“I’m very sorry, sir,” said Pritchard. “I know some gentlemen are very particular and I took care to put back every book exactly where I took it from.”
Richard Harenger gave his books a glance. So far as he could see every one was in its accustomed place. He smiled.
“I apologise, Pritchard.”
“They were in a muck, sir. I mean, you couldn’t open one without, getting your hands black with dust.”
She certainly kept his silver as he had never had it kept before. He felt called upon to give her a special word of praise.
“Most of it’s Queen Anne and George I, you know,” he explained.
“Yes, I know, sir. When you’ve got something good like that to look after it’s a pleasure to keep it like it should be.”
“You certainly have a knack for it. I never knew a butler who kept his silver as well as you do.”
“Men haven’t the patience women have,” she replied modestly.
As soon as he thought Pritchard had settled down in the place he resumed the little dinners he was fond of giving once a week. He had already discovered that she knew how to wait at table, but it was with a warm sense of complacency that he realised then how competently she could manage a party. She was quick, silent and watchful. A guest had hardly felt the need of something before Pritchard was at his elbow offering him what he wanted. She soon learned the tastes of his more intimate friends and remembered that one liked water instead of soda with his whisky and that another particularly fancied the knuckle end of a leg of lamb. She knew exactly how cold a hock should be not to ruin its taste and how long claret should have stood in the room to bring out its bouquet. It was a pleasure to see her pour out a bottle of burgundy in such a fashion as not to disturb the grounds. On one occasion she did not serve the wine Richard had ordered. He somewhat sharply pointed this out to her.
“I opened the bottle sir, and it was slightly corked. So I got the Chambertin, as I thought it was safer.”
“Quite right, Pritchard.”
Presently he left this matter entirely in her hands, for he discovered that she knew perfectly what wines his guests would like. Without orders from him she would provide the best in his cellar and his oldest brandy if she thought they were the sort of people who knew what they were drinking. She had no belief in the palate of women, and when they were of the party was apt to serve the champagne which had to be drunk before it went off. She had the English servant’s instinctive knowledge of social differences and neither rank nor money blinded her to the fact that someone was not a gentleman, but she had favourites among his friends, and when someone she particularly liked was dining, with the air of a cat that has swallowed a canary she would pour out for him a bottle of a wine that Harenger kept for very special occasions. It amused him.
“You’ve got on the right side of Pritchard, old boy,” he exclaimed. “There aren’t many people she gives this wine to.” Pritchard became an institution. She was known very soon to be the perfect parlourmaid. People envied Harenger the possession of her as they envied nothing else that he had. She was worth her weight in gold. Her price was above rubies. Richard Harenger beamed with self-complacency when they praised her. “Good masters make good servants,” he said gaily.
One evening, when they were sitting over their port and she had left the room, they were talking about her.
“It’ll be an awful blow when she leaves you.”
“Why should she leave me? One or two people have tried to get her away from me, but she turned them down. She knows where she’s well off.”
“She’ll get married one of these days.”
“I don’t think she’s that sort.”
“She’s a good-looking woman.”
“Yes, she has quite a decent presence.”
“What are you talking about? She’s a very handsome creature. In another class of life she’d be a well-known society beauty with her photograph in all the papers.”
At that moment Pritchard came in with the coffee. Richard Harenger looked at her. After seeing her every day, off and on, for four years it was now—my word, how time flies—he had really forgotten what she looked like. She did not seem to have changed much since he had first seen her. She was no stouter than then, she still had the high colour, and her regular features bore the same expression which was at once intent and vacuous. The black uniform suited her. She left the room.
“She’s a paragon and there’s no doubt about it.”
“I know she is,” answered Harenger. “She’s perfection. I should be lost without her. And the strange thing is that I don’t very much like her.”
“Why not?”
“I think she bores me a little. You see, she has no conversation. I’ve often tried to talk lo her. She answers when I speak to her, but that’s all. In four years she’s never volunteered a remark of her own. I know absolutely nothing about her. I don’t know if she likes me or if she’s completely indifferent to me. She’s an automaton. I respect her, I appreciate her, I trust her. She has every quality in the world and I’ve often wondered why it is that with all that I’m so completely indifferent to her. I think it must be that she is entirely devoid of charm.”
They left it at that.
Two or three days after this, since it was Pritchard’s night out and he had no engagement, Richard Harenger dined by himself at his club. A page-boy came to him and told him that they had just rung up from his flat to say that he had gone out without his keys and should they be brought along to him in a taxi? He put his hand to his pocket. It was a fact. By a singular chance he had forgotten to replace them when he had changed into a blue serge suit before coming out to dinner. His intention had been to play bridge, but it was an off-night at the club and there seemed little chance of a decent game; it occurred to him that it would be a good opportunity to see a picture that he had heard talked about, so he sent back the message by the page that he would call for the keys himself in half an hour.
He rang at the door of his flat and it was opened by Pritchard. She had the keys in her hand.
“What are you doing here, Pritchard?” he asked. “It’s your night out, isn’t it?”
