"I HAVE NO WORD OR LOOK TO REMEMBER"
It was a dull and dreary day, as Betty had foreseen it would be.Heavy rain clouds hung and threatened, and the atmosphere was damp and chill.It was one of those days of the English autumn which speak only of the end of things, bereaving one of the power to remember next year's spring and summer, which, after all, must surely come.Sky is grey, trees are grey, dead leaves lie damp beneath the feet, sunlight and birds seem forgotten things.All that has been sad and to be regretted or feared hangs heavy in the air and sways all thought.In the passing of these hours there is no hope anywhere.Betty appeared at breakfast in short dress and close hat.She wore thick little boots, as if for walking.
"I am going to make visits in the village," she said."Iwant a basket of good things to take with me.Stourton's children need feeding after their measles.They looked very thin when I saw them playing in the road yesterday.""Yes, dear," Rosalie answered."Mrs.Noakes shall prepare the basket.Good chicken broth, and jelly, and nourishing things.Jennings," to the butler, "you know the kind of basket Miss Vanderpoel wants.Speak to Mrs.Noakes, please.""Yes, my lady," Jennings knew the kind of basket and so did Mrs.Noakes.Below stairs a strong sympathy with Miss Vanderpoel's movements had developed.No one resented the preparation of baskets.Somehow they were always managed, even if asked for at untimely hours.
Betty was sitting silent, looking out into the greyness of the autumn-smitten park.
"Are--are you listening for anything, Betty?" Lady Anstruthers asked rather falteringly."You have a sort of listening look in your eyes."Betty came back to the room, as it were.
"Have I," she said."Yes, I think I was listening for--something."
And Rosalie did not ask her what she listened for.She was afraid she knew.
It was not only the Stourtons Betty visited this morning.
She passed from one cottage to another--to see old women, and old men, as well as young ones, who for one reason or another needed help and encouragement.By one bedside she read aloud; by another she sat and told cheerful stories;she listened to talk in little kitchens, and in one house welcomed a newborn thing.As she walked steadily over grey road and down grey lanes damp mist rose and hung about her.And she did not walk alone.Fear walked with her, and anguish, a grey ghost by her side.Once she found herself standing quite still on a side path, covering her face with her hands.She filled every moment of the morning, and walked until she was tired.Before she went home she called at the post office, and Mr.Tewson greeted her with a solemn face.He did not wait to be questioned.
"There's been no news to-day, miss, so far," he said."And that seems as if they might be so given up to hard work at a dreadful time that there's been no chance for anything to get out.When people's hanging over a man's bed at the end, it's as if everything stopped but that--that's stopping for all time."After luncheon the rain began to fall softly, slowly, and with a suggestion of endlessness.It was a sort of mist itself, and became a damp shadow among the bare branches of trees which soon began to drip.
"You have been walking about all morning, and you are tired, dear," Lady Anstruthers said to her."Won't you go to your room and rest, Betty?"Yes, she would go to her room, she said.Some new books had arrived from London this morning, and she would look over them.She talked a little about her visits before she went, and when, as she talked, Ughtred came over to her and stood close to her side holding her hand and stroking it, she smiled at him sweetly--the smile he adored.He stroked the hand and softly patted it, watching her wistfully.Suddenly he lifted it to his lips, and kissed it again and again with a sort of passion.
"I love you so much, Aunt Betty," he cried."We both love you so much.Something makes me love you to-day more than ever I did before.It almost makes me cry.I love you so."She stooped swiftly and drew him into her arms and kissed him close and hard.He held his head back a little and looked into the blue under her lashes.
"I love your eyes," he said."Anyone would love your eyes, Aunt Betty.But what is the matter with them? You are not crying at all, but--oh! what is the matter?""No, I am not crying at all," she said, and smiled--almost laughed.
But after she had kissed him again she took her books and went upstairs.
She did not lie down, and she did not read when she was alone in her room.She drew a long chair before the window and watched the slow falling of the rain.There is nothing like it--that slow weeping of the rain on an English autumn day.
Soft and light though it was, the park began to look sodden.
The bare trees held out their branches like imploring arms, the brown garden beds were neat and bare.The same rain was drip-dripping at Mount Dunstan--upon the desolate great house--upon the village--upon the mounds and ancient stone tombs in the churchyard, sinking into the earth--sinking deep, sucked in by the clay beneath--the cold damp clay.
She shook herself shudderingly.Why should the thought come to her--the cold damp clay? She would not listen to it, she would think of New York, of its roaring streets and crash of sound, of the rush of fierce life there--of her father and mother.She tried to force herself to call up pictures of Broadway, swarming with crowds of black things, which, seen from the windows of its monstrous buildings, seemed like swarms of ants, burst out of ant-hills, out of a thousand ant-hills.She tried to remember shop windows, the things in them, the throngs going by, and the throngs passing in and out of great, swinging glass doors.She dragged up before her a vision of Rosalie, driving with her mother and herself, looking about her at the new buildings and changed streets, flushed and made radiant by the accelerated pace and excitement of her beloved New York.But, oh, the slow, penetrating rainfall, and--the cold damp clay!
