Cluny Brown

by Margery Sharp

  “But how perfectly wonderful!” said Betty warmly. “Isn’t that just what you wanted?”

  “It is undoubtedly a great opportunity,” agreed Belinski, enjoying his importance. “I hope they will like me. But I believe they are very unprejudiced.”

  Andrew, who believed this too, nevertheless hoped that the splendid Americans were not going to get more than they bargained for; he cast a dubious eye on Belinski’s shirt. It was the corn-coloured one, worn with an Old Etonian tie, for in his first enthusiasm Andrew had given Belinski the run of his wardrobe, and he remembered how he had grinned to himself at this choice: no Communist was more sardonic than Andrew on the subject of the Old School Tie. But now he felt a reluctance to let Belinski invade America under those particular colours; he thought he would get it back. Belinski could keep his dinner-jacket and his dress shirts, however, and his evening trousers, and his grey flannels—in fact when Andrew came to consider the matter he realized that Belinski would also have to be given a trunk.

  “When do you think of making a move?” he asked casually.

  “That I am not sure. There is a man I am to see in London. They say at once, but of course I will not go quite at once,” explained Belinski, “that would not be polite to your mother. Rather than be in the least discourteous to Lady Carmel, I consign all America to the Atlantic!”

  Andrew, trusting this was merely a Polish flower of speech, said he was sure Lady Carmel would understand. But the Professor appeared to be attacked by doubts, and not only with regard to his hostess. He began to look uneasy.

  “I hope I am doing rightly,” he said. “You do not think perhaps I ought to stay here, Andrew, not prostituting my talent, as you say, but writing good books?”

  Andrew replied that all things considered, he thought Belinski ought to go to America and open the eyes of the New World to European culture. He was aware himself of the over-formality of this speech; he was in fact using formality as a dam to a great tide of relief and pleasure. Not until this moment, when relief was in sight, had Andrew allowed himself to admit the force of a dislike which did him so little credit. But for once the old rule, that where we benefit we love, had not held good; Andrew, having benefited the Professor enormously, now wished only to be rid of him. Asked why, he would have taken refuge in sheerest conventionality, and said he disliked the fellow’s shirts.…

  He became aware of Betty’s eyes fixed on him in a very thoughtful gaze. Pulling himself together, Andrew said quickly:—

  “But would you rather stay in England? Because if so, you know we’re only too glad—”

  “For how long?” asked Belinski. “For in England I have no other prospects. Friars Carmel has been my Ark.” He spoke with great feeling. With him the rule evidently worked in reverse: having received benefits, he was not only grateful, but ready to receive more. “I shall never be so happy again,” he said simply. “I have been on velvet.”

  Already the atmosphere was changed, excitement had given place to doubt, to regret; it was obvious that within five minutes the Professor could talk himself into abandoning America and spending the rest of his life at Friars Carmel. And because this risk was a real one, Andrew felt bound to take it. He remembered all too clearly how he had badgered the Professor into coming; he remembered his very words—“I thought you might stay a few years.” Though every instinct urged, he could not go back on them.

  Both Belinski and Betty were waiting. Andrew said:—

  “We all hoped you were going to make your home here; and of course that still stands. When you say, how long?—my dear chap, I can only say, for ever!”

  Out of the tail of his eye he saw Betty bring her hands together, as though in a gesture of applause. Belinski, after one moment’s silent, bright gazing, jumped down from the table and caught Andrew by the shoulders.

  “You are remarkable, you are magnificent!” he exclaimed. “I am unworthy of such friendship! You give me courage to go to America!—For I believe I shall go to America, after all.…”

  It was only as they trooped down the stair, happy and excited again, agog to tell Lady Carmel, that Andrew discovered he had been sweating.

  IV

  Her ladyship received the news with warm congratulations, and placed no obstacles in the Professor’s way. Syrett, overhearing, carried the news below stairs, where Mrs. Maile, who had shown a weakness for the Professor ever since the affair of the silk stockings, blessed her soul and hoped he would do well for himself and not be taken in. Hilda and Cluny were out of hearing at the time, and would have been left in ignorance but for a later remark of the housekeeper’s, to the effect that the east room could now be spring-cleaned. “Be Professor leavin’?” asked Hilda carelessly; and passed the news to Cluny that they’d have one less bed to make. Cluny Brown said nothing at all. Why should she? The number of beds in use at Friars Carmel would soon be a matter of complete indifference to her.

