‘I’m well enough.’ A baby isn’t an illness.
‘We’ll both feel the better for my visitor.’
‘Oh? Are you sure you’re expecting a visit? Nobody told me.’
‘Didn’t they? Some of the women in this house are so full of their own thoughts it doesn’t occur to them that anything happens outside their heads.’
Sister Manhood could have fetched up, but was inquisitive enough to ask, ‘Is your visitor somebody I know?’
‘It’s Mrs Wyburd, and her own idea to call. I shouldn’t have thought of it.’ Mrs Hunter sounded quite definite.
The nurse perked up: she had never set eyes on Mrs Wyburd and was curious to see what the solicitor had fancied; she even went so far as suggesting, ‘Better let me do your face so that your visitor will catch you at your best.’
‘No,’ Mrs Hunter said, ‘Mrs Wyburd is an honest woman.’
Sister Manhood was all the more curious to see. So when the doorbell rang, she went along the landing, and leaned over the banisters, as though hoping to surprise a secret or two before honesty closed down on them.
Mrs Lippmann was opening the door to a person dressed in what the fashion reporters of some years ago would have written up as ‘donkey brown’. Mrs Wyburd was one of those women who go so far and no farther with clothes, Sister Manhood recognized. Clothes are to clothe, Mrs Wyburd’s garments seemed to claim; not that she hadn’t given them thought: they were in what is called ‘the best of taste’, and the materials, though unobtrusive, must have made a hole in her allowance. Above all, Mrs Wyburd’s general appearance suggested that she was a ‘lady’: another and independent mystery. That the mysterious ‘honesty’ referred to by Mrs Hunter in no way depended on Mrs Wyburd’s ladyhood was obvious enough, because Mrs Hunter herself was a lady, and Mrs Hunter’s honesty was of an intermittent, womanly persuasion. Better than nothing, Sister Manhood supposed. To solve the mystery of Mrs Wyburd she would have to get a better look at her. The solicitor’s wife, standing in the hall with the housekeeper, had probably never been so closely stared at, except by the inevitable doctors and dentists, and the ruthless eyes of children. But Sister Manhood’s inquiry got her nowhere: it was like as if she had been told to admire some brown, crumby vase because it was a valuable antique, and all she could see was its plain shape and ordinary dull old brown. She ended up a bit miserable: the imperviousness of this brown figure made her feel a liar, cheat, unmarried mother, and nympho into the bargain.
Down below Mrs Lippmann was saying, ‘You must know to find your way, Mrs Wyburd, from being here before.’
The angle at which Mrs Wyburd held her head conveyed surprise, amusement, perhaps also cynicism. ‘I know it of course. But from long ago. Yes, I know my way,’ she admitted; it was what she could see the housekeeper had been hoping for.
It might have suited Mrs Wyburd well enough to be left to her own devices in a house she had known long ago. After the housekeeper retired, the nurse watching from the top of the stairs could see the solicitor’s wife was hesitating over what to open and where to enter; her time was short. But obviously the mysterious honesty referred to by Mrs Hunter got the better of Mrs Wyburd, and she began trying out the stairs with her unfashionable, but good, probably custom-made shoes.
Feeling herself at an advantage, if only a very slight one, the nurse revealed her presence. ‘Oh, Mrs Wyburd,’ she called, while descending just enough of the stairs, ‘I’ll show you the way in case you’ve forgotten.’ She was smiling down at the mildly startled face below. ‘I am Sister Manhood. You won’t have heard of me,’ Flora knew she was being insincere; wasn’t it the sort of thing you do? ‘But you hardly count as a stranger — not as Mr Wyburd’s wife.’ At the same time she raised a hand in trying to control an express giggle propelled upward through the shaft of her throat.
‘I don’t know you, but have heard about you from my husband,’ Mrs Wyburd replied in a voice probably caused by her walking upstairs.
Just how much she had heard, Sister Manhood wondered; a couple might be colourless but it didn’t prevent them enjoying purple talk. So she stared the harder, while smiling her formal kindliest, as the solicitor’s wife continued mounting.
Though the face was guarded for most of the ascent by the brim of a velour hat, to one side of which was clamped an inverted cockade in stiff, grey, mushroom silk, Sister Manhood caught glimpses of powdered skin during Mrs Wyburd’s prudent approach. There was nothing you could criticize, finally. If the mouth was doctored it had not been treated in the unnaturally natural style of today, nor had it been dealt the bloody wounds of a Hunter past. Mrs Wyburd’s mouth was what you would call natural natural. For that matter, you mightn’t have dropped to the powder if nervousness or haste hadn’t smudged it. Then when the visitor reached the top, Sister Manhood noticed what looked like a single deep pockmark where powder had lodged, beside the nose, on one cheek, and freckles (red ones) to which the powder clung. Flora Manhood was fascinated by Mrs Wyburd’s pock: there was nothing you could have done about that; as for the freckles, in trying to disguise them, the sufferer disclosed perhaps a faint crack in her honesty. It made Sister Manhood warm towards her: she hoped Mrs Wyburd, in spite of the badly camouflaged freckles, would be a match for Betty Hunter, who had chosen to remain undisguised.
‘A stiff climb!’ the thin trim lady murmured to fill the silence.
For a moment she was staring back at the face of the glowing, pretty young nurse as though into a nostalgic morning of her own youth. Then as there was nothing else for either of them to say or do, Mrs Wyburd followed Sister Manhood down the passage.
Mrs Hunter cleared her throat, an operation in which more than a hint of phlegm was involved, and raised her voice from where it was sunk amongst the pillows. ‘It was a charming idea,’ she said, ‘Lal — to pay me a visit.’ For all that, the old thing was looking in an opposite direction.
‘It was more than an idea, Mrs Hunter,’ said Mrs Wyburd with a jerk of her head which produced from the wing-shaped silk cockade a sound as of pin feathers, ‘I wanted to thank you for your present.’ She blushed, perhaps because she wasn’t wearing it. ‘Letters are unsatisfactory, and often get lost in the post.’ She lowered her glance. ‘A voice is more personal, don’t you think?’
Mrs Hunter turned on her eyes. ‘Oh, I can see very well at times. Today for instance. But close up. Over there you look like something under water. Come here and sit beside me on this little chair.’
As the visitor went to obey, the nurse fussed at pulling the chair closer to the bed. Though left out of things, it did not occur to her to sulk: the situation was too absorbing for an observer.
Mrs Hunter was making a gentle noise of eiderdowns; she was stroking the back of one of Mrs Wyburd’s by now gloveless hands. ‘The freckles, Lal — you still have them. Are they all right? One used to hear that, with age, freckles can become dangerous.’
‘I’ve never thought about it,’ Mrs Wyburd confessed.
Sister Manhood watched the renewed blush gathering under the visitor’s skin; the increase in colour left the single pockmark with its drift of powder more exposed than ever.
‘Why not, Lal?’ Mrs Hunter asked. ‘I insist that you see a doctor. Have him examine the freckles. That’s reasonable, isn’t it?’
‘Reasonable — yes. But I don’t think I’d like to be told what I don’t want to hear. Or be the cause of distress in others.’
‘Pfooh! What good will it do the other ostriches — to have you walking amongst them — a living cancer?’
Vehemence gave Mrs Hunter a fit of coughing. Sister Manhood offered water.