Cluny Brown

by Margery Sharp

  “Good God! It is Andrew!” cried Mr. Belinski.

  “Brown, go back to bed immediately,” said Lady Carmel.

  “What’s happened?” demanded Andrew.

  Betty, now dressing-gowned and composed, very distinctly informed them.

  “I’m so sorry, Lady Carmel: I heard my door open and thought it was a burglar, so I screamed.”

  “What happened?” repeated Andrew stubbornly.

  “I mistook the door,” explained Belinski. “Coming back from the bathroom, in the dark.”

  Since every person present knew that his bathroom, like his bedroom, was situated in the other wing, this explained a good deal too much. Lady Carmel glanced hastily towards the service-stairs: the two girls were no longer in sight, but she suspected their presence on the upper landing. She said swiftly:—

  “How very tiresome, but that does happen in a strange house. No wonder Betty was alarmed, they had a burglar at the Hall last year. Andrew, I don’t want your father disturbed if he is still asleep. Dear me, what an exciting evening this has been! Good-night again, Professor; Andrew will turn off the lights.”

  VI

  Like a good hostess, Lady Carmel accompanied Betty into her room and saw her get into bed again. (She also placed the lilac in a vase of tulips, where it would do very well till morning.) Betty made no further reference to her burglar story, and Alice Carmel expected none; they were both aware that it had served its purpose and could now be forgotten. But the elder lady did not immediately leave, and Betty sat up against her pillows with an attentive air—not as though expecting a scolding, but as though the time and place were well suited to conversation. In her blue gown, neatly curled for the night, she looked like a very sensible child.

  “You know, dear, you’d better get married,” said Lady Carmel.

  “Yes, Lady Carmel,” said Betty meekly.

  “Are you going to marry Andrew?”

  “Yes, Lady Carmel.”

  “Then I think you should tell him so. He’s getting quite nervous.”

  “I’ll tell him to-morrow.”

  “Thank you, dear.” Lady Carmel nodded in a satisfied manner and turned to go. But Betty stopped her.

  “Lady Carmel, you—you haven’t always been sure about me, have you?”

  “No, dear. But my opinion has changed.”

  “Will you tell me what changed it?”

  “I think it was the way you screamed,” said Lady Carmel meditatively. “When I was young, I think girls screamed a great deal more—at mice, or ghost stories, or the sight of blood. And one could always tell—at least, another girl could—whether the scream were genuine or put on. You screamed as though you meant it. Now go to sleep, Elizabeth, and tomorrow we’ll have a long talk. Especially about the gardens,” added Lady Carmel, “because they’re all planned three years ahead.”

  VII

  The conversation between Andrew and Belinski (for Andrew too conducted a guest back to his room) was far less satisfactory. Andrew was in a pugnacious mood; he had acquiesced in his mother’s handling of the situation, but it had left him still full of undischarged energy.

  “Look here,” he said baldly, “all this tale about the wrong door—I don’t believe it.”

  “I am so sorry,” said Belinski, with a disarming smile. “And of course, it is not true. But I had not time to think of anything better.”

  “If you admit that, you’re admitting a good deal.”

  “How can I help it? You were there,” said Belinski simply.

  Andrew leant back against the bureau and stared. His attitude, his expression, were full of unconscious arrogance—the first defence put up by his kind against an unknown quantity.

  “Did you go into Miss Cream’s room deliberately?”

  “Of course. And if you ask me why, I warn you that the answer will embarrass you very much. However, let us call it an overwhelming impulse. An overwhelming impulse is by definition irresistible.”

  “Right,” said Andrew. “At the moment I’ve an overwhelming impulse to hit you.”

  Mr. Belinski at once did the most sensible thing possible. He got into bed. Andrew continued to glare down at him, but he was baffled, and he knew it. Belinski (actually wearing a pair of Andrew’s pyjamas) turned very comfortably on his side and closed his eyes—abandoning himself, defenceless, to his host’s chivalry. And his trust was justified: even in a blind rage Andrew would hardly have hit a man when he was down; nothing on earth could have made him hit a man in bed. To exhort Belinski to get out and put his fists up was equally beyond him: even as he stood scowling, a nursery rhyme of his youth ridiculously crossed his mind. “One fine day in the middle of the night, Two blind men went out to fight.…”

  “I’m too damn civilized,” thought Andrew furiously.

