Maid In Waiting eotc-1

by John Galsworthy

With the popular instinct for experiencing emotion at secondhand a little crowd of Hilary’s parishioners had gathered outside, and a squeaky cheer rose from them as Jean and Hubert got into the brown roadster, and drove away.

  “Come in this cab with me, Uncle,” said Dinny.

  “Does Ferse seem to mind your being there?” asked Adrian, in the cab.

  “He’s quite polite, just silent; his eyes are always on Diana. I’m terribly sorry for him.”

  Adrian nodded. “And she?”

  “Wonderful; as if nothing were out of the ordinary. He won’t go out, though; just stays in the dining-room—watches from there all the time.”

  “The world must seem to him a conspiracy. If he remains sane long enough he’ll lose that feeling.”

  “Need he ever become insane again? Surely there are cases of complete recovery?”

  “So far as I can gather, my dear, his case is not likely to be one of them. Heredity is against him, and temperament.”

  “I could have liked him, it’s such a daring face; but his eyes ARE frightening.”

  “Have you seen him with the children?”

  “Not yet; but they speak quite nicely and naturally about him; so he hasn’t scared them, you see.”

  “At the Home they talked jargon to me about complexes, obsessions, repressions, dissociation—all that sort of thing, but I gathered that his case is one where fits of great gloom alternate with fits of great excitement. Lately, both have grown so much milder that he has become practically normal. What has to be watched for is the recrudescence of one or of the other. He always had a streak of revolt in him; he was up against the leadership in the war, up against democracy after the war. He’ll almost certainly get up against something now he’s back. If he does it will ungear him again in no time. If there’s any weapon in the house, Dinny, it ought to be removed.”

  “I’ll tell Diana.”

  The cab turned into the King’s Road.

  “I suppose I’d better not come to the house,” said Adrian, sadly.

  Dinny got out, too. She stood a moment watching him, tall and rather stooping, walk away, then turned down Oakley Street, and let herself in. Ferse was in the dining-room doorway.

  “Come in here,” he said; “I want a talk.”

  In that panelled room, painted a greenish-gold, lunch had been cleared away, and on the narrow refectory table were a newspaper, a tobacco jar, and several books. Ferse drew up a chair for her and stood with his back to a fire which simulated flames. He was not looking at her, so she was able to study him as she had not yet had the chance of doing. His handsome face was uncomfortable to look on. The high cheek-bones, stiff jaw, and crisp grizzled hair set off those thirsty burning steel-blue eyes. Even his attitude, square and a-kimbo, with head thrust forward, set off those eyes. Dinny leaned back, scared and faintly smiling. He turned to her and said:

  “What are people saying about me?”

  “I’ve not heard anything; I’ve only been to my brother’s wedding.”

  “Your brother Hubert? Whom has he married?”

  “A girl called Jean Tasburgh. You saw her the day before yesterday.”

  “Oh! Ah! I locked her in.”

  “Yes, why?”

  “She looked dangerous to me. I consented to go into that place, you know. I wasn’t put there.”

  “Oh! I know; I knew you were there of your own accord.”

  “It wasn’t such a bad place, but—well! How do I look?”

  Dinny said softly: “You see, I never saw you before, except at a distance, but I think you look very well.”

  “I am well. I kept my muscles up. The fellow that looked after me saw to that.”

  “Did you read much?”

  “Lately—yes. What do they think about me?”

  At the repetition of this question Dinny looked up into his face.

  “How can they think about you without having seen you?”

  “You mean I ought to see people?”

  “I don’t know anything about it, Captain Ferse. But I don’t see why not. You’re seeing me.”

  “I like YOU.”

  Dinny put out her hand.

  “Don’t say you’re sorry for me,” Ferse said, quickly.

  “Why should I? You’re perfectly all right, I’m sure.”

  He covered his eyes with his hand.

  “I am, but how long shall I be?”

  “Why not always?”

  Ferse turned to the fire.

  Dinny said, timidly: “If you don’t worry, nothing will happen again.”

  Ferse spun round to her. “Have you seen much of my children?”

