by Hugh Walpole
She took Henry’s hand again. “Since father died I can’t love any one,” she said. “But I can be your friend and never forget you. I have been so long frightened now, and I am so tired and so ashamed, that I think all deeper feeling is dead.
“I only want to get home. Do you understand, and not think me false?”
Henry said, “I’m just as proud as I can be.”
Then, saying very little, he took her back to Peter Street.
CHAPTER V
MILLIE IN LOVE
Meanwhile, as Henry was having his adventures, so, also was Millie having hers, and having them, even as Henry did, in a sudden climacteric moment after many weeks of ominous pause.
She knew well enough that that pause was ominous. It would have been difficult for her to avoid knowing it. The situation began to develop directly after the amateur performance of The Importance of Being Earnest. That same performance was a terrible and disgracefully public failure. It had been arranged originally with the outward and visible purpose of benefiting a Babies’ Crèche that had its home somewhere in Maida Vale, and had never yet apparently been seen by mortal man. Clarice, however, cared little either for babies or the crèches that contain them, but was quite simply and undisguisedly aching to prove to the world in general that she was a better actress than Miss Irene Vanbrugh, the creator of her part.
The charity and kindliness of an audience at an amateur theatrical performance are always called upon to cover a multitude of sins, but, perhaps, never before in the history of amateur acting did quite so many sins need covering as on this occasion — sins of omission, sins of commission, and sins of bad temper and sulkiness. Clarice knew her part only at happy intervals, but young Mr. Baxter knew his not at all, and tried to conceal his ignorance with cheery smiles and impromptu remarks about the weather, and little paradoxes that were in his own opinion every bit as good as Oscar Wilde’s, with the additional advantage of novelty. Mr. Baxter was, indeed, at the end of the performance thoroughly pleased with himself and the world in general, and was the only actor in the cast who could boast of that happy condition.
Next morning in the house of the Platts the storm broke, and Millie found, to her bewildered amazement, that she was, in one way and another, considered the villainness of the piece. That morning was never to be forgotten by Millie.
She was not altogether surprised that there should be a storm. For many days past the situation had been extremely difficult; only four days earlier, indeed, she had wondered whether she could possibly endure it any longer, and might have gone straight to Victoria and resigned her post had she not had five minutes’ encouraging conversation with little Doctor Brooker, who had persuaded her that she was doing valuable work and must remain. There were troubles with Clarice, troubles with Ellen (very curious ones), troubles with Victoria, troubles with the housekeeper, even troubles with Beppo. All the attendant guests in the house (except the poor Balaclavas) looked upon her with hatred because they knew that she despised them for their sycophancy and that they deserved her scorn. Her troubles with Victoria were the worst, because after all did Victoria support her nothing else very seriously mattered. But Victoria, like all weak characters determined upon power, swayed like a tree in the wind, now hither now thither, according to the emotions of the moment. She told Millie that she loved her devotedly, then suddenly would her mild eyes narrow with suspicion when she heard Millie commanding Beppo to bring up some more coal with what seemed to her a voice of too incisive authority. She said to Millie that the duty of the secretary was to control the servants, and then when the housekeeper came with bitter tales of that same secretary’s autocracy she sided with the housekeeper. She thought Clarice a fool, but listened with readiness to everything that Clarice had to say about “upstart impertinence,” “a spy in the house,” and so on. She had by this time conceived a hatred and a loathing for Mr. Block and longed to transfer him to some very distant continent, but when he came to her with tears in his eyes and said that he would never eat another roll of bread in a house where he was so looked down upon by “the lady secretary,” she assured him that Millie was of no importance, and begged him to continue to break bread with her so long as there was bread in the house.
She complained with bitterness of the confusion of her correspondence and admired enthusiastically the order and discipline into which Millie had brought it, and yet, from an apparently wilful perverseness, she created further confusion whenever she could, tumbling letters and bills and invitations together, and playing a kind of drawing-room football with her papers as though Dr. Brooker had told her that this was one of the ways of warding off stoutness.
