A Lame Dog's Diary

  CHAPTER III.

  It is a subject of burning curiosity with every woman in Stowel to knowwhether it is a fact that the Taylors have taken to having late dinnerinstead of supper since Mrs. Taylor's uncle was made a K.C.B. Therewas something in a remark made by Miss Frances Taylor which distinctlysuggested that such a change had been effected, but Stowel, on thewhole, is inclined to discredit the rumour. A portrait of the Generalhas been made in London, from a photograph in uniform which Mrs. Taylorhas of him, and it has been framed, regardless of expense, by thephotographer in the High Street. Mr. Taylor at one time had thought ofhaving the whole thing done in London, but it had been decided by anoverwhelming majority that it would be only fair to give the commissionto provide the frame to some one in our own town; and Mr. and Mrs.Taylor have granted a permission, which amounts to a command, that theportrait of "Sir John" shall be placed in the window for a week beforeit is sent home, so that Stowel may see it--for the Taylors, it shouldbe remembered, do not receive every one at their own house.

  To-day I met the younger Miss Blind--Miss Lydia, she is generallycalled--at the window of the photographer's, to which she had made apilgrimage, as we all intended to do, to see the famous picture.Probably she had stood there for some time, for she turned nervouslytowards me, and said in a tone of apology and with something of aneffort in her speech, "I used to know him."

  "Ah!" I replied. "I suppose he has often been down to stay with theTaylors?"

  "He has not been once in twenty years," said Lydia. I was thinking ofother things, and I do not know why it suddenly struck me that therewas a tone of regret, even of hopelessness, in Miss Lydia's voice, andthat she spoke as one speaks, perhaps, when one has waited long forsomething.

  Lydia Blind is a tall woman with a slight, stooping figure. SometimesI have wondered if it is only her sister's constant ill-health that hasmade Miss Lydia stoop a little. There is something delicately preciseabout her, if so gentle a woman can fitly be described as precise.Perhaps her voice explains her best, as a woman's voice will often do;it is low and of a very charming quality, although broken now and thenby asthma. Each word has its proper spacing, and does not intrude uponthe next; each vowel possesses the rare characteristic of its propersound. I have never heard her use an out-of-the-way expression; buther simple way of speaking has an old-fashioned gracefulness about it,and her manner, with all its simplicity, is dignified by reason of itsperfect sincerity. Her eyes are large and gray, and set somewhat farapart; her hair is worn in a fringe so demure and smooth, so primlycurled, that it has the appearance of plainly-brushed hair. It is Mrs.Fielden who says that no good woman can do her hair properly, and shewonders if St. Paul's recommendations as to plain braids has for everstamped the hairdresser's profession as a dangerous art.

  To-day when I met Lydia it struck me suddenly to wonder how old she is.Perhaps something in the insolent youthfulness of the springtimesuggested the thought, or it may have been because Miss Lydia lookedtired.

  When one meets a friend in Stowel High Street, it is considered verycold behaviour merely to bow to her. Not only do we stop and chat fora few minutes, but it is the friendly fashion of the place for ladiesto say to each other, "Which way are you going?" and to accompany theirfriend a little way along the sunny, uneven pavement, while offers tocome in and rest are generally given and accepted at the end of thepromenade. Of course it is quite unusual for gentlemen to be detainedin this way, and I am sure it cost Miss Lydia an effort to suggest tome that I should come in and sit down for a little while, and that sheonly did so because I seemed tired. Also I think that a man with acrutch and with but one leg--and that one not very sound--is notconsidered such a source of danger to ladies living alone as a strongand hale man is supposed to be. We stopped at the little green gate inthe village street, with its red flagged pathway beyond, bordered withspring flowers--wall-flowers, early blooming in this warm and shelteredcorner, forget-me-nots and primroses, while a brave yellow jasminestarred with golden flowers covered the walls of the cottage. I askedafter her sister's health, and Miss Lydia begged me to come in and restfor a few minutes; which I did, for I was horribly tired. But this wasone of Miss Belinda's bad days, and her sister, who watches everyvariation in colour in the hollow cheeks and deep-set eyes of theinvalid, saw that she was unable to speak, and motioned me out of theroom. She showed me into her own little sanctum, and gave me acushioned chair by the window, and said: "Do wait for a few minutes andrest. I can see that my sister wants to say something to me, but sheis always more than usually inarticulate when she is in one of thesenervous states."

