Another Part of the Wood

by Denis Mackail

  She helped Miss Shirley to shovel the clothes that she had been collecting into a suit-case, and helped her to carry it downstairs, and said good-bye to Mrs. Shirley and stood on one leg and thanked her enormously.

  Mrs. Shirley smiled vaguely, and didn’t seem to hear.

  “Is everything there, Carter?” she said.

  “Yes, ’m.”

  “Sylvia?”

  “Here I am, darling.”

  Mr. Everett had vanished. The big car throbbed, and grunted, and rolled away down the drive. Noodles picked up the parlourmaid’s bicycle, and wheeled it to where the workmen could no longer see her, and hopped and staggered and landed more or less in the saddle, and wobbled off down the winding lane, and up the hill, and home.

  “Thanks awfully, Mary,” she called out, as she passed the pantry window. “I haven’t hurt it a bit.”

  “Oh, Miss Ursula!”

  “Hullo?”

  “Mr. Cottenham was asking for you, miss. I think he’s in the study.”

  “Oh, bother! All right.”

  Mr. Cottenham was walking up and down, and flapping his hands together behind his back.

  “Oh!” he said, pausing suddenly. “So you’re back?”

  Noodles wondered what the Budget had done now.

  “Yes,” she said. “But I’ve only——”

  “Look here,” said Mr. Cottenham. “This has got to stop.”

  “But——”

  “You know quite well what I mean,” said Mr. Cottenham. “I’m very busy. I’m not at all well. I know exactly where you’ve been, and I won’t have it.”

  Having thus made four misstatements and one ridiculous threat, he pulled the face which we have previously described as resembling that of an elderly baby on the brink of tears. Noodles could no more help feeling sorry for him than she could imagine how he had found out where she had been.

  “If this goes on,” said Mr. Cottenham, “I shall know what to do. I’m responsible for you. Your father was my oldest friend.”

  Noodles scowled horribly, and left the room. She never even heard Mr. Cottenham calling out to her to shut the door. She never heard or saw anything until——

  “Hullo, Noodles,” said a voice that she seemed to recognise.

  To her surprise, she found that she had come as far as the bottom of the orchard, and there was Mr. Fitzgibbon climbing over the stile.

  “I thought I saw you,” he said. And then: “Why, what’s the matter? You’ve been——”

  “No, I haven’t,” said Noodles, fiercely. “Oh, go away!”

  “Here!” said Mr. Fitzgibbon, and he jumped down and caught hold of her arm.

  “What?” said Noodles. She wondered what was happening now, but it didn’t seem to matter particularly.

  Mr. Fitzgibbon looked very large and near.

  “Oh, all right,” she heard herself muttering, in a distant, tired, foggy sort of way.

  And we are very sorry to say that Mr. Fitzgibbon kissed her.

  3

  As soon as this regrettable incident had taken place, Miss Brett said something which sounded rather like “Oh, bother!” and turned round, and ran back to the house, and ran upstairs, and ran into her shabby bedroom, and shut the door, and went and stared at herself in her looking-glass, and rubbed her cheek very hard with her handkerchief, and scowled more horribly than ever, and began to laugh, and said “damn!” and sat down on her bed, and felt most frightfully wicked.

  “Disgusting,” she added, presently. “Horrible. Loathsome.”

  She rubbed her cheek again, and stared at a crack in the wallpaper.

  “Sickening little fool,” she went on, obviously referring to herself, for nobody could have called Mr. Fitzgibbon little. “Worm! Rotten little horror!”

  She continued to explode with similar epithets at intervals of a few seconds until the supply began to run out; after which she got up again, closed the window, put on a gramophone record of a fox-trot, listened to about a third of it without any enthusiasm, and suddenly stopped it.

  “That’s no good,” she announced, and she opened the window again. And having opened it, she wondered what everybody would say if she fell out of it and was killed. She was annoyed to find that these speculations were making her feel rather interesting once more, which she had just sworn that she would never feel again as long as she lived.

  “It just shows you how awful I am,” she said. “I dare say Fitzgibbon’s frightened out of his wits. I dare say— Oh, bother! There I go again. I wish I’d got somebody else to think about.”

