The Partnership (6 page)

“Well, Wilfred!” she returned, rather breathless from the impact of her own sensations.

“How have you enjoyed yourself? You didn't care much for that Home place, I'm afraid,” pursued Wilfred.

“You've heard about it, then?” said Lydia, striving to recover her composure.

“Oh, we don't forget
you
while you're away, however little you may think about
us
,” replied Wilfred soberly.

At this all the intimate dreams in which she had indulged while watching Annice and her soldier lover naturally rushed into Lydia's mind; utterly confused, she murmured: “Oh yes, I did,” in a suffocated tone, and hanging her head, blushed deeply.

“I'm glad of that,” said Wilfred with emphasis, too straightforward to pretend to misunderstand her.

Charles now spoke from his chair by the hearth and broke upon their privacy, but their few words together had been enough; from that hour their relationship entered on a new phase, and Charles's hopes for them seemed likely of fulfilment.

It was not only on this account, however, that
Lydia congratulated herself a hundred times during the next few months on her acquisition of Annice; for from the first the girl was a general favourite and a great success. Wilfred approved heartily of her bright face and willing service, and of the way she smiled at him when she opened the door and told him Lydia was in; Charles gladly extended to her his universal benevolence, adding to it in her case a humorous paternal affection; Dyson commented favourably on her firm red cheeks; while Louise frankly loved her. In the long hours while Lydia was out at work and Charles wrestled with backward youths in his study, Louise and Annice became intimate—as far as it was possible for anyone to become intimate with Annice—over their common household tasks. They made beds together, conferred seriously over the quantity of milk which was desirable for the day, arranged and rearranged meals for the coming week with childish solemnity, and united in a thousand little schemes for the welfare of Charles and Lydia, those pivots of the household. Annice soon became acquainted with the minutest preferences of the Mellors; she knew Lydia's prejudices about blankets, and how much sugar Charles liked in his tea; she knew where all the linen was kept, and was familiar with the resources of the jam cupboard. Louise was too dreamy to make an efficient housekeeper; she forgot details, changed her plans often, made small muddles and then grew fluttered in correcting them; but whatever she
did always seemed to meet with Annice's hearty approval. Annice was never cross, never sharp, never critical, never in a hurry; when anything pleasant happened she smiled joyously and said nothing; when anything untoward occurred her round blue eyes assumed an expression of respectful sympathy, she smiled and was silent. She was always willing to do anything that Louise proposed, and to undo it again if Louise proposed that later; nothing pleased her better than to be sent errands, and to run from the cellar to the top of the house and back was a bagatelle to her. It was early discovered that she knew nothing whatever of her duties; but she learned so rapidly and followed her instructions with such implicit faith that the whole family took an immense pleasure in teaching them to her. Charles himself gave her “tips” on the proper method of announcing his many callers, and her prowess in setting the table in exact accordance with Louise's wishes was daily commented upon. The sharp-eyed Lydia, however, too often perceived dust lying about in corners which Annice was supposed to have cleaned. Once she remonstrated. The girl obediently fetched a duster and poked out the offending corner with her customary air of inscrutable reserve, but she gave Lydia afterwards a look which seemed to hint that Annice's blue eyes could be very defiant indeed when not restrained by love for Lydia. That look somehow choked the words of reproof in Lydia's throat; and thereafter she allowed the dusty corners—
and various other instances of Annice's reckless methods—to pass.

