Maid In Waiting eotc-1

by John Galsworthy

  For somebody, did he mean?

  That or the other, how should he know? No, she wasn’t looking on the pavement; no, she didn’t stop, she passed HIM, anyway, without a look. Had he spoken to her? No fear! Doing? Oh, he was just outside his shop for a breath of air after closing. Did he see her speak to anyone? No, he didn’t, but he wasn’t there long.

  “The Reverend Hilary Charwell.”

  Dinny saw her uncle rise from a bench and step up under the canopy of the witness box. He looked active and unclerical, and her eyes rested with pleasure on his long firm face, so wrinkled and humorous.

  “Your name is Hilary Charwell?”

  “Cherrell, if you don’t mind.”

  “Quite. And you are the incumbent of St. Augustine’s-inthe-Meads?”

  Hilary bowed.

  “For how long?”

  “Thirteen years.”

  “You are acquainted with the defendant?”

  “Since she was a child.”

  “Tell us, please, Mr. Cherrell, what you know of her?”

  Dinny saw her uncle turn more definitely to the magistrate.

  “Her father and mother, sir, were people for whom I had every respect; they brought up their children well. He was a shoemaker—poor, of course; we’re all poor in my parish. I might almost say they died of poverty five and six years ago, and their two daughters have been more or less under my eye since. They work at Petter and Poplin’s. I’ve never heard anything against Millicent here. So far as I know, she’s a good honest girl.”

  “I take it, Mr. Cherrell, your opportunities of judging of her are not very great?”

  “Well, I visit the house in which she lodges with her sister. If you saw it, sir, you would agree that it requires some self-respect to deal as well as they do with the conditions there.”

  “Is she a member of your congregation?”

  A smile came on her uncle’s lips, and was reflected on the magistrate’s.

  “Hardly, sir. Their Sundays are too precious to young people nowadays. But Millicent is one of the girls who goes for her holidays to our Rest House near Dorking. They are always very good girls down there. My niece by marriage, Mrs. Michael Mont, who runs the house, has reported well of her. Shall I read what she says?

  “‘DEAR UNCLE HILARY,

  “‘You ask about Millicent Pole. She has been down three times, and the matron reports that she is a nice girl and not at all flighty. My own impression of her is the same.’”

  “Then it comes to this, Mr. Cherrell: in your view a mistake has been made in this case?”

  “Yes, sir; I am convinced of it.”

  The girl in the dock put her handkerchief to her eyes. And Dinny felt, suddenly, indignant at the extreme wretchedness of her position. To stand there before all those people, even if she had done as they said! And why shouldn’t a girl ask a man for his companionship? He wasn’t obliged to give it.

  The tall policeman stirred, looked down at her, as if scenting unorthodoxy, and cleared his throat.

  “Thank you, Mr. Cherrell.”

  Hilary stepped out of the witness box and in doing so caught sight of his niece and waved a finger. Dinny became aware that the case was over, the magistrate making up his mind. He sat perfectly silent, pressing his finger-tips together and staring at the girl, who had finished mopping her eyes and was staring back at him. Dinny held her breath. On the next minute—a life, perhaps, hung in the balance! The tall policeman changed his feet. Was his sympathy with his fellow in the force, or with that girl? All the little noises in the Court had ceased, the only sound was the scratching of a pen. The magistrate held his finger-tips apart and spoke:

  “I am not satisfied that this case has been made out. The defendant will be dismissed. You may go.”

  The girl made a little choking sound. To her right the candlestick-maker uttered a hoarse: “‘Ear! ‘ear!”

  “‘Ush!” said the tall policeman. Dinny saw her uncle walking out beside the girl; he smiled as he passed.

  “Wait for me, Dinny—shan’t be two minutes!”

  Slipping out behind the tall policeman, Dinny waited in the lobby. The nature of things around gave her the shuddery feeling one had turning up the light in a kitchen at night; the scent of Condy’s Fluid assailed her nostrils; she moved nearer to the outer door. A police sergeant said:

  “Anything I can do for you, Miss?”

