He was never to forget his first impression of Miss Crewe’s room. At a glance two things emerged-it was grey, and it was crowded. He was to discover later on that the original colour of the hangings, the striped wall-paper and the faintly patterned carpet had been a delicate shade of blue. Under this light and lapse of years they were now as grey as dust. And so was Miss Lydia herself.
She sat in an upright chair, a hand on either of its massive arms, and dominated the scene-tall, stiff, with thick iron-grey hair taken back relentlessly from a high, narrow brow and bony features. He found himself wondering what she could have looked like when she was young. The bones were all good. With bloom and colour there might even have been beauty there. The thin, stiff figure might have had its curves-it had none now. The right hand lifted and was extended to him. Stones flashed in half a dozen rings-diamond, emerald, ruby, sapphire. The fingers that wore them were as cold to the touch as bone. She said,
“How do you do, Mr. Lester? I understand that you have come down to see my niece. Pray sit down.”
It was definitely alarming. No, that was wrong, the word should have been indefinitely. He wasn’t a boy, to be intimidated by an old woman who had outlived her world and retreated into a solitude of her own making. Absurd to have any feeling except compassion. For her-or for Rosamond Maxwell? His former anger rose in him as he took the chair to which she had pointed and said,
“I happened to be passing. But I must apologise for troubling you at this hour. I must confess I lost my way, and then when I was so near-”
There was an overhead chandelier bright with faceted lustres. The electricity so sparely used in the rest of the house blazed from it upon a room full of old and undoubtedly valuable furniture, upon the bookcases and cabinets which lined the walls, upon every description of chair and every kind of small occasional table, upon the china which filled the cabinets, the innumerable small objects which littered the tables, and upon Miss Lydia herself in a grey velvet wrap lifting the hand with the sparkling rings and saying,
“You came to see my niece. I am told that you are in a publishing firm. I believe she amuses herself with scribbling, but you will not ask me to believe that you take that sort of thing seriously.”
Her tone affected him in a singularly unpleasant manner. It carried so final a dismissal of Jenny’s childish ambitions. They might have no value in themselves, and yet mean all the world to a crippled child.
“She had no business to trouble you,” said Lydia Crewe.
He achieved a smile.
“Well, that is what we are there for. I didn’t know how young she was. Of course there could be no question of publishing any of her work at present, but I thought I should like to see her, and perhaps give her a little advice. She obviously loves writing, and since she isn’t very strong, it is probably a great pleasure to her. It is much too soon to say whether there is any real talent.”
“And so you came down here to say that. Very obliging of you, I am sure. Can we offer you some refreshment?”
She was the great lady condescending. It pricked him. He said, “No thank you,” and got to his feet.
“You must be getting on your way? Perhaps we can direct you. Where are you making for?”
He had been aware of Rosamond in the grey room behind him. She came forward now, threading her way between the tables. Resistance sprang up in him. He was being dismissed, and he was in no mind to take his dismissal. He said with a kind of pleasant firmness,
“Thank you very much. Perhaps you will tell me how to get to the village. I suppose there is one, and that it has an inn of some kind. I can’t have much farther to go, and there’s no real hurry. I don’t feel like wandering in any more lanes tonight. Then, if I may, I could perhaps see Jenny again tomorrow. If she really wants to write she ought to start on a regular course of reading.”
Lydia Crewe lifted her puckered lids and gave him a long cold look. Her eyes were deeply set, and deeply shadowed by the arch of the brow. He thought they must once have been fine. She said with abrupt irrelevance,
“Are you related to the Lesters of Midholm?”
“Why, yes.”
She nodded.
“You have a look of them. They were all big men. There is some slight family connection. My great-grandfather married Henrietta Lester in 1785. She died young.” Her tone dismissed Henrietta as a failure.
He was surprised, therefore, when she said quite graciously,
“Very kind of you, I’m sure, to take so much trouble about Jenny. She will naturally be delighted to see you. Rosamond will show you the way out and direct you to the inn. It is quite small of course, but Mrs. Stubbs is a very good cook. She used to be with the Falchions at Winterbourne. Good-bye, Mr. Lester.”
He touched the cold hand again and made his farewells. He found himself outside in the passage with relief.
“Do I see Jenny again now?”
Rosamond shook her head.
“Better not, I think. If she is too excited she won’t sleep. Can you really come back in the morning?”
“Oh yes. What time shall I make it? Ten-half past?”
As they went back towards the hall, she gave a sudden soft laugh.
“Are you really related to those Lesters?”
“I really am.”
“And do you know exactly how? Because Aunt Lydia will certainly cross-examine you. She knows everybody’s family tree much better than they do themselves.”
He laughed.
“I’m word perfect. My grandfather was a brother of old Sir Roger Lester’s. The present man is my cousin Christopher.”
She had opened the front door and was saying, “If you turn left at the foot of the drive, the village is not much more than a quarter of a mile. The name is Hazel Green, and the inn is the Holly Tree. Mrs. Stubbs is a pet,” when he broke in after the manner of someone who has not been listening.
“Do you dust all that damned china?”
When she thought about it afterwards it occurred to her that she ought to have snubbed him. Rosamond wasn’t very good at snubbing people. She said in an apologetic voice,
“The daily women aren’t careful enough. Aunt Lydia wouldn’t trust them.”
There was quite a cold air coming in, but neither of them felt it. He said with anger,
“Do you know what I would like to do? I’d like to put all that stuff in the middle of the floor and smash it with the poker!”
And all she did was to look at him and say, “Why?”
He obliged with a copious answer.
“Because you’re a slave to it. There isn’t a speck of dust on the wretched stuff, or anywhere else that I could see. And who does the dusting? You every time! And mind you, I know about dusting. My sister and I had to help at home. My father died, and the first thing my mother did was to get rid of practically all that sort of stuff. She said there wouldn’t be anyone to do anything except ourselves, and she wasn’t planning for us to be slaves to a lot of irrelevant crockery, so she made a clean sweep of it. This house is cluttered till you can’t move, and you’re worn to a shadow trying to cope with it.”
It was the most extraordinary conversation, and perhaps the most extraordinary part of it was that she found it quite impossible to be angry. Strangers oughtn’t to speak to you like that. He didn’t feel like a stranger. He broke all the rules and he broke down all the fences, but it wasn’t for himself, it was for her. He was angry because she was tired-because there was too much china and too much furniture and her work was never done. It was so long since anyone had cared whether she was tired or not that she was shaken, but not with anger. She felt a weakness and a warmth, and got no nearer to an answer than a faint tremulous smile.
He said, “Why do you do it?” and she lifted her head and spoke gently.
“Most women have a good deal to do in their houses nowadays, you know. It doesn’t hurt one to be tired at the end of a day’s work.”