Belinski grinned.
“That must have been quite a rag.”
“I don’t understand,” said Andrew, more stiffly still.
“Nor did I. I had heard of it, you see, I was interested. I met a young man who belonged to it, a rich young man a little like yourself. He said it was quite a rag.”
With that Belinski rolled over on his face and apparently went to sleep. Andrew stood beside him a few moments longer, and then walked off.
II
Sir Henry rode gently on, not thinking much, absorbed in an almost physical pleasure of recognition. Every least landmark, every turning, gate and tree, was as familiar to him as the lines on his hand, and all that he saw he loved. It was a love free from the desire to possess; much of the land over which he rode had belonged to his father, more to his grandfather; time and taxes had shorn the Carmel estates. Sir Henry for himself hardly regretted their passing; land was a great trouble, always had been; never would he forget the struggles he went through, between 1914 and 1918, with the Ministry of Agriculture. (“Ignorant fellers,” thought Sir Henry automatically.) But if Andrew wanted to take in the home farm again, it could no doubt be managed; let the lad try his hand, thought Sir Henry. Though there was nothing in Andrew’s education or tastes to fit him for such a project, Sir Henry had come to think of the home farm, in connection with his son, as a sort of lure. “For he’s not an idle chap like me,” reflected Sir Henry simply. “He wants to be doing.…”
Smoothly Golden Boy carried Sir Henry on, the choice of road as much his as his master’s. Whenever they passed a labourer in the fields the man would stop working, and straighten his back, and stare—the elder among them touching their caps and waiting while Sir Henry plunged into his memory for their names. They were pleased to have seen him. A farmer’s wife came to her door to watch Sir Henry go by, and afterwards told her husband of it. A couple of intellectual hikers stopped him and asked the way, for the mere pleasure of conversing with such a piece of local colour. The postman saw him, and carried the news on his rounds. By the time Sir Henry turned his horse’s head for home the whole neighbourhood knew that the Squire had been out, and in the Artichoke at Friars Carmel wagers were being laid as to the age of Golden Boy.
Among the most interested observers of this progress were Cluny and Mr. Wilson.
III
They had met at the foot of the Gorge, Cluny accompanied by Roddy, who with tactful enthusiasm leapt up at the chemist, leaving large smears of mud on his raincoat. But Mr. Wilson fended him off most good-naturedly, and said he was a handsome beast.
“I take him for company,” explained Cluny. She threw an apologetic glance at Roderick as she spoke—but there was something about Mr. Wilson that always made her feel orphanish.
“To-day, if you like, you can have mine,” said Mr. Wilson. He spoke rather as one conferring a favour, but since Cluny also saw it in this light, no harm was done. She was only surprised.
“But you don’t shut on Wednesdays?”
“I do now,” said Mr. Wilson. “I have decided that it would be beneficial to the village to have one shop open on a Thursday noon.”
Cluny was quite overwhelmed. For though the change might benefit Friars Carmel—and would certainly do business no harm—she did not believe that this was Mr. Wilson’s sole reason for making it. He had made it in order to be free to come for walks with herself. (To walk out with her, in fact.) It was the greatest compliment she had ever received, and she turned upon the chemist such grateful, such fervent and startled eyes, as to leave no doubt of her emotions.
“Puir lonely lass!” said Mr. Wilson—almost affectionately; and then, as though afraid of going too fast, as indeed he was, for one of his temperament, quickly remarked that there was a fine prospect from the brow of the lane. Cluny willingly fell into step beside him, and with Roddy ranging ahead they began to mount the Gorge. As once before, Cluny’s heels rang on paving-stones, and with a delightful sense of confidence she asked Mr. Wilson why.
He did not fail her.
“It used to be an old road for pack-horses. You’ll observe it’s just wide enough to take a pack, or pannier, on either side.”
“What a lot you know!”
“I naturally interest myself in my surroundings. If you like, I’ll lend you a book on the subject.”
“Thank you very much,” said Cluny.