“Yes, sir. But I didn’t care about going, so I told Mrs. Jeddy she could go instead.”
“You ought to get out when you have the chance,” he said, with his usual thoughtfulness. “It’s not good for you to be cooped up here all the time.”
“I get out now and then on an errand, but I haven’t been out in the evening for the last month.”
“Why on earth not ?”
“Well, it’s not very cheerful going out by yourself, and somehow I don’t know anyone just now that I’m particularly keen on going out with.”
“You ought to have a bit of fun now and then. It’s good for you.”
“I’ve got out of the habit of it somehow.”
“Look here. I’m just going to the cinema. Would you like to come along with me?”
He spoke in kindliness, on the spur of the moment, and the moment he had said the words half regretted them.
“Yes, sir, I’d like to,” said Pritchard.
“Run along then and put on a hat.”
“I shan’t be a minute.”
She disappeared and he went into the sitting-room and lit a cigarette. He was a little amused at what he was doing, and pleased too; it was nice to be able to make someone happy with so little trouble to himself. It was characteristic of Pritchard that she had shown neither surprise nor hesitation. She kept him waiting about five minutes, and when she came back he noticed that she had changed her dress. She wore a blue frock in what he supposed was artificial silk, a small black hat with a blue brooch on it, and a silver fox round her neck. He was a trifle relieved to see that she looked neither shabby nor showy. It would never occur to anyone who happened to see them that this was a distinguished official in the Home Office taking his housemaid to the pictures.
“I’m sorry to have kept you waiting, sir.”
He opened the front door for her and she went out before him. He remembered the familiar anecdote of Louis XIV and the courtier and appreciated the fact that she had not hesitated to precede him. The cinema for which they were bound was at no great distance from Mr. Harenger’s flat and they walked there. He talked about the weather and the state of the roads and Adolf Hitler. Pritchard made suitable replies. They arrived just as Mickey the Mouse was starting and this put them in a good humour. During the four years she had been in his service Richard Harenger had hardly ever seen Pritchard even smile, and now it diverted him vastly to hear her peal upon peal of joyous laughter. He enjoyed her pleasure. Then the principal attraction was thrown on the screen. It was a good picture and they both watched it with breathless excitement. Taking his cigarette-case out to help himself he automatically offered it to Pritchard.
“Thank you, sir,” she said, taking one.
He lit it for her. Her eyes were on the screen and she was almost unconscious of his action. When the picture was finished they streamed out with the crowd into the street. They walked back towards the flat. It was a fine starry night.
“Did you like it?” he said.
“Like anything, sir. It was a real treat.”
A thought occurred to him.
“By the way, did you have any supper to-night?”
“No, sir, I didn’t have time.”
“Aren’t you starving?”
“I’ll have a bit of bread and cheese when I get in and I’ll make meself a cup of cocoa.”
“That sounds rather grim.” There was a feeling of gaiety in the air, and the people who poured past them, one way and another, seemed filled with a pleasant elation. In for a penny, in for a pound, he said to himself. “Look here, would you like to come and have a bit of supper with me somewhere?”
“If you’d like to, sir.”
“Come on.”
He hailed a cab. He was feeling very philanthropic and it was not a feeling that he disliked at all. He told the driver to go to a restaurant in Oxford Street which was gay, but at which he was confident there was no chance of meeting anyone he knew. There was an orchestra and people danced. It would amuse Pritchard to see them. When they sat down a waiter came up to them.
“They’ve got a set supper here,” he said, thinking that was what she would like. “I suggest we have that. What would you like to drink? A little white wine?”
“What I really fancy is a glass of ginger beer,” she said. Richard Harenger ordered himself a whisky and soda. She ate the supper with hearty appetite, and though Harenger was not hungry, to put her at her ease he ate too. The picture they had just seen gave them something to talk about. It was quite true what they had said the other night, Pritchard was not a bad-looking woman, and even if someone had seen them together he would not have minded. It would make rather a good story for his friends when he told them how he had taken the incomparable Pritchard to the cinema and then afterwards to supper. Pritchard was looking at the dancers with a faint smile on her lips.
“Do you like dancing?” he said.
“I used to be a rare one for it when I was a girl. I never danced much after I was married. My husband was a bit shorter than me and somehow I never think it looks well unless the gentleman’s taller, if you know what I mean. I suppose I shall be getting too old for it soon.”
Richard was certainly taller than his parlourmaid. They would look all right. He was fond of dancing and he danced well. Rut he hesitated. He did not want to embarrass Pritchard by asking her to dance with him. It was better not to go too far perhaps. And yet what did it matter? It was a drab life she led. She was so sensible, if she thought it a mistake he was pretty sure she would find a decent excuse.
“Would you like to take a turn, Pritchard?” he said, as the band struck up again.
“I’m terribly out of practice, sir.”
“What does that matter?”
“If you don’t mind, sir,” she answered coolly, rising from her seat.