  “Not very much.”

  “Any likeness to me in them?”

  “No; they take after Diana.”

  “Thank God for that! What does Diana think about me?” This time his eyes searched hers, and Dinny realised that on her answer everything might depend.

  “Diana is just glad.”

  He shook his head violently. “Not possible.”

  “The truth is often not possible.”

  “She doesn’t hate me?”

  “Why should she?”

  “Your Uncle Adrian—what’s between them? Don’t just say: Nothing.”

  “My uncle worships her,” said Dinny, quietly, “that’s why they are just friends.”

  “Just friends?”

  “Just friends.”

  “That’s all you know, I suppose.”

  “I know for certain.”

  Ferse sighed, “You’re a good sort. What would you do if you were me?”

  Again Dinny felt her ruthless responsibility.

  “I think I should do what Diana wanted.”

  “What is that?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t think she does yet.”

  Ferse strode to the window and back.

  “I’ve got to do something for poor devils like myself.”

  “Oh!” said Dinny, dismayed.

  “I’ve had luck. Most people like me would have been certified, and stuck away against their will. If I’d been poor we couldn’t have afforded that place. To be there was bad enough, but it was miles better than the usual run of places. I used to make my man talk. He’d seen two or three of them.”

  He stood silent, and Dinny thought of her uncle’s words: “He’ll get up against something, and that will ungear him again in no time.”

  Ferse went on suddenly: “If you had any other kind of job possible, would YOU take on the care of the insane? Not you, nor anyone with nerves or sensibility. A saint might, here and there, but there aren’t saints enough to go round by a long chalk. No! To look after us you’ve got to shed the bowels of compassion, you must be made of iron, you must have a hide like leather; and no nerves. With nerves you’d be worse than the thick-skinned because you’d be jumpy, and that falls on us. It’s an impasse. My God! Haven’t I thought about it? And—money. No one with money ought to be sent to one of those places. Never, never! Give him his prison at home somehow—somewhere. If I hadn’t known that I could come away at any time—if I hadn’t hung on to that knowledge even at my worst, I wouldn’t be here now—I’d be raving. God! I’d be raving! Money! And how many have money? Perhaps five in a hundred! And the other ninety-five poor devils are stuck away, willy-nilly, stuck away! I don’t care how scientific, how good those places may be, as asylums go—they mean death in life. They must. People outside think we’re as good as dead already—so who cares? Behind all the pretence of scientific treatment that’s what they really feel. We’re obscene—no longer human—the old idea of madness clings, Miss Cherrell; we’re a disgrace, we’ve failed. Hide us away, put us underground. Do it humanely—twentieth century! Humanely! Try! You can’t! Cover it all up with varnish then—varnish—that’s all it is. What else can it be? Take my word for that. Take my man’s word for it. He knew.”

  Dinny was listening, without movement. Suddenly Ferse laughed. “But we’re not dead; that’s the misfortune, we’re not dead
. If only we were! All those poor brutes—not dead—as capable of suffering in their own way as anyone else—more capable. Don’t I know? And what’s the remedy?” He put his hands to his head.

  “To find a remedy,” said Dinny, softly, “wouldn’t it be wonderful?”

  He stared at her.

  “Thicken the varnish—that’s all we do, all we shall do.”

  “Then why worry yourself?” sprang to Dinny’s lips, but she held the words back.

  “Perhaps,” she said, “you will find the remedy, only that will need patience and calm.”

  Ferse laughed.

  “You must be bored to death.” And he turned away to the window.

  Dinny slipped quietly out.

  CHAPTER 23

  In that resort of those who know—the Piedmont Grill—the knowing were in various stages of repletion, bending towards each other as if in food they had found the link between their souls. They sat, two by two, and here and there four by five, and here and there a hermit, moody or observant over a cigar, and between the tables moved trippingly the lean and nimble waiters with faces unlike their own, because they were harassed by their memories. Lord Saxenden and Jean, in a corner at the near end, had already consumed a lobster, drunk half a bottle of hock, and talked of nothing in particular, before she raised her eyes slowly from an empty claw and said:

  “Well, Lord Saxenden?”