This question of her stoutness was one of Millie’s most permanent troubles. Victoria now had “Stoutness on the Brain,” a disease that never afflicted her at all in the old days when she was poor, partly because she had too much work in those days to allow time for idle thinking, and partly because she had no money to spend on cures.
Now one cure followed upon another. She tried various systems of diet but, being a greedy woman and loving sweet and greasy foods, a grilled chop and an “asbestos” biscuit were real agony to her. Then, for a time, she stripped to the skin twice a day and begged Millie to roll her upon the floor, a performance that Millie positively detested. She weighed herself solemnly every morning and evening and her temper was spoilt for the day when she had not lost but had indeed gained.
It must not be supposed, however, that she was always irritable and in evil temper. Far from it; between her gusts of despair, anger and assaulted pride she was very sweet indeed, assuring Millie that she was a wicked woman and deserved no mercy from any one.
“I cannot think how you can endure me, my Millie,” she would say. “You sweet creature! Wonderful girl! What I’ve done without you all these years I cannot imagine. I mean well. I do indeed. I’m sure there isn’t a woman in the country who wants every one to be happy as I do. How simple it seems! Happiness! What a lovely word and yet how difficult of attainment! Life isn’t nearly as simple as it was in the days when dear Papa was alive. I’m sure when I had nothing at all in the bank and didn’t dare to face kind Mr. Miller for days together because I knew that I had had more money out of his bank than I had ever put into it, life was simplicity — but now — what do you think is the matter with me, my Millie? Tell me truthfully, straight from your loyal heart.”
Millie longed to tell her that what was the matter could all be found in that one word “Money!” but the time for direct and honest speech, woman to woman, was not quite yet, although it was, most surely, close at hand.
With Ellen the trouble was more mysterious — Millie did not understand that strange woman. After the scene in Ellen’s room for many days she held aloof, not speaking to Millie at all. Then gradually she approached again, and one morning came into the room where Millie was working, walked up to her desk, bent over her and kissed her passionately and walked straight out of the room again without uttering a word. A few days later she mysteriously pressed a note into her hand. This was what it said:
Darling Millie — You must forgive any oddness of behaviour that I have shown during these last weeks. I have had one headache after another and have been very miserable too for other reasons with which I need not bother you. I know you think me strange, but indeed you have no more devoted friend than I if only you would believe it. Some may seem friends to you but are not really. Do not take every one at their face value. It is sweet of you to do so but you run great risks. Could we not be a little more together than we are? I should like it so much if we could one day have a walk together. I feel that you do not understand me, and it is true that I am not at my best in this unsympathetic household. I feel that you shrink from me sometimes. If I occasionally appear demonstrative it is because I have so much love in my nature that has no outlet. I am a lonely woman, Millie. You have my heart in your hands. Treat it gently! — Your loving friend,
Ellen Platt.
This letter
irritated and annoyed Millie. Her hands were full enough already without having Ellen’s heart added to everything else. And why need Ellen be so mysterious, warning her about people? That was underhand. Did she suspect anybody she should speak out. Millie walked about cautiously for the next few days lest she should find herself alone with Ellen, when the woman looked so miserable that her heart was touched, and one morning, meeting her in the hall, she said:
“It was kind of you to write that note, Ellen. Of course we’ll have a walk one day.”
Ellen stared at her under furious eyebrows. “If that’s all you can say,” she exclaimed, “thank you for nothing. Catch me giving myself away again,” and brushed angrily past her. . . .
So on the morning after the theatricals down came the storm. It began with the housekeeper, Mrs. Martin. Sitting under Eve Millie examined the household books for the last fortnight.
“The butcher’s very large,” she observed.
“Honk!” Mrs. Martin remarked from some unprobed depths of an outraged woman. She was a little creature with an upturned nose and a grey complexion.