  She tried to think about the Shirleys, and recoiled in horror at the way in which—so it suddenly seemed—she had let them down and disgraced them.

  “I wonder,” she reflected, “if I’d feel better if I did something tiresome. Like washing my hair.” But that meant going and asking for another towel, and certainly the very first part of her penance must be self-effacement and not troubling the servants or anyone else. Besides, it was nearly tea-time, and another part of the penance was not to try and hide from Mr. Cottenham.

  “The only thing,” said Noodles to herself, “is to be very careful and good for the rest of my life, and to do a lot more things that I don’t want to do, and never to do anything suddenly again, and—well, I suppose so—never to speak to anybody unless I know them awfully well. Only,” she added—and here we detect that strange streak of common-sense which never entirely deserted her— “of course one has to answer them when they speak to one first.”

  She actually smiled, as she recalled an earlier and less discreditable adventure in her career as a grown-up person.

  “I wish it had been Fitzgibbon,” she said, “that I’d hit with my hockey-stick. By accident, I mean, of course —like in the train. And—well, not so as to really hurt him.”

  We tremble at this ineradicable kindness, but equally we welcome that smile. The split infinitive has hardly troubled us at all, whatever its effect might have been on Miss Mulberry. Noodles is still feeling far from virtuous, and puritans may be assured that she will be visited with recurrent pangs for a considerable time to come; but it is a great relief to us that she has not so far wept. It upset us horribly when she wept in Miss Mulberry’s study, but now we come to think of it that was for a very different reason. If Mr. Fitzgibbon had tried giving her a volume of Lord Tennyson’s poetry instead of what he actually did try—Well, perhaps you see what we mean.

  Though on the other hand perhaps you don’t.

  In either case, Noodles came downstairs at half-past four, and though the drawing-room was quite empty she made no attempt to hurry over her tea, but waited patiently until Mary came in to say that Mr. Cottenham had gone out for a walk. And at dinner he was just the same as usual; that is to say, amazingly poor company. And after dinner he went back to his study, and Noodles performed some more penance by reading ten pages of a dull book that she couldn’t understand. And then came bed, where the feeling of wickedness became much more troublesome again and some more epithets might have been heard at intervals in the dark. And then at last came sleep, and no dreams either, but eight hours of complete rest for the conscience and everything else.

  When she woke up again, the streak of common-sense was the first thing to greet her. “After all,” it said, “you’re very much the same sort of Noodles that you were this time yesterday; and if anything you’re more sensible, because now you know you’re not going to see Fitzgibbon again. And, after all, you didn’t really know he was going to do that, and it isn’t as if you didn’t hate it just as much at the time as afterwards. Just remember,” it said, “that it wasn’t anything except a silly sort of accident, and you won’t do so badly.”

  “Right,” said Noodles, and she got up, and had a bath, and dressed, and came down to breakfast. And Mr. Cottenham was still quite normal again, and the Budget must have been rather better this morning, because he read his newspaper without once snorting or rattling his cup or muttering about packs of thieves. Presen
tly he paddled off to his study and shut himself in, and Mary came along to clear away and said that there were some new kittens in the gardener’s cottage, and Noodles rushed off to see them at once, and really had the most perfect time with the whole family, who quite entered into the spirit of the many simple though ingenious games that she played with them. Even the mother set aside her heavy responsibilities for the time being, and was kind enough to pretend that Noodles was a mouse.

  “Thanks awfully, Mrs. Crabbett. Thanks most tremendously. And you will try and find nice homes for them, won’t you?”

  “Well, miss——”

  “Oh, but of course you will. And I’ll help you. I’m almost sure they’d take one over at Green Hatches, if you could wait just a little bit. I’ll ask them. In fact, I’ll ask everybody I meet.”

  Mrs. Crabbett smiled, and the kittens squeaked, and the cat rumbled, and Noodles laughed and ran up towards the house. And then she stopped suddenly, turned round, dashed back through the kitchen-garden door, and slammed it violently.

  “Oh, Lord!” she said.

  For Fitzgibbon, whom she had so recently decided that she would never see again, had gone by within three yards of her—heading steadily and unmistakably for the front door.

