Part 33 (2/2)
”How do you do?” she said very briskly for a tired lady; and Oswald thought it was n.o.ble of her to make the effort to smile. ”Are you Oswald or d.i.c.ky?”
Oswald told her in one calm word which he was, and then Pincher rolled madly out of a dog-box almost into his arms. Pincher would not be quiet. Of course he did not understand the need for it. Oswald conversed with Pincher in low, restraining whispers as he led the way to the ”s.h.i.+p's” fly. He put the parrot-cage on the inside seat of the carriage, held the door open for Mrs. Bax with silent politeness, closed it as quietly as possible, and prepared to mount on the box.
”Oh, won't you come inside?” asked Mrs. Bax. ”Do!”
”No, thank you,” said Oswald in calm and mouse-like tones; and to avoid any more jaw he got at once on to the box with Pincher.
So that Mrs. Bax was perfectly quiet for the whole six miles--unless you count the rattle and shake-up-and-down of the fly. On the box Oswald and Pincher ”tasted the sweets of a blissful re-union,” like it says in novels. And the man from the ”s.h.i.+p” looked on and said how well bred Pincher was. It was a happy drive.
There was something almost awful about the sleek, quiet tidiness of the others, who were all standing in a row outside the cottage to welcome Mrs. Bax. They all said, ”How do you do?” in hushed voices, and all looked as if b.u.t.ter would not melt in any of their young mouths. I never saw a more soothing-looking lot of kids.
She went to her room, and we did not see her again till tea-time.
Then, still exquisitely brushed and combed, we sat round the board--in silence. We had left the tea-tray place for Mrs. Bax, of course. But she said to Dora--
”Wouldn't you like to pour out?”
And Dora replied in low, soft tones, ”If you wish me to, Mrs. Bax. I usually do.” And she did.
We pa.s.sed each other bread-and-b.u.t.ter and jam and honey with silent courteousness. And of course we saw that she had enough to eat.
”Do you manage to amuse yourself pretty well here?” she asked presently.
We said, ”Yes, thank you,” in hushed tones.
”What do you do?” she asked.
We did not wish to excite her by telling her what we did, so d.i.c.ky murmured--
”Nothing in particular,” at the same moment that Alice said--
”All sorts of things.”
”Tell me about them,” said Mrs. Bax invitingly.
We replied by a deep silence. She sighed, and pa.s.sed her cup for more tea.
”Do you ever feel shy,” she asked suddenly. ”I do, dreadfully, with new people.”
We liked her for saying that, and Alice replied that she hoped she would not feel shy with us.
”I hope not,” she said. ”Do you know, there was such a funny woman in the train? She had seventeen different parcels, and she kept counting them, and one of them was a kitten, and it was always under the seat when she began to count, so she always got the number wrong.”
We should have liked to hear about that kitten--especially what colour it was and how old--but Oswald felt that Mrs. Bax was only trying to talk for our sakes, so that we shouldn't feel shy, so he simply said, ”Will you have some more cake?” and nothing more was said about the kitten.
Mrs. Bax seemed very n.o.ble. She kept trying to talk to us about Pincher, and trains and Australia, but we were determined she should be quiet, as she wished it so much, and we restrained our br.i.m.m.i.n.g curiosity about opossums up gum-trees, and about emus and kangaroos and wattles, and only said ”Yes” or ”No,” or, more often, nothing at all.
When tea was over we melted away, ”like snow-wreaths in Thawjean,” and went out on the beach and had a yelling match. Our throats felt as though they were full of wool, from the hushed tones we had used in talking to Mrs. Bax. Oswald won the match. Next day we kept carefully out of the way, except for meals. Mrs. Bax tried talking again at breakfast-time, but we checked our wish to listen, and pa.s.sed the pepper, salt, mustard, bread, toast, b.u.t.ter, marmalade, and even the cayenne, vinegar, and oil, with such politeness that she gave up.
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