Fritzing coming in a few minutes later without the cook he had hoped to find, was glad enough of Tussie’s sardines and biscuits — they were ginger biscuits — and while he ate them, abstractedly and together, Tussie looked on and wondered in spite of his wretchedness what the combination could possibly taste like. Then, after a late breakfast on the Wednesday morning, Priscilla sent for Fritzing and told him what Robin had done. The burdened man, so full already of anxieties and worries, was shattered by the blow. “I have always held duelling in extreme contempt,” he said when at last he could speak, “but now I shall certainly fight.”
“Fight? You? Fritzi, I’ve only told you because I — I feel so unprotected here and you must keep him off if he ever tries to come again. But you shall not fight. What, first he is to insult me and then hurt or kill my Fritzi? Besides, nobody ever fights duels in England.”
“That remains to be seen. I shall now go to his house and insult him steadily for half an hour. At the expiration of that time he will probably be himself anxious to fight. We might go to France—”
“Oh Fritzi don’t be so dreadful. Don’t go to him — leave him alone — nobody must ever know—”
“I shall now go and insult him,” repeated Fritzing with an inflexibility that silenced her.
And she saw him a minute later pass her window under his umbrella, splashing indifferently through all the puddles, battle and destruction in his face.
Robin, however, was at Ullerton by the time Fritzing got to the vicarage. He waved the servant aside when she told him he had gone, and insisted on penetrating into the presence of the young man’s father. He waved Mrs. Morrison aside too when she tried to substitute herself for the vicar, and did at last by his stony persistency get into the good man’s presence. Not until the vicar himself told him that Robin had gone would Fritzing believe it. “The villain has fled,” he told Priscilla, coming back drenched in body but unquenchable in spirit. “Your chastisement, ma’am, was very effectual.”
“If he’s gone, then don’t let us think about him any more.”
“Nay, ma’am, I now set out for Cambridge. If I may not meet him fairly in duel and have my chance of honourably removing him from a world that has had enough of him, I would fain in my turn box his ears.”
But Priscilla caught him by both arms. “Why, Fritzi,” she cried, “he might remove you and not you him — and from a world that hasn’t had nearly enough of you. Fritzi, you cannot leave me. I won’t let you go. I wish I had never told you. Don’t let us talk of it ever again. It is hateful to me. I — I can’t bear it.” And she looked into his face with something very like tears in her eyes.
Of course Fritzing stayed. How could he go away even for one hour, even in search of a cook, when such dreadful things happened? He was bowed down by the burden of his responsibilities. He went into his sitting-room and spent the morning striding up and down it between the street door and the door into the kitchen, — a stride and a half one way, and a stride and a half back back again, — doing what all evildoers have to do sooner or later, cudgelling his brains for a way out of life’s complications: and every now and then the terribleness of what had happened to his Princess, his guarded Princess, his unapproachable one, came over him with a fresh wave of horror and he groaned aloud.
In the kitchen sat the Shuttleworth kitchenmaid, a most accomplished young person, listening to the groans and wondering what next. Tussie had sent her, with fearful threats of what sort of character she would get if she refused to go. She had at once given notice, but had been forced all the same to go, being driven over in a dog-cart in the early morning rain by a groom who made laboured pleasantries at her expense. She could cook very well, almost as well as that great personage the Shuttleworth cook, but she could only cook if there were things to be cooked; and what she found at Creeper Cottage was the rest of the ginger biscuits and sardines. Well, I will not linger over that. Priscilla did get breakfast somehow, the girl, after trying vainly to strike sparks of helpfulness out of Annalise, going to the store and ordering what was necessary. Then she washed up, while Annalise tripped in and out for the express purpose, so it seemed, of turning up her nose; then she sat and waited and wondered what next. For a long time she supposed somebody would send for her to come and talk about luncheon; but nobody did. She heard the ceaseless stridings in the next room, and every now and then the groans. The rain on the kitchen window did not patter more ceaselessly than the footsteps strode up and down, and the groans got very much on to the girl’s nerves. At last she decided that no person who was groaning like that would ever want to order luncheon, and she had better go to the young lady. She went out accordingly and knocked at Priscilla’s door. Priscilla was in her chair by the fire, lost in troublous thought. She looked vaguely at the kitchenmaid for a moment, and then asked her to go away. “I’m busy,” explained Priscilla, whose hands were folded in her lap.