They walked up to the crest, and it was from thence, looking down over the Carmel road, that they saw Sir Henry pass below. Like the men in the fields, like the farmer’s wife, they’ instinctively stood to watch him.
“Now, there’s a sight I like to see,” said Mr. Wilson suddenly, “and yet I couldn’t tell you why.”
“It’s Sir Henry,” said Cluny. “I didn’t know he went riding.”
“You’ll rarely see him, for he’s almost given it up. Yet they say at one time it was his whole life.”
“He’s very fond of Lady Carmel,” said Cluny, defending him.
“I’ve no doubt of it, for he’s a good body—although a do-nothing. I’ve a sympathy for a man who sticks as he has to his home-soil.”
Cluny hesitated.
“Mr. Wilson,” she said cautiously, “have you ever thought that if you don’t always live in the same place, the whole universe is to let?”
“What’s that you say?” asked Mr. Wilson, with a frown.
“I mean”—instinctively Cluny toned down the flamboyance of the phrase—“if you’re not quite settled, you can choose where to live.”
“That is perfectly true. Where there are children, for example, it is necessary to be near a good school. But as for the whole universe, all the countries of the world—I do not see how one could form a sound judgement. Surely it would be necessary to visit them all first.”
“I suppose so,” admitted Cluny.
“It would be a fine project for a Methusaleh,” said the chemist, smiling at her. “The average man does better to stick where he’s born.”
“I suppose he does,” agreed Cluny.
They agreed more and more. Not that Cluny, on this walk or on the walks that followed, ever suppressed even her flightiest fancies: only Mr. Wilson examined them all so reasonably, and with such good humour, that she always came round to his point of view. When Cluny said (for instance) she wished she were a Golden Labrador like Roddy, with no house work to do and no stockings to mend, Mr. Wilson reminded her of Roddy’s indignant howls when tied up outside the shop: a collar and chain, he said, were the true fundamentals of a dog’s life. When Cluny said she wished she had a Labrador, Mr. Wilson pointed out that so long as domestic service survived, the convenience of the employer naturally came first. Whether Cluny would have learnt these lessons so readily from any one but a tragic bachelor, is open to doubt; as it was she tasted for the first time in her life the pleasures of discipleship, and it would have been hard to say which of the two, pupil or pedagogue, enjoyed these conversations more.
“Well?” said Mrs. Maile kindly, when Cluny came in at seven o’clock. “Did you have a nice walk?”
“Yes, thank you,” said Cluny. “With Mr. Wilson.”
The housekeeper looked surprised.
“On a Wednesday, my dear?”
“He’s changed his early closing,” said Cluny calmly.
She said no more, and there was no need; the implication was enough. Cluny went upstairs with a demure yet conceited step, happy in the knowledge that Mrs. Maile could have been knocked down with a feather.
IV
Dear Uncle Arn,
The weather is still very fine, and how I wish you could see the lambs, also the primroses and other flowers, how they have the nerve to charge what they do in Paddington beats me. Mr. Wilson says it is transport. He is the chemist in Friars Carmel and very well-educated, Mrs. Maile says we are lucky to have such a chemist in a place like this. Mr. Andrew is home again, another room to do. Life here is as hard as ever, but I suppose so long as domestic service survives the conve
nience of the employer naturally comes first. I suppose you wouldn’t like a Golden Labrador puppy. If you would, I think I can get you one for nothing, it would be company now you haven’t got me. I think of you often and hope the plumbing goes O.K., not too many calls at night or when you are tired. I told Mr. Wilson I had an uncle who was a plumber, he said it was a very necessary calling. Tell Aunt Addie I am sick and tired of sending love when she never sends so much as a post card back.
Your affectionate neice,
CLUNY BROWN
Chapter 15
I
The affairs of both Andrew and Cluny were at this time in a very interesting state. For each events were impending that would change the course of their lives, and though Andrew far more than Cluny was still a free agent, both were momentarily held in suspense. It was not disagreeable, for they both, also, felt peculiarly important, as though Fate had put all other interests aside to concentrate on them alone. How wrong they were! Fate was indeed hovering hawklike over Friars Carmel, but when it struck it swooped not upon Andrew, not upon Cluny, but upon the Professor.
