CHAPTER V

Gossip

“_With vollies of eternal babble._”

Butler, _Hudibras_

“So you are thinking of coming to live in Leahampton,” said Miss

Murgatroyd. “How _very nice_. I do hope you will be settling down in the

parish. We are _not_ too well off for week-day congregations—there is so

much indifference and so much _Protestantism_ about. There! I have

dropped a stitch. Provoking! Perhaps it was meant as a little reminder

to me not to think uncharitably about Protestants. All is well—I have

retrieved it. Were you thinking of taking a house, Miss Climpson?”

“I am not quite sure,” replied Miss Climpson. “Rents are so very high

nowadays, and I fear that to buy a house would be almost beyond my

means. I must look round very carefully, and view the question from _all

sides_. I should certainly _prefer_ to be in this parish—and close to

the Church, if possible. Perhaps the Vicar would know whether there is

likely to be anything suitable.”

“Oh, yes, he would doubtless be able to suggest something. It is such a

very nice, residential neighbourhood. I am sure you would like it. Let

me see—you are staying in Nelson Avenue, I think Mrs. Tredgold said?”

“Yes—with Mrs. Budge at Fairview.”

“I am sure she makes you comfortable. Such a nice woman, though I’m

afraid she never stops talking. Hasn’t she got any ideas on the subject?

I’m sure if there’s any news going about, Mrs. Budge never fails to get

hold of it.”

“Well,” said Miss Climpson, seizing the opening with a swiftness which

would have done credit to Napoleon, “she did say something about a house

in Wellington Avenue which she thought might be to let before long.”

“Wellington Avenue? You surprise me! I thought I knew almost everybody

there. Could it be the Parfitts—really moving at last! They have been

talking about it for at least seven years, and I really had begun to

think it was _all talk_. Mrs. Peasgood, do you hear that? Miss Climpson

says the Parfitts are really leaving that house at last!”

“Bless me,” cried Mrs. Peasgood, raising her rather prominent eyes from

a piece of plain needlework and focusing them on Miss Climpson like a

pair of opera-glasses. “Well, that _is_ news. It must be that brother of

hers who was staying with them last week. Possibly he is going to live

with them permanently, and that would clinch the matter, of course, for

they couldn’t get on without another bedroom when the girls come home

from school. A very sensible arrangement, I should think. I believe he

is quite well off, you know, and it will be a very good thing for those

children. I wonder where they will go. I expect it will be one of the

new houses out on the Winchester Road, though of course that would mean

keeping a car. Still, I expect he would want them to do that in any

case. Most likely he will have it himself, and let them have the use of

it.”

“I don’t think Parfitt was the name,” broke in Miss Climpson hurriedly,

“I’m sure it wasn’t. It was a Miss somebody—a Miss Whittaker, I think,

Mrs. Budge mentioned.”

“Miss Whittaker?” cried both the ladies in chorus. “Oh, no! _surely_

not?”

“I’m sure Miss Whittaker would have told me if she thought of giving up

her house,” pursued Miss Murgatroyd. “We are such great friends. I think

Mrs. Budge must have run away with a wrong idea. People do build up such

amazing stories out of nothing at all.”

“I wouldn’t go so far as that,” put in Mrs. Peasgood, rebukingly. “There

_may_ be something in it. I know dear Miss Whittaker has sometimes

spoken to me about wishing to take up chicken-farming. I daresay she has

not mentioned the matter _generally_, but then she always confides in

_me_. Depend on it, that is what she intends to do.”

“Mrs. Budge didn’t actually say Miss Whittaker was moving,” interposed

Miss Climpson. “She said, I think, that Miss Whittaker had been left

alone by some relation’s death, and she wouldn’t be surprised if she

found the house lonely.”

“Ah! that’s Mrs. Budge all over!” said Mrs. Peasgood, nodding ominously.