“Please miss, what do you wish for luncheon?”
“Who are you?”
“I’m the — assistant cook at the ‘All, miss. Lady Shuttleworth’s assistant cook. Sir Augustus desired me to cook for you to-day.”
“Then please do it.”
“Yes miss. What do you wish for luncheon?”
“Nothing.”
“Yes miss. And the gentleman — don’t he want nothing neither?”
“He’ll probably tell you when he does.”
“Yes miss. It’s as well to know a little beforehand, ain’t it, miss. There’s nothing in the — a-hem— ‘ouse, and I suppose I’d have to buy something.”
“Please do.”
“Yes miss. Perhaps if you’d tell me what the gentleman likes I could go out and get it.”
“But I don’t know what he likes. And wouldn’t you get wet? Send somebody.”
“Yes miss. Who?”
Priscilla gazed at her a moment. “Ah yes—” she said, “I forgot. I’m afraid there isn’t anybody. I think you had better ask my uncle what he wants, and then if you would — I’m very sorry you should have such bad weather — but if you don’t mind, would you go and buy the things?”
“Yes miss.”
The girl went away, and Priscilla began for the first time to consider the probability of her having in the near future to think of and order three meals every day of her life; and not only three meals, but she dimly perceived there would be a multitude of other dreary things to think of and order, — their linen, for instance, must be washed, and how did one set about that? And would not Fritzing’s buttons presently come off and have to be sewn on again? His socks, when they went into holes, could be thrown out of the window and new ones bought, but even Priscilla saw that you could not throw a whole coat out of a window because its buttons had come off. There would, then, have to be some mending done for Fritzing, and Annalise would certainly not be the one to do it. Was the simple life a sordid life as well? Did it only look simple from outside and far away? And was it, close, mere drudging? A fear came over her that her soul, her precious soul, for whose sake she had dared everything, instead of being able to spread its wings in the light of a glorious clear life was going to be choked out of existence by weeds just as completely as at Kunitz.
The Shuttleworth kitchenmaid meanwhile, who was not hindered at every turn by a regard for her soul, made her way to Fritzing as she had been told and inquired of him what she should cook for his dinner. No man likes to be interrupted in his groanings; and Fritzing, who was not hungry and was startled by the sudden appearance of a stranger in his room asking him intimate questions, a person of whose presence in the cottage he had been unaware, flew at her. “Woman, what have I to do with you?” he cried, stopping in his walk and confronting her with surprising fierceness. “Is it seemly to burst in on a man like this? Have you no decency? No respect for another’s privacy? Begone, I command you — begone! Begone!” And he made the same movements with his hands that persons do when they shoo away fowls or other animals in flocks.
