Aunt Olive in Bohemia

Once upon a time, as the fairy tales have it, there was a certain country town. It was a sleepy little town, where few things happened. It was like a dog grown old and lazy with basking in the sun, undisturbed by motor-cars and modern rush. An occasional event like a fly, and as small and insignificant as that insect, would settle momentarily upon it. For an instant it would be roused, shake itself, and promptly go to sleep again.

The houses in the town were all alike--small, detached, and built of red brick. They were named after the shrubs and trees that grew in their gardens. There was the Myrtles, the Hawthorns, the Laurels, the Yews, the Poplars, and many others.

One May morning, when the flowers on the laburnum trees were hanging in a shower of golden rain, and the pink and white blossoms of the hawthorn bushes were filling the air with a sweet and sickly scent, a single cab, drawn by a horse as sleepy as the town to which it belonged, drove up the small, clean street, and turned in at the gate marked the Poplars.

Two small children with satchels on their backs paused to peep up the drive. They saw two black boxes being hoisted by the driver on to the roof of the cab. There was nothing, one would think, of vital interest in the sight, but it proved more attractive than the thought of lesson books and school-room benches. They remained to gaze.

In a couple of moments a woman came through the front door. She was clad in a black cashmere dress of ample folds, partly hidden by a blade satin jacket, with large, loose sleeves. A wide, white linen collar adorned with a small black velvet bow surrounded her neck; a mushroom-shaped hat, also black, was tied by broad strings beneath her chin. In one hand she held a large and tightly rolled umbrella, in the other was a black satin bag drawn up by a cord. It bulged in a knobby fashion. It had evidently been stuffed to the extent of its capacities.

The woman spoke to the driver, then got into the cab. He climbed to the box, flicked his whip, turned the horse's head, and drove once again through the gate.

The children scuttled to one side, and the cab drove up the street.

Its occupant sat upright within it, clutching tightly at the umbrella and the black satin bag. Little thrills of happiness were running through her. The May wind blowing through the window fanned her face, bringing with it great puffs of scent from the hawthorn bushes. Sunshine sparkled on the roofs of the houses, birds were singing in the gardens past which she drove. It was a day alive with gladness, warm with the breath of spring, fresh with the sense of youth. And the woman within the cab, whose heart, in spite of her sixty years, was as young as the heart of a child, participated in the gladness.

She watched the people in the streets walking leisurely in the sunshine. She saw the shops with the tradesmen standing idle in the doorways. At the fishmonger's only there was a little air of bustle, where a maid in a neat print had run in to buy a couple of soles for lunch.

The woman pulled out her watch--a huge affair in solid gold, attached to a black hair chain. For a moment she glanced at it anxiously, then returned it to its place with a little sigh of relief. The horse still trotted on its slow unhurried way. More shops were passed, then more houses. Finally the cab drew up with a little jerk.

The driver got down and opened the cab door.

"Here we are, ma'am; and twenty minutes to spare. I'll call a porter."

While the boxes were being taken from the cab Miss Mason opened the black satin bag. From it she extracted a ten-shilling piece.

The boxes were wheeled towards the platform.

"I've no change, ma'am," said the cabby.

"That's all right," said Miss Mason hurriedly.

The cabby stared. "You're very good, ma'am."

"It's all right," said Miss Mason again.

Ten shillings was a small amount to give a man who had driven her a mile towards happiness. She followed the porter on to the platform.

"Victoria, second class," she said to the man at the ticket office.

"Return or single, ma'am?" he demanded.

"Single," said Miss Mason firmly.

She took the little piece of cardboard from him and thrust it up her glove. She loved the feeling of it. It was her passport to freedom.

She watched the boxes being labelled. They were new boxes and hitherto guiltless of station labels. When she had seen them firmly attached, and had been solemnly assured by the porter that the paste was both strong and adhesive, she turned her attention to the bookstall. After a few moments' survey she moved away hurriedly. The pictures on the covers of some of the books distressed her, especially one of a young female with red hair and very insufficient orange attire. For a moment Miss Mason blushed. But she forgot the objectionable book in looking along the shiny rails in the direction from which the train must arrive.

The sudden ringing of a bell made her jump.

"Train's signalled, ma'am," said the porter. "She'll be here in five minutes now."

"You'll be sure and put in my boxes," said Miss Mason.

"Sure, ma'am. Corner seat facing the engine, did you say?"

"Y-yes; a seat somewhere," stammered Miss Mason. The near approach of the train was making her feel nervous.

"All right. I'll see to it. Second class I think you said."

There was a distant whistle; next, the panting as of some great beast, and an engine with its tail of carriages steamed into sight. It drew up slowly at the platform.

"Here y'are, ma'am. Carriage all to yourself. Boxes will be in the front part of the train. Thank you kindly, ma'am. Anything I can get for you? Paper or anything? Window up or down? Will put in the boxes myself. Good morning, ma'am."

A tip proportionate to the fare Miss Mason had paid the cabby was responsible for this burst of eloquence.

In spite of the porter's assurance that he would see to the boxes himself, Miss Mason stood with her head through the carriage window till she had seen them actually deposited in the guard's van. Then she sat down in the corner of the carriage.

The porter reappeared.

"They're in, ma'am. You're off now."

There was a gentle vibration through the train, and the platform began to recede. The one woman left on it--a stout woman who had been seeing her daughter off on her way to service--waved a large white pocket-handkerchief. Its fluttering was the last thing Miss Mason saw as the train left the station.

She heaved a little sigh.

She found she was still clutching the large umbrella. She laid it now upon the seat beside her. She was almost too excited to think of the happiness before her. She hardly wanted to do so. It was almost too overpowering. She would realize it by degrees. At the moment there were a thousand trivial delights around her.

She examined the carriage in which she was seated. The number on the door was seven hundred and seventy-seven. Miss Mason had a secret partiality for certain numbers, seven being her favourite. She was seven years old when she had her first silk frock. It was a blue and white check frock, and her hair--Miss Mason at that time wore it in two plaits--had been tied with blue ribbons. Seventeen had been, up to date, the happiest year of her life. But more of that year anon. At twenty-seven she had been allowed the entrance of Miss Stanhope's library. At thirty-seven she had become the owner of a kitten. At forty-seven Miss Stanhope had given her the watch she now wore. At fifty-seven a favourite rose-tree had borne the most perfect flowers. Trivial enough facts to form landmarks in a life, yet they formed landmarks in Miss Mason's.