Annice's poverty, her utter destitution in the matter of clothes, smote heavily upon the Tolefree conscience, and the noble simplicity of her attitude to these matters touched the Tolefree heart. It was not long before Annice's flimsy and cheap undergarments were replaced by solid wool; her red hands were clothed in gloves, an old hat of Lydia's bloomed again on her smooth round head, shoes were purchased, and a scheme for the acquisition of a coat was set on foot. These simple additions improved Annice's appearance so immensely that the girl seemed literally to blossom before her employers' eyes. The Mellors did not believe in sapping anyone's independence by too lavish gifts, and so each fresh possession of Annice's was in part bought by money of her own earning. As she was also making a regular weekly contribution to her family, the poor child was left lamentably without pocket-money, and to remedy this without damaging her economic integrity Charles made her a sporting offer of sixpence for every basketful of bull-foot which she rooted up from the square of grass in front of number seven. Annice received this suggestion with her customary reserve, but the next evening found her on her knees on a mat in the garden with an implement in her hand; in a day or two Dyson was heard to inquire with astonishment whether a dog or a hen had been let loose in Cromwell Place, and Annice was the richer by
half a crown. Let out by request that evening with this sum in her hand, she vanished for an hour or two—amid much friendly speculation on the Mellors' part as to what she would buy—and inexplicably returned with a goldfish in a bowl of water, for which she had paid, she said, ninepence, the change from the half-crown being now firmly clutched in her warm hand, for she had as yet no purse. Even Louise was astonished by this vagary, and ventured to ask its cause. Annice, after her usual hesitation, replied that goldfish were nice to watch, and the matter had to be left at that.

Attempts had already been made to interest Annice in sewing and reading. A work-basket had been fitted up for the first purpose—Charles himself contributing to it a silver thimble—and a library ticket had been secured by Lydia as regards the second; but though Annice showed signs of pride in these possessions, she very rarely used them. If one went into the kitchen at odd hours in the evening to see how Annice was getting on, one usually found her sitting by the window with her elbows on the table, doing nothing whatever, her blue eyes fixed unwaveringly upon the fish as it curved and swam in its tiny bowl. Lydia occasionally watched it too, and offered a few friendly comments on its antics; but Annice seemed to dislike this, for she always turned away her head and replied in curt monosyllables, so that Lydia felt snubbed. It was indeed never possible to extract rhapsodies from Annice; she
was fond of flowers and animals, of blue skies and sunshine, of heavy rain and wind, of pretty clothes, of sunsets, of children, of going to the pictures, of music and of Louise; but these preferences had to be inferred from her looks rather than from anything she said, and often when her eyes seemed just on the point of being expressive she veiled them beneath her thick straight lashes. One summer night when the sky was clad in the beauty of a thousand stars the Mellors came home from a conference to find Annice leaning against the open door, her face turned upwards to the sky, apparently lost in an ecstasy of admiration. Charles, delighted, held forth for a minute or two in his best pulpitese, making quotations from his favourite poets and throwing in a little inaccurate but interesting astronomy. Annice said nothing, as usual, and when Charles reached his customary peroration that it was indeed wonderful to behold the wonderful works of God, she gave him a flat “Yes,” and suddenly vanishing away through the open door, whisked herself off into the kitchen. Charles was left somewhat disconcerted on the doorstep, but it was on these occasions that his sense of humour came in useful; he chuckled to himself, shook his fine silvery head, and went in, declaring to Eric, who, it appeared, was in the hall waiting for them with a vague message from his father, that the girl was right not to listen to the prosy maunderings of the previous generation—youth must be served, and served in its own way, he said.

