CHAPTER XXI
"There were three of them, but they looked as big as a crowd. They've got great, pale faces like potatoes, and they're all exactly alike. I've taken them up to their rooms, and one of them said hers had a north aspect; and another one said her room was like an oven with the afternoon sun—and the third one just turned up her nose without a word. Pigs!" Thus Jane to Lucilla, having shown the guests to their rooms.
"And they want hot water and their luggage carried up. The porter brought it and he's out there now, grumbling at what they paid him. You can hear him going on like a gramophone before it really begins. And they want someone to carry up the luggage; and both the maids are out; and Mrs. Dadd was cheeky, and I've told her to go—and she's going. She's going now, this minute, while we're chattering,"
"I'm not chattering," said Lucilla.
"No," said Jane, "you're always right. You're always cool and calm and collected and—and—blameless. And I'm always in the soup. And then you rub it in." And she burst into tears.
"It's not that," she sobbed, when Lucilla had come to her and had put her arm round her and had said, "Don't, darling," and "Never mind," and "There, dear, there," and all the things that girls do say to each other when one of them is weeping. "It's not unhappiness. It's rage. I could kill Mrs. Dadd. I could. I should like to. And Addie was rubbing the cat all over with a jammy spoon and it'll go all over the drawing-room cushions. And Mrs. Dadd! Hateful woman! No, there's no time to tell you about her. There'll be no dinner. And those potato-faced pigs will be grunting for their swill. I don't care if I am coarse. Even now they're expecting hot water. Who's to take it up?"
"I will," said Lucilla soothingly; "and Mr. Dix will take up the luggage, and then we'll see about the dinner."
"Ill fetch him,"said Jane. "No, it's all right. I've finished snivelling. I feel much better. Catch the cat if you can and shut her up. I must bathe my eyes. I'll fetch Mr. Dix in a jiff. But I don't suppose there is any hot water. Mrs. Dadd was sprawling about on the furniture with her legs up. She always is."
"Well, she won't any more—at least, not here," said Lucilla. "Don't worry; we'll pull through somehow. It's all rather a lark though, isn't it?"
"Rub it in," said Jane, plunging her face into cold water. "I'm all right now," she went on through the towel. "It is rather exciting, as you say." And with eyelids still very pink she went in search of Mr. Dix, She did not find him, because in the hall she found Mr. Rochester, just leaving his labours in the library.
"Hullo," he said softly, "the Pigs have come then? I heard their loved voices announcing themselves and asking for Miss Quested. I expect they thought she was forty—and an experienced letter of lodgings."
"Yes," said Jane, and sniffed. "They were hateful. When I said I was Miss Quested they said they meant the elder Miss Quested, and when I said there wasn't one they snorted. They did really." She sniffed again.
He caught her hand and pulled her quickly and gently and quite irresistibly into the room he had just left.
"Half a moment," he said; "they may come down. I want to ask you, but I never get a word with you—your Lucilla's always there. I want to know . . . Gracious heavens, what's the matter!" he ended on a complete change of tone, for now he had suddenly seen Jane's face.
"Oh, nothing—silliness. Mrs. Dadd was hateful and I've sacked her. And then those Pigs. I suppose I'm tired. That's what makes me so silly."
"Sit down a minute," he said* still holding her hand. "It's infamous that you should be worried by these old women. It's all my uncle's fault for saddling you with this house. Do sit down and tell me all about it."
"I can't," said Jane. "They are gibbering now for their hateful luggage to be carried up—it's al in the hall"; and then belatedly she pulled her hand away. But this did not improve the situation, for Mr. Rochester's arm went round her, and for one moment she let her head lean against his arm, with the most extraordinary feeling of being comforted and protected. Thus they stood, almost in the position which a couple assume when the dance begins.
"Jane," he whispered. "Jane dear."
But that broke the spell, and Jane shook herself free.
"Dearest," said Mr. Rochester not at once perceiving that the spell was broken, and he reached his hands out to her. But Jane backed towards the door.
"I don't blame you," said she, standing very upright and looking him straight in the eyes. "I brought it on myself by going about howling like a silly kid. I don't blame you, and I'll forget it if you will. But I want you to understand that I'm not at all that sort of girl. No, don't say anything," she said fiercely. "I don't blame you—this once; but I want you to understand that I'm not going to have that sort of nonsense. Not ever. Do you understand?"
"Jane," said he, " don't you believe in omens—in Fate?"
"Never mind what I believe in," said Jane, instinctively putting her hands up to her hair to ascertain whether its momentary contact with Mr. Rochester's jacket had disarranged it. "At least I'll tell you what I do believe in. I believe in attending to business and being good friends, and not being silly and sloppy. And you're not to call me Jane."
