When he spoke his high-pitched voice sounded fretful. “What on earth have you been doing? It’s past two o’clock. I’ve been waiting since one, the lunch must be ruined; I do wish you’d try and be punctual, Angela!” He appeared not to notice Stephen’s existence, for he went on nagging as though no one were present. “Oh, I see, that damn dog of yours has been fighting again, I’ve a good mind to give him a thrashing; and what in God’s name’s the matter with your hand—you don’t mean to say that you’ve got yourself bitten? Really, Angela, this is a bit too bad!” His whole manner suggested a personal grievance.
“Well,” drawled Angela, extending the bandaged hand for inspection, “I’ve not been getting manicured, Ralph.” And her voice was distinctly if gently provoking, so that he winced with quick irritation. Then she seemed quite suddenly to remember Stephen: “Miss Gordon, let me introduce my husband.”
He bowed, and pulling himself together: “Thank you for driving my wife home, Miss Gordon, it was most kind, I’m sure.” But he did not seem friendly, he kept glaring at Angela’s dog-bitten hand, and his tone, Stephen thought, was distinctly ungracious.
Getting out of the car she started her engine.
“Goodbye,” smiled Angela, holding out her hand, the left one, which Stephen grasped much too firmly. “Goodbye—perhaps one day you’ll come to tea. We’re on the telephone, Upton 25; ring up and suggest yourself some day quite soon.”
“Thanks awfully, I will,” said Stephen.
IV
“Had a breakdown or something?” inquired Puddle brightly, as at three o’clock Stephen slouched into the schoolroom.
“No—but Mrs. Crossby’s dog had a fight. She got bitten, so I drove her back to The Grange.”
Puddle pricked up her ears: “What’s she like? I’ve heard rumours—”
“Well, she’s not at all like them,” snapped Stephen.
There ensued a long silence while Puddle considered, but consideration does not always bring wise counsel, and now Puddle made a really bad break: “She’s pretty impossible, isn’t she, Stephen? They say he unearthed her somewhere in New York; Mrs. Antrim says she was a music-hall actress. I suppose you were obliged to give her a lift, but be careful, I believe she’s fearfully pushing.”
Stephen flared up like an emotional schoolgirl: “I’m not going to discuss her if that’s your opinion; Mrs. Crossby is quite as much a lady as you are, or any of the others round here, for that matter. I’m sick unto death of your beastly gossip.” And turning abruptly she strode from the room.
“Oh, Lord!” murmured Puddle, frowning.
V
That evening Stephen rang up The Grange. “Is that Upton 25? It’s Miss Gordon speaking—no, no, Miss Gordon, speaking from Morton. How is Mrs. Crossby and how is the dog? I hope Mrs. Crossby’s hand isn’t very painful? Yes, of course I’ll hold on while you go and inquire.” She felt shy, yet unusually daring.
Presently the butler came back and said gravely that Mrs. Crossby had just seen the doctor and had now gone to bed, as her hand was aching, but that Tony felt better and sent his love. He added: “Madam says would you come to tea on Sunday? She’d be very glad indeed if you would.”
And Stephen answered: “Will you thank Mrs. Crossby and tell her that I’ll certainly come on Sunday.” Then she gave the message all over again, very slowly, with pauses. “Will—you thank—Mrs. Crossby—and tell her—I’ll certainly come—on Sunday. Do you quite understand. Have I made it quite clear? Say I’m coming to tea on Sunday.”
XVII
I
It was only five days till Sunday, yet for Stephen those five days seemed like as many years. Every evening now she rang up The Grange to inquire about Angela’s hand and Tony, so that she grew quite familiar with the butler, with his quality of voice, with his habit of coughing, with the way he hung up the receiver.
She did not stop to analyse her feelings, she only knew that she felt exultant—for no reason at all she was feeling exultant, very much alive too and full of purpose, and she walked for miles alone on the hills, unable to stay really quiet for a moment. She found herself becoming acutely observant, and now she discovered all manner of wonders; the network of veins on the leaves, for instance, and the delicate hearts of the wild dog-roses, the uncertain shimmering flight of the larks as they fluttered up singing, close to her feet. But above all she rediscovered the cuckoo—it was June, so the cuckoo had changed his rhythm—she must often stand breathlessly still to listen: “Cuckoo-kook, cuckoo-kook,” all over the hills; and at evening the songs of blackbirds and thrushes.
Her wanderings would sometimes lead her to the places that she and Martin had visited together, only now she could think of him with affection, with toleration, with tenderness even. In a curious way she now understood him as never before, and in consequence condoned. It had just been some rather ghastly mistake, his mistake, yet she understood what he must have felt; and thinking of Martin she might grow rather frightened—what if she should ever make such a mistake? But the fear would be driven into the background by her sense of well-being, her fine exultation. The very earth that she trod seemed exalted, and the green, growing things that sprang out of the earth, and the birds, “Cuckoo-kook,” all over the hills—and at evening the songs of blackbirds and thrushes.
She became much more anxious about her appearance; for five mornings she studied her face in the glass as she dressed—after all she was not so bad looking. Her hair spoilt her a little, it was too thick and long, but she noticed with pleasure that at least it was wavy—then she suddenly admired
