For a few moments the two young men looked at each other, Pearson's gaze
being one of respectfulness which hoped to propitiate, if propitiation
was necessary, though Pearson greatly trusted it was not. Tembarom's was
the gaze of hasty investigation and inquiry. He suddenly thought that
it would have been “all to the merry” if somebody had “put him on to”
a sort of idea of what was done to a fellow when he was “valeted.” A
valet, he had of course gathered, waited on one somehow and looked after
one's clothes. But were there by chance other things he expected to
do,--manicure one's nails or cut one's hair,--and how often did he do
it, and was this the day? He was evidently there to do something, or he
wouldn't have been waiting behind the door to pounce out the minute he
appeared, and when the other two went away, Burrill wouldn't have closed
the door as solemnly as though he shut the pair of them in together to
get through some sort of performance.
“Here's where T. T. begins to feel like a fool,” he thought. “And here's
where there's no way out of looking like one. I don't know a thing.”
But personal vanity was not so strong in him as healthy and normal good
temper. Despite the fact that the neat correctness of Pearson's style
and the finished expression of his neat face suggested that he was of
a class which knew with the most finished exactness all that custom
and propriety demanded on any occasion on which “valeting” in its most
occult branches might be done, he was only “another fellow,” after all,
and must be human. So Tembarom smiled at him.
“Hello, Pearson,” he said. “How are you?”
Pearson slightly started. It was the tiniest possible start, quite
involuntary, from which he recovered instantly, to reply in a tone of
respectful gratefulness:
“Thank you, sir, very well; thank you, sir.”
“That's all right,” answered Tembarom, a sense of relief because he'd
“got started” increasing the friendliness of his smile. “I see you got
my trunk open,” he said, glancing at some articles of clothing neatly
arranged upon the bed.
Pearson was slightly alarmed. It occurred to him suddenly that perhaps
it was not the custom in America to open a gentleman's box and lay out
his clothes for him. For special reasons he was desperately anxious
to keep his place, and above all things he felt he must avoid giving
offense by doing things which, by being too English, might seem to cast
shades of doubt on the entire correctness of the customs of America. He
had known ill feeling to arise between “gentlemen's gentlemen” in the
servants' hall in the case of slight differences in customs, contested
with a bitterness of feeling which had made them almost an international
question. There had naturally been a great deal of talk about the new
Mr. Temple Barholm and what might be expected of him. When a gentleman
was not a gentleman,--this was the form of expression in “the
hall,”--the Lord only knew what would happen. And this one, who had, for
all one knew, been born in a workhouse, and had been a boot-black kicked
about in American streets,--they did not know Tembarom,--and nearly
starved to death, and found at last in a low lodging-house, what could
he know about decent living? And ten to one he'd be American enough to
swagger and bluster and pretend he knew everything better than any one
else, and lose his temper frightfully when he made mistakes, and try
to make other people seem to blame. Set a beggar on horseback, and who
didn't know what he was? There were chances enough and to spare that not
one of them would be able to stand it, and that in a month's time they
would all be looking for new places.
So while Tembarom was rather afraid of Pearson and moved about in an
awful state of uncertainty, Pearson was horribly afraid of Tembarom, and
was, in fact, in such a condition of nervous anxiety that he was obliged
more than once furtively to apply to his damp, pale young forehead his
exceedingly fresh and spotless pocket-handkerchief.
In the first place, there was the wardrobe. What COULD he do? How could
he approach the subject with sufficient delicacy? Mr. Temple Barholm had
brought with him only a steamer trunk and a Gladstone bag, the latter
evidently bought in London, to be stuffed with hastily purchased
handkerchiefs and shirts, worn as they came out of the shop, and as
evidently bought without the slightest idea of the kind of linen a
gentleman should own. What most terrified Pearson, who was of a timid
and most delicate-minded nature, was that having the workhouse and the
boot-blacking as a background, the new Mr. Temple Barholm COULDN'T know,
as all this had come upon him so suddenly. And was it to be Pearson's
calamitous duty to explain to him that he had NOTHING, that he
apparently KNEW nothing, and that as he had no friends who knew, a mere
common servant must educate him, if he did not wish to see him
derided and looked down upon and actually “cut” by gentlemen that
WERE gentlemen? All this to say nothing of Pearson's own well-earned
reputation for knowledge of custom, intelligence, and deftness in
turning out the objects of his care in such form as to be a reference in
themselves when a new place was wanted. Of course sometimes there
were even real gentlemen who were most careless and indifferent to
appearance, and who, if left to themselves, would buy garments which
made the blood run cold when one realized that his own character and
hopes for the future often depended upon his latest employer's outward
aspect. But the ulster in which Mr. Temple Barholm had presented himself
was of a cut and material such as Pearson's most discouraged moments
had never forced him to contemplate. The limited wardrobe in the steamer
trunk was all new and all equally bad. There was no evening dress,
no proper linen,--not what Pearson called “proper,”--no proper toilet
appurtenances. What was Pearson called upon by duty to do? If he
had only had the initiative to anticipate this, he might have asked
permission to consult in darkest secrecy with Mr. Palford. But he had
never dreamed of such a situation, and apparently he would be obliged
to send his new charge down to his first dinner in the majestically
decorous dining-room, “before all the servants,” in a sort of speckled
tweed cutaway, with a brown necktie.
