Hugh Walpole

“ She told him that in her opinion nothing was better than tea-time on the lawn, the shadows stealing across the grass, sparrows twittering, flowers sleepily closing their eyes and plenty of little pink cakes on the table. And then as fate and the English climate would have it, the rain came down. Although it was July, it was cold as December. Tea on the lawn was impossible and a whole ten days went by when Mr. Willings had so nasty a cold that proposing was a physical impossibility. Then the fine day came.
MISS MAXWELL knew very well that the day had arrived. ”

“ What she had been doing that afternoon was practically to press her nose against the railings and look through a rather dusty laurel into the garden beyond. There in the garden, very pretty in a pink summer frock, was Miss March giving tea to a rather stout gentleman with a round face like a moon. Miss Maxwell, as she peered through, soon discovered two things—one, that the gentleman with the moon face was rich, and another, that he was in love with Miss March. ”

“ The horse-faced servant opened the door. Miss March was out. Might Miss Maxwell go just for a moment to the room at the top of the house and look for a little box that she had left there and forgotten? The servant hesitated and then yielded.
Through the rooms Miss Maxwell went. They were soaked with the evening light, the light through which she loved most to see them. The whole house cried out with protest as she went. Ugly things lay everywhere, hideous new novels with bright yellow labels. In the dining-room the remains of a horrible meal not yet cleared away. ”

“ The one thought that Miss Maxwell had was that Miss March should leave the house. She didn’t in the least mind at the moment who took it next. It might be herself. A rich old uncle in South Africa might die, or shares go up, or she herself might discover a new sort of radium, or the heavens might fall. The great thing was for Miss March to go. ”

“ That evening, having a gay old woman to supper, she discussed the affair, and the first thing that the gay old woman said was: “Why, my dear, if he’s rich and in love with that young woman, he’ll soon propose to her, she will accept him, and then leave the house.”
“Why should they leave the house?” asked Miss Maxwell, her heart beating fast at the mere idea.
“Why, you don’t suppose,” said the gay old woman, “that a man who’s rich and fat will live in a poky little house in St. John’s Wood! ”

“ John’s Wood was such a long way from everywhere and she did hope that she hadn’t mislaid any of the books but one never knew what a friend would do when one’s back was turned, and it was strange how little conscience people had about books anyway. Some strange people came in to tea while Miss Maxwell was there; loud, noisy people who cared nothing, Miss Maxwell was certain, for beautiful things, probably laughed at the Chinese horses and thought books were stuffy. ”

“ There would always be somebody to look after her. When she was ill, there would be every attention. They would go abroad and see the world. Most of all, she would not only live in the house but she would be able to do things to it, make it perfect and beautiful and wonderful, give it all the little attentions it needed, help it and strengthen it and make it lovely and at last die in it. ”

“ She sat in her little room, looking over at the garden, and fought her severest battle. No one would ever propose to her again. Of that she was quite sure. There was very little prospect that, left alone by herself, she would ever find life very easy. Life was not very easy any more to middle-aged women with very small incomes and no talents. ”

“ This woman evidently loved nothing and nobody. She wrote to Miss March and received a rather stiff little letter in return saying that the staff had been added to, that one of the water pipes had burst, and that a sister of Miss March had caught a severe cold by sleeping in the little room under the roof. Miss Maxwell, feeling exactly as though she had had a daughter who had gone to her first ball and been found by a number of people to be plain and awkward, came up to London and saw Miss March. ”

“ Willings!”
Miss Maxwell wanted to laugh, looked at the piteous doglike expression in his large round eyes, and was touched with tenderness.
“Now do think for a moment. Here we are in a dusty little park in St. John’s Wood and we’re both middle-aged and nothing could make us romantic any longer. There is a beautiful young girl with all her life in front of her. I’m a withered old thing and you know it in yourself. Besides. I’m in love with somebody else.”
His face fell, so it was tragic to see.
“In love with somebody else?”
“Yes, with my house. ”

“ Then she had also certain things she had found abroad, some bronzes, two splendid Chinese horses, some Japanese prints, some Spanish shawls, and upstairs, in a little dressing-room next her bedroom, a beautiful little collection of English pottery.
ALL these things she adored with a personal, individual adoration. She didn’t understand the people to whom possession meant nothing at all. The Chinese horses and a Wedgwood bowl and two Jane Austen first editions and the Clausen picture were quite as personal to her as certain of her friends ”

“ THE next stage in this story was that Miss Maxwell actually met and spoke to the stout gentleman. She was always hanging about the little leafy street that ran past the gate of her house, and one afternoon, about six, the gentleman suddenly came out of the gate in a great hurry, his face rather flushed, ran straight into her and nearly knocked her down. ”

“ The longest-living author of this work died in 1941, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 82 years or less. This work may be in the public domain in countries and areas with longer native copyright terms that apply the rule of the shorter term to foreign works. ”