Mr. Rochester experienced all the emotions familiar to those who have been stroking a kitten and have suddenly found claws where a moment ago only soft fur was. This, and a good deal more, he felt in the brief moment before he said:
"Very well. And now forgive me—in earnest, like a good comrade, and let's be friends again,"
"That's what I want to be to you," said Jane, charmed by the old camouflage that love has worn so threadbare.
"Then shake hands on it."
They did—a good, strong, manly shake.
"And now we're real friends, tell me just one thing. You do like me better than that wretched Dix, don't you? Say you do—just a little better?"
"I like you both very much," said Jane sedately; and then with a spark of malice she added: "Just now perhaps I like him a little the best, because he hasn't seen me make a fool of myself."
A bell pealed violently.
"It's those Pigs—their luggage—Mr. Dix. . . ."
"Oh, I'll carry it up," said Mr. Rochester. "Come and show me which rooms."
They met Lucilla on the stairs.
"They want tea," she whispered, "and it's six. Forbes is getting it, but she says it's not her place. She's going to take it up to their rooms. And the mutton's not in yet, and the potatoes aren't peeled. And Forbes say, she'll either cook the dinner or wait at table, whichever we like, but she can't do both—and she won't."
"Can't Gladys wait?"
"I shouldn't think so," said Lucilla. "And I'm sure she can't cook. It's rather unfortunate, isn't it? Because its quite important to make a good impression on your Pigs the first day. I wish they sold roast legs of mutton in enormous tins. Why don't they?"
"Look here," said Rochester, "surely Mrs. Doveton would come, just for once, to get you out of a fix? Set Gladys to peel the potatoes and I'll go after Mrs. Doveton. Don't worry; we shall pull through all right. I shall be back with her in time to see to the mutton."
But when he came back it was not with Mrs. Doveton, but with Simmons.
"Mrs. Doveton was out—and Simmons is a regular cordon bleu. The dinner will be all right."
"Mrs. Dadd has gone, that's something," said Jane.
"Couldn't Mr. Dix help?" suggested Lucilla, but Rochester said that it was not worth while to trouble Mr. Dix. Then Lucilla had her brilliant idea.
"Oh, Jane," she said, "don't you think it would be a good thing if Mr. Rochester would have dinner with us? Because who's to carve the mutton?"
"I wish you would," said Jane, not displeased at being able to show Mr. Rochester that her feelings were quite friendly. "They can't trample on us so heavily if you're here."
"I should love it," he said. "Shall I dress?"
Mr. Rochester was careful not to suggest that Forbes could carve the mutton on the sideboard.
"Oh yes," said both the girls, and Jane added: "It would be so much more impressive." But the next moment she changed her mind.
"Perhaps better not," she said. "Evening dress might look swanky — and besides . . ."
Rochester understood that "besides" when he arrived at eight o'clock to find "that wretched Dix" already in the drawing-room being agreeable to one of the potato-faced ladies. Jane and Lucilla in very pretty frocks were timidly submitting to be trampled on by the other two.
Mr. Simmons in the kitchen, assisted by a glowing Gladys, produced a real dinner. The soup was tinned, it is true, but the fish was not, and the pineapples were made into fritters; the peaches were coated with crême caramel, there was a cheese soufflé, and perfect coffee appeared at the right moment. There were double doors between hall and what are called the domestic offices, but once, during fish (which Simmons had bought on the way to his duties), the two doors were left open and shouts of laughter were wafted across to the dining-room, where four people were trying earnestly to make the best of three.
"Your servants seem very noisy," said Mrs. Smale.
"We like them to enjoy themselves," said Jane stoutly.
"I thought I heard a man's laugh."
"Did you?" said Lucilla, who had heard it too.
"What a terrible earthquake that was in Vitruvial!" said Mr. Dix quickly.
"Yes, wasn't it?" said Mr. Rochester, seconding him ably with details, which Mr. Dix capped. The incident drew them together, for of course there hadn't been any earthquake in Vitruvia, wherever Vitruvia may be.
Mrs. Smale and her sisters wore stuffy, black, beady dresses and had no conversation. They were like a dark blight. They did not seem to have read any books. They were not fond of music. They knew nothing of politics, and they did not care for gardens. They seemed weakly curious about the two young men. And during the interval of separation after dinner Mrs. Smale drew Jane aside and spoke.
"Those gentlemen? I didn't quite catch their names."
Jane gave the names.
"Relatives?"
"Not exactly," said Jane.
"Oh, I see," said Mrs. Smale archly. "Your intendeds?"
"Not exactly," said Jane again.
"I see," said Mrs. Smale, in the tone of one who didn't.
The long evening dragged itself out.