“A most excellent woman, but she sometimes gets hold of the wrong end of

the stick. Not but what I’ve often thought the same thing myself. I said

to poor Mary Whittaker only the other day, ‘Don’t you find it very

lonely in that house, my dear, now that your poor dear Aunt is no more?’

I’m sure it would be a very good thing if she did move, or got someone

to live with her. It’s not a natural life for a young woman, all alone

like that, and so I told her. I’m one of those that believe in speaking

their mind, you know, Miss Climpson.”

“Well, now, so am I, Mrs. Peasgood,” rejoined Miss Climpson promptly,

“and that is what I said to Mrs. Budge at the time. I said, ‘Do I

understand that there was anything _odd_ about the old lady’s

death?’—because she had spoken of the _peculiar circumstances_ of the

case, and you know, I should not _at all like_ to live in a house which

could be called in any way _notorious_. I should really feel quite

_uncomfortable_ about it.” In saying which, Miss Climpson no doubt spoke

with perfect sincerity.

“But not at all—not at all,” cried Miss Murgatroyd, so eagerly that Mrs.

Peasgood, who had paused to purse up her face and assume an expression

of portentous secrecy before replying, was completely crowded out and

left at the post. “There never was a more wicked story. The death was

natural—perfectly natural, and a most happy release, poor soul, I’m

sure, for her sufferings at the last were truly terrible. It was all a

scandalous story put about by that young Dr. Carr (whom I’m sure I never

liked) simply to aggrandise himself. As though any doctor would

pronounce so definitely upon what exact date it would please God to call

a poor sufferer to Himself! Human pride and vanity make a most shocking

exhibition, Miss Climpson, when they lead us to cast suspicion on

innocent people, simply because we are wedded to our own presumptuous

opinions. Poor Miss Whittaker! She went through a most terrible time.

But it was proved—absolutely _proved_, that there was nothing in the

story at all, and I hope that young man was properly ashamed of

himself.”

“There may be two opinions about that, Miss Murgatroyd,” said Mrs.

Peasgood. “I say what I think, Miss Climpson, and in my opinion there

should have been an inquest. I try to be up-to-date, and I believe Dr.

Carr to have been a very able young man, though of course, he was not

the kind of old-fashioned family doctor that appeals to elderly people.

It was a great pity that nice Nurse Philliter was sent away—that woman

Forbes was no more use than a headache—to use my brother’s rather

vigorous expression. I don’t think she knew her job, and that’s a fact.”

“Nurse Forbes was a charming person,” snapped Miss Murgatroyd, pink with

indignation at being called elderly.

“That may be,” retorted Mrs. Peasgood, “but you can’t get over the fact

that she nearly killed herself one day by taking nine grains of calomel

by mistake for three. She told me that herself, and what she did in one

case she might do in another.”

“But Miss Dawson wasn’t given anything,” said Miss Murgatroyd, “and at

any rate, Nurse Forbes’ mind was on her patient, and not on flirting

with the doctor. I’ve always thought that Dr. Carr felt a spite against

her for taking his young woman’s place, and nothing would have pleased

him better than to get her into trouble.”

“You don’t mean,” said Miss Climpson, “that he would refuse a

certificate and cause all that trouble, just to annoy the nurse.

_Surely_ no doctor would dare to do that.”

“Of course not,” said Mrs. Peasgood, “and nobody with a grain of sense

would suppose it for a moment.”

“Thank you very much, Mrs. Peasgood,” cried Miss Murgatroyd, “thank you

very much, I’m sure—”

“I say what I think,” said Mrs. Peasgood.

“Then I’m glad I haven’t such uncharitable thoughts,” said Miss

Murgatroyd.

“I don’t think your own observations are so remarkable for their

charity,” retorted Mrs. Peasgood.

Fortunately, at this moment Miss Murgatroyd, in her agitation, gave a

vicious tweak to the wrong needle and dropped twenty-nine stitches at

once. The Vicar’s wife, scenting battle from afar, hurried over with a

plate of scones, and helped to bring about a diversion. To her, Miss

Climpson, doggedly sticking to her mission in life, broached the subject

of the house in Wellington Avenue.