  Belinski appeared to sleep. The charming room, filled with every luxury for a cosseted guest, was peaceful and still. It annoyed Andrew very much that he could not even slam the door, since the noise might have aroused his father.

  Chapter 25

  I

  There is always something soothing about a fine Sunday morning in the country: its influences (at the opposite pole from those of a Saturday night) conduce to orderliness and tranquillity, good sense and forbearance. And this Sunday, at Friars Carmel, had especially the quality of being a new day—partly owing to the excellent staff-work of Mrs. Maile, who by nine o’clock had the drawing-room in order again, the wireless closed, the rugs replaced: looking into it, a stranger might have thought, “How long since any one danced here!” Out of doors too all was particularly well-organized: birds sang, the sun shone, dew-drops sparkled: an immaculate early-summer morning confidently offered itself to Divine inspection.

  There was also something soothing in Sir Henry’s complete ignorance of all that had happened after he went to bed. He had slept through everything. This made him very grateful company to Andrew, who, breakfasting alone with his father, soon began to see matters in their proper perspective, that is, with his own affairs in the foreground. He had a very important communication to make, and the occasion seemed suitable. As soon as they were both supplied with sausage, kidneys, toast and coffee, Andrew said cheerfully:—

  “By the way, Dad, I’ve decided what I’m going to do. I’m going to join the Air Force.”

  Sir Henry received this statement with the blankest surprise. He was not nearly so quick as his wife, he lacked the sensitive ear which always warned Lady Carmel when Andrew’s casualness was assumed.

  “Now, where did you get hold of a notion like that?” marvelled Sir Henry.

  “It isn’t a notion, sir; you know I belonged to the University Air Squadron—”

  “And a mad break-neck affair I always thought it,” put in Sir Henry. “However, your mother said so was hunting, so I gave in. But you hadn’t any idea of joining the Air Force—had you, now?”

  “No, sir,” admitted Andrew. “I suppose, as you say, it was rather like hunting. But I’ve since thought things over—”

  “Join the Air Force!” reiterated Sir Henry, as though the words themselves were astonishing. “But, my dear boy, we’re not at war with any one!”

  “We soon may be.”

  “If there’s a war, of course you’ll go. I’d expect it. But there isn’t,” reasoned Sir Henry.

  Andrew tried a rather foolish grin.

  “I think I’ll get in on the ground-floor.”

  “You’ll do whatever you please, of course,” said his father, beginning to take umbrage. “You know what my hopes are—and your mother’s. Have you told her yet?”

  “Yes, sir. Last night.”

  “What’s she say?”

  “She approves.”

  “She’d approve if you wanted to join a circus,” grumbled Sir Henry—most unjustly. He drank some coffee, looking at his son over the rim of the cup with puzzled eyes. Andrew felt unreasonably apologetic.

  “I think the point is, Dad, I believe there’s going to be a war and
you don’t. We’ve both got to act up to our beliefs. You’ve always done your duty—”

  “I hope I have. I know I’ve always done what the country’s asked of me—even when some ignorant feller tells me to plough up permanent pasture, I’ve done it. You think you know better than the country.”

  “You knew better about the ploughing, sir.”

  This put Sir Henry in something of a quandary. Moreover he did at the bottom of his simple heart believe that his son was cleverer than himself—as Allie was wiser than the pair of them. If Allie approved, perhaps it was all right. He sighed.

  “If you’ve made up your mind, Andrew, I dare say you know best. Give me time to get used to the idea, that’s all.” And he added irrelevantly, “I remember last time, they took the horses.”

  “That must have been a great blow,” said Andrew sincerely.

  “It was.” Sir Henry looked up with sudden humour. “I’m not comparing you to the nags, my boy; I’m just rambling.”