“Well it really is too large this time,” said Millie. “Twenty pounds for a fortnight even in these days — —”
“Certingly,” said Mrs. Martin, speaking very quickly and rising a little on her toes. “Certingly if I’m charged with dishonesty, and it’s implied that I’m stealing the butcher’s meat and deceiving my mistress, who has always, so far as I know, trusted me and found no fault at all and has indeed commented not once nor twice on my being economical, but if so, well my notice is the thing that’s wanted, I suppose, and — —”
“Not at all,” said Millie, still very gently. “There’s no question of any one’s dishonesty, Mrs. Martin. As you’re housekeeper as well as cook you must know better than any one else whether this is an unusual amount or no. Perhaps it isn’t. Perhaps — —”
“I may have my faults,” Mrs. Martin broke in, “there’s few of us who haven’t, but dishonesty I’ve never before been accused of; although the times are difficult and those who don’t have to buy the things themselves may imagine that meat costs nothing, and you can have a joint every quarter of an hour without having to pay for it, still that hasn’t been my experience, and to be called a dishonest woman after all my troubles and the things I’ve been through — —”
“I never did call you a dishonest woman,” said Millie. “Never for a moment. I only want you to examine this book with me and see whether we can’t bring it down a little — —”
“Dishonesty,” pursued Mrs. Martin, rising still higher on her toes and apparently addressing Eve, “is dishonesty and there’s no way out of it, either one’s dishonest or one isn’t and — if one is dishonest the sooner one leaves and finds a place where one isn’t the better for all parties and the least said the sooner mended — —”
“Would you mind,” said Millie with an admirable patience, “just casting your eye over this book and telling me what you think of it? That’s all I want really.”
“Then I hope, Miss,” said Mrs. Martin, “that you’ll take back your accusation that I shouldn’t like to go back to the kitchen suffering under, because I never have suffered patiently under such an accusation and I never will.”
“I made no accusation,” said Millie. “If I hurt your feelings I’m sorry, but do please let us get to work and look at this book together. Time’s short and there’s so much to be done.”
But Mrs. Martin was a woman of one idea at a time. “If you doubt my character, Miss, please speak to Miss Platt about it, and if she has a complaint well and good and I’ll take her word for it, she having known me a good deal longer than many people and not one to rush to conclusions as some are perhaps with justice and perhaps not.”
Upon this particular morning Millie was to lose her temper upon three separate occasions. This was the first occasion.
“That’s enough, Mrs. Martin,” she said sharply. “I did not call you dishonest. I do not now. But as you seem incapable of looking at this book I will show it to Miss Platt and she shall discuss it with you. That’s everything, thank you, good morning.”
“Honk!” said Mrs. Martin. “Then if that’s the way I’m to be treated the only thing that’s left for me to do is hand in my notice which I do with the greatest of pleasure, and until you came, Miss, I should never have dreamt of such a thing, being well suited, but such treatment no human being can stand!”
“Very well then,” said Millie, cold with anger. “If you feel you must go, you must. I’m sorry but you must act as you feel.”
Mrs. Martin turned round and marched towards the door muttering to herself. Just before she reached it Victoria and Clarice entered. Mrs. Martin looked at them, muttered something and departed banging the door behind her.
Millie could see that Victoria was already upset, her large fat face puckered into the expression of a baby who is not sure whether it will cry or no. Clarice, her yellow hair untidy and her pink gown trembling with unexpected little pieces of lace and flesh, was quite plainly in a very bad temper.
“What’s the matter with Mrs. Martin?” said Victoria, coming through into the inner room. “She seems to be upset about something.”
“She is,” said Millie. “She’s just given notice.”
“Given notice!” cried Victoria. “Oh dear, oh dear! What shall we do? Millie, how could you let her? She’s been with us longer than any servant we’ve had since father died and she cooks so well considering everything. She knows our ways now and I’ve always been so careful to give her everything she wanted. Oh Millie, how could you? You really shouldn’t have done it!”
“I didn’t do it,” said Millie. “She did it. I simply asked her to look at the butcher’s book for the last fortnight. It was disgracefully large. She chose to be insulted and gave notice.”