  In fact, the only person who took Belinski’s approaching departure at all to heart was Sir Henry. He wandered in while his wife was dressing for dinner and stood beside her with a troubled look.

  “Allie, what’s the Professor want to go to America for?” he demanded uneasily.

  “Dear, he’s had a book published there. That’s why we’re having champagne, to celebrate. It seems it’s a great success, and they want him to go over there and—and what Andrew call cash in on it.”

  “Seems a precarious sort of scheme to me,” grumbled Sir Henry. “He’d do much better to stay here. I’ve a good mind to speak to him.”

  “Do, dear,” said Lady Carmel. She was quite certain that Sir Henry’s speaking would not affect the Professor’s plans, and content that it should be so. There was no doubt that during the last month the Professor had greatly changed; indeed, when she remembered the quiet, dim figure he originally presented, she found it hard to realize he was the same man. “I suppose success has gone to his head,” thought Lady Carmel charitably—but at the back of her mind she knew it was Betty Cream, and that this was why his going would be such a great relief.…

  Alice Carmel looked at her husband, and wondered: he noticed very little of what went on, but was it possible he had noticed nothing? Not even the moments when Belinski, leaning over Betty’s chair, held his hand deliberately half an inch, as from a candle-flame, from her golden head? Nor the moments when he discharged a sort of electric shock of emotion as she came into a room? Seeing a small quarrel flare up on the tennis-court, did Sir Henry put it down to youthful high spirits alone? His wife did not. Her constant talk, in the evenings, of gardens and window-boxes, was not undirected; she was well aware of its soothing, almost soporific effect on the lay mind. Like Betty, she had seen Cynthia Duff-Graham’s use as a damper. But all this had been wearing, especially at a time of year when her garden needed undivided attention, and Lady Carmel contemplated with gratitude the end of a great nuisance. The Professor, whose coming had created such a stir, was about to go quietly; and as a reward was to be given the best champagne.

  Looking at her husband, with these thoughts passing through her mind, Lady Carmel also observed that Sir Henry had not finished dressing. It was half past seven. (The very moment at which, in String Street, Mr. Porritt opened his door and found a stranger on the step.) She gave Sir Henry an affectionate, dismissive pat, and told him to hurry.

  “But the poor fellow’s not going at once, is he?” persisted Sir Henry.

  “Well, not to-morrow, dear, not on a Sunday,” said Lady Carmel. She privately thought that Monday morning would be a very suitable time. That left only two more evenings to get through—“And surely,” thought Lady Carmel cheerfully, “surely we can manage that!”

  But she was over-optimistic. It was on that Saturday night that everything happened.

  Chapter 23

  I

  Opening the door to Mr. Wilson, Arnold Porritt naturally did so in the character of a plumber rather than of an uncle. (He had in fact only just cleaned himself up after his last
job, and his costume formed a marked contrast to the spruceness of Mr. Wilson.) It was therefore a considerable surprise to him when on admitting his identity, he found a basket of eggs placed in his hands.

  “What’s this?” demanded Mr. Porritt suspiciously. “I haven’t ordered ’em. You’ve got the wrong house.”

  “They are from your niece, Cluny Brown,” explained Mr. Wilson. “I have just come from Friars Carmel, and she asked me to bring them.”

  “Oh, aye,” said Mr. Porritt, still as much astonished as pleased. “Very good of you to trouble. How is she?”

  “She’s fine, and sends her love.”

  “Give her mine,” said Mr. Porritt.

  So far as he was concerned, the incident was now closed. But the gift bearer showed no signs of departing, in fact it was increasingly obvious that he expected to be asked in. But solitariness had been growing on Mr. Porritt, and he hesitated, until the chemist observed rather firmly that he would no doubt like first-hand news of his niece. At that Mr. Porritt bowed to the laws of hospitality and led the way to the kitchen.

