There appeared to be no tea-table. Chesterton, her arms stretched taut
holding the heavy tray, looked round. Evidently tea up there wasn't
usual.
'Put it in the window,' said Wemyss, jerking his head towards the
writing-table.
'Oh----' began Lucy quickly; and stopped.
'What's the matter?' asked Wemyss.
'Won't it--be draughty?'
'Nonsense. Draughty. Do you suppose I'd tolerate windows in my house
that let in draughts?'
Chesterton, resting a corner of the tray on the table, was sweeping a
clear space for it with her hand. Not that much sweeping was needed, for
the table was big and all that was on it was the notepaper which earlier
in the afternoon had been scattered on the floor, a rusty pen or two,
some pencils whose ends had been gnawed as the pencils of a child at its
lessons are gnawed, a neglected-looking inkpot, and a grey book with
_Household Accounts_ in dark lettering on its cover.
Wemyss watched her while she arranged the tea-things.
'Take care, now--take care,' he said, when a cup rattled in its saucer.
Chesterton, who had been taking care, took more of it; and _le trop_
being _l'ennemi du bien_ she was so unfortunate as to catch her cuff in
the edge of the plate of bread and butter.
The plate tilted up; the bread and butter slid off; and only by a
practised quick movement did she stop the plate from following the bread
and butter and smashing itself on the floor.
'There now,' said Wemyss. 'See what you've done. Didn't I tell you to be
careful? It isn't,' he said, turning to Lucy, 'as if I hadn't _told_ her
to be careful.'
Chesterton, on her knees, was picking up the bread and butter which
lay--a habit she had observed in bread and butter under circumstances of
this kind--butter downwards.
'You will fetch a cloth,' said Wemyss.
'Yes sir.'
'And you will cut more bread and butter.'
'Yes sir.'
'That makes two plates of bread and butter wasted to-day entirely owing
to your carelessness. They shall be stopped out of your----Lucy, where
are you going?'
'To fetch a handkerchief. I must have a handkerchief, Everard. I can't
for ever use yours.'
'You'll do nothing of the kind. Lizzie will bring you one. Come back at
once. I won't have you running in and out of the room the whole time. I
never knew any one so restless. Ring the bell and tell Lizzie to get you
one. What is she for, I should like to know?'
He then resumed and concluded his observations to Chesterton. 'They
shall be stopped out of your wages. That,' he said, 'will teach you.'
And Chesterton, who was used to this, and had long ago arranged with the
cook that such stoppages should be added on to the butcher's book, said,
'Yes sir.'
When she had gone--or rather withdrawn, for a plain word like gone
doesn't justly describe the noiseless decorum with which Chesterton
managed the doors of her entrances and exits--and when Lizzie, too, had
gone after bringing a handkerchief, Lucy supposed they would now have
tea; she supposed the moment had at last arrived for her to go and sit
in that window.
The table was at right angles to it, so that sitting at it you had
nothing between one side of you and the great pane of glass that reached
nearly to the floor. You could look sheer down on to the flags below.
She thought it horrible, gruesome to have tea there, and the very first
day, before she had had a moment's time to get used to things. Such
detachment on the part of Everard was either just stark wonderful--she
had already found noble explanations for it--or it was so callous that
she had no explanation for it at all; none, that is, that she dared
think of. Once more she decided that his way was really the best and
simplest way to meet the situation. You took the bull by the horns. You
seized the nettle. You cleared the air. And though her images, she felt,
were not what they might be, neither was anything else that day what it
might be. Everything appeared to reflect the confusion produced by
Wemyss's excessive lucidity of speech.
'Shall I pour out the tea?' she asked presently, preparing, then, to
take the bull by the horns; for he remained standing in front of the
fire smoking in silence. 'Just think,' she went on, making an effort to
be gay, 'this is the first time I shall pour out tea in my----'
She was going to say 'My own home,' but the words wouldn't come off her
tongue. Wemyss had repeatedly during the day spoken of his home, but not
once had he said 'our' or 'your'; and if ever a house didn't feel as if
it in the very least belonged, too, to her, it was this one.
'Not yet,' he said briefly.
She wondered. 'Not yet?' she repeated.
'I'm waiting for the bread and butter.'
'But won't the tea get cold?'
'No doubt. And it'll be entirely that fool's fault.'
'But----' began Lucy, after a silence.
'Buts again?'
'I was only thinking that if we had it now it wouldn't be cold.'
'She must be taught her lesson.'
Again she wondered. 'Won't it rather be a lesson to us?' she asked.
'For God's sake, Lucy, don't argue. Things have to be done properly in
my house. You've had no experience of a properly managed household. All
that set you were brought up in--why, one only had to look at them to
see what a hugger-mugger way they probably lived. It's entirely the
careless fool's own fault that the tea will be cold. _I_ didn't ask her
to throw the bread and butter on the floor, did I?'
And as she said nothing, he asked again. 'Did I?' he asked.
'No,' said Lucy.
'Well then,' said Wemyss.
They waited in silence.
Chesterton arrived. She put the fresh bread and butter on the table, and
then wiped the floor with a cloth she had brought.
Wemyss watched her closely. When she had done--and Chesterton being good
at her work, scrutinise as he might he could see no sign on the floor of
overlooked butter--he said, 'You will now take the teapot down and bring
some hot tea.'
'Yes sir,' said Chesterton, removing the teapot.
A line of a hymn her nurse used to sing came into Lucy's head when she
saw the teapot going. It was: