Cluny Brown (24 page)

“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 stand 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.

Chapter 24

I

Sober and content went Mr. Porritt and Mr. Wilson to their beds; at Friars Carmel every one was up late, and if the Professor was not intoxicated he should have been, for in the words of Mr. Syrett, he had properly punished the champagne. But in spite of champagne, and in spite of the fact that Cynthia and the Colonel, hastily invited, made it a party, the farewell dinner wasn't exactly gay. Sir Henry was still upset, and Andrew seemed to have something on his mind. (He had: he was trying to conceal an immense pleasure.) Cynthia flinched every time Belinski opened his mouth, and the good Colonel monopolized Betty with interminable canine pedigrees. Moreover, Cluny Brown's waiting was deplorable, it was back to her lowest standard, she scattered cutlery right and left and nearly lost a sauce-boat, and though Lady Carmel, in whose ear Mrs. Maile had dropped a discreet word, tried hard to make allowances, no hostess can feel thoroughly at ease and guide the conversation properly when her guests are in obvious danger from her parlour-maid. Betty Cream helped, but she was wearing white
broderie anglaise;
every time a dish skated over the puff of her sleeve she instinctively froze. To a spontaneously gay party none of this would have mattered, it would have become a joke; as it was, the pauses grew longer and longer, till at last Lady Carmel made a sign to Syrett, and Cluny went out with the entrée dishes and did not return.

“What's the matter?” asked Sir Henry. “Girl got toothache?”

“Yes,” said Lady Carmel.

Gloomy and resigned, Syrett carried on alone, and they were all grateful when the meal ended. Only Sir Henry and the Colonel sat on over their port, for Belinski followed Betty out of the room and Andrew came after. It was Andrew who turned on the wireless and asked Betty to dance; they rolled up the rugs and pushed back the furniture—and happy was Lady Carmel to see her drawing-room disarranged, if only gaiety would result. She caught the Professor's eye and glanced meaningly at Cynthia. Belinski at once rose, grasped the girl round the waist, and they began to rumba. It was perhaps fortunate that Belinski did not know how, for this gave Cynthia an opportunity to do something she could do well: she taught him. She was used to difficult pupils—had she not coerced countless awkward squads through Gathering Peascods?—she was strong and determined, and long after the other two had sat down the Professor and Cynthia laboured on. Then Belinski fiddled with the wireless until he found a Viennese orchestra, and with a menacing look invited Cynthia to dance again: if he could not rumba he could waltz, and they circled the room like a whipped top, Cynthia with scarlet face and set teeth holding up for the honour of the Guides, Belinski white and tireless. It was less a dance than an athletic contest, and it ended in a draw.

“That is how we dance in Poland,” gasped the Professor, as the tune ended leaving them both on their feet. “We do not stand and wriggle our hips, we dance!”

“You've a good wind,” approved Sir Henry, who had entered, with the Colonel, just in time to witness the finish. “Ought to go out with the beagles—oughtn't they, Allie?”

This unusual compliment was well received. Cynthia sipped barley-water and looked pleased with herself, Belinski demonstrated a few steps of the mazurka. Andrew and Betty danced again—how differently, thought Lady Carmel! How smoothly and gracefully! It seemed a pity they should ever separate. But Andrew had not yet asked Cynthia, and of course he had to, though the next tune was the best of all, “The Blue Danube.” The Professor danced it with Betty.

Even Lady Carmel was forced to admit they made a wonderful couple. Belinski did not grasp Betty as he had grasped Cynthia; lightly his arm touched her waist, lightly her hand lay on his shoulder, as though they had been blown together by the music. Blown by the music her flower-like skirt puffed and swung; blown on the music they floated, not speaking, rapt by perfection. Andrew and Cynthia dropped out to give them room; it was hardly necessary; without taking his eyes from Betty's face, Belinski seemed able to guide their flight like a bat in the dusk; they might have been dancing in empty air. And Betty's eyes, Lady Carmel saw, were closed. And then she saw something else: every time they passed the arch to the smaller drawing-room beyond they wavered towards it, Belinski's arm tightening, Betty, still in perfect rhythm, leaning away; so perhaps her eyes were not quite shut after all.…

But they did not know when the music ended. It took the Colonel's hearty clap to bring them back to their surroundings. Betty stood blinking a little, laughing a little, and then dropped down beside Sir Henry in a spread of white skirts.

