"You dear!" I thought. But I only said, "How sweet of you!" in a nice,
ladylike tone. And while he pumped the wettest and coldest water I ever
felt, he drily advised me to call him "Adversity" if I found his "uses
sweet," since he wasn't to be Jack for me. What if he had known that I
always call him "Jack" to myself?
He not only pumped the kettle full, but carried it into the kitchen, and
bullied or flattered the goddesses there until they gave him the hottest
place for it on the red-hot stove. Meanwhile, as my eyes accustomed
themselves to darkness after light, I spied in the courtyard of the pump
a shed piled with wood; and my uncomfortably prophetic soul said that if
Lady Turnour were to have a fire, the woodpile and I must do the trick
together. Souls can be mistaken though, sometimes, if consciences never
can; and Brother Adversity contradicted mine by darting out again to see
what I was doing, ordering me to stop, and doing it all himself.
I ran to beg for immediate bed-linen while he annexed a portion of the
family woodpile, and we met outside my mistress's door. On the threshold
I confidently expected her grateful ladyship to say: "What _are_ you
doing with that wood, Dane?" But she was too much crushed under her own
load of cold and discomfort to object to his and wish it transferred to
me. I'd knelt down to make a funeral pyre of paper roses, when in a
voice low yet firm my brother ordered me to my feet. This wasn't work
for girls when men were about, he grumbled; and perhaps it was as well,
for I never made a wood fire in my life. As for him, he might have been
a fire-tamer, so quickly did the flames leap up and try to lick his
hands. When it was certain that they couldn't go stealthily crawling
away again, he shot from the room, and in two minutes was back with the
big kettle of hot water under whose weight I should have staggered and
fallen, perhaps.
By this time I had made the bed, and tumbled all reminders of the two
"sympathetic messieurs" ruthlessly into no-man's land outside the door.
Things began to look more cheerful. Lady Turnour brightened visibly; and
when appetizing smells of cooking stole through the wide cracks all
round the door she decided that, after all, she would dine.
It was not until after I had seen her descend with her husband, and had
finished unpacking, that I had a chance to think of my own affairs. Then
I did wonder on what shelf I was to lie, or on what hook hang, for the
night. I had no information yet as regarded my own sleeping or eating,
but both began to assume importance in my eyes, and I went down to learn
my fate. Where was I to dine? Why, in the kitchen, to be sure, since the
_salle à manger_ was in use as a sitting-room until bedtime. As for
sleeping--why, that was a difficult matter. It was true that the English
milord had spoken of a room for me, but in the press of business it had
been forgotten. What a pity that the chauffeur and I were not a married
couple, _n'est pas?_ That would make everything quite simple. But--as
it was, no doubt there was a box-room, and matters would arrange
themselves when there was time to attend to them.
"Matters have already arranged themselves," announced Mr. Jack Dane,
from the door of the pump-court. "I heard Sir Samuel speak about your
accommodation, and I saw that nothing was being done, so I discovered
the box-room, and it is now ready, all but bed-covering. And for fear
there might be trouble about that, I've put Lady Turnour's cushions and
rugs on the alleged bed. Would you like to have a look at your quarters
now, or are you too hungry to care?"
"I'm not too hungry to thank you," I exclaimed. "You are a kind of
genie, who takes care of the poor who have neither lamps nor rings to
rub."
"Better not thank me till you've seen the place," said he. "It's a
villainous den; but I didn't think any one here would be likely to do
better with it than I would. Anyhow, you'll find hot water. I
unearthed--literally--another kettle. And it's the first door at the top
of the back stairs."