“Isn’t that vexing?” cried Victoria. “I do think you might have managed better, Millie. She isn’t a woman who easily takes offence either. She’s taken such a real interest in us all and nothing’s been too much trouble for her!”
“Meanwhile,” Millie said, “she’s been robbing you right and left. You know she has, Victoria. You as good as admitted it to me the other day. Of course if you want to go on being plundered, Victoria, it’s no affair of mine. Only tell me so, and I shall know where I am.”
“I don’t think you ought to speak to me like that,” said Victoria. “It’s not kind of you. I didn’t quite expect that of you, Millie. You know the troubles I have and I hoped you were going to help me with them and not give me new ones.”
“I’m not giving you new ones,” Millie answered. “I’m trying to save you. However — —”
It was at this point that Clarice interrupted. “Now I hope at last, Victoria,” she said, “that your eyes are opened. It only supports what I was saying downstairs. Miss Trenchard (Clarice had been calling her Miss Trenchard for the last fortnight) may be clever and attractive and certainly young men seem to think her so, but suited to be your secretary she is not.”
Millie got up from her seat. “Isn’t this beginning to be rather personal?” she said. “Hadn’t we all better wait until we are a little cooler?”
“No we had not,” said Clarice, trembling with anger. “I’m glad this occasion has come at last. I’ve been waiting for it for weeks. I’m not one to be underhand and to say things behind people’s backs that I would not dare to say to their faces; I say just what I think. I know, Miss Trenchard, that you despise me and look down upon me. Of that I have nothing to say. It may be deserved or it may not. I am here, however, to protect my sister. There are things that she is too warm-hearted and kind-natured to see although they do go on right under her very nose. There have been occasions before when I’ve had to point circumstances out to her. I’ve never hesitated at what was I thought my duty. I do not hesitate now. I tell you frankly, Miss Trenchard, that I think your conduct during these last weeks has been quite disgraceful. You have alienated all Victoria
’s best friends, disturbed the servants and flirted with every young man that has come into the house!”
This was the second occasion on which Millie lost her temper that morning.
“Thank you,” she said. “Now I know where I stand. But you’ll apologize please for that last insult before you leave this room.”
“I will not! I will not!” cried Clarice.
“Oh dear, what shall I do?” interrupted Victoria. “I knew this was going to be a terrible day the moment I got out of bed this morning. Clarice, you really shouldn’t say such things.”
“I should! I should!” cried Clarice, stamping her foot. “She’s ruined everything since she came into the house. No one knows how I worked at that horrible play and Bunny Baxter was beginning to be so good, most amusing and knowing his part perfectly until she came along. And then she turned his head and he fancies he’s in love with her and the whole thing goes to pieces. And I always said, right away from the beginning, that we oughtn’t to have Cissie Marrow as prompter, she always loses her head and turns over two pages at once — and now I’ve gone and made myself the laughing-stock of London and shall never be able to act in public again!”
The sight of Clarice’s despair touched Millie, and when the poor woman turned from them and stood, facing the window, snuffling into a handkerchief, her anger vanished as swiftly as it had come.
Besides what were they quarrelling about, three grown women? Here was life passing and so much to be done and they could stand and scream at one another like children in the nursery. Millie’s subconscious self seemed to be saying to her: “I stand outside you. I obscure you. This is not real, but I am real and something behind life is real. Laugh at this. It vanishes like smoke. This is not life.” She suddenly smiled; laughter irradiated all her face, shining in her eyes, colouring her cheek.
“Clarice, I’m sorry. If I’ve been a pig to you all these weeks I surely didn’t mean to be. It hasn’t been very easy — not through anybody’s fault but simply because I’m so inexperienced. I’m sure that I’ve been very trying to all of you. But why should we squabble like this? I don’t know what’s happened to all of us this year. We stood far worse times during the War without losing our tempers, and we all of us put up with one another. But now we all seem to get angry at the slightest thing. I’ve noticed it everywhere. The little things now are much harder to bear than the big things were in the War. Please be friends, Clarice, and believe me that I didn’t mean to hurt you.”