  “Thank you, I’m waiting for my uncle; he’s just coming.”

  “The reverend gentleman?”

  Dinny nodded.

  “Ah! He’s a good man, is the Vicar. That girl got off?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well! Mistakes will ‘appen. Here he is, Miss.”

  Hilary came up and put his arm through Dinny’s.

  “Ah! Sergeant,” he said, “how’s the Missis?”

  “Prime, Sir. So you pulled her out of it?”

  “Yes,” said Hilary; “and I want a pipe. Come along, Dinny.” And, nodding to the sergeant, he led her into the air.

  “What brought YOU into this galley, Dinny?”

  “I came after you, Uncle. Aunt May brought me. Did that girl really not do it?”

  “Ask me another. But to convict her was the surest way to send her to hell. She’s behind with her rent, and her sister’s ill. Hold on a minute while I light up.” He emitted a cloud of smoke and resumed her arm. “What do you want of me, my dear?”

  “An introduction to Lord Saxenden.”

  “Snubby Bantham? Why?”

  “Because of Hubert.”

  “Oh! Going to vamp him?”

  “If you’ll bring us together.”

  “I was at Harrow with Snubby, he was only a baronet then—I haven’t seen him since.”

  “But you’ve got Wilfred Bentworth in your pocket, Uncle, and their estates march.”

  “Well, I daresay Bentworth will give me a note to him for you.”

  “That’s not what I want. I want to meet him socially.”

  “Um! Yes, you can hardly vamp him without. What’s the point, exactly?”

  “Hubert’s future. We want to get at the fountain-head before worse befalls.”

  “I see. But look here, Dinny, Lawrence is your man. He has Bentworth going to them at Lippinghall on Tuesday next week, for partridge driving. You could go too.”

  “I thought of Uncle Lawrence, but I couldn’t miss the chance of seeing you, Uncle.”

  “My dear,” said Hilary, “attractive nymphs mustn’t say things like that. They go to the head. Well, here we are! Come in and have tea.”

  In the drawing room of the Vicarage Dinny was startled to see again her Uncle Adrian. He was sitting in a corner with his long legs drawn in, surrounded by two young women who looked like teachers. He waved his spoon, and presently came over to her.

  “After we parted, Dinny, who should appear but the man of wrath himself, to see my Peruvians.”

  “Not Hallorsen?”

  Adrian held out a card: ‘Professor Edward Hallorsen,’ and in pencil, ‘Piedmont Hotel.’

  “He’s a much more personable bloke than I thought when I met him husky and bearded in the Dolomites; and I should say he’s no bad chap if taken the right way. And what I was going to say to you was: Why not take him the right way?”

  “You haven’t read Hubert’s diary, Uncle.”

  “I should like to.”

  “You probably will. It may be published.”

  Adrian whistled faintly.

  “Perpend, my dear. Dog-fighting is excellent for all except the dogs.”

  “Hallorsen’s had his innings. It’s Hubert’s turn to bat.”

  “Well, Dinny—no harm in having a look at the bowling before he goes in. Let me arrange a little dinner. Diana Ferse will have us at her house, and you can stay the night with her for it. So what about Monday?”

  Dinny wrinkled her rather tip-tilted nose. If, as she intended, she went to Lippinghall next week, Monday WOULD be handy. It might, after all, be as well to
see this American before declaring war on him.

  “All right, Uncle, and thank you very much. If you’re going West may I come with you? I want to see Aunt Emily and Uncle Lawrence. Mount Street’s on your way home.”

  “Right! When you’ve had your fill, we’ll start.”

  “I’m quite full,” said Dinny, and got up.

  CHAPTER 6

  Her luck held, and she flushed her third Uncle contemplating his own house in Mount Street, as if he were about to make an offer for it.

