. Come and sit by the fire—shall I make you some cocoa?”
“No, thanks.”
A long pause while Puddle slipped into her dressing-gown of soft, grey Viyella. Then she also drew a chair up to the fire, and after a little: “It’s good to see you—your old teacher’s been missing you rather badly.”
“Not more than I’ve been missing her, Puddle.” Was that quite true? Stephen suddenly flushed, and both of them grew very silent.
Puddle knew quite well that Stephen was unhappy. They had not lived side by side all these years, for Puddle to fail now in intuition; she felt certain that something grave had happened, and her instinct warned her of what this might be, so that she secretly trembled a little. For no young and inexperienced girl sat beside her, but a woman of nearly thirty-two, who was far beyond the reach of her guidance. This woman would settle her problems for herself and in her own way—had indeed always done so. Puddle must try to be tactful in her questions.
She said gently: “Tell me about your new friend. You met her in the Unit?”
“Yes—we met in the Unit, as I told you this evening—her name’s Mary Llewellyn.”
“How old is she, Stephen?”
“Not quite twenty-two.”
Puddle said: “Very young—not yet twenty-two …” then she glanced at Stephen, and fell silent.
But now Stephen went on talking more quickly: “I’m glad you asked me about her, Puddle, because I intend to give her a home. She’s got no one except some distant cousins, and as far as I can see they don’t want her. I shall let her have a try at typing my work, as she’s asked to, it will make her feel independent; otherwise, of course, she’ll be perfectly free—if it’s not a success she can always leave me—but I rather hope it will be a success. She’s companionable, we like the same things, anyhow she’ll give me an interest in life. …”
Puddle thought: “She’s not going to tell me.”
Stephen took out her cigarette case from which she produced a clear little snapshot: “It’s not very good, it was done at the front.”
But Puddle was gazing at Mary Llewellyn. Then she looked up abruptly and saw Stephen’s eyes—without a word she handed back the snapshot.
Stephen said: “Now I want to talk about you. Will you go to Paris at once, or stay here until we come home from Orotava? It’s just as you like, the house is quite ready, you’ve only got to send Pauline a postcard; they’re expecting you there at any moment.” And she waited for Puddle’s answer.
Then Puddle, that small but indomitable fighter, stood forth all alone to do battle with herself, to strike down a sudden hot jealousy, a sudden and almost fierce resentment. And she saw that self as a tired old woman, a woman grown dull and tired with long service; a woman who had outlived her reason for living, whose companionship was now useless to Stephen. A woman who suffered from rheumatism in the winter and from lassitude in the summer; a woman who when young had never known youth, except as a scourge to a sensitive conscience. And now she was old and what had life left her? Not even the privilege of guarding her friend—for Puddle knew well that her presence in Paris would only embarrass while unable to hinder. Nothing could stay fate if the hour had struck; and yet, from the very bottom of her soul, she was fearing that hour for Stephen. And—who shall presume to accuse or condemn?—she actually found it in her to pray that Stephen might be granted some measure of fulfilment, some palliative for the wound of existence: “Not like me—don’t let her grow old as I’ve done.” Then she suddenly remembered that Stephen was waiting.
She said quietly: “Listen, my dear, I’ve been thinking; I don’t feel that I ought to leave your mother, her heart’s not very strong—nothing serious, of course—still, she oughtn’t to live all alone at Morton; and quite apart from the question of health, living alone’s a melancholy business. There’s another thing too. I’ve grown tired and lazy, and I don’t want to pull up my roots if I can help it. When one’s getting on in years, one gets set in one’s ways, and my ways fit in very well with Morton. I didn’t want to come here, Stephen, as I told you, but I was all wrong, for your mother needs me—she needs me more now than during the war, because during the war she had occupation. Oh, but good heavens! I’m a silly old woman—did you know that I used to get homesick for England? I used to get homesick for penny buns. Imagine it, and I was living in Paris! Only—” And now her voice broke a little: “Only, if ever you should feel that you need me, if ever you should feel that you want my advice or my help, you’d send for me, wouldn’t you, my dear? Because old as I am, I’d be able to run if I thought that you really needed me, Stephen.”
Stephen held out her hand and Puddle grasped it. “There are some things I can’t express,” Stephen said slowly; “I can’t express my gratitude to you for all you’ve done—I can’t find any words. But—I want you to know that I’m trying to play straight.”
“You’d always play straight in the end,” said