“Well, I don’t know, I’m sure,” replied Mrs. Tredgold, “but there’s Miss

Whittaker just arrived. Come over to my corner and I’ll introduce her to

you, and you can have a nice chat about it. You will like each other so

much, she is such a keen worker. Oh! and Mrs. Peasgood, my husband is so

anxious to have a word with you about the choirboys’ social. He is

discussing it now with Mrs. Findlater. I wonder if you’d be so very good

as to come and give him your opinion? He values it so much.”

Thus tactfully the good lady parted the disputants and, having deposited

Mrs. Peasgood safely under the clerical wing, towed Miss Climpson away

to an arm-chair near the tea-table.

“Dear Miss Whittaker, I so want you to know Miss Climpson. She is a near

neighbour of yours—in Nelson Avenue, and I hope we shall persuade her to

make her home among us.”

“That will be delightful,” said Miss Whittaker.

The first impression which Miss Climpson got of Mary Whittaker was that

she was totally out of place among the tea-tables of S. Onesimus. With

her handsome, strongly-marked features and quiet air of authority, she

was of the type that “does well” in City offices. She had a pleasant and

self-possessed manner, and was beautifully tailored—not mannishly, and

yet with a severe fineness of outline that negatived the appeal of a

beautiful figure. With her long and melancholy experience of frustrated

womanhood, observed in a dreary succession of cheap boarding-houses,

Miss Climpson was able to dismiss one theory which had vaguely formed

itself in her mind. This was no passionate nature, cramped by

association with an old woman and eager to be free to mate before youth

should depart. _That_ look she knew well—she could diagnose it with

dreadful accuracy at the first glance, in the tone of a voice saying,

“How do you do?” But meeting Mary Whittaker’s clear, light eyes under

their well-shaped brows, she was struck by a sudden sense of

familiarity. She had seen that look before, though the where and the

when escaped her. Chatting volubly about her arrival in Leahampton, her

introduction to the Vicar and her approval of the Hampshire air and

sandy soil, Miss Climpson racked her shrewd brain for a clue. But the

memory remained obstinately somewhere at the back of her head. “It will

come to me in the night,” thought Miss Climpson, confidently, “and

meanwhile I won’t say anything about the house; it would seem so pushing

on a first acquaintance.”

Whereupon, fate instantly intervened to overthrow this prudent resolve,

and very nearly ruined the whole effect of Miss Climpson’s diplomacy at

one fell swoop.

The form which the avenging Erinyes assumed was that of the youngest

Miss Findlater—the gushing one—who came romping over to them, her hands

filled with baby-linen, and plumped down on the end of the sofa beside

Miss Whittaker.

“Mary my _dear_! Why didn’t you tell me? You really are going to start

your chicken-farming scheme at once. I’d no _idea_ you’d got on so far

with your plans. How _could_ you let me hear it first from somebody

else? You promised to tell me before anybody.”

“But I didn’t know it myself,” replied Miss Whittaker, coolly. “Who told

you this wonderful story?”

“Why, Mrs. Peasgood said that she heard it from . . .” Here Miss

Findlater was in a difficulty. She had not yet been introduced to Miss

Climpson and hardly knew how to refer to her before her face. “This

lady” was what a shop-girl would say; “Miss Climpson” would hardly do,

as she had, so to speak, no official cognisance of the name; “Mrs.

Budge’s new lodger” was obviously impossible in the circumstances. She

hesitated—then beamed a bright appeal at Miss Climpson, and said: “Our

new helper—may I introduce myself? I do _so_ detest formality, don’t

you, and to belong to the Vicarage work-party is a sort of introduction

in itself, don’t you think? Miss Climpson, I believe? How do you do? It

is true, isn’t it, Mary?—that you are letting your house to Miss

Climpson, and starting a poultry-farm at Alford.”

