Miss Maitland had been some months in the house before Arnott became in
any degree alive to her actual presence. He met her occasionally coming
in or going out. Usually she had the children with her, and a coloured
girl in charge of the boy. He always passed them, thankful that
politeness demanded nothing further than the raising of his hat.
Sometimes he encountered her on the stairs, when he felt constrained to
make a remark. But she was exceedingly retiring, and appeared quite as
anxious as he was to avoid these encounters. She had a habit of
effacing herself when he was at home.
But one day when he had been lunching with some men at his club, and
returned unexpectedly early in the afternoon with the intention of
running Pamela out to Camps Bay in the motor, he found that Pamela had
gone visiting; and Miss Maitland, who supplied this information, ceased
amazingly to stand as a mere cog in the wheel of his domestic machinery,
and assumed a distinct feminine personality that caught and held his
attention. She was, he noted, and felt surprised that he noticed this
for the first time, a striking, fine-looking girl.
He had run upstairs to look for Pamela, and was calling for her loudly
when quite unexpectedly a door in the corridor opened, and Miss Maitland
appeared, closing the door softly behind her, and keeping her hand on
the knob.
"The children are asleep," she said, which he recognised was a warning
to him not to disturb them.
Instead of feeling annoyed, he stopped short and stared at her
apologetically.
"Sorry I was so inconsiderate," he said. "I forgot. Can you tell me
where Mrs Arnott is?"
Blanche explained.
"What a bore," he said. "I particularly wanted her."
He surveyed the calm face turned gravely in his direction, with its
serene eyes and unsmiling lips, and was amused to see it change colour
under his scrutiny. His interest was immediately aroused. She assumed
from that moment an individuality that excited his curiosity. Why, he
wondered, had he been so entirely unaware of her before?--not unaware of
her actual bodily presence in his home, but of her separate existence as
a sentient human being,--a feminine human being with possibilities of
engaging developments.
He held her for a few minutes in conversation; then, quite pleasantly
excited, he went downstairs, and sat on the stoep and smoked until
Pamela returned.
Pamela found him in a mood of high good humour, notwithstanding his
announcement that he had spent a solitary afternoon, chafing at her
absence. The period of solitude had been less irksome than he allowed.
She leaned against the rail of the stoep near his chair, and gave an
account of her afternoon's doings, which had been fairly dull on the
whole.
"I would rather have been motoring," she finished.
Miss Maitland appeared with the children at this moment. She had waited
until Pamela returned home, not caring to pass Arnott, for some
inexplicable reason, and fully alive to the fact that he was seated on
the stoep near the door. It was late for their walk. For the first
time since her arrival the rigid rule of regular hours was relaxed.
Pamela looked round in surprise.
"Going out?" she exclaimed, catching up Pamela, the younger, who had
flown towards her and flung herself into her arms.
Arnott sat up, regarding the governess under his eyes. She had no look
for him.
"Baby slept late," she explained to Pamela. "I thought we might manage
a short walk before tea."
"You come too," the little girl pleaded, tugging at Pamela's hand.
"Nonsense!" interposed Arnott. "You have got Miss Maitland. Daddy
wants mummy."
The child pouted her disappointment.
"You can have Miss Maitland," she said, with unflattering generosity.
"Pamela wants her mummy."
Arnott laughed.
"Suppose I come instead, kiddie?" he suggested.
But his small daughter was decided in her opinions, and unblushingly
frank in the expression of them.
"I want mummy," she announced. "I don't want any one else."
"I'll tell you what I will do," he said, rising abruptly, to Pamela's
wondering amazement. "The car is all ready for going out I'll take the
whole lot for a spin." He tried not to look as though he were conscious
of acting in an altogether unprecedented manner, and added: "You can
nurse the boy between you."
"That will be jolly," said Pamela.
Little Pamela clapped her hands.
"That will be jolly," she echoed.
"I feel quite the family man," Arnott remarked later, when he had
settled Miss Maitland in the back with the children,--an arrangement
against which Pamela, the younger, at first protested loudly. She
wanted her mummy. Why couldn't Miss Maitland sit in front with daddy?
