Cluny Brown (7 page)

In answer to a tentative enquiry, Cluny said she was going to the Colonel's.

“The Colonel's?” repeated Mrs. Maile blankly.

“Colonel Duff-Graham's. To see Roderick,” explained Cluny.

Mrs. Maile's eyebrows rose. Had Cluny said to see Mabel, or Annie, she would still have been surprised—for how on earth had the girl made contact with them?—but approving; both Mabel and Annie were steady enough to be suitable friends. But Roderick sounded suspiciously like a chauffeur.

“Roderick
my dear?”

“He's a Golden Labrador,” said Cluny. “He was in the train. The Colonel said I could come and take him out.”

“Well!” said Mrs. Maile. Whether this made things better or worse she really did not know. She had never heard of such a thing; it was an evidence of social enterprise quite beyond her. And what was the Colonel thinking of? She had made it quite clear over the telephone who Cluny was, and the stationmaster repeated every word back.…

“I
love
him!” added Cluny enthusiastically.

Mrs. Maile asked no more. She felt it quite possible that if she asked who, Cluny might reply not “Roderick,” but “The Colonel” and the idea was altogether too unnerving to pursue.

In her distress of mind the housekeeper mentioned this incident to Mr. Syrett, who immediately disposed of it on the hypothesis that Cluny had been telling lies. But Mrs. Maile remained uneasy. She remembered some of Mr. Andrew's sayings—reported by Syrett himself—about cracks in civilization, the breaking-up of society, world revolution, the decay of the West; and for the first time, their meaning struck home.

II

So the uneasy fortnight passed; Andrew, John, and Mr. Belinski arrived. The first person to see them was Sir Henry, who happened to be looking out of the window as the car drew up; he watched the three young men get out, and at once nipped down to his wife's drawing-room to warn her that the Professor hadn't come. “Feller's too young,” proclaimed Sir Henry. “Andrew's thought better of it and brought some other chap.” He was firmly reiterating this statement as Andrew brought Belinski in.

“Mother—” said Andrew clearly—casting his other parent a glance of filial rebuke—“this is Mr. Belinski.”

Lady Carmel intercepted the look, threw Sir Henry a frown on her own account, and swam benevolently to meet them.

“How nice!” she exclaimed. “My son has told me so much about you, Professor; we are so glad you could come. My husband, Professor—and now, Professor, let me give you some tea.”

Belinski sat. Thus far he had not uttered a word, so emphatic a welcome having stopped his mouth; he could hardly shout them down. But now his chair was placed close by Lady Carmel's, and her mild eyes encouraged him.

“I cannot express,” he said gravely, “how grateful I am for your kindness. It is something that does not often happen. If your son has indeed spoken of me, you will understand all I do not say.”

“How well you speak English,” observed Lady Carmel.

“It is the universal tongue.”

“Ha!” exclaimed Sir Henry, much pleased. “That's what I say. As a young man my dear parents sent me on a tour round the world. I left speaking English and I came back speaking English, and I never spoke a word of anything else the whole time. Didn't need to.”

“And did you enjoy your travels, sir?”

“No,” said Sir Henry.

“Harry, dear!” Lady Carmel signalled to Andrew to give his father several scones. “The Professor will think you quite stupid. You know you enjoyed them.”

“I didn't,” said Sir Henry stoutly. “I went to Rome and I saw the Pope, I went to St. Petersburg, and saw the Czar, and when I got home I took a good look at the first London bobby and I thanked my stars. If a man's got a home, he should stick to it.”

For a moment this extraordinarily unfortunate remark seemed to Andrew to lie visible, like a broken bowl, in the middle of the floor. Then his mother tidied it up.

“Now I,” she said blandly, “am a natural cosmopolitan. If one never gets out of one's own country one becomes quite pot-bound. Personally I should like to spend nine months of the year abroad.”

This thumping lie drew upon her the eyes of all three: Andrew's sending a message of love, Belinski's bright with comprehension, Sir Henry's simply aghast.

