Mrs. Chubb nodded at that; she was well aware of the sagacity of servants and their unflagging interest in the affairs of their employers.
"So he sent me to a friend of his. A husband was chosen for me, but I could not accept him."
"It's a good thing," said Mrs. Chubb, "that I know the upper classes and what's right and wrong to them. Now if I was like my next door tenant . . . why, bless you, my dear, I'd be inclined to think it was something you'd made up."
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Melisande did not attempt to describe the nature of Fenella's establishment; she felt it would be something Mrs. Chubb would never understand; nor did she tell of Fermor for, if there was one man in the whole world who lacked the chivalry of Mr. Chubb, that man was Fermor, and Melisande could not afford to lose the sympathy of her new friend—now her only one—by trying to explain that in spite of obvious villainies, she still hankered after him. How could Mrs. Chubb, who had been cherished by a saint, understand the fascinations of a man like Fermor? Mrs. Chubb might even withdraw her good opinion of Melisande if she tried to explain.
A few days after Melisande's arrival at the house, Ellen appeared.
Ellen was a big woman, plump and forceful. "She's got more of her father than me in her," said Mrs. Chubb admiringly.
Ellen, clearly accustomed to parental admiration, sat like a queen in state in the parlour, so that it seemed smaller and more overcrowded than usual. She talked of her own affairs for so long and in such details—speaking of the Lady and Him, and people with names like Rose, Emily, Jane and Mary, all of whom Mrs. Chubb seemed to know very well indeed, for she inquired feelingly after Mary's bad leg, Rose's flirtatiousness, Emily's headaches and Jane's slatternliness—that Melisande feared they would never begin discussing her affairs.
But Mrs. Chubb had not forgotten her.
"Now Miss St. Martin here, Ellen—she wants work, and we've been wondering what you could do for her."
Ellen paused in her flow of talk and turned her heavy body to study Melisande critically.
"She's foreign," said Mrs. Chubb, like a defending lawyer. "That ought to go some way, didn't it, Ellen ... for a lady's maid?"
"Oh . . . lady's maid!" said Ellen, and grimaced.
"She's a lady, and educated in a convent."
"Most of them's governesses," said Ellen. "But she's got more the look of a lady's maid than a governess."
"It's good of you to be interested," said Melisande. "Your mother has kindly said you would be, and that you know more than anyone in London when there are such vacancies."
Ellen smiled and waved her hand as though to deny such power, but in a perfunctory way necessitated by modesty rather than the need to admit the truth.
"If you should hear of something for me," went on Melisande, "lady's maid or governess, and could say a word for me, I should be so grateful."
"If there should be something going, you can be sure I'd hear of it, and I don't mind admitting that a word from Ellen Chubb would go a long way."
"You are most kind. Your mother has told me what power and knowledge is yours."
Mrs. Chubb was beaming; she did not know who pleased her more—her lodger-protegee, with her pretty face and charming ways, or her omnipotent, omniscient daughter.
They talked for half an hour of Melisande's qualifications, of her convent education, of her few months' companionship to a lady in the country where she had helped that lady dress and do her hair, had read to her and helped her with her clothes.
"But," said Mrs. Chubb, with winks and distortions of the face, "Miss St. Martin wants no reference made to that young lady."
The winks and distortions meant that there was a good reason for this which Ellen should hear when they were alone.
Ellen looked first grave, then confident. Grave because experience and references were two of the necessities when it came to the ticklish business of getting a job. However, so great was the power of Ellen Chubb that it might be possible—with this power working for Melisande—to dispense with what, in any other circumstances, would have been sheer necessities.
Ellen left the house that day on her mettle.
And, six weeks after Melisande's arrival at Mrs. Chubb's house, she was engaged as lady's maid to Mrs. Lavender.
TWO
Ihe Lavenders lived in a tall narrow house which overlooked Hyde Park.