  “Oh, bother!” she said. “I do hope he won’t wait.”

  But it seemed more than likely that he would. In another minute, so Noodles supposed, the voice of Mary would be heard calling for her; and then what should she do? Run away? Yes, but what if Fitzgibbon went on waiting? She couldn’t possibly be late for lunch again after what had happened yesterday. What about dodging in at the back, and hiding upstairs? No; better stay where she was for the moment. No good walking into the trap until one knew what Mary was doing.

  She stayed where she was, on tiptoe, hardly breathing. A bee came buzzing past her, and she made a face at it, beseeching it to be quiet. It buzzed off. Dead silence. Was it possible that Fitzgibbon had given it up, and gone away? With infinite caution she unlatched the green door, opened it about six inches, and peered through the crack. The drive was deserted. The house showed no sign of life. She turned round, and saw Mr. Crabbett leaning on a spade and gazing at her. Bother! If anyone came and looked for her now, of course he’d tell them where she’d been; and he was far too deaf and stupid to be taken into one’s confidence. She’d better try and work her way round to the back door, after all.

  She went right past Mr. Crabbett’s cottage again, and over the fence, and up the cart-track, and through the gap by the wood-shed, and along by the other out-buildings, and—alternately hurrying and standing stock-still—reached the pantry window. Mary was visible through it, and audible also—polishing a toast-rack and singing to herself

  “I say! I say—Mary!”

  “Oh, Miss Ursula! What a start you gave me.”

  “I’m awfully sorry. I say. …”

  “Yes, miss?”

  “Was—was anybody looking for me?”

  “No, miss. There’s a gentleman in with Mr. Cottenham.”

  “What!”

  But Noodles had heard all right. Fitzgibbon, for some horrible and inexplicable reason, was going to sneak. Was sneaking at this very moment. Had probably sneaked, in fact, by now.

  “D—didn’t he ask for me, Mary?”

  “No, miss. Why, do you know the gentleman, miss?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” said Noodles, thickly; vanished from the window; tottered aimlessly across the yard; lost consciousness, or at any rate all memory of the next five minutes, and came to herself behind a laurel-bush round at the front of the house again. “Oh, I do feel so awful,” she groaned. “Oh, what can he be saying all this time? Oh, what is going to happen?”

  The bee, or another bee, came back. But it could buzz itself silly this time. Noodles didn’t care.

  Footsteps on the drive. Miss Brett put her head round the laurel-bush, and drew it back quickly. It was Fitzgibbon going away. The further he went, the nearer, of necessity, she approached the house; for the laurel-bush must always be between them. Something suddenly made her look over her shoulder. Mr. Cottenham was standing on the front-door step.

  “Come here!” he called out. “I want to speak to you.”

  “What?” said Noodles, desperately.

  Mr. Cottenham disappeared into the blackness, without troubling to repeat his summons, and Noodles followed him. The hall was empty, but she could feel something dragging her towards the study; and there, of course, he was. He was bouncing up and down on the hearthrug, and flapping his hands together behind his back. “Look here,” he said. “I’m going to put a stop to this.”

  “To what?” said Noodles, faintly.

  “I warned you yesterday,” said Mr. Cottenham. “You heard me, didn’t you?”

  Noodles couldn’t make head or tail of this, but there was only one thing to do. She nodded.

  “Ah,” said Mr. Cottenham. “Very well, then. We’ll hear no more of it. Do you understand?”

  “No,” said Noodles, truthful in the last ditch.

  “What?” snapped Mr. Cottenham. “Please don’t be impertinent, Ursula. You know perfectly well what I’m talking about.”

  “I don’t,” said Noodles, obstinately.

  “You do,” said Mr. Cottenham. “This ridiculous idea of an engagement. I——”

  “What!”

  They stared at each other. Mr. Cottenham checked for the moment by that explosive monosyllable, and Noodles so choking with astonishment and indignation that she was quite unable to add to it.

  “But—but—but—” she gasped.

  “That’ll do,” said Mr. Cottenham. “You see, I know all about it.”

  “But—but——”

  “And I’ve quite decided what to do. I shall telegraph to Miss Mulberry at once.”