This remark summed up a certain tendency which seemed somehow to have invaded the Mellor household with the coming of Annice. Lydia's decision to let Annice's carelessness with corners pass was part of the same tendency. It was a tendency which would have horrified the Tolefree ancestor in the frilled cap; a tendency to let carelessness with corners pass, to leave vexatious details alone; a tendency to regard life as a beautiful and jolly thing instead of as a strenuous battle; a tendency to relax one's efforts, to cease to criticize and begin to enjoy. Spring had marched on into a particularly warm and glowing summer. In the park across the road the flower-beds were brilliant in the sunshine, the brass bands played cheerful rhythmic tunes, the youth of the town paraded and made love; and in Cromwell Place, too, there were light hearts and joyous fantasies. Lydia was now undoubtedly in love; she had fallen into the state of mind when nothing mattered to her except Wilfred. A day was good if she saw him, bad if she did not. His attitudes, his smile, the look in his eyes, his heavy careless speech, the imperturbable good humour with which he turned aside his father's sarcastic shafts, his respectful kindness to Charles, the skilful movements of his dirty hands—all these were becoming intensely significant to her; they stood out against the flat level of the rest of her life like living actors against a painted scene. The very things which had irritated her in him before she met Annice—his untuneful whistling,
his prosaic attitude to life, his use of humour in and out of season—now inexplicably became dear to her. She was well aware that in education and intelligence Wilfred was her inferior, but strangely enough—as she thought—this was far from decreasing her passion for him. She passed through hours of agonizing, but blissful, suspense when she wondered whether her feelings for him were returned; and as the summer months wore on she began to feel that this happiness was really hers. He was diffident—but that was Dyson's fault—and the determined realism of his view of life did not permit much show of sentiment on his part; but Lydia bloomed in the increasing certainty that he loved her. Her cheeks glowed, her eyes shone, she took more trouble with her dress, she laughed more often; impulses to confide in Annice often suddenly overtook her, and the two held long aimless conversations in which Lydia fluttered persistently round the subject near her heart without ever mentioning it, while Annice in reply demurely and as it were respectfully teased her. Annice indeed sometimes skilfully hinted that she thought Mr. Wilfred's methods slow and his courtship tedious, but Lydia always gave her Tolefree smile at this—she was well satisfied with Wilfred's methods as they were. Anything more headlong would have gone counter to her ideas of decorum; and to her the whole summer seemed like a strain of music, heard first afar off and then growing, growing.

Eric and Wilfred were both a good deal a
number seven that summer. Wilfred had conceived the happy idea of constructing a wireless set as a present for his uncle—he had always wanted to make one throughout with his own hands, he said, and he was sure it would be nice for Louise, who was so much alone. Eric, it appeared, rather to his relatives' surprise, was equally enthusiastic about this project, though of course much less well informed on radio matters than his brother. Charles accepted the present with boyish eagerness; he bought a book on the subject and made gallant efforts to understand the mysterious terms which tripped so glibly from Wilfred's lips as he stood in the study amid coils of wire and batteries, screw-drivers and ear-phones. For a reason never definitely stated but well understood by all concerned, the wireless was to be constructed from first to last on the premises of number seven, and it came to seem natural that Wilfred and Lydia should occupy the study, while Eric ranged the house for tools or stood in the garden with Annice, picking out likely spots for the erection of the aerial. Annice took a keen interest in the wireless, and understood it remarkably well; so that it seemed only fair to make an extension which would enable her to enjoy it in the kitchen. This part of the task was entrusted to Eric, and Lydia was a trifle shocked, on coming into the kitchen one night, to see him bending over Annice, adjusting the ear-phones on her head, while the girl herself, who was in her usual seat beside the goldfish, looked over his
shoulder into the distance with her inscrutable smile.

“Well, Eric!” said Lydia with a slight asperity in her light tones, “I should think you would manage that better if Annice took it off.”

Eric, confused, muttered something intended for assent, and began to fumble with the connecting bands, which had become entangled in Annice's hair.

“Let
me
do it,” said Annice in a tone of good-natured contempt, raising her hands to her hair. “He doesn't know anything about it, miss,” she added on a note of raillery, smiling at Lydia as she removed the apparatus.

“I do!” protested Eric, colouring. “It's caught in your hair, that's all.”

He seemed really annoyed and inclined to be sullen. Annice, on the contrary, laughed, and handed him the ear-phones with a sparkle in her eyes.

“Well, we'll have supper now, Annice,” said Lydia, dismissing the incident.

“Yes, Miss Lydia,” replied Annice dutifully, in her calm tones. She took up her cap from the table beside her and settled it with one swift movement on her smooth head; then, rising, went to the dresser and began to take out glasses and silver, setting them down on the tray with a careless thump which drew an exclamation of remonstrance from Lydia. Annice gave a repentant smile and hitched one apron-string higher on her shoulder. “Is Mr. Wilfred and Mr. Eric staying
to supper, Miss Lydia?” she demanded firmly, an affectionate mockery in her tone, Lydia, colouring, but not displeased, replied that they were.