'Only wear and tear makes them come off,' Wemyss announced; and
continuing judicially, emphasising his words with a raised forefinger,
he said: 'Now attend to me. This piano hasn't been used for years. Do
you hear that? Not for years. To my certain knowledge not for years.
Therefore the cover cannot have been unbuttoned legitimately, it cannot
have been unbuttoned by any one authorised to unbutton it.
Therefore----'
He pointed his finger straight at her and paused. 'Do you follow me?' he
asked sternly.
The parlourmaid hastily reassembled her wandering thoughts. 'Yes sir,'
she said.
'Therefore some one unauthorised has unbuttoned the cover, and some one
unauthorised has played on the piano. Do you understand?'
'Yes sir,' said the parlourmaid.
'It is hardly credible,' he went on, 'but nevertheless the conclusion
can't be escaped, that some one has actually taken advantage of my
absence to play on that piano. Some one in this house has actually
dared----'
'There's the tuner,' said the parlourmaid tentatively, not sure if that
would be an explanation, for Wemyss's lucid sentences, almost of a legal
lucidity, invariably confused her, but giving the suggestion for what it
was worth. 'I understood the orders was to let the tuner in once a
quarter, sir. Yesterday was his day. He played for a hour. And 'ad the
baize and everything off, and the lid leaning against the wall.'
True. True. The tuner. Wemyss had forgotten the tuner. The tuner had
standing instructions to come and tune. Well, why couldn't the
fool-woman have reminded him sooner? But the tuner having tuned didn't
excuse the parlourmaid's not having sewn on the button the tuner had
pulled off.
He told her so.
'Yes sir,' she said.
'You will have that button on in five minutes,' he said, pulling out his
watch. 'In five minutes exactly from now that button will be on. I shall
be staying in this room, so shall see for myself that you carry out my
orders.'
'Yes sir,' said the parlourmaid.
He walked to the window and stood staring at the wild afternoon. She
remained motionless where she was.
What a birthday he was having. And with what joy he had looked forward
to it. It seemed to him very like the old birthdays with Vera, only so
much more painful because he had expected so much. Vera had got him used
to expecting very little; but it was Lucy, his adored Lucy, who was
inflicting this cruel disappointment on him. Lucy! Incredible. And she
to come down in that blanket, tempting him, very nearly getting him that
way rather than by the only right and decent way of sincere and obvious
penitence. Why, even Vera had never done a thing like that, not once in
all the years.
'Let's be friends,' says Lucy. Friends! Yes, she did say something about
sorry, but what about that blanket? Sorrow with no clothes on couldn't
possibly be genuine. It didn't go together with that kind of appeal. It
was not the sort of combination one expected in a wife. Why couldn't she
come down and apologise properly dressed? God, her little shoulder
sticking out--how he had wanted to seize and kiss it ... but then that
would have been giving in, that would have meant her triumph. Her
triumph, indeed--when it was she, and she only, who had begun the whole
thing, running out of the room like that, not obeying him when he
called, humiliating him before that damned Lizzie....
He thrust his hands into his pockets and turned away with a jerk from
the window.
There, standing motionless, was the parlourmaid.
'What? You still here?' he exclaimed. 'Why the devil don't you go and
fetch that button?'
'I understood your orders was none of us is to leave rooms without your
permission, sir.'
'You'd better be quick then,' he said, looking at his watch. 'I gave you
five minutes, and three of them have gone.'
She disappeared; and in the servants' sitting-room, while she was
hastily searching for her thimble and a button that would approximately
do, she told the others what they already knew but found satisfaction in
repeating often, that if it weren't that Wemyss was most of the week in
London, not a day, not a minute, would she stay in the place.
'There's the wages,' the cook reminded her.
Yes; they were good; higher than anywhere she had heard of. But what was
the making of the place was the complete freedom from Monday morning
every week to Friday tea-time. Almost anything could be put up with from
Friday tea-time till Monday morning, seeing that the rest of the week
they could do exactly as they chose, with the whole place as good as
belonging to them; and she hurried away, and got back to the
drawing-room thirty seconds over time.
Wemyss, however, wasn't there with his watch. He was on his way upstairs
to the top of the house, telling himself as he went that if Lucy chose
to take possession of his library he would go and take possession of her
sitting-room. It was only fair. But he knew she wasn't now in the
library. He knew she wouldn't stay there all that time. He wanted an
excuse to himself for going to where she was. She must beg his pardon
properly. He could hold out--oh, he could hold out all right for any
length of time, as she'd find out very soon if she tried the sulking
game with him--but to-day it was their first day in his home; it was his
birthday; and though nothing could be more monstrous than the way she
had ruined everything, yet if she begged his pardon properly he would
forgive her, he was ready to take her back the moment she showed real
penitence. Never was a woman loved as he loved Lucy. If only she would
be penitent, if only she would properly and sincerely apologise, then he
could kiss her again. He would kiss that little shoulder of hers, make
her pull her blouse back so that he could see it as he saw it down in
the library, sticking out of that damned blanket--God, how he loved
her....