“My dear, you dance like an angel,” said he.

“So does the Professor!”

Belinski, without asking any one's leave, opened a cabinet and brought her a small ivory fan. “My heart,” he said politely, and they all laughed. It was a charming little ballroom scene, gay and artificial as the cupids on the fan. Gaiety, indeed, had at last descended: the Colonel insisted on dancing with Betty himself, and they executed a slow waltz to universal applause. That was the last of the waltzes, for now Andrew juggled with the wireless again, and the strains which reached Cluny Brown's ears, as she took round the hot-water bottles, were strictly modern.

“Don't you wish us could have a look?” sighed Hilda, as they went up to bed at their usual time.

“Not particularly,” said Cluny.

“It's all right for you, you've seen their dresses,” complained Hilda.

“Miss Cream's in white and looks wonderful, Miss Duff-Graham's in blue and looks a mess.”

Hilda guessed what was wrong. The humiliation of being sent out of the dining-room still rankled, and no wonder. Even her own splendid breathing apparatus had never brought her, Hilda, so low as that. So she did a kind thing. She slipped down again, to Mr. Andrew's room, and got the hot-water bottle from his bed (he always threw it out anyway) and put it into Cluny Brown's instead.

About midnight Cynthia and her father went home, the party was over, but the Professor's spirits refused to abate. “What shall we do now,” he demanded, “with this evening so well begun?” “We'll go to bed,” said Andrew. “Impossible!” cried the Professor. But it wasn't impossible at all, at Friars Carmel; Lady Carmel was gathering herself together, Betty picked up her bag and her fan—then looked at the fan and smiled, and went to put it back in the cabinet. At once Belinski intercepted her; as though the thing were his to give, and he had given it her, he seemed to be begging her to keep it. Andrew, from the other side of the room, saw them, and with a sudden annoyance. He walked across, opened the cabinet door so that Betty could lay the fan inside, closed it and turned the key. It was a silly thing to have done, trivial and ungracious: Andrew at once regretted it. For a moment he thought Belinski was going to smash the glass; then Betty laughed and began to say good-night, kissed Lady Carmel, kissed Sir Henry, cried that it had been a lovely party, and disappeared upstairs.

After that, they all went to bed.

II

But not to sleep. Andrew read two pages of Boswell's
Johnson,
put out his light, and presently put it on again. It was one in the morning, an hour when any unpleasant incident looms larger than by day: he was still cursing himself for his spurt of ill humour. It had been childish—precisely, for he suddenly recollected how once, at the end of an early birthday-party, he had objected to another little boy's taking the last cracker. Then tender age and over-excitement had partly excused him; now he was inexcusable. “Damn!” said Andrew aloud. How idiotic it was to worry, when ten to one Belinski had already forgotten the whole incident! Belinski wouldn't worry, he had too much sense … But reason as he might Andrew could not compose his mind to sleep. Discourtesy to a guest, however slight, was a lapse which Friars Carmel did not permit; and presently Andrew thought it would be a good idea if he went along to Belinski's room.

For Andrew had by this time noticed that there was no hot-water bottle in his bed. Possibly there was none in Belinski's either. It would be a most attentive, expiatory act to go and find out.

He got up, put on dressing-gown and slippers, and made his way towards the east corridor. The house always seemed much larger at night: Andrew, sleeping at the extremity of the west wing, passed two empty rooms before he reached his mother's door; then came a dressing-room and bathroom, then Betty's door in the angle before he turned on to the landing. The house was so still that he could hear the tick of the clock in the hall below; so dark that crossing the head of the stairs he blundered against the newel post; he stepped back, groping for the wall, and felt his hand in contact with something hard, smooth, and icy-cold. It was the china swan. Andrew reached behind it (knocking out a bough of lilac) to the curtains of the deep window and drew one back. A little light flowed in, enough to show the angle of the passage. Andrew went on past the service-stairs, turned, and reached the Professor's room. He tapped, gently at first, then louder. Then he opened the door and looked in. The Professor was not there.

III