“Allie—!” he protested. “Do you really—”

“Have some cake, dear,” said Lady Carmel meaningly. “Andrew, where is John? Professor, are you fond of gardens? I shall show you mine till you think me a great bore. Ah, here is John: get your tea, dear, you must be famished. And now, Professor, tell me: who is Einstein?”

Under this firm handling the rest of the meal passed off very well, and as soon as it was over Lady Carmel made good her threat and took Belinski off to the garden.

III

Mrs. Maile, presiding over a rather superior spread in the housekeeper's room, waited impatiently for Mr. Syrett to come back and report.

“Well, Mr. Syrett?”

The butler put off his front-hall manner and sat down.

“Pretty punctual, for once,” he announced. “I had just carried in the tray, and her ladyship's kettle was on the boil. Mr. Andrew looks well, though somewhat more distracted than usual, and Mr. John of course lingered in the garage messing about with his car.”

“And the Professor?”

The butler considered. He was about to pronounce the judgement of below-stairs—no light responsibility.

“Young,” he said at last. “Younger than one would expect, or indeed, consider suitable. But quite gentlemanly.”

Mrs. Maile nodded, to show she understood this fine distinction.

“I shall try him on the Richebourg '26,” continued Mr. Syrett.

“It's always champagne on Mr. Andrew's first night back.”

“Mr. Andrew has been coming and going at such a rate that I have decided to count him back for good. When will Brown be ready to help wait?”

Mrs. Maile reflected.

“If you like to risk it, she might try to-night. Though with two guests, it does seem chancy.”

“At least she can reach to set a plate,” said Mr. Syrett, “without biting Sir Henry's ear, as is Hilda's practice. In fact, she has as good a reach as I've ever seen. Try her.”

Which seemed to show that Cluny, as a Tall Parlour-maid, was at last finding her place.

IV

Walking between the box edges of the pixey-garden, Lady Carmel continued to handle the situation presented by Mr. Belinski with marked success. She told him simply and carefully all the things she thought he should, but probably did not, know, and refused to hear a word in return. After two or three attempts Mr. Belinski (henceforward the Professor) gave up, even admitting a certain good sense in Lady Carmel's attitude; having successfully palmed off on herself a perfectly satisfactory Professor, what did she want with the scarred and uneasy figure of truth? It made no difference in her reception of him whether Mr. Belinski had been the victim of appendicitis or of mob violence; but it made a great difference to Lady Carmel, who was mildly interested in the first, but could not bear to contemplate the second.

“Have you a dinner-jacket?” asked Lady Carmel.

The Professor shook his head.

“I am so sorry. I have only this suit and one other. And four shirts.” (He found he didn't mind telling her this in the least.)

“Then Andrew, who has two, shall lend you one; you're much the same build. That is because,” explained Lady Carmel, “my husband always dresses for dinner, but if he saw you didn't, he wouldn't, and that would worry him, because he likes me to dress, always. I'm being so frank because we hope you'll stay with us some time, and to have poor Harry worrying for months would be too bad. You don't mind?”

“I do not think I would mind anything said by you.”

“That's a great compliment. You mustn't mind anything my husband says either. Though I'm so fond of travel myself,” explained Lady Carmel, “he is not; and he's so used to England as home, he quite forgets other countries are home too. It must be very sad to be away; but let us hope, only temporarily.” (By this oblique reference Lady Carmel covered the entire European situation, and felt she had said quite enough.) “So you must borrow anything you want from Andrew, Professor, and there are several thousand books in the library; my husband sleeps there in the afternoon, but otherwise it is very little used. Syrett will valet you—”

“Dear Lady Carmel, I was never valeted in my life.”

“Well, do you mind letting Syrett, so as not to hurt his feelings? I don't suppose he'll do much, in fact Andrew says he just eats his head off, but he wouldn't like to be told not to. I'm being so perfectly frank, Professor, because I never forget how once as a girl I completely disorganized a French household by coming downstairs to breakfast. When I found out by accident, after nearly three months, I was so mortified that I've never liked France since. It's the other countries I want to travel in,” said Lady Carmel hastily.

V

As Andrew and John Frewen were returning from the stables, whither they had gone to inspect certain arrangements made there by Andrew, they were crossed by Cluny Brown, travelling at great speed.