It was not a large house, and more space seemed to have been allotted to the staircases than to the rooms. It was a dark house, and as soon as she entered it, Melisande felt that it was a poor exchange for the clean conviviality of Mrs. Chubb's cottage.
Mrs. Lavender, like the house, was tall and thin. She had a dark, brooding personality. Her hair was the vivid red of a young woman's; her face was an ageing one. It was a discontented, suspicious face. The interview she had with her did nothing to lift Melisande's spirits.
She was met at the door by a manservant whom she afterwards knew as Gunter. Gunter and his wife lived in the basement. Mrs. Gunter was cook-housekeeper, Mr. Gunter butler and handyman. There was one other servant—an elderly woman named Sarah.
Mrs. Lavender received Melisande in her dressing-room, which
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she called her boudoir. It was an elaborate room lacking the taste displayed in Fenella's rooms yet somehow reminding Melisande of them. Mrs. Lavender's were fussy, whereas Fenella's had been grand. Mrs. Lavender herself wore a frilly neglige which did not suit her elderly face. She was lying back in an armchair when Melisande was shown in by Gunter.
Melisande stood uncertainly while Mrs. Lavender's eyes travelled over her.
"You are very young," said Mrs. Lavender.
"Oh no. . . . Not ... so young."
"Say Madam when you address me."
"Not so young, Madam. Eighteen."
That did not seem to please Mrs. Lavender. She said suspiciously: "I am told this is your first post."
Melisande was silent.
"It is not my custom to take servants without references. But I have heard from a friend's housekeeper that you are trustworthy and so am prepared to give you a trial."
"Thank you, Madam."
"You are French, I hear."
"I was brought up in France."
"What is your name . . . your Christian name?"
"Melisande."
"I shall call you Martin."
"Oh . . ."
"The wages will be ten pounds a year. This is your first post. I expect I shall have a good deal to teach you. As you will live in and have no expenses I consider I am being very generous."
"Yes. Thank you . . . Madam."
"Well then, you may start to-morrow. Pull the bell and Gunter will show you out."
Melisande obeyed.
Gunter was inclined to be sympathetic. As they were on the stairs he turned and winked at her. "Got it?" he asked.
"Yes, thank you."
He grimaced, as though he thought it might prove to be a mixed blessing.
He put his hands to his mouth and whispered through them: "Tartar!"
"Yes?" said Melisande.
"Oh . . . you're foreign. What about popping in to see Mrs. Gunter before you go?"
"You are most kind."
Mr. and Mrs. Gunter were pleased to entertain her in their basement room, and Mrs. Gunter in a burst of friendliness—or perhaps
compassion—brought out a bottle of her ginger wine that they might drink to the success of Melisande in her new home.
Melisande was touched by their friendliness and very glad of it, for it warmed the chilling atmosphere of the house. She supposed that, had she not still been feeling rather dazed and careless of what became of her, she would have been more depressed about her future. Yet, at this moment, nothing seemed very real to her, nothing seemed of any great importance. Caroline and Fermor, with Wenna an accusing figure in the background, haunted her by day and night.
"There," said Mrs. Gunter, who was many inch
es taller than her husband, considerably broader, and showed a protective attitude towards him, which she was now preparing to extend to Melisande, "you sit down, and Gunter'll get out the glasses."
The Gunters' room was furnished humbly. "Our own pieces," explained Mrs. Gunter. "We never move without our bit of home, and as I say to Gunter, what's nicer than a bit of home? So you're coming to work here, eh? Steady!" That was to Gunter who was filling the glasses too full. "Can't afford to spill our best ginger. It's not so easily come by."
"I start to-morrow," said Melisande.
"I wouldn't like to be in your shoes," said Gunter.
"I'd like to see you try to get into them!" said Mrs. Gunter, giving Melisande a push to stress the joke.
Melisande laughed.
The Gunters were a merry pair. Gunter now began to mince round the room. "And how would Madam like her hair done to-day, eh? A little curl here? A little curl there?"
"Looks like he's already been at the ginger," said Mrs. Gunter, with another push. "It goes to his head . . . and my legs."
