A Boy in the House. Mazo de la Roche
She must have been an attractive young woman, with those shining grey eyes, that full-lipped, smiling mouth. But now she was obviously near to sixty and her face had coarsened. She took pride in her appearance, however. Her beige linen jacket and skirt were immaculately laundered. Her gloves were freshly white and her thick hair, strongly streaked by grey, was swept neatly back, beneath her small black hat. She glanced up at him with a look that was almost flirtatious.
‘How nice,’ she said, ‘to be met by a gentleman, and a gallant gentleman who will carry your bag for you.’
She had a pleasant contralto voice.
‘I suppose,’ he said, ‘it was pretty warm in the town. Surely these things should have been delivered for you.’ He was so incurably kind-hearted that he pictured himself going to the shops with her, carrying that ugly cretonne bag.
She relieved him of that fear. ‘Oh, I don’t mind it at all,’ she said. ‘In fact I like it. It makes a little break—and I’m very strong.’ She straightened her shoulders and stepped out briskly. ‘My sister will be wondering what has kept me,’ she added. ‘You know how it is with people who never go out. The time seems much longer to them.’ She spoke as though she herself went out a good deal.
At her own door, which opened into the dining-room of the house, he left her, but not before he had a glimpse of her sister hovering inside. He heard her greeting, high-pitched and querulous: ‘Why, Elsie, whatever in the world have you been doing? I expected you an hour ago. Was that Mr. Lindley who was with you?’
He did not hear Mrs. Morton’s answer. He turned away and went along the path that led past the back of the house, past the empty stable that looked ready to tumble down, past the empty poultry house which was indeed tumbling down, and followed the path toward the lake. This soon lost itself in the long grass out of which rose a few fruit trees whose gnarled branches still produced fairy white blooms but whose fruit was the succour of worms. The grass waved gently and he noticed a few white narcissi blooming among it, the remnant of what had once been a flower garden. He picked four of them and held them to his nostrils and inhaled their sweet, languishing scent.
He came at last to the steep bank, below which lay the lake, stretching like a pale-blue sea to the pale horizon. He knew that the sisters had been born in this house and he pictured them as little girls paddling on the sandy beach or sailing tiny boats. He pictured them as young women, walking here with their friends and lovers, feeling free, when they were here, of their father’s tyranny. Their mother, Mrs. Morton had told him, had died when they were children. Did they ever come here now, he wondered. Probably not, for Miss Lydia had been ill and still was weak and Mrs. Morton’s energies must be needed for the housework.
‘If I keep on thinking about these old girls,’ he reflected, a bit grimly, ‘I shall be dragging them into my book. . . . But I needn’t worry. As soon as it is begun I shall never give them another thought.’
He remembered his evening meal, and retraced his steps. The shadows were longer and darker. He saw some white birds sailing in the blue sea of the sky and realized that they were gulls. The scent of the narcissi he carried rose to his nostrils. Suddenly he wondered if he should have picked them. He avoided the open door of the sisters’ part of the house and from the opposite direction went into his own.
He had no kitchen, and the arrangement was that at certain hours which had been specified, he would have the use of theirs. At these times the two women disappeared, leaving kitchen and dining-room to him. He had a cupboard to himself where he kept his provisions and few dishes and utensils. Now he put the flowers into a small vase he had found and carried them up to his bedroom. They shone out like pale stars against the grey plaster of the walls. They took possession of the emptiness of the room. He stood looking at them for a bit before he went downstairs.
The kitchen was empty and a fire was burning in the wood stove. He took bacon and liver from their brown-paper wrappings and laid a fraction of each in the frying-pan. Soon they were sizzling. He went into the dining-room and set a place for himself at one end of the table. Before long he was sitting there, happily munching, a pot of coffee ready at his elbow. His attention was drawn to the open piano, of which, up to this moment, he had been scarcely conscious. Which of the sisters had played on it, he wondered. Probably Miss Dove. He could imagine the die-away pieces. He wondered why the piano should be here in the dining-room, then remembered that this was now the sisters’ living-room. The piano stood near the door which opened into his part of the house.
He was clearing the table when he heard steps coming down an uncarpeted stair. So, there were two stairways in the house. No—three, for he had noticed a short stairway leading from the kitchen to a room above it.
Mrs. Morton came into the room, not abruptly but hesitating on the threshold. She looked refreshed, and her rather coarse mouth wore an almost shy smile.
‘I waited,’ she said, ‘till I heard you moving about. I hope you’re getting on all right with your meals.’
‘Oh, fine, thank you.’
‘It seems hard for a gentleman to have to look after himself.’
‘I enjoy it. You see, I came here to be alone.’ He must emphasize that, he thought, or she might bother him with her chatter.
‘Yes, indeed, I know,’ she said hastily. She took another step into the room. ‘I do hope you’re getting on with your writing.’
‘Well—I’ve not actually begun. I begin tomorrow morning. You have to get used to a place, you know.’
‘It must be wonderful to be a young man—and writing a book.’
‘I’m older than you think,’ he laughed. ‘And the book will probably be a failure—if it’s ever published.’
‘I can’t imagine your failing at anything.’ She showed open admiration in her shining grey eyes.
‘I wish I felt that way about myself.’
‘But you must. It’s splendid to do what you want to and to succeed. I was ambitious once.’
He sighed and set the coffee-pot again on the table, giving her his attention.
‘I wanted to be a really good musician. I used to practise a great deal, on this piano. But then I fell in love, and married, and everything was changed.’
‘Girls generally give up their music when they marry, don’t they?’
‘Not I,’ she denied quickly. ‘I loved it too well. I’ve always kept up my practising.’
He could not hide the consternation that swept the mild interest from his face. Was his seclusion to be shattered by piano practice?
Mrs. Morton gave him a wide, reassuring smile. ‘Please don’t worry about finger exercises or anything of that sort. But I’ve been wondering if it would bother you if I played in the evening. Perhaps at the time when you take your walk. You see,’ she hurried on, ‘my sister is used to hearing me play at that hour. It’s soothing to her and she hasn’t had much pleasure since her illness. Of course, I shouldn’t like to bother you.’
She looked apologetic, even pathetic, standing there in the doorway. He felt ashamed of his overbearing position in the house. The two women seemed so defenceless.
‘Why, certainly,’ he agreed. ‘We can easily arrange a time.’ He looked at the piano. Every note from it would be audible in his part of the house. ‘What about from seven to . . .’ he hesitated to set either too long or too short a period.
‘Never longer than an hour,’ she exclaimed. ‘Usually less. And I don’t play very loudly. But you see how it is. My sister looks forward to it.’
‘And I shall, too, I’m sure,’ he couldn’t stop himself from exclaiming, while, at the same moment, he cursed his imbecile good nature. What sort of torture might not the woman put him to?
‘I should have spoken of this when I rented you the place, I know,’ she said, almost humbly. ‘But I couldn’t