  “Sit down a minute,” he invited. He himself set the basket on the dresser and put the eggs into a bowl before turning back to his guest. He couldn’t quite make it out: it was natural enough for young Cluny to send him eggs, if any one were coming his way and could look in; but this chap hadn’t the air of looking in, he had taken off his hat and opened his coat, and seemed to be settling down for a long spell.…

  “You’ll be wondering who I am,” said Mr. Wilson, very aptly, “though I believe your niece has mentioned my name. It is Titus Wilson, and I keep the chemist’s shop at Friars Carmel. It is my own property.”

  This very plain statement, however, rather increased than lessened Mr. Porritt’s surprise. He hadn’t asked the chap’s business, had he? So he merely said, “Aye.”

  “But Cluny has often spoken to me of you,” went on Mr. Wilson, “as being in loco parentis.”

  It now occurred to Mr. Porritt that Cluny had probably got the sack and this chemist chap was about to break the bad news.

  “If there’s anything I’ve got to know, better let me have it,” he said grimly; and Mr. Wilson at once did so.

  “I’m here to get your permission,” he said explicitly, “to ask Cluny Brown to be my wife.”

  Mr. Porritt’s jaw fell.

  II

  Only for a moment or two, however, did he stand thus gaping. Astounding as the idea was, he managed to grasp it; and with realization came the dawn of an enormous, an almost overwhelming hope. One look was enough to tell him that here was a suitor worthy of every consideration; dazed as he was, still half-incredulous, Mr. Porritt instinctively went to the cupboard and brought out two bottles of beer. The opening and pouring of them gave him further time to collect himself, and when he spoke again it was with his usual dignified good sense.

  “Your health,” said Mr. Porritt. “Now let’s get this straight. You want to marry young Cluny?”

  “I do,” replied Mr. Wilson—almost as though he were at the altar already.

  Mr. Porritt very nearly asked why. But he restrained the impulse and asked instead:—

  “And she wants to marry you?”

  “I have not yet asked her. But without being conceited, I think I may say she has a liking for me.”

  Mr. Porritt, glad to find Cluny had so much sense, nodded encouragement.

  “A strong liking,” continued the chemist. “We have seen quite a deal of each other, and it has struck me very much how content she has always been with our quiet pleasures. We go fine long walks,” said Mr. Wilson enthusiastically, “once or twice she’s come home to tea, that’s all, yet we always find subjects of conversation. I’ve never met a young lady so eager to improve her mind.”

  Like Mrs. Maile, Mr. Porritt could hardly believe his ears. If this was what good service had done for Cluny, it was more, far more, than he had ever anticipated: it seemed almost incredible. But the chemist went even further.

  “She is also uncommonly modest—as of course you’ll have observed yourself. It’s perfectly remarkable.”

  “Well, she’s no oil-painting,” pointed out Mr. Porritt.

  “Certainly not. But she has a fine intelligent expression and, in my opinion, fine eyes. I would call her definitely attractive.”

  Mr. Porritt was only too pleased to hear it. Indeed, he began to feel that there must have been more to Cluny than he had realized, if she could fix the affections of so sterling a character as Mr. Wilson. Over the rim of his beer-glass Mr. Porritt considered his prospective nephew-in-law with the closest attention: a steady chap if ever he saw one, well-to-do, practically a professional man and sound as a bell. Also a chap with whom he, Mr. Porritt, could get on very well in a friendly, sensible fashion, without back-slapping or familiarity, but on either side goodwill and solid respect.

  “She’s a lucky lass,” said Mr. Porritt, most sincerely, “and you can tell her I said so.”

  Upon this encouragement Mr. Wilson immediately gave a brief but highly satisfactory account of his financial situation. He had brought with him on a slip of paper figures showing his turn-over and profits for the last five years: there was a note of what rent he paid, and of the sum annually set aside for future improvements: the whole leaving no shadow of doubt as to his ability to support Cluny Brown, plus a possible family, in every reasonable comfort.

  “Moreover,” finished Mr. Wilson, “in the changed circumstances, I intend to insure my life for two thousand pounds. You will note a sum set aside for the first premium.”