She was not in the least shy. She was only afraid that she would not be able to follow his step. They moved on to the floor. He found she danced very well.
“Why, you dance perfectly, Pritchard,” he said.
“It’s coming back to me.”
Although she was a big woman she was light on her feet and she had a natural sense of rhythm. She was very pleasant to dance with. He gave a glance at the mirrors that lined the walls and he could not help reflecting that they looked very well together. Their eyes met in the mirror; he wondered whether she was thinking that too. They had two more dances and then Richard Harenger suggested that they should go. He paid the bill and they walked out. He noticed that she threaded her way through the crowd without a trace of self-consciousness. They got into a taxi and in ten minutes were at home.
“I’ll go up the back way, sir,” said Pritchard.
“There’s no need to do that. Come up in the lift with me.”
He took her up, giving the night-porter an icy glance, so that he should not think it strange that he came back at that somewhat late hour with his parlourmaid, and with his latch-key let her into the flat.
“Well, good-night, sir,” she said. “Thank you very much. It’s been a real treat for me.”
“Thank you Pritchard. I should have had a very dull evening by myself. I hope you’ve enjoyed your outing.”
“That I have, sir, more than I can say.”
It had been a success. Richard Harenger was satisfied with himself. It was a kindly thing for him to have done. It was a very agreeable sensation to give anyone so much real pleasure.
His benevolence warmed him and for a moment he felt a great love in his heart for the whole human race.
“Good-night, Pritchard,” he said, and because he felt happy and good he put his arm round her waist and kissed her on the lips.
Her lips were very soft. They lingered on his and she returned his kiss. It was the warm, hearty embrace of a healthy woman in the prime of life. He found it very pleasant and he held her to him a little more closely. She put her arms round his neck.
As a general rule he did not wake till Pritchard came in with his letters, but next morning he woke at. half-past seven. He had a curious sensation that he did not recognise. He was accustomed to sleep with two pillows under his head and he suddenly grew aware of the fact that he had only one. Then he remembered and with a start looked round. The other pillow was beside his own. Thank God, no sleeping head rested there, but it was plain that one had. His heart sank. He broke out into a cold sweat.
“My God, what a fool I’ve been!” he cried out loud.
How could he have done anything so stupid? What on earth had come over him? He was the last man to play about with servant girls. What a disgraceful thing to do! At his age and in his position. He had not heard Pritchard slip away. He must have been asleep. It wasn’t even as if he’d liked her very much. She wasn’t his type. And, as he had said the other night, she rather bored him. Even now he only knew her as Pritchard. He had no notion what her first name was. What madness! And what was to happen now? The position was impossible. It was obvious he couldn’t keep her, and yet to send her away for what was his fault as much as hers seemed shockingly unfair. How idiotic to lose the best parlourmaid a man ever had just for an hour’s folly!
“It’s that damned kindness of heart of mine,” he groaned.
He would never find anyone else to look after his clothes so admirably or clean the silver so well. She knew all his friends’ telephone numbers and she understood wine. But of course she must go. She must see for herself that after what had happened things could never be the same. He would make her a handsome present and give her an excellent reference. At any minute she would be coming in now. Would she be arch, would she be familiar? Or would she put on airs? Perhaps even she wouldn’t trouble to come in with his letters. It would be awful if he had to ring the bell and Mrs. Jeddy c
ame in and said: Pritchard’s not up yet, sir, she’s having a lie in after last night.
“What a fool I’ve been! What a contemptible cad!”
There was a knock at the door. He was sick with anxiety.
“Come in.”
Richard Harenger was a very unhappy man.
Pritchard came in as the clock struck. She wore the print dress she was in the habit of wearing during the early part of the day.
“Good-morning, sir,” she said.
“Good-morning.”
She drew the curtains and handed him his letters and the papers. Her face was impassive. She looked exactly as she always looked. Her movements had the same competent deliberation that they always had. She neither avoided Richard’s glance nor sought it.
“Will you wear your grey, sir? It came back from the tailor’s yesterday.”
“Yes.”
He pretended to read his letters, but he watched her from under his eyelashes. Her back was turned to him. She took his vest and drawers and folded them over a chair. She took the studs out of the shirt he had worn the day before and studded a clean one. She put out some clean socks for him and placed them on the seat of a chair with the suspenders to match by the side. Then she put out his grey suit and attached the braces to the back buttons of the trousers. She opened his wardrobe and after a moment’s reflection chose a tic to go with the suit. She collected on her arm the suit of the day before and picked up the shoes.
“Will you have breakfast now, sir, or will you have your bath first?”
“I’ll have breakfast now,” he said.
“Very good, sir.”
With her slow quiet movements, unruffled, she left the room. Her face bore that rather serious, deferential, vacuous look it always bore. What had happened might have been a dream. Nothing in Pritchard’s demeanour suggested that she had the smallest recollection of the night before. He gave a sigh of relief. It was going to be all right. She need not go, she need not go.
The Complete Short Stories of W. Somerset Maugham - II - The World Over Page 77