"I think," said Melisande, "that I'm going to be very glad that you will be here with me."
"Well, that is a nice thing to say," said Mrs. Gunter. She added in a whisper: "She can't keep her maids."
"It's not so much her ... as him," said Gunter darkly.
"Him?" asked Melisande.
Mrs. Gunter looked evasive. "Oh, he's a lot younger than her . . . regular little dandy, he is. She thinks the world of him. 'Archibald, my dear!' " mimicked Mrs. Gunter.
Mr. Gunter pranced round the room and embraced his wife.
"Gunter'll be the death of me," said Mrs. Gunter.
They were serious suddenly, looking at Melisande with concern.
"What is it?" she asked. "You think I shall not do this job? You think I shall not give the satisfaction?"
"Well," said Mr. Gunter. "I'd say you will and I'd say you won't."
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"Give over!" said Mrs. Gunter sternly. "You see, Miss, she's a bit of a tartar. She's nearing sixty and she'll want you to make her look thirty. It can't be done. And every time she looks in the glass, she knows it. She's got the money. Now you'd say that when a woman marries, all she's got's her husband's. That's the law. Well, her father knew a thing or two about that and he got the money tied up in some way. Some sort of thing I don't understand. But it means the money can't go to Mr. Lavender. It comes to her . . . regular . . . to her, you see. Mr. Lavender can't lay his hands on it. It was a shock to him when he found out how he'd been bested. It works all right though, don't it, Gunter? It keeps him sweet and dancing attendance. Whereas ..."
"Whereas ..." said Mr. Gunter going off into laughter.
"If he got his hands on the money it might be quite a different story. As I say to Gunter, sixty can't mate with thirty and all go merry like. There's bound to be troubles. Sometimes she's not all that sweet, and who does she take it out on but us. And you, my dear, will be at her beck and call more than any of us. I think it right to warn you."
"Thank you," said Melisande.
"You don't seem very scared," said Mrs. Gunter.
"I did not expect that I should find it easy."
The Gunters looked at her sharply, and Melisande went on, with emotion: "I shall never forget your kindness. It is so good to meet kindness in this world."
Unable to reply in words to such a display of feeling, the Gunters looked shyly at each other as though to say: Foreign ways!
The verdict after she had left was that she was queer but nice. And talk about goodlooking! Far too goodlooking.
"My word," said Mrs. Gunter, "she's not going to like that."
"No," said Mr. Gunter, "but he is!"
Then they laughed but were soon serious. They were a good-hearted pair, and the beautiful young lady had aroused their compassion.
How did she manage to live through the days that followed? Only, thought Melisande, because of that numbness within her. Only because she thought: I do not care.
She did not hate the woman whose wish seemed to be to hurt and
humiliate her; she did not care. When Mrs. Lavender shouted at her: "Martin, you clumsy fool, you're pulling my hair. A lady's maid, you! You're here under false pretences. I don't mind telling you that if you go on like this you'll be out, neck and crop . . ." Melisande did not hear. She was thinking of Fermor, callous in that charmingly furnished hall; she was thinking of Caroline's white and tragic face. "Murderess! Murderess!" were the words she heard.
"Martin, you seem quite stupid. Don't you hear me? Are you dumb, blind and silly?"
"Yes, Madam?"
"Do not stand there smiling and looking so pleased with yourself."
I? thought Melisande. Pleased with myself? I hate myself. I do not care what happens to me. Caroline may be dead, and if so . . . I have killed her.
Even in tragedy there was some good, she thought. How do ladies' maids endure serving such women as this unless they feel as I do . . . indifferent . . . not caring?
What a pity, she thought, that I was not the one who walked under the horse. That would have solved our problem.
Fermor? He would have been sad for a while... such a little while.
