Women -- Fiction; World War, 1914-1918 -- England -- Fiction
’Poor young thing,’ said Nannie, ’but she’ll soon get better here.’ So
I sent the Gidger flying to the Titmouse for heaps of flowers, and the
S.P. scuttling round to get the spare room ready for her and the
dressing-room for him, and the Stench off on a bicycle to ask the doctor
to look in, and ’My ’Ilda’ for a cab. After that I said to Nannie,
’Come and help me look out some things for her, nighties and something
pretty to sit up in.’
And then I turned to my brother, who was sitting silently.
’Why, Ross, I couldn’t do anything else? You don’t mind Mr Williams
coming, do you?’ Suddenly his Irish grandmother came on top, and he
exploded violently and unexpectedly in that way he has.
’What a system,’ he stormed, ’what a church, that can so sweat its
ministers that their families have not enough to eat, and gentlefolk are
reduced to wearing other people’s old clothes and being glad to get
them. It’s enough to make one sick, and I suppose they call it "holy
poverty." It wouldn’t make me feel very holy to see my wife hoping some
beastly society would send her an old nightgown and have the cheek to
call it charity. Surely if it’s necessary to help the clergy at all we
ought to give the best we can, as if we were giving to Him. Anyway, I
won’t have you give Mrs Williams your old clothes, Meg. If it wasn’t
that Michael was so disgustingly well off it might be you. Thank
goodness I’ve got plenty of money; here, buy her all she wants and if it
isn’t enough tell me,’ and he pitched into my astonished hands all the
loose money from his pockets and a note-case stuffed with notes. ’And
then you ask me if I mind,’ he stormed, ’when the boot is on the other
leg. He may mind meeting me. I wasn’t decently civil when he called
the other day, sneered at him because he looked unbrushed, when he’d
probably been up all night. Why, I’m not fit to black his boots. It’s
all my accursed temper and my damnable pride.’ And he flung out of the
nursery into his own room and slammed the door.
’Oh, Nannie,’ I said, ’isn’t he funny? he hasn’t been in such a bate for
years; of course I never meant to give her my old clothes.’
’Of course you didn’t, dearie, he’ll remember in a minute, don’t you
fret.’
’Shall I go after him and tell him so?’
’Oh, I should let him bide, poor lamb.’
’So I let him ’bide,’ though anything less like a lamb than Ross at that
moment wasn’t conceivable.
We smuggled out some nighties, so that the maids shouldn’t see, and a
blue dressing-gown, and a little quilted coat to match, and some soft
blue shoes, and a cap or two, and a shawl and pretty things like that to
suit an invalid, and when I got to Mrs Williams’s house I packed them
all in her own suit-case and brought her in a cab to Gidger’s Cottage.
Nannie solemnly unpacked for her, and said,—
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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