  His blue stare goggled slightly at that thick-lashed glance.

  “Good lobster?” he said.

  “Amazing.”

  “I always come here when I want to be well fed. Is that partridge coming, waiter?”

  “Yes, milord.”

  “Well, hurry with it. Try this hock, Miss Tasburgh; you’re not drinking.”

  Jean raised her greenish glass. “I became Mrs. Hubert Cherrell yesterday. It’s in the paper.”

  Lord Saxenden’s cheeks expanded slightly with the thought: ‘Now, how does that affect me? Is this young lady more amusing single or more amusing married?’

  “You don’t waste time,” he said, his eyes exploring her, as though seeking confirmation of her changed condition. “If I’d known, I shouldn’t have had the cheek to ask you to lunch without him.”

  “Thank you,” said Jean; “he’s coming along presently.” And, through her lashes, she looked at him draining his glass thoughtfully.

  “Have you any news for me?”

  “I’ve seen Walter.”

  “Walter?”

  “The Home Secretary.”

  “How terribly nice of you!”

  “It was. Can’t bear the fellow. Got a head like an egg, except for his hair.”

  “What did he say?”

  “Young lady, nobody in any official department ever SAYS anything. He always ‘thinks it over.’ Administration has to be like that.”

  “But of course he’ll pay attention to what YOU said. What DID you say?”

  Lord Saxenden’s iced eyes seemed to answer: ‘Really, you know, really!’

  But Jean smiled; and the eyes thawed gradually.

  “You’re the most direct young woman I’ve ever come across. As a matter of fact I said: ‘Stop it, Walter.’”

  “How splendid!”

  “He didn’t like it. He’s a ‘just beast’.”

  “Could I see him?”

  Lord Saxenden began to laugh. He laughed like a man who has come across the priceless.

  Jean waited for him to finish, and said:

  “Then I shall.”

  The partridge filled the ensuing gap.

  “Look here!” said Lord Saxenden, suddenly: “If you really mean that, there’s one man who might wangle you an interview—Bobble Ferrar. He used to be with Walter when he was Foreign Secretary. I’ll give you a chit to Bobbie. Have a sweet?”

  “No, thank you. But I SHOULD like some coffee, please. There’s Hubert!”

  Just free of the revolving cage, which formed the door, was Hubert, evidently in search of his wife.

  “Bring him over here!”

  Jean looked intently at her husband. His face cleared, and he came towards them.

  “You’ve got the eye all right,” murmured Lord Saxenden, rising. “How de do? You’ve married a remarkable wife. Have some coffee? The brandy’s good here.” And taking out a card he wrote on it in a hand both neat and clear:

  “Robert Ferrar, Esq., P.O., Whitehall. Dear Bobbie, do see my young friend Mrs. Hubert Charwell and get her an interview with Walter if at all possible. Saxenden.”

  Then, handing it to Jean, he asked the waiter for his bill.

  “Hubert,” said Jean, “show Lord Saxenden your scar,” and, undoing the link of his cuff, she pushed up his sleeve. That livid streak stared queer and sinister above the tablecloth.

  “H’m!” said Lord Saxenden: “useful wipe, that.”

  Hubert wriggled his arm back under cover. “She still takes liberties,” he said.

  Lord Saxenden paid his bill and handed Hubert a cigar.

  “Forgive me if I run off now. Stay and finish your coffee. Good-bye and good luck to you both!” And, shaking their hands, he threaded his way out among the tables. The two young people gazed after him.

  “Such delicacy,” said Hubert, “is not his known weakness, I believe. Well, Jean?”

  Jean looked up.

  “What does F.O. mean?”

  “Foreign Office, my country girl.”

  “Finish your brandy, and we’ll go and see this man.”

  But in the courtyard a voice behind them said:

  “Why! Captain! Miss Tasburgh!”

  “My wife, Professor.”

  Hallorsen seized their hands.

  “Isn’t that just wonderful? I’ve a cablegram in my pocket, Captain, that’s as good as a wedding present.”

  Over Hubert’s shoulder, Jean read out: “‘Exonerating statement sworn by Manuel mailed stop American Consulate La Paz.’ That’s splendid, Professor. Will you come with us and see a man at the Foreign Office about this?”

  “Surely. I don’t want any grass to grow. Let’s take an automobile.”

  Opposite to them in the cab he radiated surprised benevolence.

  “You were mighty quick off the mark, Captain.”

  “That was Jean.”

  “Yes,” said Hallorsen, as if she were not present, “when I met her at Lippinghall I thought she could move. Is your sister pleased?”

  “Is she, Jean?”

  “Rather!”

  “A wonderful young lady. There’s something good in low buildings. This Whitehall of yours makes me feel fine. The more sun and stars you can see from a street the more moral sense there is to the people. Were you married in a stovepipe hat, Captain?”

  “No; just as I am now.”

  “I’m sorry about that. They seem to me so cunning; like carrying a lost cause about on your head. I believe you are of an old family, too, Mrs. Cherrell. Your habit over here of families that serve their country from father to son is inspiring, Captain.”

  “I hadn’t thought about that.”

  “I had a talk with your brother, Ma’am, at Lippinghall, he informed me you’d had a sailor in your family for centuries. And I’m told that in yours, Captain, there’s always been a soldier. I believe in heredity. Is this the Foreign Office?” He looked at his watch. “I’m just wondering whether that guy will be in? I’ve a kind of impression they do most of their business over food. We should do well to go and look at the ducks in the Park till three o’clock.”

  “I’ll leave this card for him,” said Jean.

  She rejoined them quickly. “He’s expected in at any minute.”

  “That’ll be half an hour,” said Hallorsen. “There’s one duck here I’d like your opinion of, Captain.”

  Crossing the wide road to the water they were nearly run down by the sudden convergence of two cars embarrassed by unwonted space. Hubert clutched Jean convulsively. He had gone livid under his tan. The cars cleared away to right and left. Hallorsen
, who had taken Jean’s other arm, said with an exaggeration of his drawl:

  “That just about took our paint off.”

  Jean said nothing.

  “I sometimes wonder,” continued Hallorsen, as they reached the ducks, “whether we get our money’s worth out of speed. What do you say, Captain?”

  Hubert shrugged. “The hours lost in going by car instead of by train are just about as many as the hours saved, anyway.”

  “That is so,” said Hallorsen. “But flying’s a real saver of time.”

  “Better wait for the full bill before we boast about flying.”

  “You’re right, Captain. We’re surely headed for hell. The next war will mean a pretty thin time for those who take part in it. Suppose France and Italy came to blows, there’d be no Rome, no Paris, no Florence, no Venice, no Lyons, no Milan, no Marseilles within a fortnight. They’d just be poisoned deserts. And the ships and armies maybe wouldn’t have fired a shot.”

  “Yes. And all governments know it. I’m a soldier, but I can’t see why they go on spending hundreds of millions on soldiers and sailors who’ll probably never be used. You can’t run armies and navies when the nerve centres have been destroyed. How long could France and Italy function if their big towns were gassed? England or Germany certainly couldn’t function a week.”

  “Your Uncle the Curator was saying to me that at the rate Man was going he would soon be back in the fish state.”

  “How?”

  “Why! Surely! Reversing the process of evolution—fishes, reptiles, birds, mammals. We’re becoming birds again, and the result of that will soon be that we shall creep and crawl, and end up in the sea when land’s uninhabitable.”

  “Why can’t we all bar the air for war?”

  “How can we bar the air?” said Jean. “Countries never trust each other. Besides, America and Russia are outside the League of Nations.”

  “We Americans would agree. But maybe not our Senate.”

  “That Senate of yours,” muttered Hubert, “seems to be a pretty hard proposition.”

  “Why! It’s like your House of Lords before a whip was taken to it in 1910. That’s the duck,” and Hallorsen pointed to a peculiar bird. Hubert stared at it.

  “I’ve shot that chap in India. It’s a—I’ve forgotten the name. We can get it from one of these boards—I shall remember if I see.”