  “Ah! Dinny, come along; your Aunt’s moulting, and she’ll be glad to see you. I miss old Forsyte,” he added in the hall. “I was just considering what I ought to ask for this house if we let it next season. You didn’t know old Forsyte—Fleur’s father: he was a character.”

  “What is the matter with Aunt Em, Uncle Lawrence?”

  “Nothing, my dear. I think the sight of poor old Uncle ‘Cuffs’ has made her dwell on the future. Ever dwell on the future, Dinny? It’s a dismal period, after a certain age.”

  He opened a door.

  “My dear, here’s Dinny.”

  Emily, Lady Mont, was standing in her panelled drawing-room flicking a feather brush over a bit of Famille Verte, with her parakeet perched on her shoulder. She lowered the brush, advanced with a far-away look in her eyes, said “Mind, Polly,” and kissed her niece. The parakeet transferred itself to Dinny’s shoulder and bent its head round enquiringly to look in her face.

  “He’s such a dear,” said Lady Mont; “you won’t mind if he tweaks your ear? I’m so glad you came, Dinny; I’ve been so thinking of funerals. Do tell me your idea about the hereafter.”

  “Is there one, Auntie?”

  “Dinny! That’s so depressing.”

  “Perhaps those who want one have it.”

  “You’re like Michael. He’s so mental. Where did you pick Dinny up, Lawrence?”

  “In the street.”

  “That sounds improper. How is your father, Dinny? I hope he isn’t any the worse for that dreadful house at Porthminster. It did so smell of preserved mice.”

  “We’re all very worried about Hubert, Aunt Em.”

  “Ah! Hubert, yes. You know, I think he made a mistake to flog those men. Shootin’ them one can quite understand, but floggin’ is so physical and like the old Duke.”

  “Don’t you feel inclined to flog carters when they lash overloaded horses up-hill, Auntie?”

  “Yes, I do. Was that what they were doin’?”

  “Practically, only worse. They used to twist the mules’ tails and stick their knives into them, and generally play hell with the poor brutes.”

  “Did they? I’m so glad he flogged them; though I’ve never liked mules ever since we went up the Gemmi. Do you remember, Lawrence?”

  Sir Lawrence nodded. On his face was the look, affectionate but quizzical, which Dinny always connected with Aunt Em.

  “Why, Auntie?”

  “They rolled on me; not they exactly, but the one I was ridin’. They tell me it’s the only time a mule has ever rolled on anybody—surefooted.”

  “Dreadful taste, Auntie!”

  “Yes; and most unpleasant—so internal. Do you think Hubert would like to come and shoot partridges at Lippinghall next week?’

  “I don’t think you could get Hubert to go anywhere just now. He’s got a terrible hump. But if you have a cubby-hole left for me, could I come?”

  “Of course. There’ll be plenty of room. Let’s see: just Charlie Muskham and his new wife, Mr. Bentworth and Hen, Michael and Fleur, and Diana Ferse, and perhaps Adrian because he doesn’t shoot, and your Aunt Wilmet. Oh! ah! And Lord Saxenden.”

  “What!” cried Dinny.

  “Why? Isn’t he respectable?”

  “But, Auntie—that’s perfect! He’s my objective.”

  “What a dreadful word; I never heard it called that before. Besides, there’s a Lady Saxenden, on her back somewhere.”

  “No, no, Aunt Em. I want to get at him about Hubert. Father says he’s the nod.”

  “Dinny, you and Michael use the oddest expressions. What nod?”

  Sir Lawrence broke the petrified silence he usually observed in the presence of his wife.

  “Dinny means, my dear, that Saxenden is a big noise behind the scenes in military matters.”

  “What is he like, Uncle Lawrence?”

  “Snubby? I’ve known him many years—quite a lad.”

  “This is very agitatin’,” said Lady Mont, resuming the parakeet.

  “Dear Auntie, I’m quite safe.”

  “But is Lord—er—Snubby? I’ve always tried to keep Lippin’hall respectable. I’m very doubtful about Adrian as it is, but”—she placed the parakeet on the mantelpiece—“he’s my favourite brother. For a favourite brother one does things.”