  Upon that they both felt much happier; the silence that ensued was friendly. Both were preoccupied with their thoughts—by comparison with which Belinski, who just then appeared, was so unimportant that neither took any notice of him. “‘Morning,” grunted Sir Henry; “Hello,” said Andrew, and Belinski was thus able to insinuate himself, so to speak, upon the scene again, on his usual footing. After a wary glance at the two Carmels he quickly helped himself from the sideboard and sat down at the other end of the table. The Sunday papers did not reach Friars Carmel till noon, so that he could not conceal himself behind an Observer—but within a very few minutes Belinski realized that concealment was unnecessary: Andrew no longer wished to hit him. With growing cheerfulness Belinski re-filled his plate, and in the end ate a rather larger breakfast than usual.

  It was indeed quite remarkable how completely the Professor’s misdoings were not only forgiven, but forgotten. This was partly of course because he was in any case leaving the next day; but also because to Friars Carmel as a whole he was in sum an irrelevance. Betty later in the morning greeted him with her customary good humour, and so did Lady Carmel. (Her ladyship’s attitude was coloured throughout by the fact that Belinski was a foreigner. As a foreigner he had surprised her by his good behaviour; his bad surprised her much less.) For the first time she took him to church with her, and this left Andrew and Betty with the house to themselves.

  II

  They did not stay indoors, however, they went wandering in the garden, and at last into an old orchard where the blossom was at its height; and there Andrew told her what he had already told his father, and a good deal more.

  “You’re quite right,” said Betty. “I’m glad, Andrew. We all talk so much—”

  She broke off, contemplating a spray of blossom on a level with her face. A bee clung in it, easing his furry body from cup to cup. She said, what he once before had said to her:—

  “Suppose nothing happens? Suppose there isn’t war?”

  “I might get out. I don’t know. The point is, life’s going to be rather different. I shan’t be much at Friars Carmel.”

  “You know,” said Betty thoughtfully, “I’d begun to think you were attached to it.”

  “I am. That’s also the point. Whenever I come here I feel it belongs to me. I feel like a damned Lord of the Manor. I don’t mean to, but there it is. All right, I’m a survival. But if I accept that,” said Andrew, very slowly, “at least I know what I ought to do. Fight for my damned manor. Am I talking like an utter ass?”

  “No,” said Betty.

  “Will you marry me?”

  “Yes.”

  They kissed each other. The sensation was exquisite, and very soon perfectly natural. Presently they began to walk through the orchard, pausing often, turning to look back where the chimneys and gables of Friars Carmel showed beyond apple blossom and darker trees. They felt watched, not from any window, but by the house itself.

  “It’s too big,” said Andrew regretfully. “I don’t suppose we’ll ever live here.”

  “It wouldn’t be too big if we had a large family.”

  “Would you like a large family?”

  “Seven,” said Betty at once. “I know we shan’t be rich, darling, but you can bring up children very cheaply in the country, if you’ve got a house.”

  “You start sending seven boys to Eton—” began Andrew.

  “Only four boys. And they needn’t go to Eton.”

  Andrew halted to look at her.

  “That cuts out London and going abroad, and we probably couldn’t even run a car. Darling, do you really want to spend the rest of your life in Devon bringing up children?”

  “Yes,” said Betty. “It’s something I shall be very good at. I think I’ve had enough fun.”

  Andrew suddenly recollected a conversation he had once had with John Frewen, on the subject of Betty’s future: never, they agreed, could she hope for any kind of a career. He thought their definition of a career had been too narrow. And remembering those uneasy, unsatisfying days in London, he said suddenly:—

  “I want to know something. When you told me you came here simply because you liked the country, was it the truth?”

  Betty gave the matter earnest thought.

  “Yes, it was. At least, it was the top layer of truth. I should have come even if you hadn’t been here. But I also felt—and this is as near as I can get to it, Andrew—that I wanted to be in—in your vicinity. We saw a lot of each other in London, when we both happened to be in London, but it was all patchy. We had fun.… When you asked me to marry you before, it didn’t seem exactly real.”

  “I behaved like a prig and a boor,” said Andrew violently.