But when she made a flower for Mrs. Lavender's gown, the woman was pleased. She did not say so. She merely had the flower placed on her dress. She looked at it appreciatively. "You can make some more," was all she said. But for the next few days she did not complain so much. She was even communicative. She showed Melisande her jewels, which she kept in a small safe in her boudoir. She unbent when displaying them. She ought to keep them at the bank, she was told, but she could not bear to part with them. She liked to have them with her to try them on, even though she did not wear them all the time.
Melisande thought her appearance was always spoilt by too many jewels which, in conjunction with the red hair, made too startling a show. If the jewels had been worn sparingly with clothes less flamboyant, and her hair was its natural colour, providing Mrs. Lavender could acquire a more pleasant expression, she might suit her name. As it was that name seemed somewhat incongruous.
Melisande had made suggestions about the jewels, but Mrs. Lavender would not heed her. She presumed Melisande was jealous of her possessions.
She showed her the pearl-handled pistol which she kept in a drawer by her bed. "It's loaded," she said, "I always keep it so. I'm ready for any burglars. No one shall get away with my jewels."
Melisande listened in silence. Her apparent indifference goaded her employer to anger; yet her dignity held the woman in check. It was impossible to rave so continually at one who was so calm.
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Mrs. Lavender could not understand the girl. If she were not so clever at arranging hair and supplying clever little touches to a dress, Mrs. Lavender would have decided to dismiss her; but to her astonishment she found that she was almost growing to like her lady's maid. It was surprising, for Mrs. Lavender liked few people, and she had never before had the slightest regard for a mere servant. She found herself wondering what the meaning was of that strange look on the girl's face. She did not seem by nature meek; she was not like a servant eager above all things to keep a job; it was that blank indifference which was so baffling; it was almost as though she did not care what was said to her; for she never showed the least resentment. It was as though she were living in another world, a world which was invisible to those about her.
Uncanny! thought Mrs. Lavender. But a lady . . . quite a lady— which was an asset really. She was a girl one could be proud to show to one's friends . . . and French into the bargain! So, on the whole, Mrs. Lavender was not displeased with her new maid.
And then Mr. Lavender came home.
Melisande was sui prised when she saw him for the first time, although she should not have been, for there had been dark hints from the Gunters, and she already knew that he was considerably younger than his wife.
Sar
ah, the maid-of-all-work, who sometimes had a cup of coffee with the other members of the staff in the Gunters' basement room, had talked of Mr. Lavender's fondness for the bottle, for handsome waistcoats; she had talked of the scented pomade he used for his hair, of the scrapes he got into with Mrs. Lavender, and how he needed all his blarney to get out of them. It was not that Melisande was unprepared for Mr. Lavender, but for the effect she would have on him.
She was clearing up in the boudoir one afternoon while Mrs. Lavender was taking a nap in her bedroom, when Mr. Lavender came in.
She had heard a step behind her and, thinking it was Sarah who had entered, did not turn round but continued combing the hairs from Mrs. Lavender's brush.
"Oh, Sarah," she said, "is Mrs. Gunter in?"
There was no answer. She turned and there was Mr. Lavender leaning against the door and smiling at her.
There was nothing really alarming about Mr. Lavender's smile. Melisande had encountered many such smiles and she knew that they indicated admiration. She was merely startled.
"G . . . good afternoon," she said.
Mr. Lavender bowed. She noticed how the quiff of yellow hair fell over his brow; she saw the gleam of a diamond tiepin, the ring
on his finger, the nattily cut coat and the brilliant waistcoat; she could smell the violet hair pomade.
"This is a pleasure," he said. "You must be my wife's new maid."
"Yes."
To her astonishment, he approached and held out his hand. He took hers and held it, patting it with his olher. "I see," he said, "that we are in luck this time."
"It is kind of you to say so." Melisande withdrew her hand.
"My word, you're a pretty girl—if you don't mind the compliment."
"I do not mind. Thank you."
"You're really French, I hear. Why, you and I will get on like a house afire, I can see."
She remembered then Fenella's advice: When she did not know how to respond, to indicate that she did not understand the finer meanings of the English language.
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