Pamela touched his arm affectionately as he seated himself beside her
and grasped the steering wheel.
"I love you in the role," she said softly. "I wish you played it more
often."
He laughed constrainedly.
"We'll see how it works," he answered guardedly.
It worked well on the whole. David howled lustily part of the time, for
no apparent reason, after the manner of small people; but he ceased his
cries when Pamela took him on her lap and coaxed him into a good temper.
That hour was the happiest she had spent for a long while. It was the
first occasion on which Arnott had taken the children out, or evinced
any interest in them whatever. She wondered what impulse had moved him
to act in this wholly unexpected and delightful way. She understood him
sufficiently to realise that it was an impulse, and entertained no great
hope that it would develop into a practice; but even as an isolated
instance of parental affection it presented him in a new and more kindly
light.
Aware that he was giving her pleasure, Arnott experienced an agreeable
sense of virtuous complacency. He speculated upon what the girl in the
tonneau was thinking, as she sat in her silent fashion, responding only
when necessary to Pamela's ceaseless prattle. He looked round
occasionally to make some joking remark to the child, and once he
deliberately addressed himself to the governess. She started when he
spoke to her, and answered briefly, and with faint embarrassment. After
that one attempt at conversation he did not look round again.
"I like going out in the car," remarked little Pamela, when she was
lifted out on their return home. "Why don't we go every day?"
"Daddy wouldn't be bothered with such a small fidget every day," he
answered. "But you shall go again, if you are good."
"To-morrow?" demanded Pamela.
"We'll see," he returned, and drove the car round to the garage.
Pamela carried the boy upstairs to the nursery, and remained for the
nursery tea. Then she changed her dress and went downstairs. Arnott
was in the drawing-room when she entered. She went to him and put her
arms about his neck and kissed him.
"Thank you, dear, for a very happy drive," she said.
He laughed awkwardly.
"Odd ideas of happiness some people have," he commented.
"It gave the children a lot of pleasure," she said. "And it was a
change for Miss Maitland. I have often wished to take her in the car,
but I haven't liked to suggest it."
"Why not?" he asked.
"I was afraid you might think it a nuisance. It was one of the
conditions, you know, that I wasn't to let her get in your way."
"Oh, that!" he returned... "Yes. But you've taken me rather more
literally than I intended. She is a very self-effacing young woman.
What on earth does she do with herself? It must be fairly dull for her
to be always with the kids. Why don't you have her down for an hour of
an evening? ... I don't see why she shouldn't dine with us."
"I don't think that's necessary," she said.
"Just as you like," he answered. "I only thought it would make it
brighter for her."
She considered the matter for a second or so, not altogether liking the
idea, and half wishing that he had not made the suggestion. A third
person sharing their quiet evenings would end finally the pleasant
companionable home life which had once meant so much to both of them,
but which Pamela was forced to recognise was no longer all it had been.
Perhaps the addition of a third person would make the increasing strain
of these domestic evenings less apparent, might, by introducing a fresh
note, rouse them both from the apathy of indifference into which they
were drifting. People could have too much of one another's undiluted
society; the presence of a third person, even if sometimes irksome,
stimulates the interest afresh. And, as Arnott had remarked, it would
certainly be brighter for Blanche.
"If you are sure you don't mind," she said.
"Why should I mind? The girl is harmless enough," he replied. "I don't
like the idea of her spending her evenings alone."
"No," Pamela said, perching herself on the arm of his chair, and turning
a smiling face to his. "I don't like it either. But I am just a little
reluctant to admit her altogether as one of the family. It's going to
put a finish to this comfortable state of affairs."
He laughed, and got an arm about her waist.
"I suppose it is," he allowed. "But if you will introduce strange young
women into the happy home you must put up with that. It was your doing,
remember."
"I know," Pamela assented. "But you must admit, Herbert, that it has
been a success."
"I don't deny it," he returned. "So far as I am able to judge, the
arrangement has worked towards the greater comfort of the establishment
all round. That's one reason why I think we ought to study the girl.
At present she is being treated like an upper servant. That won't do.