  Mr. Porritt warmed to him more and more. This was a sort of talk he understood and appreciated; and the chemist’s next words went straight to his heart.

  “I want to make her safe,” explained Mr. Wilson.

  “Ah!” said Mr. Porritt. “That’s what I want too. That’s what I’ve always held. That’s what every young woman needs: safety. A solid future, with no more worry than’s natural, a steady-going husband and a good home.”

  “I hope I may provide her with all that,” said Mr. Wilson, modestly.

  “So I believe. And furthermore—” it gave Mr. Porritt deep pleasure to say this, as one substantial, fair-dealing man to another—“furthermore, what I have, Cluny gets. No more than a hundred or two, maybe, but she gets it. And on her wedding-day, she’ll have fifty pounds down.”

  “I call that very liberal,” said Mr. Wilson.

  Mr. Porritt contemplated himself with satisfaction. It was crossed by a streak of melancholy, for he wished Floss were there too, to approve and admire, as she certainly would have done, the way he was handling the whole business. He sighed.

  “I wish my wife was alive,” he said. “She’d ha’ been pleased.”

  The chemist met this with a proper look of serious gratification. His practical mind moved forward to a related point.

  “There is also the matter,” he said, “of where the wedding is to take place. Conventionally speaking, of course, it should be from here; but without womenfolk—”

  “There’s her aunt,” said Mr. Porritt. “My sister. It would be meat and drink to her, no doubt about that.” But he pondered a moment. “Would you be going straight back to Devonshire?”

  “If we get married as soon as I hope, that would be the case. I could not leave the shop without a proper person in charge. Later on, I would propose a week, maybe two, in the Trossachs.” The chemist paused in turn; he perceived Mr. Porritt’s mind opening to the more sensible plan. “On the other hand, if Cluny consented to be married at Friars Carmel, where she is already a parishioner like myself, that might simplify matters greatly. It’s not as though we want a grand to-do.”

  “You’re right there,” agreed Mr. Porritt heartily.

  “I don’t say it’s not a great day for a young woman,” went on Mr. Wilson, “and I’d want it to be all as Cluny wishes; but there’s a lass at the big house she’s made a friend of, and Mrs. Maile, a very good woman indeed, who I know would s
tand by her, and I dare say Lady Carmel would come to the church herself: Cluny would be among friends, if not old ones. In fact it’s for you to say, sir, whether you can make the journey. I understand you’ve a business of your own.”

  “Plumbing and general repairs,” supplied Mr. Porritt. “Still, it’s not like a shop. I could manage all right, if it’s necessary.”

  “It’s essential,” said Mr. Wilson positively. “You wouldn’t want any one else to give her away, and nor should I. There’s a decent bedroom at the Artichoke, and not over-expensive, which I’ll be pleased to engage for you.”

  Strong as was Mr. Porritt’s own character, he was aware of having encountered a stronger. He felt, however, no inclination to resist; it was a great relief to find everything so cut-and-dried, in such obviously capable hands. Addie Trumper would no doubt have done all, and perhaps more, than was required—but what a fuss she would have made over it! How infinitely preferable was the calm good sense brought to bear by Titus Wilson! Mr. Porritt thought him the very model of a prospective groom, and brought out two more bottles of beer.

  In the end Mr. Wilson accepted not only beer, but also a light supper of corned beef, and stayed talking till half past ten o’clock. It was decided that as soon as he returned to Devon he should get Cluny to fix the day, which would then be communicated to Mr. Porritt; but Cluny was by no means; their only subject of conversation. They got on to politics, trades-unionism, the decay of brewing, and found themselves wonderfully in agreement on all points. It was long since Mr. Porritt had had such a good argybargy, and he enjoyed himself mightily—and none the less because all the while, at the back of his mind, he could not cease to marvel at his niece’s astonishing luck. He felt fonder of Cluny, now that she was about to be settled for life, than he had ever done before; he felt positively proud of her; he felt proud of himself for having done so well by her in sending her into Devon; and at last went to bed (Mr. Wilson having departed to the station hotel) in a mood most agreeably compounded of thankfulness and self-congratulation, in about equal parts.