“Certainly not that I know of. Miss Climpson and I have only just met

one another.” The tone of Miss Whittaker’s voice suggested that the

first meeting might very willingly be the last so far as she was

concerned.

“Oh dear!” cried the youngest Miss Findlater, who was fair and bobbed

and rather coltish, “I believe I’ve dropped a brick. I’m _sure_ Mrs.

Peasgood understood that it was all settled.” She appealed to Miss

Climpson again.

“_Quite_ a mistake!” said that lady, energetically, “what _must_ you be

thinking of me, Miss Whittaker? _Of course_, I could not _possibly_ have

said such a thing. I only happened to mention—in the most _casual_ way,

that I was looking—that is, _thinking_ of looking about—for a house in

the neighbourhood of the Church—so convenient, you know, for _Early

Services_ and _Saints’ Days_—and it was suggested—just _suggested_, I

really forget by _whom_, that you _might_, just _possibly_, at _some_

time, consider letting your house. I assure you, that was _all_.” In

saying which, Miss Climpson was not wholly accurate or disingenuous, but

excused herself to her conscience on the rather jesuitical grounds that

where so much responsibility was floating about, it was best to pin it

down in the quarter which made for peace. “Miss Murgatroyd,” she added,

“put me right at once, for she said you were _certainly_ not thinking of

any such thing, or you would have told her before anybody else.”

Miss Whittaker laughed.

“But I shouldn’t,” she said, “I should have told my house-agent. It’s

quite true, I did have it in mind, but I certainly haven’t taken any

steps.”

“You really are thinking of doing it, then?” cried Miss Findlater. “I do

hope so—because, if you do, I mean to apply for a job on the farm! I’m

simply longing to get away from all these silly tennis-parties and

things, and live close to the Earth and the fundamental crudities. Do

you read Sheila Kaye-Smith?”

Miss Climpson said no, but she was very fond of Thomas Hardy.

“It really is terrible, living in a little town like this,” went on Miss

Findlater, “so full of aspidistras, you know, and small gossip. You’ve

no idea what a dreadfully gossipy place Leahampton is, Miss Climpson.

I’m sure, Mary dear, you must have had more than enough of it, with that

tiresome Dr. Carr and the things people said. I don’t wonder you’re

thinking of getting rid of that house. I shouldn’t think you could ever

feel comfortable in it again.”

“Why on earth not?” said Miss Whittaker, lightly. Too lightly? Miss

Climpson was startled to recognise in eye and voice the curious quick

defensiveness of the neglected spinster who cries out that she has no

use for men.

“Oh well,” said Miss Findlater, “I always think it’s a little sad,

living where people have died, you know. Dear Miss Dawson—though of

course it really was merciful that she should be released—all the same—”

Evidently, thought Miss Climpson, she was turning the matter off. The

atmosphere of suspicion surrounding the death had been in her mind, but

she shied at referring to it.

“There are very few houses in which somebody hasn’t died sometime or

other,” said Miss Whittaker. “I really can’t see why people should worry

about it. I suppose it’s just a question of not realising. We are not

sensitive to the past lives of people we don’t know. Just as we are much

less upset about epidemics and accidents that happen a long way off. Do

you really suppose, by the way, Miss Climpson, that this Chinese

business is coming to anything? Everybody seems to take it very

casually. If all this rioting and Bolshevism was happening in Hyde Park,

there’d be a lot more fuss made about it.”

Miss Climpson made a suitable reply. That night she wrote to Lord Peter:

Miss Whittaker has asked me to tea. She tells me that, _much as she

would enjoy_ an active, country life, with something definite to do,

she has a _deep affection_ for the house in Wellington Avenue, and

_cannot tear herself away_. She seems _very anxious_ to give this

impression. Would it be _fair_ for me to say “The lady doth protest

_too much_, methinks”? The _Prince of Denmark_ might even add: “Let

the galled jade wince”—if one can use that expression of a _lady_. How

wonderful Shakespeare is! One can _always_ find a phrase in his works

for _any_ situation!