This w
as too much for the Shuttleworth kitchenmaid. The obligations, she considered, were all on the side of Creeper Cottage, and she retreated in amazement and anger to the kitchen, put on her hat and mackintosh, and at once departed, regardless of the rain and the consequences, through two miles of dripping lanes to Symford Hall. What would have happened to her there if she had been discovered by Tussie I do not know, but I imagine it would have been something bad. She was saved, however, by his being in bed, clutched by the throat by a violent cold; and there he lay helpless, burning and shivering and throbbing, the pains of his body increased a hundredfold by the distraction of his mind about Priscilla. Why, Tussie asked himself over and over again, had she looked so strange the night before? Why had she gone starving to bed? What was she doing to-day? Was the kitchenmaid taking proper care of her? Was she keeping warm and dry this shocking weather? Had she slept comfortably the first night in her little home? Poor Tussie. It is a grievous thing to love any one too much; a grievous, wasteful, paralyzing thing; a tumbling of the universe out of focus, a bringing of the whole world down to the mean level of one desire, a shutting out of wider, more beautiful feelings, a wrapping of one’s self in a thick garment of selfishness, outside which all the dear, tender, modest, everyday affections and friendships, the wholesome, ordinary loves, the precious loves of use and wont, are left to shiver and grow cold. Tussie’s mother sat outside growing very cold indeed. Her heart was stricken within her. She, most orderly of women, did not in the least mind, so occupied was she with deeper cares, that her household was in rebellion, her cook who had been with her practically all her life leaving because she had been commanded by Tussie, before he had to fall back on the kitchenmaid, to proceed forthwith to Creeper Cottage and stay there indefinitely; her kitchenmaid, also a valued functionary, leaving; Bryce, Tussie’s servant who took such care of him and was so clever in sickness, gone suddenly in his indignation at having to go at all, — all these things no longer mattered. Nor did it matter that the coming of age festivities were thrown into hopeless confusion by Tussie’s illness, that the guests must all be telegraphed to and put off, that the whole village would be aghast at such a disappointment, that all her plans and preparations had been wasted. As the first day and night of illness dragged slowly past she grew to be nothing but one great ache of yearning over her sick boy, a most soul-rending yearning to do what she knew was for ever impossible, to put her arms so close round him, so close, so carefully, so tenderly, that nothing, no evil, no pain, could get through that clasp of love to hurt him any more.
“Why don’t you take better care of your only son?” said the doctor grimly after he had seen Tussie that evening, who by that time was in a very pitiable condition.
Lady Shuttleworth stared at him, wide-eyed and speechless.
“It’s absurd, you know, to let him get into this state. I’ve often warned you. He can’t be allowed to play ducks and drakes with himself like other young men. He’s got no strength to fall back upon. I consider you are directly responsible for this illness. Why do you let him go out at night this time of year? Why do you let him over-exert himself? I suppose,” said the doctor, who had brought Tussie into the world and was as brutal as he was clever, besides being at that moment extremely angry, “I suppose you want to lose him, eh?”
How could she explain to him what she knew to be true, that the one person responsible for Tussie’s illness was Priscilla? She therefore only stared, wide-eyed and speechless; and indeed her heart was very nearly broken.
XVII
About three o’clock that afternoon Priscilla saw quite clearly what she had dimly perceived in the morning, that if there was to be domestic peace in Creeper Cottage she must bestir herself. She did not like bestirring herself; at least, not in such directions. She would go out and help the poor, talk to them, cheer them, nurse their babies even and stir their porridge, but she had not up to this point realized her own needs, and how urgent they could be and how importunate. It was hunger that cleared her vision. The first time she was hungry she had been amused. Now when it happened again she was both surprised and indignant. “Can one’s wretched body never keep quiet?” she thought impatiently, when the first twinges dragged her relentlessly out of her dejected dreaming by the fire. She remembered the cold tremblings of the night before, and felt that that state would certainly be reached again quite soon if she did not stop it at once. She rang for Annalise. “Tell the cook I will have some luncheon after all,” she said.
“The cook is gone,” said Annalise, whose eyes were more aggressively swollen than they had yet been.
“Gone where?”
“Gone away. Gone for ever.”
“But why?” asked Priscilla, really dismayed.
“The Herr Geheimrath insulted her. I heard him doing it. No woman of decency can permit such a tone. She at once left. There has been no dinner to-day. There will be, I greatly fear, n — o — o — supp — pper.” And Annalise gave a loud sob and covered her face with her apron.
Then Priscilla saw that if life was to roll along at all it was her shoulder that would have to be put to the wheel. Fritzing’s shoulder was evidently not a popular one among the lower classes. The vision of her own doing anything with wheels was sufficiently amazing, but she did not stop to gaze upon it. “Annalise,” she said, getting up quickly and giving herself a little shake, “fetch me my hat and coat. I’m going out.”
Annalise let her apron drop far enough to enable her to point to the deluge going on out of doors. “Not in this weather?” she faltered, images of garments soaked in mud and needing much drying and brushing troubling her.
“Get me the things,” said Priscilla.