Tembarom, realizing without delay that Pearson did not expect to be
talked to and being cheered by the sight of the fire, sat down before
it in an easy-chair the like of which for luxurious comfort he had never
known. He was, in fact, waiting for developments. Pearson would say or
do something shortly which would give him a chance to “catch on,” or
perhaps he'd go out of the room and leave him to himself, which would be
a thing to thank God for. Then he could wash his face and hands, brush
his hair, and wait till the dinner-bell rang. They'd be likely to have
one. They'd have to in a place like this.
But Pearson did not go out of the room. He moved about behind him for
a short time with footfall so almost entirely soundless that Tembarom
became aware that, if it went on long, he should be nervous; in fact,
he was nervous already. He wanted to know what he was doing. He could
scarcely resist the temptation to turn his head and look; but he did
not want to give himself away more entirely than was unavoidable, and,
besides, instinct told him that he might frighten Pearson, who looked
frightened enough, in a neat and well-mannered way, already. Hully gee!
how he wished he would go out of the room!
But he did not. There were gently gliding footsteps of Pearson behind
him, quiet movements which would have seemed stealthy if they had been
a burglar's, soft removals of articles from one part of the room to
another, delicate brushings, and almost noiseless foldings. Now Pearson
was near the bed, now he had opened a wardrobe, now he was looking into
the steamer trunk, now he had stopped somewhere behind him, within a few
yards of his chair. Why had he ceased moving? What was he looking at?
What kept him quiet?
Tembarom expected him to begin stirring mysteriously again; but he did
not. Why did he not? There reigned in the room entire silence; no soft
footfalls, no brushing, no folding. Was he doing nothing? Had he got
hold of something which had given him a fit? There had been no sound of
a fall; but perhaps even if an English valet had a fit, he'd have it so
quietly and respectfully that one wouldn't hear it. Tembarom felt that
he must be looking at the back of his head, and he wondered what was
the matter with it. Was his hair cut in a way so un-English that it
had paralyzed him? The back of his head began to creep under an
investigation so prolonged. No sound at all, no movement. Tembarom
stealthily took out his watch--good old Waterbury he wasn't going to
part with--and began to watch the minute-hand. If nothing happened
in three minutes he was going to turn round. One--two--three--and the
silence made it seem fifteen. He returned his Waterbury to his pocket
and turned round.
Pearson was not dead. He was standing quite still and resigned, waiting.
It was his business to wait, not to intrude or disturb, and having put
everything in order and done all he could do, he was waiting for further
commands--in some suspense, it must be admitted.
“Hello!” exclaimed Tembarom, involuntarily.
“Shall I get your bath ready, sir?” inquired Pearson. “Do you like it
hot or cold, sir?”
Tembarom drew a relieved breath. He hadn't dropped dead and he hadn't
had a fit, and here was one of the things a man did when he valeted
you--he got your bath ready. A hasty recollection of the much-used,
paint-smeared tin bath on the fourth floor of Mrs. Bowse's
boarding-house sprang up before him. Everybody had to use it in turn,
and you waited hours for the chance to make a dash into it. No one stood
still and waited fifteen minutes until you got good and ready to tell
him he could go and turn on the water. Gee whizz!
Being relieved himself, he relieved Pearson by telling him he might “fix
it” for him, and that he would have hot water.
“Very good, sir. Thank you, sir,” said Pearson, and silently left the
room.
Then Tembarom got up from his chair and began to walk about rather
restlessly. A new alarm seized him. Did Pearson expect to WASH him or
to stand round and hand him soap and towels and things while he washed
himself?
If it was supposed that you hadn't the strength to turn the faucets
yourself, it might be supposed you didn't have the energy to use a
flesh-brush and towels. Did valeting include a kind of shampoo all over?