A girl needs some society outside the nursery."
"Very well," agreed Pamela. "We will inaugurate the new system
to-morrow."
Accordingly on the morrow Miss Maitland joined them at dinner. Although
Arnott himself had suggested, and practically insisted on this extension
of privileges, he made very little effort in helping Pamela in the
laborious task of sustaining conversation during the meal, or later when
they sat on the stoep. The governess occupied herself with some sewing,
and Arnott sat under the electric light and read the papers, only very
occasionally throwing in a remark. Pamela found the evening very
tedious, and was relieved when punctually at nine-thirty Miss Maitland
retired. Never very talkative, Miss Maitland's powers of conversation
seemed to dry up in Arnott's presence. She seldom looked at him, and
never addressed him spontaneously.
"Bit dull, isn't she?" Arnott observed, when she had left them and gone
indoors. He dropped his paper on to the floor and yawned. Then he got
up. "You don't seem to have the knack of setting her at her ease," he
said irritably.
"I don't see what more I can be expected to do," Pamela returned, a
little nettled. "She is shy--I think of you. When we are alone she is
more companionable."
"Well, I'm going in for a whisky," he said. "Dull people always give me
a thirst."
He went inside. Miss Maitland was mounting the stairs as he crossed the
hall. He paused at the foot of the stairs and looked after her.
"Good-night,--mouse," he called softly.
She looked back over her shoulder and flushed warmly.
"Good-night," she answered, and gave him one of her rare smiles, and
hurried on.
He entered the dining-room, drank off a glass of whisky, and poured
himself out a second, which he carried with him on to the stoep and
placed in the armhole of his chair. He had quite recovered his good
humour. He smiled a trifle self-consciously, and leaned over the back
of Pamela's chair, and rallied her on her silence.
"Am I to sit through the rest of the evening with another speechless
young woman?" he inquired.
Pamela, who felt unaccountably depressed, made no direct reply to this.
Instead she observed:
"Blanche plays wonderfully. Would it bore you if I suggested a little
music occasionally? I think she would enjoy it, and it would relieve
the strain."
"It wouldn't bore me," he answered. "I'm fond of music when it's good.
If she would like to strum, let her. There was a time when you used to
sing to me. But I haven't heard you sing for months, and then only when
we had people here."
Pamela remembered perfectly. The last time she had sung was the night
Dare dined with them.
"You never seemed to care much," she said.
"Not care! You didn't think that when I used to hang over you and the
piano on board ship," he laughed.
"Well, you don't take the trouble to hang over the piano any longer,"
she replied.
He straightened himself, and moved away, frowning impatiently. Why, he
wondered, did a woman always demand open demonstration of a man's
affection? As a sex they were tiresomely exacting.
"I'll get a gramophone," he said.
Pamela laughed.
"Some one has to hang over that. That will be my job, I suppose?"
"No. I will make myself independent of you. Miss Maitland shall work
it."
"It seems," Pamela observed, "that she is to be a person of many
avocations,--nurse to the children, housekeeper for me, and companion to
you."
"Why not?" he said. "She'll find the last job the most amusing."
"If this evening was a sample of your mutual interest, I should doubt
that," Pamela retorted. "I never knew you could be so absolutely
wooden. You did not make the least attempt to be agreeable. After all,
it was your idea to have her down."
"It's no use, Pam," he answered coolly. "I refuse to make a social
effort in my own home after eight o'clock. I expect to be amused,--or
at least left in peace. I didn't lay myself out to be entertaining when
I proposed her joining us. She will fit in, in time. Don't you worry."
He raised his glass, and took a long drink.
"If one is obliged to admit the stranger within one's gate, I prefer she
should err on the quiet side," he added. He recalled the swift,
surprised flush, and the smile which the girl, pausing on the landing,
had given him; and he wondered whether in her own room she was thinking,
as he was, of that unexpected encounter, and the confidential
half-whisper of his murmured good-night. It had, he felt, established a
sort of understanding between them. Odd, he reflected, that he had
lived in the same house with her for months, and only now discovered in
her that quality of the essential feminine which made her an interesting
problem to the male mind.