  “No, you didn’t. I knew how you felt. But it was not the way,” said Betty primly, “in which I wished to be proposed to. I mean, not if I were going to accept.”

  “Oh, darling—” cried Andrew—uttering the eternal lover’s cry—“how have I got you? When I think of all the others—”

  “You needn’t,” said Betty serenely. “You’re my only one, Andrew. For ever and ever, amen.”

  “Amen.”

  III

  Andrew went to find his mother as soon as she got back from church. (“We shall now wallow in sentiment,” he told Betty. “Then let’s,” said she.) Lady Carmel however behaved very well, without pretending to astonishment, and without any references to Andrew’s infancy. She was most deeply pleased, especially when he told her they proposed to marry very soon.

  “As soon as possible,” urged Lady Carmel. “If you’re going into the Air Force, dear boy, you will no doubt live in dreadful furnished lodgings, but at least that saves bother. Though when Elizabeth—if Elizabeth—” She paused, delicately; no need to go into that yet, thought Lady Carmel.…

  “I expect you’ll see Betty a good deal,” said Andrew. It was rather odd: he and Betty, like so many modern young couples, had agreed that they wouldn’t live in each other’s pockets; but the reason was in fact Betty’s extremely old-fashioned preoccupation with a large family. When Andrew had pointed out, in this connection, that it might be years before they had a permanent home, Betty said it wouldn’t matter in the least, because there was always Friars Carmel. Andrew suspected her of some vague plan for spending the week at Friars and the week-ends with him—but of course it would be many years, added Betty reassuringly, before all seven young Carmels were clamouring for her attention …

  “Indeed, I hope so,” said Lady Carmel. “Now I must write to her mother at once, at least we’ve always sent Christmas cards. Have you thought where you’ll go for your honeymoon?”

  “Well, Betty would rather like to come here.”

  “Here?”

  “Yes, she likes the house, and she wants to see the gardens in summer—now, don’t get sentimental, Mother,” said Andrew hastily. “I know Dad hasn’t moved off the place for twenty years—”

  “He will,” said Lady Carmel energetically. “My dear Andrew, nothing has ever pleased me more!
I shall love you to have your honeymoon here, and I’ll tell your father at once.”

  This was, however, the only aspect of Andrew’s marriage that did not give Sir Henry complete satisfaction. Apart from his dislike of moving about, he appeared to take the view that Andrew’s and Betty’s honeymoon, an obviously delightful event, was one which it would be a pity to miss. He agreed that he and his wife must clear out of the house; but need they go far? “There’s a very decent inn at Carmel,” suggested Sir Henry hopefully. “You’d be quite comfortable, Allie.”

  “No, dear, I shouldn’t,” said Lady Carmel firmly. “We must go at least as far as Bath.”

  “I dare say the Colonel would put us up at the Hall.”

  “Or London,” said Lady Carmel. “It’s a long time since we had a trip to London—and I could give Betty’s mother some really practical help with those window-boxes. Don’t be difficult, dear.”

  Sir Henry continued to fight a rear-guard action for some time; but Bath, or London, was his destined fate.

  IV

  They also, of course, told Belinski—after Mrs. Maile. He showed so much pleasure that Andrew could not make up his mind whether the man were an exceptionally good loser, or merely exceptionally short-memoried. In either case he felt very friendly towards him, especially when Belinski spent the afternoon packing his own and many of Andrew’s belongings in Andrew’s best suitcase. Andrew was now particularly glad that he had done the Professor no physical violence: it would have marred the day to see him with, for example, a black eye. Nothing marred the day. Without, the sun continued to shine, birds to sing; within, all was bathed in the sentiment Andrew had foreseen (and which he now found he rather liked), even to the kitchen. Mr. Syrett was in his glory, his prophecies fulfilled; Mrs. Maile, in the pleasure of seeing her household established to another generation, generously for gave him for being right. All united in praise of Miss Cream’s beauty and breeding—and though Cook rather unexpectedly came out with the remark that she’d never be such a one as Lady Carmel, Syrett wittily capped this by saying that Lady Carmel was just what Miss Cream would be, and no mistake about it.