“Your Grand Ducal Highness will be wet through.”
“Get me the things. And don’t cry quite so much. Crying really is the most shocking waste of time.”
Annalise withdrew, and Priscilla went round to Fritzing. It was the first time she had been round to him. He was sitting at his table, his head in his hands, staring at the furnisher’s bill, and he started to see her coming in unexpectedly through the kitchen, and shut the bill hastily in a drawer.
“Fritzi, have you had anything to eat to-day?”
“Certainly. I had an excellent breakfast.”
“Nothing since?”
“I have not yet felt the need.”
“You know the cook Lady Shuttleworth sent has gone again?”
“What, that woman who burst in upon me was Lady Shuttleworth’s cook?”
“Yes. And you frightened her so she ran home.”
“Ma’am, she overstepped the limits of my patience.”
“Dear Fritzi, I often wonder where exactly the limits of your patience are. With me they have withdrawn into infinite space — I’ve never been able to reach them. But every one else seems to have a knack — well, somebody must cook. You tell me Annalise won’t. Perhaps she really can’t. Anyhow I cannot mention it to her, because it would be too horrible to have her flatly refusing to do something I told her to do and yet not be able to send her away. But somebody must cook, and I’m going out to get the somebody. Hush” — she put up her hand as he opened his mouth to speak— “I know it’s raining. I know I’ll get wet. Don’t let us waste time protesting. I’m going.”
Fritzing was conscience-stricken. “Ma’am,” he said, “you must forgive me for unwittingly bringing this bother upon you. Had I had time for reflection I would not have been so sharp. But the woman burst upon me. I knew not who she was. Sooner than offend her I would have cut out my tongue, could I have foreseen you would yourself go in search in the rain of a substitute. Permit me to seek another.”
“No, no — you have no luck with cooks,” said Priscilla smiling. “I’m going. Why I feel more cheerful already — just getting out of that chair makes me feel better.”
“Were you not cheerful before?” inquired Fritzing anxiously.
“Not very,” admitted Priscilla. “But then neither were you. Don’t suppose I didn’t see
you with your head in your hands when I came in. Cheerful people never seize their heads in that way. Now Fritzi I know what’s worrying you — it’s that absurd affair last night. I’ve left off thinking about it. I’m going to be very happy again, and so must you be. We won’t let one mad young man turn all our beautiful life sour, will we?”
He bent down and kissed her hand. “Permit me to accompany you at least,” he begged. “I cannot endure—”
But she shook her head; and as she presently walked through the rain holding Fritzing’s umbrella, — none had been bought to replace hers, broken on the journey — getting muddier and more draggled every minute, she felt that now indeed she had got down to elementary conditions, climbed right down out of the clouds to the place where life lies unvarnished and uncomfortable, where Necessity spends her time forcing you to do all the things you don’t like, where the whole world seems hungry and muddy and wet. It was an extraordinary experience for her, this slopping through the mud with soaking shoes, no prospect of a meal, and a heart that insisted on sinking in spite of her attempts to persuade herself that the situation was amusing. It did not amuse her. It might have amused somebody else, — the Grand Duke, for instance, if he could have watched her now (from, say, a Gothic window, himself dry and fed and taken care of), being punished so naturally and inevitably by the weapons Providence never allows to rust, those weapons that save parents and guardians so much personal exertion if only they will let things take their course, those sharp, swift consequences that attend the actions of the impetuous. I might, indeed, if this were a sermon and there were a congregation unable to get away, expatiate on the habit these weapons have of smiting with equal fury the just and the unjust; how you only need to be a little foolish, quite a little foolish, under conditions that seem to force it upon you, and down they come, sure and relentless, and you are smitten with a thoroughness that leaves you lame for years; how motives are nothing, circumstances are nothing; how the motives may have been aflame with goodness, the circumstances such that any other course was impossible; how all these things don’t matter in the least, — you are and shall be smitten. But this is not a sermon. I have no congregation. And why should I preach to a reader who meanwhile has skipped?
Delphi Collected Works of Elizabeth von Arnim (Illustrated) Page 77