  I have been thinking a good deal about old maids lately--one has timeto think about all manner of subjects when one is lying down most ofthe day. Mrs. Fielden is of opinion that an old maid may have anexaggerated sense of humour. To my mind her danger may be that she isalways rather pathetically satisfied with everything. She prefers thefront seat of a carriage and the back seat of a dog-cart, and the legof a chicken and a tiny bedroom. Doubtless this is a form ofself-respect. This suitability of tastes on the part of an old maidenables her to say, as she does with almost suspicious frequency, thatshe gets dreadfully spoiled wherever she goes. Adaptability toenvironment is the first law of existence, and yet there may have beentimes, even in the life of an old maid, when she has yearned for thewing of a chicken.

  The little room into which Miss Lydia ushered me was plainly furnished,but Miss Lydia says that she is always getting something pretty givento her to add to her treasures. Her room is, indeed, rather suggestiveof a stationer's shop window, where a card with "Fancy goods in greatvariety" is placed. It would not be unkind to hint of some of thearticles on the table and on the wall-brackets that they must have beenpurchased more as a kindly remembrance at Christmas-time or onbirthdays than from any apparent usefulness to the recipient. Thereare three twine-cases from which the scissors have long since beenabstracted by unknown dishonest persons; and there are four ornamentalthermometers, each showing its own fixed and unalterable idearespecting the temperature of the room. A large number of unframedsketches which children have given her are fastened to the wall bypins, or hung on tacks whose uncertain hold bespeaks a feminine hand onthe hammer. There are several calendars, and there is quite anuncountable collection of photograph frames, which fall over unlessthey are propped against something. Most of the photographs are oldand faded, and they are nearly all of babies. Babies clothed andunclothed; babies with bare feet and little nightshirts on; babiessucking their thumbs; babies lying prone on fur carriage-rugs; babiesriding on their mammas' backs, or sitting on their mammas' knees;babies crowing or crying. No one who has a baby ever fails to sendthis maiden lady a photograph of it.

  Miss Lydia settled me with some cushions in my chair, and shut thedoorway leading to her bedroom beyond, where I caught sight of apainted iron bedstead, and a small indiarubber hot-water bottle hangingfrom one of its knobs. It is Miss Lydia's most cherished possession,and she generally speaks of it reverently as "the comfort of my life."

  Poor Miss Lydia! Hers must be, I think, a lonely life, sacrificedpatiently to an invalid and almost inarticulate sister, and yet it isthe very solitude of this little chamber which is one of the fewprivileges to which she lays claim. It is to this little room, withits humble furnishings, that all her troubles are taken, and it is hereby the window that she can sit with folded hands and think perhaps ofsomething in life which surely poor Lydia has missed. It is here sheprays for those whose sins weigh far more heavily upon her than they doupon themselves, and it is here that she can pause and question withgentle faith the perplexities of life.

  Miss Lydia tells my sister that she makes a thorough examination of herroom every night before she goes to bed, to see if there is a burglarconcealed anywhere. The movable property in the tiny house is probablynot worth many pounds, as a pawnbroker appraises things, and it wouldbe a hardened thief that could deprive the sisters of their smallpossessions; but the dread remains--the dr
ead of burglars and the dreadof mice. Were it not for the look of the thing, she would almostrather discover a burglar than a mouse--"for at least burglars arehuman," she explains, "and one might be able to reason with them orpray for them, but who shall control the goings of a mouse?"

  Sometimes these fears become quite a terror to Lydia Blind, and sheonce said that she felt so defenceless that she thought it would be agreat comfort to have a male defender to protect her.

  It is the only unmaidenly remark she ever made, and it makes her blushin the dark when she thinks of it. She believes every one remembers itwith as vivid a distinctness as she does, and she trembles to thinkwhat sort of construction may have been put upon her words byill-natured or thoughtless persons. It is a real trouble to her; butthen all her troubles are real, and so are her bitter repentances overperfectly imaginary sins. But she has her little room and her fadedphotographs--life has its consolations.