'No, Cynthia is a protegee of my mother’s, the daughter of an old schoolfellow of
hers, who married a rascally solicitor. He came a cropper, and the girl was left an
orphan and penniless. My mother came to the rescue, and Cynthia has been with
us nearly two years now. She works in the Red Cross Hospital at Tadminster, seven
miles away.’
As he spoke the last words, we drew up in front of the fine old house. A lady in a
stout tweed skirt, who was bending over a flower bed, straightened herself at our
approach.
'Hello, Evie, here’s our wounded hero! Mr Hastings--Miss Howard.’
Miss Howard shook hands with a hearty, almost painful, grip. I had an impression
very blue eyes in a sunburnt face. She was a pleasant-looking woman of about
forty, with a deep voice, almost manly in its stentorian tones, and had a large
sensible square body, with feet to match--these last encased in good thick boots.
Her conversation, I soon found, was couched in the telegraphic style.
'Weeds grow like house afire. Can’t keep even with 'em. Shall press you in.
Better be careful!’
'I’m sure I shall be only too delighted to make myself useful,’ I responded.
'Don’t say it. Never does. Wish you hadn’t later.’
'You’re a cynic, Evie,’ said John, laughing. 'Where’s tea today--inside or out?’
'Out. To fine a day to be cooped up in the house.’
'Come on then, you’ve done enough gardening for today. "The labourer is
worthy of his hire," you know. Come and be refreshed.’
'Well,’ said Miss Howard, drawing off her gardening gloves, 'I’m inclined to
agree with you.’
She led the way round the house to where tea was spread under the shade
of a large sycamore.
A figure rose from one of the basket chairs, and came a few steps to meet us.
'My wife, Hastings,’ said John.
I shall never forget my first sight of Mary Cavendish. Her tall, slender form,
outlined against the bright light; the vivid sense of slumbering fire that
seemed to find expression only in those wonderful tawny eyes of hers,
remarkable eyes, different from any other woman’s that I have ever known;
the intense power of stillness she possessed, which nevertheless conveyed
the impression of a wild untamed spirit in an exquisitely civilized body--
all these things are burnt into my memory. I shall never forget them.
She greeted me with a few words of pleasant welcome in a low clear voice,
and I sank into a basket chair felling distinctly glad that I had accepted John’s
invitation. Mrs Cavendish gave me some tea, and her few quite remarks
heightened my first impression of her as a thoroughly fascinating woman.
An appreciative listener is always stimulating, and I described, in a humorous
manner, certain incidents of my Convalescent Home, in a way which, I flatter
myself, greatly amused my hostess. John, of course, good fellow though he
is, could hardly be called a brilliant conversationalist.
At that moment a well remembered voice floated through the open french
window near at hand: