by Dion Fortune
She hung the smock up on a peg behind the door, appearing in a shabby brown jumper and skirt that emphasised the sallowness of her skin and the dullness of her dark hair; put a little knitted cap on her head; pulled on a brown tweed coat with a worn coney collar, and slipped her latch-key into her pocket.
Jelkes, looking at her, felt relieved. It was improbable that Paston would get into mischief in that quarter.
They went round to the bookshop, and Jelkes warmed her by his fire, and filled her with sausages and tea, till the fine-drawn look gradually faded from her face and she settled down in the corner of the sofa that Hugh Paston had made his own, and helped herself to one of his cigarettes.
“My word, Uncle ]elkes,” she said as she inhaled the fragrant smoke, “you are doing yourself well. These must have cost you a pretty penny.”
“It's all right, my dear,” said the old bookseller, grinning, “I did not come by them honestly.”
“Well now, what about this job?”
“Yes, what about it?” said Jelkes, scratching what was left of his hair. “I hardly know where to begin. It's a fellow that wants a house furnishing.”
“You mean he wants me to design the decorations, and choose the furniture, and generally see the job through?”
“Yes, that's it,” said the bookseller hesitatingly. This description, though true so far as it went, was so far from being the whole truth that it was a lot more misleading than most lies.
“And the rest?” said Miss Wilton. “You're looking very guilty, Uncle Jelkes. I'm sure there is a nigger in the wood-pile somewhere. Isn't this individual respectable?”
“Yes, yes, he's all right. At least I hope so.”
“Then where's the snag?”
“I don't suppose there really is one. I'm afraid I'm old-fashioned. I suppose you can take care of yourself as well as any other girl of your age.”
“If I couldn't,” said Mona, “I'd have become extinct long ago. I'll keep my end up with this individual as long as he's solvent. But I don't want to let any firms in for bad debts, because that will queer my pitch for next time.”
“He's solvent right enough. He's the grandson of the man that founded Paston's, the big tea merchants. I suppose it practically belongs to him, and a lot more beside.”
“Is he anything to do with that man whose wife was killed in a motor smash just recently when she was eloping?”
“Yes, it's the same man. But she wasn't eloping. No such luck. She was keeping two homes going.”
“I call that a dirty trick.”
“An uncommonly dirty trick. And it's made a nasty mess of the man. I'm exceedingly sorry for him.”
“What is he starting furnishing for? Has he consoled himself already?”
“No. It's not that. I think it's partly because he can't stand the sight of the furniture, if you ask me. He's put the whole place in the auctioneer's hands, lock, stock, and barrel.”
“And he wants me to fit him up with a new one? Hasn't he got any womenfolk to look after him?”
“I don't know anything about that. I haven't seen any signs of them. But anyway, he wants the place specially designing.”
“That ought to be interesting.”
“Very interesting,” said Jelkes drily. “I only hope it won't be too interesting by the time you're through with it.”
“What is all the mystery? Do come to the point, Uncle.”
“Well now, I'll tell you, Mona. He's been dipping into Huysmans' books, ‘A Rebours’ and ‘La-Bas’ and he wants to amuse himself by going and doing likewise.”
“Does he want to work the Black Mass? How entertaining!”
“Now, Mona, I won't have you talking like that, even in fun. He certainly isn't going to work the Black Mass or I wouldn't have put you on to him. What he wants to do is to furnish a house on—er—esoteric lines.”
“What exactly does he understand by that?”
“Hanged if I know. And I don't believe he does, either. So there ought to be some pickings in it.”
“There certainly ought, if he's as vague as all that,” said Mona. “But even so, I can't rook the poor man. It is really my job to see that nobody rooks him.”
“Yes, that's exactly it. You see, my dear, he's had a very bad shake-up over this business with his wife; and I think that if he doesn't have something to occupy his mind, he'll go completely balmy. And it struck me that you might as well have the pickings as anyone else.”
“Thanks very much, Uncle Jelkes. I'll be very glad of the job, and I won't rook him more than is just and right, and I'll be a mother to him generally. I suppose that's the idea? Have you taken him under your Jaeger wing?”
“Well, as a matter of fact, I have. I'm sorry for the fellow.”
“What is he like? Is he nice?”
“He's not bad. One of these society fellows, you know.”
“Does he wear an old school tie?”
“No, he doesn't need to. His clothes are all right.”
“You are cynical, Uncle Jelkes.”
“Well, my dear, if a man looks like a gentleman, he doesn't need a label. It's only when he looks like a sandwichman that he has to hang out a sign to say: ‘I'm a gentleman, though you mightn't think it.’”
“Is he handsome?”
“No. Plain as a pikestaff.”
“Are you nervous for my morals, Uncle Jelkes?”
“No more than usual, my dear. But you know what these society men are.”
“I suppose he reckons parlourmaids are his perks. Oh, well, I'll soon disillusion him. By the way, where is his house?”
“He hasn't decided yet. I believe you will be wanted to help with the house-hunting.”
“Uncle, this is going to be fun. I've never had a chance to choose the house before. I've always had to make the best of what someone else has chosen.”
“It will be more than fun, Mona. It will be a really useful piece of work if you handle him the right way. The fellow wants taking out of himself or I really think he will go on the rocks.”
“It appears to me that I shall have to redecorate him as well as his house. When am I to meet the poor young man? I take it he's young, or you wouldn't be so apprehensive about my morals.”
“You ought to be ashamed of yourself.”
“I can't help it, Uncle. You shouldn't dangle your leg within reach of my hand. How can I help pulling it ? But you needn't worry. I'll be most professional with him. I know better than to go about asking for trouble.”
“Very well then. You come round this evening about seven and have a spot of supper with us. And put on that green frock of yours. I can't stick you in that ghastly brown. You look mud-coloured all over. Why ever do you wear those dark colours? They make you look like the dead.”
“I wear them because they don't show the dirt, Uncle ]elkes. And I can't put on my green frock because my other uncle's got it. The three brass balls one, you know. So I am afraid this will have to do. And anyway, it's no use my dressing up for a man like Mr Paston, because the best I could do would only look to him like the housemaid's afternoon off.”
Miss Wilton had hardly got out of the door when in came Hugh Paston.
“Well, T. J.,” he said, “I've done my duty by my family. I've lunched with my mother. Poor old mater. She's terribly fed up about this business. She can't exactly blame me, and yet she's furious with me. She said I ought to have looked after Frida better. I told her that it's only because I did not look after Frida that things have lasted as long as they have. They'd have gone up in flames long ago if I'd tightened the reins. But anyway, the mater blames me. It is rather feeding for her. You see, all her social aspirations have gone west. We don't come out of the top drawer, you know. Only one remove from retail trade. Frida's friends can't very well keep up with me after what's happened; so there we are, back where we were when we started.”
The old bookseller grunted his disapproval.
“Do you know, they've got their eye on my second alrea
dy? My eldest sister came in, and began to talk about some duke's daughter, very down at heel, that she's picked up with. I could see the mater knew all about it, but we had to hear it all over again for my benefit. What a life I Given away with a pound of tea. Paston's Tea. That describes me exactly. Damn it all, Jelkes, surely they don't expect me to repeat the dose?”
“What do you propose to do, then? Shake a loose leg and enjoy yourself?”
“Yes, that's it exactly. Once bit, twice shy. I don't want social advancement, so what have I got to marry for?”
“What indeed?” said Jelkes.
“Well, have you thought any more about my scheme?”
“I've done more than think, I've got a move on.”
“Good man. What's the move?”
“I've seen that artist I told you of.” He handed Hugh Mona's professional card.
“Oh, a woman?” said Paston.
“Yes. Plain. Thirtyish. Competent. You'll find her all right. She knows her job.”
“Good God, T. J., you don't suppose I'll be starting off again already? Give us time to breathe. You're as bad as my sister.”
T. Jelkes blushed scarlet all over the top of his bald head.
“I don't care whether it's a man or a woman or a ‘giddy harumphrodite’ so long as it knows its job,” said Hugh.
“She's coming in this evening to supper.”
“Good. We don't change, I take it?”
“No, we don't change.”
CHAPTER IX
JELKES was busy dishing up the ready-made beefsteak pudding, which was half in and half out of its basin when there came a sound of knocking on the half-glass door of the shop.
“Go to the door, will you, Hugh?” he called from the kitchen, wondering whether Paston had ever answered the door before in his life, and what he would make of this sort of treatment. It was his fixed conviction that anyone of Hugh's walk in life was incapable of wiping his own nose.
He heard footsteps crossing the oilcloth floor of the shop, the clang of the bell as the door opened, and voices—the man's pleasantly cordial, the woman's impersonal and business-like.
Mona Wilton, coming in hatless through the door of the shop, was surprised to find herself confronted by a stranger. The hard glare of the incandescent light was not kind to the looks of either of them. She saw before her a loosely-built man whose well-cut suit did what it could towards disguising his stooping shoulders. His sharp-featured face looked haggard, and his black tie reminded her why. Except for his good clothes he was a nondescript individual, she thought, lacking personality. She was not surprised that this man's wife had been unfaithful to him. What was there in him to hold a woman faithful?
He, on his side, saw under the hard white glare a youngish woman, tired-looking, with a sallow complexion and rather unkempt dark hair. She had a square face, with a strong jaw and wide mouth, innocent of lipstick. The only thing that struck him about her was the strong, muscular neck, the muscles showing moulded like a man's under the olive skin. She had hazel eyes, set wide apart under heavy black brows that almost met over the bridge of the short, straight nose. Her brows were much blacker than her hair, which was a rusty brown, like the coat of an ill-kept cat. She wore it coupé en page, with a straight-cut fringe in front, and a straight-cut bob behind. Hugh Paston, who had never known a woman that wasn't permed, thought she looked rather like Mrs Noah out of Noah's Ark.
She went through into the room behind the shop, and as he lingered behind to secure the door, he heard her being grunted at by the bookseller. He was not particularly struck with Jelkes's choice. In fact, to be candid, he was disappointed. He had hoped for something much more exotic than this—a bit of old Chelsea on the loose. If he could have had his way, he would have had her inlaid with precious stones to brighten her up, like Des Esseintes' turtle. She looked competent, however; and there would obviously be no nonsense about her. It would be difficult to imagine a woman about whom there would be less nonsense. She was rather Mrs Macintosh's type. Frida had always been a good judge of housekeepers.
He joined the party in the room behind the shop. Jelkes wasted no time in introductions. He took it for granted they had become acquainted. They drew their chairs up to the table, and he ceremoniously laid before them an old willow-pattern dish, burnt almost black in the oven, instead of serving the food out of the usual frying-pan.
Conversation was stilted. Old Jelkes did not bother with it, but shovelled down his food in silence, as was his usual custom. The girl seemed equally ready to sit in silence or to answer any remark that might be addressed to her, just as did Mrs Macintosh in the presence of her employer; but Hugh, who had been well-trained by his womenfolk, worked hard at the conversation.
He tried to get the girl to talk about her work, and this she did impersonally and without enthusiasm, telling him what her qualifications were, and what experience she had had. He saw that she was not prepared to make friends, but was keeping him on a purely business footing. He was inclined to resent this. Surely if she accepted an invitation to a meal she should accept also the implied social relationship, instead of keeping a shopcounter between them, as it were? But he supposed she had probably had some trying experiences in her time, though she did not appear to be a person who called for them, and if she preferred to keep her male clients at arm's length, well, it was to her credit. He felt a little sore, however, and vaguely defrauded, as if he were not getting proper value for the money he was prepared to spend.
The meal was despatched expeditiously under such circumstances; Jelkes moved them over to the fire to drink their tea, and with an airy wave of his hand, said:
“Now, you two, get on with your business while I clear away,” and disappeared into the kitchen and left them to it.
Hugh, taking his cue from the girl's attitude, came straight to business.
“Has Mr Jelkes told you anything about what I want doing?” he enquired.
“A little,” said the girl. And then suddenly the wide colourless lips broadened into a smile, “I hear you have been reading ‘A Rebours’.”
The sudden humanising of the girl startled Hugh Paston, she changed so completely. But before he had time to respond, her face settled back again into its impassivity. He followed up his temporary advantage, however. He must humanise this girl. It was impossible to explain what he wanted to an impersonal business woman; impossible to get her to co-operate with him.
“I suppose Mr Jelkes had told you I'm half mad?” he said.
The smile hovered at the corners of her mouth.
“No, he didn't exactly say that,” she said.
“Well, take it from me, I am. At any rate, I'm very eccentric.”
The smile hovered again for a moment, and then suddenly the whole face changed and softened and became almost beautiful, and Hugh Paston knew that the story of his tragedy had been told to this woman. A wave of uncontrollable emotion surged up in him; his mouth quivered and his eyes stared into space, seeing his mutilated dead. It was a moment or two before he could recover control, but when he did, and met the woman's eyes again, he knew that the barriers were down between them.
He moved uneasily in his seat, seeking desperately for some remark that would serve to break the silence and bring the atmosphere back to normal.
It was the woman, however, who picked the situation out of the fire.
“I gather that the first thing to do is to set to work and find a house?” she said.
“Yes, rather,” said Hugh, grasping thankfully at the life-line. “I'd be awfully glad if you would.”
“What sort of a house do you want, and where?”
“Do you know, I haven't the remotest idea,” said Hugh, and the girl burst out laughing. The intolerable tension was relieved, and Hugh leant back in his corner of the sofa and laughed too.
“I told you I was loopy,” he said, and the girl laughed again. But behind the laughter was the knowledge why it was that this man had torn everything he possessed from himself
and flung it aside, and what torments of the soul lay behind the eccentricity. To laugh at him, and make him laugh at himself, was the only safe thing to do at the moment. There is nothing to equal laughter, either as camouflage or safety-valve.
Mona Wilton leant forward, resting her elbow on her knee and her chin on her hand, and considered him.
“It is to be a mixture of ‘Lá-Bas’ and ‘A Rebours’ is it?” she said.
“Yes, that's exactly it,” replied Hugh eagerly, his facile attention distracted and caught, as she had meant it to be.
“Does access to town, or anything like that matter?”
“Not a ha'porth.”
“Very well, then, the best thing we can do is to get out a map and pick a district that will give the right conditions. Uncle Jelkes!” she called, and the old bookseller popped his head out of the kitchen. “Have you got a big atlas? One that has a geological map in it?”
Jelkes ambled over to the far corner of the room, pushed some books aside with his foot, and extracted an enormous and very dilapidated tome.
“Here you are,” he said, lugging it across to the sofa and depositing it between them. “It's pretty ancient, but I guess the geological strata haven't changed much since it was published.”
“And I want a pencil and ruler, please.”
“Huh,” said the bookseller. “So you're at that game, are you?”
He gave her what she required and disappeared into the kitchen again, apparently getting on with the washing- up, an unheard-of performance.
“Now look,” said Mona, opening the atlas at the map of England. “There are certain places that are more suitable than others for what you want to do, just as there are some places where you can grow rhododendrons, and some where you can grow roses; and the places that will grow the one, won't grow the other.”
“Oh, you're a gardener, are you, in addition to all your other accomplishments?”
“I used to be. Now look at this map. You see Avebury?”
“Yes.”
“That was the centre of the old sun-worship. Now draw a line from Avebury to any other place where there are the remains of ancient worship, and anywhere along that line will be good for what you want.”