“I couldn't stand for that,” he said. “I'd have to tell him there'd been
no Turkish baths in mine, and I'm not trained up to them. When I've got
on to this kind of thing a bit more, I'll make him understand what I'm
NOT in for; but I don't want to scare the life out of him right off. He
looks like a good little fellow.”
But Pearson's duties as valet did not apparently include giving him
his bath by sheer physical force. He was deft, calm, amenable. He led
Tembarom down the corridor to the bath-room, revealed to him stores of
sumptuous bath-robes and towels, hot-and cold-water faucets, sprays,
and tonic essences. He forgot nothing and, having prepared all, mutely
vanished, and returned to the bedroom to wait--and gaze in troubled
wonder at the speckled tweed cutaway. There was an appalling
possibility--he was aware that he was entirely ignorant of American
customs--that tweed was the fashionable home evening wear in the States.
Tembarom, returning from his bath much refreshed after a warm plunge and
a cold shower, evidently felt that as a costume it was all that could be
desired.
“Will you wear--these, sir,--this evening?” Pearson suggested.
It was suggestive of more than actual inquiry. If he had dared to hope
that his manner might suggest a number of things! For instance, that
in England gentlemen really didn't wear tweed in the evening even in
private. That through some unforeseen circumstances his employer's
evening-dress suit had been delayed, but would of course arrive
to-morrow!
But Tembarom, physically stimulated by hot and cold water, and relief at
being left alone, was beginning to recover his natural buoyancy.
“Yes, I'll wear 'em,” he answered, snatching at his hairbrush and
beginning to brush his damp hair. It was a wooden-backed brush that
Pearson had found in his Gladstone bag and shudderingly laid in
readiness on the dressing-table. “I guess they're all right, ain't
they?”
“Oh, quite right, sir, quite,” Pearson ventured--“for morning wear.”
“Morning?” said Tembarom, brushing vigorously. “Not night?”
“Black, sir,” most delicately hinted Pearson, “is--more usual--in the
evening--in England.” After which he added, “So to speak,” with a vague
hope that the mollifying phrase might counteract the effect of any
apparently implied aspersion on colors preferred in America.
Tembarom ceased brushing his hair, and looked at him in good-natured
desire for information.
“Frock-coats or claw-hammer?” he asked. Despite his natural anxiety,
and in the midst of it, Pearson could not but admit that he had an
uncondemnatory voice and a sort of young way with him which gave one
courage. But he was not quite sure of “claw-hammer.”
“Frock-coats for morning dress and afternoon wear, sir,” he ventured.
“The evening cut, as you know, is--”
“Claw-hammer. Swallow-tail, I guess you say here,” Tembarom ended for
him, quite without hint of rancor, he was rejoiced to see.
“Yes, sir,” said Pearson.
The ceremony of dressing proved a fearsome thing as it went on. Pearson
moved about deftly and essayed to do things for the new Mr. Temple
Barholm which the new Mr. Temple Barholm had never heard of a man not
doing for himself. He reached for things Pearson was about to hand to
him or hold for him. He unceremoniously achieved services for himself
which it was part of Pearson's manifest duty to perform. They got into
each other's way; there was even danger sometimes of their seeming to
snatch things from each other, to Pearson's unbounded horror. Mr. Temple
Barholm did not express any irritation whatsoever misunderstandings took
place, but he held his mouth rather close-shut, and Pearson, not aware
that he did this as a precaution against open grinning or shouts of
laughter as he found himself unable to adjust himself to his attendant's
movements, thought it possible that he was secretly annoyed and regarded
the whole matter with disfavor. But when the dressing was at an end and
he stood ready to go down in all his innocent ignoring of speckled tweed
and brown necktie, he looked neither flurried nor out of humor, and
he asked a question in a voice which was actually friendly. It was a
question dealing with an incident which had aroused much interest in the
servants' hall as suggesting a touch of mystery.
“Mr. Strangeways came yesterday all right, didn't he?” he inquired.
“Yes, sir,” Pearson answered. “Mr. Hutchinson and his daughter came
with him. They call her `Little Ann Hutchinson.' She's a sensible little
thing, sir, and she seemed to know exactly what you'd want done to make
him comfortable. Mrs. Butterworth put him in the west room, sir, and
I valeted him. He was not very well when he came, but he seems better
to-day, sir, only he's very anxious to see you.”
“That's all right,” said Tembarom. “You show me his room. I'll go and
see him now.”
And being led by Pearson, he went without delay.