From one minute to the next, in the space of time it took to slit an envelope, the Professor became a wealthy man. He received a letter, forwarded by Maria Dillon, containing a draft for five hundred dollars on account of his American royalties. It seemed to surprise him very much.
“But didn’t you expect it?” asked Andrew curiously. “I mean, wasn’t it in your contract?”
“That is what I am trying to remember,” said Mr. Belinski. “I am not really unbusiness-like, but my contract is in Berlin. That is where all my papers are, at the Adlon. I left them all in my large suitcase, because I was coming back after I had been to Bonn, but when I had delivered my famous lecture I naturally did not return. So I suppose my contract is still in my suitcase at the Adlon, if that is where my suitcase is.” He sighed. “My American agent was there too.”
“Who’s he?” asked Andrew.
“Not he, she. Miss Dunnett. In America women do everything.”
“Is she good?”
“Very,” said Mr. Belinski regretfully. “She would not even let me kiss her. And business-like! That is why I do not worry about my contract, I am quite certain all is safe in her hands. She had beautiful hands, indeed she was beautiful altogether, very slight but well-built, with dark hair and eyes. And dressed with great chic. You can imagine how sorry I was to leave my American agent at the Adlon!”
Andrew could imagine it very well, and felt great sympathy for the beautiful and business-like Miss Dunnett. Making an attempt to be business-like himself, he asked who was publishing the book in England.
“No one, because there is no manuscript. The other two copies besides the one in America were in my suitcase too. But it does not matter, because my publishers here are the Oxford University Press.”
“The Oxford University Press obviously want to publish anything you write,” objected Andrew.
“Not this time,” said Mr. Belinski firmly. “This time I am different. This time I am very, very popular. In eighty thousand words I tell you all about all European literature, also what Balzac paid for his shirts. What is important is that I can now buy some shirts for myself.”
So the following morning Andrew drove him into Carmel, and helped him to open a bank account, and also drove him to an Exeter shirt maker’s. Here Belinski’s behaviour was rather trying: against all advice he ordered pastel-shade silks, which Andrew privately considered caddish, to be made up with very pointed collars. Then he bought a really beautiful Chelsea china figure to give to Lady Carmel, a copy of Gulliver’s Travels, and two pairs of silk stockings. Andrew could not help cocking an eye at these last, especially when, in the car going back, Belinski arranged them like book-marks in the Gulliver, the feet hanging out at one end and the tops at the other.
“Ha ha!” said Mr. Belinski.
It was extraordinary what a difference a hundred pounds had made to him: or so thought Andrew, not making allowance for several other factors, such as improved health due to regular living; for Mr. Belinski, in spite of his bitter complaint to Cluny, or rather as that complaint proved, had been accumulating a new fund of vitality which needed only just such an incident to release it. He was in a mood to start a newspaper. In Poland he and his friends frequently started newspapers, which were either suppressed or died a natural death after an average life of two months: they were like tadpoles, all head and tail.
“When do you suppose your book will come out?” enquired Andrew, who really took a great interest in it.
“Oh, quite soon,” replied Mr. Belinski confidently. “They have had the manuscript a long time. I dare say it is out now. Whether there will be any more money is of course a different matter. If I could sell the film rights—!”
Andrew did not see how this was possible, as one could hardly film literary criticism, and Belinski reluctantly agreed.
“But there could be a very good film about Balzac and the Countess Hanska,” he pointed out. “That is quite full of sex, which literary criticism, as you say, is not.” (Andrew had said nothing of the sort, but he took the point.) “And I could write such a book most easily,” went on Belinski, with growing enthusiasm. “It would also be a study of the Polish erotic temperament. In fact, if I cannot start a newspaper, I think that is what I will do next.”
His immediate act, however, while Andrew was still putting the car away, was to seek out Cluny Brown to present her with the copy of Gulliver (for the one he had hit her with) and the two pairs of stockings (for having hurt her feelings over her snood). He was in a mood of universal benevolence.