  “But——”

  “You’ll go back to St. Ethelburga’s to-morrow.”

  “Yes, but——”

  “And what your father and mother would have thought——”

  “Oh—please!”

  “I say, what your father——”

  Noodles scowled more horribly than she had ever scowled in her life.

  “But it’s not true!” she shouted. “Mr. Cottenham, it’s not——”

  Mr. Cottenham put his hands over his ears, turned his back, and leant on the mantelpiece in an attitude of supreme physical suffering.

  “I’m sorry,” said Noodles, abjectly. “I’d forgotten about your nerves.”

  Mr. Cottenham writhed silently; put out one hand behind him, and pointed backwards at the door.

  “Oh, please say I haven’t given you a headache! Oh, do please——”

  The hand waggled impatiently, and Noodles ceased to struggle against fate. It is a fact that as she drew out of Pippingfold station by the early train on the following morning, she had practically forgiven everybody but herself. “If only I hadn’t lost my Going-Away-Prize,” she was murmuring reflectively, “I don’t suppose any of these awful things would have happened. I ought to have seen how unlucky that was bound to be at the time.”

  But there seemed very little likelihood that Miss Mulberry would ever offer her another one.

  Chapter IV

  Peculiar properties of window-seats—Their effect on Beaky Brett—A terribly important letter—What the writer didn’t know—And what he didn’t expect.

  1

  The big houses in Wykeham Street have become more and more medical of recent years, and Number Ninety-seven provided an exception to this general development only in so far as it harboured dentists rather than doctors. Chance had established Mr. Rumbold and his partner on the ground floor, Mr. Titherington and his partner on the first floor, and Mr. Elmsleigh and his partner on the second floor—all skilled members of their invaluable calling and gentlemen with the most powerful wrists. But higher than this—as elsewhere in Wykeham Street—it would appear that no amount of agony could prevail on any sufferer to climb. The third floor, accordingly, had
been let in the shape of partially-furnished lodgings, and had been occupied for some time by Messrs. R. H. Brett and W. G. Tipton in their private capacity as sleepers and consumers of breakfast and dinner; while the top storey of all, like the vast basement which had once prepared huge joints for a family that had actually filled the whole building, was the province of the three Burgesses. Of Mr. Burgess, that is to say, the ex-butler who answered the front-door bell and valeted the third-floor tenants; of Mrs. Burgess, who cooked the aforesaid breakfasts and dinners, and also acted as housemaid; and of Gladys Burgess, their daughter, who never really seemed to do anything, except to look very plain at all times, and to blush whenever she met either of the resident bachelors on the stairs.

  A gloomy house, then, in some ways, with terrified patients sprinkled all over it during the daytime, and large, empty rooms dreaming of their vanished domesticity at night. With palms and bronzes and oil-paintings and fragments of armour scattered about the gaunt waiting-room, and a lingering scent of antiseptics and anæsthetics scattered everywhere else. With glimpses through half-open doors of grim figures in white jackets, of the most sinister-looking machinery, or—more sinister still—of chairs with head-rests and leg-rests, with multitudinous levers and ratchets; the actual altars on which the victims of civilisation trembled beneath the weapons of their priests. Yet a house with traces of dignity in its massive proportions and the sweep of its spacious stairs. And a house that suddenly became almost cosy and comfortable, as these same stairs shrank on their leap to the third floor. In days gone by this furnished sitting-room would probably have been the nursery, and though the mind reeled at the thought of carrying children and trays and bath-cans to such a height, there was yet an atmosphere of serenity, once you had got there, which was conspicuously absent in the waiting-room or the torture-chambers below.

  But the feature which had first attracted Mr. Tipton and his fellow-lodger, the feature which still reconciled them to any other disadvantages in their quarters, was undoubtedly the presence of those two broad window-seats beneath those two square windows. And there were very few warm evenings on which their contiguous countenances did not brood over Wykeham Street from one or other of these apertures, while their elbows anchored them to the sill, their knees rested on the squab-cushion beneath it, and the smoke from their two pipes ascended to join the rest of the cloud which hangs for ever over the smoky city of London.