I flew, or rather stumbled, up the ladder-like stairway, with a candle
which I snatched from the high kitchen mantelpiece, and at the top I
laughed out, gaily. In the narrow passage was a barricade of horrors
which my knight had dragged from the box-room. On strange old hairy
trunks of cowhide he had piled broken chairs, bandboxes covered with
flowered wall-paper, battered clocks, chipped crockery, fire-irons,
bundles done up in blankets, and a motley collection of unspeakable odds
and ends that would have made a sensational jumble sale. I opened the
low door, and peeped into the room with which such liberties had been
taken for my sake. Although it was no more than a store cupboard, my
wonderful brother had contrived to give it quite an air of coziness. The
tiny window was open, and was doing its best to drive out mustiness. A
narrow hospital cot stood against the wall, spread with a mattress quite
an inch thick, and piled with the luxurious rugs and cushions from the
motor car. I was sure Lady Turnour would have preferred my sitting up
all night or freezing coverless rather than I should degrade her
possessions by making use of them; but Mr. Dane evidently hadn't thought
her opinion of importance compared with her maid's comfort. Two wooden
boxes, placed one upon another, formed a wash-hand stand, which not only
boasted a beautiful blue tin basin, but a tumbler, a caraffe full of
water, and a not-much-cracked saucer ready for duty as a soap-dish. The
top box was covered with a rough, clean towel, evidently filched from
the kitchen, and this piece of extra refinement struck me as actually
touching. A third box standing on end and spread with another towel,
proclaimed itself a dressing-table by virtue of at least half a looking
glass, lurking in one corner of a battered frame, like a sinister,
partially extinguished eye. Other furnishings were a kitchen chair and a
small clothes-horse, to compensate for the absence of wall-hooks or
wardrobe. On the bare floor--oh, height of luxury!--lay the fleecy white
rug whose high mission it was to warm the toes of Lady Turnour when
motoring. On the floor beside the box wash-hand stand, a small kettle
was pleasantly puffing, doing its best to heat the room with its gusty
breath; and the clothes-horse had a saddle of towels which I shrewdly
suspected had been intended for her ladyship or some other guest of
importance in the house.
How these wonders had been accomplished in such a short space of time,
and by a man, too, would have passed my understanding, had I not begun
to know what manner of man the chauffeur was. And to think that there
was a woman in the world who had known herself loved by him, yet had
been capable of sending him away! If he would do such things as these
for an acquaintance, at best a "pal," what would he not do for a woman
beloved? I should have liked to duck that creature under the pump in the
court, on just such a nipping night as this.
He had not forgotten my dressing bag, which was on the bed, but I could
not stop to open it. I had to run down to the kitchen again, and tell
him what I thought of his miracles. He was not there, but, at the sound
of my voice, he appeared at the door of the court, drying his hands,
having doubtless been making his toilet at the accommodating pump. In
the crude light of unshaded paraffin lamps with tin reflectors, he
looked tired, and I was sharply reminded of the nervous strain he had
gone through in that ordeal on the mountains, but he smiled with the
delight of a boy when I burst into thanks.
"It was jolly good exercise, and limbered me up a bit, after sitting
with my feet on the brake for so long," said he. "May I have my dinner
with you?"
My answer was rather enthusiastic, and that seemed to please him, too.
A quarter of an hour later I came down again, having made myself tidy
meanwhile, in the room which he had retrieved from the jungle. Had the
landlady but had the ordering of the change, my quarters would have been
fifty per cent. less attractive, I was sure, and told my brother so.
We were both starving, but there was too much to do in the dining-room
for domestics to expect attention. As for Monsieur le Chauffeur, he was
informed that the presence of a mechanician would be permitted in the
_salle à manger_, though a _femme de chambre_ might not enter there. I
begged him to go, but, of course, I should have been surprised if he
had. "I have a plan worth two of that," he said to me. "Do you remember
the picnic preparations we brought from Nîmes? It seems about a week
ago, but it was only this morning. We might as well try to eat on a
battlefield as in this kitchen, at present, and if we're kept waiting,
we may develop cannibal propensities. What about a picnic _à deux_ in
the glass cage, with electric illuminations? The water's still hot in
the automatic heater under the floor, and you shall be as warm as toast.
Besides, I'll grab a jug of blazing soup for a first course, and come
back for coffee afterward."
I clapped my hands as I used to when a child and my fun-loving young
parents proposed an open air fête. "Oh, how too nice!" I cried. "If you
don't think the Turnours would be angry?"
"I think the labourers are worthy of their hire," said he. "I'll fetch
your coat for you. No, you're not to come without it."
The car, it appeared, was lodged in the court; and my brother's
prophecies for the success of the picnic were more than fulfilled. Never
was such a feast! I got out the gorgeous tea-basket, trembling with a
guilty joy, and Jack washed the white and gold cups and plates at the
pump between courses, I drying them with cotton waste, which the car
generously provided. Besides the cabbage soup and good black coffee,
foraging expeditions produced apricot tarts, nuts, and raisins. We both
agreed that no food had ever tasted so good, and probably never would
again; but I kept to myself one thought which crept into my mind. It
seemed to me that nothing would ever be really interesting in my life,
when the chauffeur--the terrible, dreaded chauffeur--should have gone
out of it forever. In a few weeks--but I wouldn't think ahead; I put my
soul to enjoying every minute, even the tidying of the tea-basket after
the picnic was over, for that business he shared with me, like the rest.
And when I dreamed, by-and-by in my box-room, that he was polishing my
boots, Lady Turnour's boots, the boots of the whole party, I waked up to
tell myself that it was most likely true.