Cluny, on the other hand, was not. She was hanging out washing at the time, and at first would not even notice his approach.
“Miss Brown!” said Mr. Belinski winningly.
Cluny continued not to notice him.
“If any of my remarks have at any time offended you, I apologize. These small gifts are a peace-offering.”
“Thank you, I don’t want them,” said Cluny.
“But what is wrong?” Mr. Belinski examined the stockings anxiously. “They are pure silk, and fully fashioned. Also they are both pairs the same colour, in case one ladders.”
“They’re swell,” said Cluny, more kindly. “I can see you’ve had a lot of experience. But you can’t give me stockings.”
“Will you tell me why not?”
Cluny picked up a traycloth, flicked it out, and pinned it very carefully on the line. There was a primness, almost a priggishness, about her movements which the Professor found both unusual and irritating.
“I suppose,” he said angrily, “Mrs. Maile would object?”
“I don’t know. Very likely she would. But I wasn’t thinking of Mrs. Maile.”
“Who are you thinking of, then?”
“If you must know,” said Cluny, “and I really don’t know that it’s your business, but let that pass—I’m thinking of Uncle Arn.”
Considerably nettled by this treatment, Belinski made his way to the library to put the Gulliver on the shelf beside its duplicate, and there was lucky enough to receive a little undeserved balm from Sir Henry. Sir Henry came in (from the midst of a letter to British Guiana) to look up the name of the Derby winner of 1904, and with his ready curiosity at once demanded to know what Belinski was doing. “I am repairing a damage,” explained the latter, holding up a book in each hand. “The leaves in your Gulliver are a little loose, since I had the misfortune to throw it out of a window.”
“Out of a window, my dear fellow?”
“At a cat,” said Mr. Belinski.
Sir Henry was much amused. (If Belinski had said, “At a dog,” he would of course have taken a different view.) He was also impressed by the Professor’s keen sense of honour, and praised it very highly. They spent a pleasant five minutes in mutual compliments, and Belinski went off in search of Lady Carmel in a more cheerful mood. With her too he fared well; she was so charmed by the Chelsea figure, as also by t
he little speech he made as he presented it, that she took him all around the herbaceous borders explaining what was going to come up. But the two pairs of stockings still burnt a hole in the Professor’s pocket; and he formed the audacious plan of presenting them to Mrs. Maile.
After tea, therefore, when Syrett came for the tray, Belinski followed him out and through the baize door into the domestic quarters. It was the first time he had ever entered the kitchen, and he was at once struck by its size. The room itself, the immense canopied range, the huge dressers, all seemed to have been designed for a race of giants; and this lent a curious charm to the small domestic group established by the fire. It consisted of three persons, Hilda, Cluny, and Mrs. Maile herself. Hilda and Mrs. Maile each held one end of an old sheet, which they were cutting into pudding-cloths; Cluny was peeling almonds. She sat very still, because of the bowl of water in her lap; her long neck was bent above it, and even the pony tail sticking out behind could not detract from the general impression of meekness. As Mr. Syrett came in their three heads turned; for a moment, at the sight of Belinski coming in after him, their three pairs of hands stopped working. Then the housekeeper laid aside her scissors and courteously rose.
“Yes, Professor?” she said enquiringly. “Can I do anything for you?”
But Belinski still had his eyes on the two girls. The black of their dresses, the white sheet and aprons, the band of blue on the white bowl, produced a very satisfying effect; as did Hilda’s tawny head and round red cheeks in contrast with Cluny’s etched profile. After that first instant Cluny had bent again over her almonds—meeker than ever, and very aloof. Mr. Syrett meanwhile deposited his tray on the table, and the housekeeper spared him an annoyed glance. If gentlemen wished to come into the kitchen, it was Syrett’s duty to give her warning.…
“Yes, Professor?” repeated Mrs. Maile.
Belinski detached his gaze from Cluny Brown and unfurled the stockings.
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