The young men went at ten, and before the three paying guests retired they made it quite plain that they wanted early tea in their rooms—at eight—hot water at half-past, and breakfast at nine. Mrs. Smale liked fish and perhaps an egg. Miss Markham had been ordered meat three times a day by a Harley Street physician, and her sister could touch nothing but bacon and tomatoes. Always—every day. And they might as well mention that they each liked a glass of milk at eleven in the morning. Doctor's orders again. Yes, every day. Yes, that was all. If they thought of anything else they could always mention it.
The guests disposed of, the girls sought Gladys. They found her in the kitchen just concluding an informal banquet with Mr. Simmons. Both faces were radiant.
The girls, who had never before seen Mr. Simmons at his ease, looked with wondering eyes, for the fat man was transfigured. But even as they looked the mask of shyness fell on him again, and he was as they had always known him.
"We don't know how to thank you," said Jane.
"No need, miss,"said Mr. Simmons; "it's been a pleasure to oblige you, let alone obliging my boss, and not to say nothing about pleasant company."
"Mr. Simmons does go on so," said Gladys with a giggling toss of her head. She had found time to put on a transparent rainbow-radiant blouse and a string of green glass beads.
"I don't know how you'll manage for the rest of the day," said Mr. Simmons, "but I'll come round and see to the dinner to-morrow, miss, and till you get another cook. The last one's no loss, from what I can see—not a pan clean nor yet a plate. Miss Gladys and me, we had to wash every mortal thing. But all's clean now," he said, with proper pride. "Don't keep thanking me, miss. I'll be round to-morrow."
But to-morrow brought Mrs. Doveton.
"Of course, miss, I couldn't stand aside, with you in all this upset," she said, and fell to work.
And when Mr. Simmons came all that could be done was to ask him to stay to supper. He stayed, and it is to be recorded that even Mrs. Doveton was heard to laugh. Mr. Simmons was, plainly, a wit, but only in his own circles; outside them he could not shine. Neither Jane nor Lucilla ever heard him say anything amusing. But Gladys, it seems, did.
And Gladys was inclined to resent Mrs. Doveton. But on Gladys's day out she appeared before her mistresses, clothed, as Jane said afterwards, like Solomon in all his glory, and said almost bashfully: "Please, miss, may I stay out till ten? I'm going to drink tea with Mr. Simmons's sister as he lives with."
Her conscious simper spoke volumes.
The presence of the paying guests was indeed hard to bear. The black blight deepened every day. It was only by constantly reminding themselves and each other that it meant nine guineas a week that they were able to bear it at all. Regular meals, in the dining-room, every day, and no picnics or breakfasts out of doors.
"I'd no idea it would be like this," said Jane. "It's perfectly ghastly. You're never free of them. All day long and the evenings too. To think of them out in galoshes to watch us play tennis!"
"We must bear it,"said Lucilla. "Three hundred and sixteen pounds a year. I worked it out on a bit of paper."
"I suppose they have some good qualities," said Jane. "All right, we'll try to bear it."
And they did bear it—for nearly a fortnight.
Then one day Gladys abruptly asked if they had seen the colour of the visitors' money. They reproved her. But the question rankled. When it had formed the chief subject of their conversation for some days the girls decided that Lucilla should ask the guests to pay weekly.
"Certainly," said Mrs. Smale, with almost the first smile they had seen on her large, pale countenance. "We usually pay monthly, but if you prefer it I will write a cheque in the morning."
But she did not write a cheque in the morning, or, if she did, it was not drawn to Lucilla's order nor to Jane's. For in the morning there was no one to drink the three cups of tea or eat the three plethoric breakfasts. The potato-faced ladies had gone from Cedar Court. No one ever knew at what hour in the night they had crept hence; no one knew how they got their luggage away.
"They ain't slep' in their beds, nor yet they ain't washed in their hot water," said Gladys, announcing the flitting to her young mistresses then at their own morning toilet. "Them nasty old triplets has done a bunk right enough. And done you proper! I lay you never see the colour of their money, now did you, miss?"
"Oh, go along, Gladys," said Jane, twisting up her hair very quickly. "Go and tell Mrs. Doveton we'll have breakfast on the lawn, and you bring it out if Forbes says it isn't her place."
"That Forbes!" said Gladys. "This wouldn't be her place long if I was you. . . . All right, Miss Jane, all right. I'm going."
•••••
"We've had the most horrible fortnight of our lives," said Lucilla. "I'd no idea anything could be so horrid. We've fed those old cats with the loveliest meals and we've lost eighteen guineas. I don't feel like breakfast in the garden, I can tell you."
"Oh yes, you do!" said Jane. "Yes, you do, exactly like it! Why, dear me, Luce, it's worth twice the money to have got rid of them! And nothing to reproach ourselves with! Nothing! It's not our fault they've gone—and they have gone. Why, my blessed angel, it's an absolute godsend!"