The Convert. Elizabeth Robins
don't like living here in this house.' Vida caught at the old complication.
'I've got used to it,' the woman said baldly. Then, after a little pause, during which she made a barely audible rasping to clear her throat, 'I don't like leaving you, miss. I always remember how, that time before—the only time I was ever away from you since you was a baby—how different I found you when I came back.'
'Different, Wark?'
'Yes, miss. It seemed like you'd turned into somebody else.'
'Most people change—develope—in those years just before twenty.'
'Not like you did, miss. You gave me a deal of trouble when you was little, but it nearly broke my heart to come back and find you so quieted down and wise-like.'
A flash of tears glimmered in the mistress's eyes, though her lips were smiling.
'Of course,' the maid went on, 'though you never told me about it, I know you had things to bear while I was away, or else you wouldn't have gone away from your home that time—a mere child—and tried to teach for a living.'
'It was absurd of me! But whosever fault it was, it wasn't yours.'
'Yes, miss, in a way it was. I owed it to your mother not to have left you. I've never told you how I blamed myself when I heard—and I didn't wonder at you. It was hard when your mother was hardly cold to see your father——'
'Yes; now that's enough, Wark. You know we never speak of that.'
'No, we've never spoken about it. And, of course, you won't need me any more like you did then. But it's looking back and remembering—it's that that's making it so hard to leave you now. But——'
'Well?'
'My friends have been talking to me.'
'About——'
'Yes, this post.' Then, almost angrily, 'I didn't try for it. It's come after me. My cousin knows the man.'
'The man who wants you to go to him as housekeeper?' Vida wrinkled her brows. Wark hadn't said 'gentleman,' who alone in her employer's experience had any need of a housekeeper. 'You mean you don't know him yourself?'
'Not yet, 'm. I know he's a market gardener, and he wants his house looked after.'
'What if he does? A market gardener won't be able to pay the wages I——'
'The wages aren't much to begin with—but he's getting along—except for the housekeeping. That's in a bad way.'
'What if it is? I never heard such nonsense. You don't want to leave me, Wark, for a market gardener you've never so much as seen;' and Miss Levering covered her discomfort by a little smiling.
'My cousin's seen him many a time. She likes him.'
'Let your cousin go, then, and keep his house for him.'
'My cousin has her own house to keep, and she's got a young baby.'
'Oh, the woman who brought her child here once?'
'Yes, 'm, the child you gave the coral beads to. My cousin has written and talked about it ever since.'
'About the beads?'
'About the market gardener. And the way his house is—Ever since we came back to England she's been going on at me about it. I told her all along I couldn't leave you, but she's always said (since that day you walked about with the baby and gave him the beads to play with, and wouldn't let her make him cry by taking them away)—ever since then my cousin has said you'd understand.'
'What would I understand?'
Wark laid her hand on the nearest of the shining bars of brass, and slowly she polished it with her open palm. She obviously found it difficult to go on with her defence.
'I wanted my cousin to come and explain to you.'
Here was Wark in a new light indeed! If she really wanted any creature on the earth to speak for her. As she stood there in stolid embarrassment polishing the shiny bar, Miss Levering clutched the tray to steady it, and with the other hand she pulled the pillow higher. One had to sit bolt upright, it seemed, and give this matter one's entire attention.
'I don't want to talk to your cousin about your affairs. We are old friends, Wark. Tell me yourself.'
She forced her eyes to meet her mistress's. 'He told my cousin: "Just you find me a good housekeeper," he said, "and if I like her," he said, "she won't be my housekeeper long."'
'Wark! You! You aren't thinking of marrying?'
'If he's what my cousin says——'
'A man you've never seen? Oh, my dear Wark! Well, I shall hope and pray he won't think your housekeeping good enough.'
'He will! From what my cousin says, he's had a run of worthless huzzies. I don't expect he'll find much fault with my housekeeping after what he's been through.'
Vida looked wondering at the triumphant face of the woman.
'And so you're ready to leave me after all these years?'
'No, miss, I'm not to say "ready," but I think I'll have to go.'
'My poor old Wark'—the lady leaned over the tray—'I could almost think you are in love with this man you've only heard about!'
'No, miss, I'm not to say in love.'
'I believe you are! For what other reason would you have for leaving me?'
The woman looked as if she could show cause had she a mind. But she said nothing.
'You know,' Vida pursued—'you know quite well you don't need to marry for a home.'
'No, 'm; I'm quite comfortable, of course, with you. But time goes on. I don't get younger.'
'None of us do that, Wark.'
'That's just the trouble, miss. It ain't only me.'
Vida looked at her, more perplexed than ever by the curious regard in the hard-featured countenance. For there was something very like dumb reproach in Wark's face.
'Still,' said Miss Levering, 'you know, even if none of us do get younger, we are not any of us (to judge by appearances) on the brink of the grave. Even if I should be smashed up in a motor accident—I know you're always expecting that—even if I were killed to-morrow, still you'd find I hadn't forgotten you, Wark.'
'It isn't that, miss. It isn't death I'm afraid of.'
There was a pause—the longest that yet had come.
'What are you afraid of?' Miss Levering asked.
'It's—you see, I've been looking these twelve years to see you married.'
'Me? What's that got to do with——'
'Yes, miss. You see, I've counted a good while on looking after children again some day. But if you won't get married——'
Vida flung her hair back with a burst of not very merry laughter.
'If I won't, you must! But why in the world? I'd no idea you were so romantic. Why must there be a wedding in the family, Wark?'
'So there can be children, miss,' said the woman, stolidly.
'Well, there is a child. There's Doris.'
'Poor Miss Doris!' The woman shook her head. 'But she's got a good nurse. I say it, though she calls advice interfering. And Miss Doris has got a mother' (plain that Wark was again in the market garden). 'Yes, she's got a mother! and a sort of a father, and she's got a governess, and a servant to carry her about. I sometimes think what Miss Doris needs most is a little letting alone. Leastways, she don't need me. No, nor you, miss.'
'And