and she thought the next line, which she didn't remember, must have
been:
Before at tea ourselves we seat.
But though one portion of her mind was repeating this with nervous
levity, the other was full of concern for the number of journeys up and
down all those stairs the parlourmaid was being obliged to make. It
was--well, thoughtless of Everard to make her go up and down so often.
Probably he didn't realise--of course he didn't--how very many stairs
there were. When and how could she talk to him about things like this?
When would he be in such a mood that she would be able to do so without
making them worse? And how, in what words sufficiently tactful,
sufficiently gentle, would she be able to avoid his being offended? She
must manage somehow. But tact--management--prudence--all these she had
not yet in her life needed. Had she the smallest natural gift for them?
Besides, each of them applied to love seemed to her an insult. She had
supposed that love, real love, needed none of these protections. She had
thought it was a simple, sturdy growth that could stand anything....
Why, here was the parlourmaid already, teapot and all. How very quick
she had been!
Chesterton, however, hadn't so much been quick as tactful, managing, and
prudent. She had been practising these qualities on the other side of
the door, whither she had taken the teapot and quietly waited with it a
few minutes, and whence she now brought it back. She placed it on the
table with admirable composure; and when Wemyss, on her politely asking
whether there were anything else he required, said, 'Yes. You will now
take away that toast and bring fresh,' she took the toast also only as
far as the other side of the door, and waited with it there a little.
Lucy now hoped they would have tea. 'Shall I pour it out?' she asked
after a moment a little anxiously, for he still didn't move and she
began to be afraid the toast might be going to be the next hindrance; in
which case they would go round and round for the rest of the day, never
catching up the tea at all.
But he did go over and sit down at the table, followed by her who hardly
now noticed its position, so much surprised and absorbed was she by his
methods of housekeeping.
'Isn't it monstrous,' he said, sitting down heavily, 'how we've been
kept waiting for such a simple thing as tea. I tell you they're the most
slovenly----'
There was Chesterton again, bearing the toast-rack balanced on the tip
of a respectful ringer.
This time even Lucy realised that it must be the same toast, and her
hand, lifted in the act of pouring out tea, trembled, for she feared the
explosion that was bound to come.
How extraordinary. There was no explosion. Everard hadn't--it seemed
incredible--noticed. His attention was so much fixed on what she was
doing with his cup, he was watching her so carefully lest she should
fill it a hair's-breadth fuller than he liked, that all he said to
Chesterton as she put the toast on the table was, 'Let this be a lesson
to you.' But there was no gusto in it; it was quite mechanical.
'Yes sir,' said Chesterton.
She waited.
He waved.
She went.
The door hadn't been shut an instant before Wemyss exclaimed, 'Why, if
that slovenly hussy hasn't forgotten----' And too much incensed to
continue he stared at the tea-tray.
'What? What?' asked Lucy startled, also staring at the tea-tray.
'Why, the sugar.'
'Oh, I'll call her back--she's only just gone----'
'Sit down, Lucy.'
'But she's just outside----'
'Sit _down_, I tell you.'
Lucy sat.
Then she remembered that neither she nor Everard ever had sugar in their
tea, so naturally there was no point in calling Chesterton back.
'Oh, of course,' she said, smiling nervously, for what with one thing
and another she was feeling shattered, 'how stupid of me. We don't want
sugar.'
Wemyss said nothing. He was studying his watch, timing Chesterton. Then
when the number of seconds needed to reach the kitchen had run out, he
got up and rang the bell.
In due course Lizzie appeared. It seemed that the rule was that this
particular bell should be answered by Lizzie.
'Chesterton,' said Wemyss.
In due course Chesterton appeared. She was less composed than when she
brought back the teapot, than when she brought back the toast. She tried
to hide it, but she was out of breath.
'Yes sir?' she said.
Wemyss took no notice, and went on drinking his tea.
Chesterton stood.
After a period of silence Lucy thought that perhaps it was expected of
her as mistress of the house to tell her about the sugar; but then as
they neither of them wanted any....
After a further period of silence, during which she anxiously debated
whether it was this that they were all waiting for, she thought that
perhaps Everard hadn't heard the parlourmaid come in; so she said--she
was ashamed to hear how timidly it came out--'Chesterton is here,
Everard.'
He took no notice, and went on eating bread and butter.
After a further period of anxious inward debate she concluded that it
must after all be expected of her, as mistress of the house, to talk of
the sugar; and the sugar was to be talked of not because they needed it
but on principle. But what a roundabout way; how fatiguing and
difficult. Why didn't Everard say what he wanted, instead of leaving her
to guess?
'I think----' she stammered, flushing, for she was now very timid
indeed, 'you've forgotten the sugar, Chesterton.'
'Will you not interfere!' exclaimed Wemyss very loud, putting down his
cup with a bang.
The flush on Lucy's face vanished as if it had been knocked out. She sat
quite still. If she moved, or looked anywhere but at her plate, she knew
she would begin to cry. The scenes she had dreaded had not included any
with herself in the presence of servants. It hadn't entered her head
that these, too, were possible. She must hold on to herself; not move;
not look. She sat absorbed in that one necessity, fiercely concentrated.
Chesterton must have gone away and come back again, for presently she
was aware that sugar was being put on the tea-tray; and then she was
aware that Everard was holding out his cup.
'Give me some more tea, please,' he said, 'and for God's sake don't
sulk. If the servants forget their duties it's neither your nor my
business to tell them what they've forgotten,--they've just got to look
and see, and if they don't see they've just got to stand there looking
till they do. It's the only way to teach them. But for you to get
sulking on the top of it----'
She lifted the teapot with both hands, because one hand by itself too
obviously shook. She succeeded in pouring out the tea without spilling
it, and in stopping almost at the very moment when he said, 'Take care,
take care--you're filling it too full.' She even succeeded after a
minute or two in saying, holding carefully on to her voice to keep it
steady, 'I'm not--sulking. I've--got a headache.'
And she thought desperately, 'The only thing to be done with marriage is
to let it wash over one.'