Mrs. Case said, with a little nod of approval at her own repartee:
“Oh, my dear, I hope you haven’t damaged yourself.”
Grace smiled; anyone would have smiled at Mrs. Case for Mrs. Case was such an oddity, a small old woman with bright beady eyes and a hump back. Mrs. Case’s hump oughtn’t to have been romantic — it was her spine which was deformed since she had suffered from Pott’s disease when a child — but somehow it was romantic; indeed her head was so sunk into her body and her eyes so bright and beady that Mrs. Case actually gave the comical impression of sitting upon her own shoulders like an old hen sitting upon eggs. A brown hen, of course, for Mrs. Case’s skin was all a warm wrinkled russet except under her nose where it was darker. The dark spot under Mrs. Case’s nose advanced the suggestion that Mrs. Case took snuff. And Mrs. Case did.
“I came in to see you about rooms,” Grace went on politely. “Nurse Montgomerie, a friend of mine, recommended me to come.”
“Oh yes.” Mrs. Case rubbed her hands together reflectively. “I remember her, she was a sparky one. Did you want the rooms for next summer?”
“Oh no. It would be the spring,” Grace said quickly; then she added: “You see, it’s rather different with me. You see. I’m going to have a baby.”
“I see,” Mrs. Case said after a longish time.
“You see, that makes it rather different.”
“Yes, my dear, I see. That do make it rather different. Oh, I do see that.”
Here Grace burst out laughing; there had been such a lot of seeing between Mrs. Case and herself and it was such a dark little shop. In a minute Mrs. Case laughed too but not altogether heartily. Then she said:
“You do seem fond of a joke, I will say. Have you any objection to my asking if you got your husband in the war or anywhere, my dear?”
Grace had no objection. Grace told Mrs. Case about Dan. Grace more or less explained herself and Mrs. Case looked friendly again and slightly relieved. She said:
“I did know to be sure, my dear, I can tell a face when I see one. But people have got to be careful what with these Germans and the price of butter. Perhaps you’d like me to show you the rooms, my dear.”
The rooms were splendid; at least, that was what Grace thought. There were two of them, connecting, and on the second floor. The floors were uneven and the ceilings given to unexpected bulges; you had to duck your head pretty sharp as you went over to the bed, and the sitting-room was unquestionably not a room to stand in, but they were very clean, these rooms, with fresh darned muslin curtains, a handsome picture of Queen Victoria’s coronation, a case of birds’ eggs collected by Mrs. Case’s nephew, an enlargement of Mrs. Case’s husband who had worked on the railway and died of a floating kidney, and a lovely view of the garden. It was a long garden with an orchard of cherry trees and Grace saw them as they would be in spring, all trembling upon the edge of blossom. There were cows in the field beyond and a line of elms. Grace stood at the window and one tiny tear came into her eye — it was all so beautiful, it hurt her a little and made her think of Dan.
She turned to Mrs. Case:
“I’d like to take the rooms if you would let me have them.”
Pleased, Mrs. Case nodded.
“You come down, my dear, and have a cup of tea and we’ll talk it over.”
They went downstairs, Grace and Mrs. Case — Mrs. Case holding to the banister because she had a limp — and they had several cups of tea and talked it over. Mrs. Case was free from now onwards and Mrs. Case was never grasping.
“If I said fifteen shillings a week,” remarked Mrs. Case, her head to one side like an inquiring bird, “considering the circumstances, my dear, would that be asking too much?”
“No indeed,” said Grace, and the matter was settled without a word of argument.
They continued to talk in growing understanding. Mrs. Case was a mine of useful information. There was a telephone in the village, at old Mr. Purcell’s farm, and he would surely oblige them with the use of it. And Fittlehampton was only three miles away and there were numbers of estimable doctors in Fittlehampton. It was a long, long conversation between Grace and Mrs. Case, and though in the end it involved confidences as to how the late Mr. Case’s kidney had floated him to glory, it was extremely warm and satisfactory.
Later, as she caught the four-ten from Parnham Junction, Grace felt extraordinarily happy and uplifted. Grace was not clever. Hilda and Miss Gibbs might contend that Grace was careless and stupid and easy-going. Hilda and Miss Gibbs would have recommended Grace to a competent maternity hospital replete with water-beds and douche cans; they would have thought her mad had they seen her setting out for Parnham Junction and pressing her slightly snub nose against the pane of Mrs. Case’s shop window.
When she returned to the Home Grace felt so happy she wanted to make it up with Hilda. Glowing, she went into Hilda’s room. Standing on the threshold, her cheeks brightened by the fresh night air, her eyes full of confidence and hope, she said:
“I’ve fixed up, Hilda. I’ve found the most lovely spot in Sussex.”
“Really!” Hilda said coldly. She burned to know where Grace had been and what she had arranged but she was too hurt and proud to show it.
Gradually the glow died out of Grace’s face.
“Shall I tell you about it?” she asked doubtfully.
“Some other time,” Hilda said, picking up a magazine and beginning to turn the pages.
Grace turned and went out of the room. The instant the door closed Hilda jumped up to follow her. But Hilda did not follow her — it was against Hilda’s nature to follow anyone. She remained frowning, motionless, with a look of pain upon her pale face, then she flung the magazine violently into the corner of the room. That same night there was an air raid over London and when there was a raid Grace usually came to Hilda’s room and crept into bed beside her. But to-night, though Hilda waited and longed for Grace to come, Grace did not come.
Time drew on. Whenever she had her half-day Grace went round buying little things that might be useful to her or which, perhaps, might not. She had a great deal of enjoyment that way, especially in the cheap department stores. Dan wrote twice a week. He hoped he could get leave in time for the great event. He would beg, borrow or steal leave, he would desert and swim the Channel — it all depended, of course, even the swimming of the Channel, on whether there was going to be an offensive.
Dan’s letters were more of a comfort to Grace than ever. She still hoped that Hilda would be friends again. But on her very last day at the hospital when she climbed up to Hilda’s room to say good-bye, Hilda was in the theatre. Grace had to go and leave it at that. She felt sad leaving it that way.
EIGHTEEN
On the sixteenth of April, 1917, Stanley Millington returned to Tynecastle. All those intervening weeks Laura had been down at Sawbridge in Warwickshire where Stanley was in the special hospital for functional war neuroses. Joe had heard nothing until he learned indirectly at the office of the telegram to Hilltop announcing their return. Actually, he had not had a line from Laura since that evening when she had rushed from the flat in tears. But the fact that he had received no invitation to be present did not deter Joe from attending at the station. Oh dear, no. Joe had a splendid combination of brazen nerve and rhinoceros hide which enabled him to carry off the most delicate situation. Besides, he knew they would expect him — why not? He was quite ready to overlook that last scene Laura had made and genuinely prepared to demonstrate his warm admiration for Stanley’s heroism and his delight in Stanley’s recovery. He drove to the station to meet Stanley full of welcome and sympathy and the manly affection of one good fellow for another.