  “One does,” said Dinny.

  “That’ll be all right, Em,” put in Sir Lawrence. “I’ll watch over Dinny and Diana, and you can watch over Adrian and Snubby.”

  “Your uncle gets more frivolous every year, Dinny; he tells me the most dreadful stories.” She stood still alongside Sir Lawrence and he put his hand through her arm.

  Dinny thought: ‘The Red King and the White Queen.’

  “Well, good-bye, Dinny,” said her Aunt, suddenly; “I have to go to bed. My Swedish masseuse is takin’ me off three times a week. I really am reducin’.” Her eyes roved over Dinny: “I wonder if she could put you on a bit!”

  “I’m fatter than I look, Auntie.”

  “So am I—it’s distressin’. If your uncle wasn’t a hop-pole I shouldn’t mind so much.” She inclined her cheek, and Dinny gave it a smacking kiss.

  “What a nice kiss!” said Lady Mont. “I haven’t had a kiss like that for years. People do peck so! Come, Polly!” and, with the parakeet upon her shoulder, she swayed away.

  “Aunt Em looks awfully well.”

  “She is, my dear. It’s her mania—getting stout; she fights it tooth and nail. We live on the most variegated cookery. It’s better at Lippinghall, because Augustine leads us by the nose, and she’s as French as she was thirty-five years ago when we brought her back from our honeymoon. Cooks like a bird, still. Fortunately nothing makes me fat.”

  “Aunt Em isn’t fat.”

  “M-no.”

  “And she carries herself beautifully. We don’t carry ourselves like that.”

  “Carriage went out with Edward,” said Sir Lawrence; “it was succeeded by the lope. All you young women lope as if you were about to spring on to something and make a get-away. I’ve been trying to foresee what will come next. Logically it should be the bound, but it may quite well revert and be the languish.”

  “What sort of man is Lord Saxenden, really, Uncle Lawrence?”

  “One of those who won the war by never having his opinion taken. You know the sort of thing: ‘Went down for week-end to Cooquers. The Capers were there, and Gwen Blandish; she was in force and had much to say about the Polish front. I had more. Talked with Capers; he thinks the Boches have had enough. I disagreed with him; he is very down on Lord T. Arthur Prose came over on Sunday; he estimates that the Russians now have two million rifles but no bullets. The war, he says, will be over by January. He is appalled by our losses. If he only knew what I know! Lady Thripp was there with her son, who has lost his left foot. She is most engaging; promised to go and see her hospital and tell her how to run it. Very pleasant dinner on Sunday—everybody in great form; we played at comfits. Alick came in after; he says we lost forty thousand men in the last attack, but the French lost more. I expressed the opinion that it was very serious. No one took it.’”

  Dinny laughed. “Were there such people?”

  “Were there not, my dear! Most valuable fellows; what we should have done without them—the way they kept their ends up and their courage and their conversation—the thing had to be seen to be believed. And almost all of them won the war. Saxenden was especially responsible. He had an active job all the time.”

&nb
sp; “What job?”

  “Being in the know. He was probably more in the know than anybody else on earth, judging by what he says. Remarkable constitution, too, and lets you see it: great yachtsman.”

  “I shall look forward to him.”

  “Snubby,” sighed her uncle, “is one of those persons at whom it is better to look back. Would you like to stay the night, Dinny, or are you going home?”

  “Oh, I must go back to-night. My train’s at eight from Paddington.”

  “In that case I’ll lope you across the Park, give you a snack at Paddington, and put you into the train.”

  “Oh! don’t bother about me, Uncle Lawrence.”

  “Let you cross the Park without me, and miss the chance of being arrested for walking with a young female! Never! We might even sit, and try our luck. You’re just the type that gets the aged into trouble. There’s something Botticellian about you, Dinny. Come along.”

  It was seven o’clock of the September evening when they debouched into Hyde Park, and, passing under the plane trees, walked on its withered grass.