“Who's that?” asked John.

“New maid,” said Andrew indifferently.

“Looks to me like an anarchist,” said John.

Cluny's appearance was indeed rather wild, for she had pulled off her cap and released her pony tail when she ran out to get a breath of air. But her determined expression (like her need for a breather) was purely professional: her coming début at the dinner table was weighing on her more than she would own. The ousted Hilda, on the other hand, was even then singing “Jeepers-Creepers” in the larder. A girl entirely without ambition, she had hailed their change of functions with frank delight. (And she was good-hearted as well: the reason she was in the larder was because she was getting Cluny a snack to fortify her for the coming ordeal.) Cluny was not exactly ambitious—at any rate so far as parlour-maiding was concerned—but she had a great desire to startle Mr. Syrett. She was keyed up like a prima donna, and far too preoccupied to notice either of the young men.

“Sit down a minute, my dear,” said Mrs. Maile kindly, as Cluny came loping back into domestic territory, “and then get Hilda to help you fasten your hair.”

“Shall I cut it off?” suggested Cluny desperately.

“Certainly not; for when it grows a little longer, you will be able to have a proper bun.”

Hilda at that moment placed a sandwich before her. Cluny took a large semi-circular bite and chewed and chewed.

“Do nothing until Mr. Syrett tells you,” continued Mrs. Maile, “and you can't go wrong. When he says ‘Plates,' either take the used ones or set fresh, as the case may be; when he says ‘Vegetables,' or ‘Sauce,' hand vegetables, or sauce.”

“And mind you don't go breathin',” exhorted Hilda.

“Nonsense, of course she can breathe,” said Mrs. Maile liberally. “The trouble with you, Hilda, is that you breathe into persons' ears.”

“Mother says my lungs be like bellowses,” agreed Hilda proudly.

“Suppose I get hiccups?” muttered Cluny.

Mrs. Maile looked at the pair of them and repressed a sigh. She was not poetically inclined, but the names of Bessie, Gracie, Flora, did at that moment chime in her mind like three sweet symphonies.

“Hilda, go and help Cook,” she ordered sharply. “Brown, go upstairs and tidy; you will not get hiccups. If you both thought more of your duties and less of yourselves, we should all get on a great deal better.”

No mention has so far been made of Cook because she was merely a temporary. She was obliging Lady Carmel for six months while her own employer was in the Argentine, and had therefore no roots at Friars Carmel. In her own kitchen her personality was a rather interesting one, unusually sardonic, as she herself was unusually thin, and expressing itself in savouries and sharp sauces. So she turned out steamed puddings for Sir Henry efficiently, but without enthusiasm. She did all that was required of her, and kept herself to herself. This left in the servants' hall what might be described as a cook-shaped space, and removed a good deal of the wholesome pressure to which Hilda and Cluny would normally have been subject.

VI

Sir Henry and Lady Carmel kept early hours; for them a pleasant evening ended at ten-thirty, and Andrew, who wished his protégé to make a good impression, remarked at twenty-five past that they had all had a long day. Mr. Belinski at once rose and kissed Lady Carmel's hand; after so mild a programme—a game of auction bridge, a little talk on gardening—he did indeed look curiously exhausted. Andrew took him up to his room in the east corridor, where Belinski immediately sat down on the bed. (A predecessor of Cluny's once divided all guests into two classes: those who sat on the beds, and those who sat in the chairs provided.)

“Everything you want?” asked Andrew.

Belinski looked at the bedside table with its lamp, its carafe, its silver biscuit-box, its two books, one of them in German. A lower shelf held cigarettes, matches, ash-tray. He looked at the primroses on the bureau. The warmth of a hot-water bottle communicating itself, he shifted a little and looked at the small mound it made through the bed-clothes. Then he looked at Andrew.

“It is unbelievable,” said Mr. Belinski.

“What is?”

“All of it. That I should be here—in this house—with your parents—is like a dream.”

“Particularly my parents,” suggested Andrew.

Belinski nodded seriously.

“I had forgotten that such people were. No, that is wrong: I never knew of such people. They are good like saints.”

“Do you mean—not of this world?”

“Of a far better.”