She walked back in quite a paddy and went straight up to her room and began to read the paper. It was a London paper. Jenny adored London, she had been to London four times in her life and had loved it every time. She read all the London society news, then she read the advertisements. The advertisements were really interesting, really they were, especially those referring to experienced saleswomen wanted. Jenny went to bed thoughtfully that night.
Next day it was raining.
“O Lord,” said Jenny, staring blankly at the rain. “A wet Sunday!” She refused to go to church, mooned about the place and was snappy to Caroline Ann. In the afternoon Grace lay down and Dan went into the bam to trim some hay. Five minutes later Jenny wandered into the barn.
“Hello, you!” she called up brightly to Dan, flashing a sprightly glance at him, her feet planted coquettishly apart.
Dan looked down at her, very simple and unsmiling.
“Hello,” he said without enthusiasm, and turning his back he re-engaged himself vigorously with the hay.
Jenny’s face fell. She stood for a minute saving her pride. She might have known that Dan had no eyes for anyone but Grace, he was nothing but a turnip. Then she wandered out into the rain. Turnip, she muttered, blessed turnip.
Next day was again wet. Jenny’s discontent grew. How long had she to endure it here in this rotten beastly hole? Twelve more days; she’d never do it, never. She wanted a bit of life, a bit of fun, she wasn’t cut out for this mangelwurzel misery. She began to blame David for sending her here, even to hate him for it. Yes! it was all very well for him. He was having a gay time no doubt in Tynecastle; she knew what men were when their wives were away from them, having a rare old time while she was stuck here, here in this hole.
And in her own way Jenny began to turn the whole question of her relations with David over in her mind. She wasn’t going to stand it. Why should she? She could earn four pounds a week off her own bat and enjoy London into the bargain. She didn’t really love David in any case.
Next day the sun came out, a glorious sun, but it brought no answering warmth to Jenny’s face. The doors and windows of the farm were wide open, the lovely breeze blew in. Grace was making cherry jam, lovely cherry jam with cherries from her own orchard. Flushed and happy she moved about the big kitchen. She thought Jenny looked a little down and when she milked the one Guernsey cow she put a glass of the rich foaming milk on the table for Jenny.
“I don’t like milk,” Jenny said and walked out sulkily into the sunny yard. The bees hummed about the flowers, down in the corner Dan was chopping firewood — the axe made a lovely flashing arc — and across the fields cattle lay chewing in the shade. It was beautiful.
But not to Jenny. She hated it now, hated it and hated it. She longed for London, she had set her heart on London, she yearned for the noise and bustle and glamour of the streets. With her head in the air she marched down to Barnham and bought a paper. She stood outside the shop reading the advertisements, ever and ever so many advertisements; she was positive she could land one of them. Just for fun, she walked to the station and she inquired about the trains to London. An express left at four o’clock. In a flash Jenny’s decision was taken. That afternoon while Grace was busy making tea Jenny packed her bag and slipped out. She caught the four o’clock for London.
When Grace went to call Jenny and found out that she had taken her things and gone she was dreadfully upset. She ran down to the kitchen.
“Dan!” she said, “Jenny has gone. What have we done?”
Dan paused in spreading some of the new cherry jam upon a large slice of bread.
“So she’s gone, eh?”
“Yes, Dan! Have we offended her? I’m vexed.”
Dan resumed his interest in the bread and jam. He took an enormous bite; then, munching slowly:
“I wouldn’t be vexed, Grace dear. I don’t think she was much good, that one.” This indicated perhaps that Dan was less of a turnip than Jenny had believed.
That evening Dan squared his shoulders over a letter to David. He regretted very much, he wrote, that Jenny had been obliged to cut short her stay at Winrush and trusted that she would get home safely.
David received that letter on the evening of the following day and it caused him a definite uneasiness. Jenny had not arrived. He looked across at his mother who had come down to keep house for him. But he said nothing. He felt that Jenny must arrive next day. In spite of everything he still loved Jenny; surely she would come.
But Jenny did not come.
FIVE
Gently and tenderly Aunt Carrie wheeled Richard in the Bath chair right up to the laburnum tree on the lawn. The day was warm and sunny, and the yellow blossom dangled thick on the laburnum, turning the tree to a great yellow flower which cast a pleasant shade upon the shorn turf. In this shade, with many fussings, Aunt Carrie began to settle Richard. First there was the little plank she had made Bartley saw specially for his feet, and the hot-water bottle, an aluminium bottle since that kept the heat longest, then the Jaeger rug tucked in carefully the whole way round. Aunt Carrie understood exactly what Richard liked and it was joy for her to humour him in every whim, especially as she knew that he was “getting on” at last.
Aunt Carrie would never forget the first real indication that Richard was getting on, that day, three months and a week ago precisely, when he had spoken to her. In bed, like a great log, dumb and heavy, his eye rolling in his head as it followed her movements about the room, that dull yet living eye, a basilisk, he had mumbled:
“It’s you… Caroline.”
In the inexpressible rapture of it she almost fainted, like a mother with the first speech of her first-born.
“Yes, Richard”—clutching her breast—“it’s Caroline… Caroline.”
He mumbled:
“What did I say?” Then he lost interest. But after that it did not matter. He had spoken.
Intoxicated by this auspicious sign, she had redoubled her attentions upon him, washing him all over carefully twice a day and rubbing his back with methylated spirits every night before dusting him with talcum. It had been difficult to prevent bedsores, changing the wet sheets sometimes four times in the day, but she had done it. She was getting Richard right. His movements started to return slightly, the movements of the paralysed side, and she would rub the right arm for an hour on end just as she had brushed Harriet’s hair. While she rubbed him, his dull eye would roll up and down her figure, not without a certain slyness, and often he mumbled:
“You’re a fine woman, Caroline… But they are tampering with me… electricity….”
It was one of his delusions that they were sending electrical currents through his body. At night now he always asked Caroline to pull his bed away from the wall so that they could not send electricity through from the adjoining room. He asked her slyly, slurring and mumbling the syllables, mixing up his consonants, sometimes missing out words altogether.
There might be something in these electrical notions, or there might not — Aunt Carrie would not commit herself. She could not dream of questioning Richard’s judgment. Her idea was to interest him, take him out of himself, and this made her think of Mrs. Humphry Ward, her favourite author whom in times of spiritual stress she had found to be a true healer. So she began, every forenoon, and every evening, to read aloud to Richard, commencing with Lady Rose’s Daughter, perhaps a little selfishly, as this was her own favourite, and when she came to the great moment of renunciation tears dropped down Aunt Carrie’s cheeks. And Richard would stare at the ceiling or pick at his clothes or put his finger into his mouth and at the end of a chapter he would remark: