The Partnership (7 page)

Lydia then returned through the open doors to Wilfred, who had no doubt heard what had passed in the kitchen, and astonished her by asking abruptly if a certain blue hat she used to wear were still hers, or whether she had given it to Annice. She told him it was Annice's, whereat his face darkened.

“Why did you want to know, Wilfred?” asked Lydia, disturbed.

Wilfred replied with unwonted curtness that he thought he had seen the hat in the park the other night.

“Oh yes,” said Lydia, relieved. “We sent her out to hear the band.”

Wilfred grunted non-committally, and his face did not clear.

“I suppose she had a good character?” he began again after a few minutes. “At her last place, I mean.”

Lydia's face burned.

“Of course,” she replied with assumed indignation; not, however, looking him in the face.

“That's all right then,” said Wilfred hastily.

“Why did you ask?” demanded Lydia with a show of boldness. As he did not reply, she suggested with embarrassment: “Perhaps she was with a man?”

Wilfred gave her a queer look and replied that she was—that is, if the girl he saw were really Annice.

An alarming thought struck Lydia, and she exclaimed: “Was it a soldier?”

Wilfred gave her a still queerer look and replied that it was not.

“Had I better speak to her, do you think?” mused Lydia.

“Certainly not,” said Wilfred emphatically. “Now don't, Lydia. No doubt it's nothing. Don't think of it again. As a matter of fact,” he added after some hesitation, “I know the lad I saw her with, and I'll have a word with him.”

Lydia did not quite like this. She was nothing if not honest, and could not condemn Annice for seeking love when she herself was grasping at it with both hands. “After all,” she argued with a troubled smile, “it's natural, Wilfred. She's young. It's only natural.”

Wilfred sniffed and seemed unconvinced.

“Give me the hammer,” he said gruffly. “And mind, don't say anything to her about it, Lydia. You'll only put ideas into her head.”

It was still strange and sweet to Lydia to yield her will to his, so she agreed meekly that she would say nothing.

One Sunday evening shortly after this Lydia was alone in the house with Annice. Annice's Sunday evening arrangements were peculiar, and a source of some agitation to the Mellors. All the other maids who had lived with them had gone
decently to chapel every Sunday night, as became members of a minister's household; but Annice, after trying this arrangement once or twice, showed no enthusiasm for it; indeed, she preferred to remain in the house rather than be allowed out on such terms. This was disconcerting, and fluttered the Mellors considerably, both in itself and as a sign of the times; but after some discussion it was decided by Charles that the girl was within her rights in spending her Sunday evenings as she chose and that there was no other missionary weapon open to them but force of example. This particular Sunday was Annice's evening “in”; she had been offered a walk in the park but had declined it, preferring, she said, to remain in the garden. Louise had thereupon suggested to Lydia that it would perhaps be as well not to leave the girl alone in the house. Lydia was surprised at this from Louise, as Cromwell Place could not by any stretch of imagination be called lonely, and Louise was not given to undue nervousness on this or any other point; but remembering Wilfred's confidences about the blue hat, she agreed with Louise's observation and said that she herself would remain at home. She therefore established herself at the front door with the Mellors' deck-chair—bought when Charles was convalescing a year or two ago—and a book; while Annice sat at the back door with herself and the goldfish. Lydia had perhaps read three pages when she heard Wilfred's step coming along Cromwell
Place, and in a moment his head and shoulders appeared over the laurel bushes of number seven.

“Busy?” he inquired in that tone of admiring affection which he bestowed on even the smallest of Lydia's activities nowadays.

Lydia, with a smile, said that she was not busy. She opened the gate for him and invited him in, explaining as she did so that Charles and Louise had just left the house.

“Yes, I saw them go,” said Wilfred. “I saw you weren't with them, and I've come to take you out for a walk.”

Lydia reluctantly said that she was afraid she could not go.

“Oh, but you must,” persisted Wilfred with his air of invincible common sense. He explained that the moors on one of the hills outside the town were on fire; they could be seen in part from the windows of Boothroyd House, but he meant to go nearer and obtain a better view. The spectacle was a fine one—“just the kind of thing you like, Lydia,” he concluded.

His consideration for her intellectual enjoyments, which he did not in the least understand, always touched Lydia; and when, seeing the refusal in her face, he went on to plead the golden warmth of the summer evening as perfect for a walk—“Do you good to get some fresh air, Lydia,” he urged—she felt extremely sorry to be obliged to decline.

“I should like to come, Wilfred,” she said in
her light candid tones. “But Louise wanted me to stay in and keep Annice company.”

Wilfred stared. “Does Aunt Louise think Annice'll run off with the house if she's left alone with it?” he inquired, amused.

“After what you said the other evening,” began Lydia.

“Oh, that!” said Wilfred. His face assumed an air of apology. “That was all nothing,” he explained. “I'm sorry I ever mentioned it to you. It was Eric I saw her with, you know.”

“Eric!” exclaimed Lydia, astounded.

“Yes. And I didn't quite like it,” pursued Wilfred. “But, however, when I spoke to him about it he said that she just came up and asked him the time. She hasn't a watch, you know, and there's no clock in sight in the park.”

This was true enough.

“I'm glad it wasn't anything,” observed Lydia with relief.

“I'm sorry I mentioned it to you,” repeated Wilfred apologetically. “Now say you'll come, Lydia.”

“Well—” began Lydia, hesitating. “I'll just go in and see,” she proffered vaguely. “Sit down a minute, Wilfred.”

Wilfred obediently let himself down into the deck-chair, and Lydia went through the house to the kitchen. Annice was sitting in the rocking-chair with her hands folded in her lap, gazing vaguely out through the open doorway.

“Annice,” began Lydia dubiously, “do you
think you would be all right in the house alone?”

“Yes, Miss Lydia,” replied Annice with alacrity. As Lydia still hesitated, she added in a comforting and persuasive tone: “You go out with Mr. Wilfred, Miss Lydia. I shall be quite all right.”

Lydia coloured, and hoped that her conversation with Wilfred had not been entirely audible in the kitchen.

“I hardly know—” she began.

Annice smiled; her cheeks curved into dimples and her blue eyes took on a roguish sparkle.

“You go along, Miss Lydia,” she urged warmly, sitting up to press the matter with more vigour. “If you don't, perhaps he won't ask you again.”

“Really, Annice!” said Lydia with as much hauteur as she could command. “It's simply a question of whether you would be afraid to be left alone or not.”

“Afraid!” repeated Annice in a tone of good-natured contempt. “Oh no! I'm not afraid, Miss Lydia.”

“Very well then,” said Lydia stiffly. “I'll put the latch down on the front door, and we shan't be gone long.”

“No, Miss Lydia,” agreed Annice, casting down her lashes demurely. Her smile, however, persisted, and still lingered on her lips when a few minutes later she watched Lydia and Wilfred go down the Place together.

Lydia had intended to be absent half an hour at the most, but it was after nine o'clock when she and Wilfred returned. They had gone first to a point of vantage whence Wilfred thought the moor fires would be visible across the valley—a long level open road on the slope of a hill commanding a fine view of the surrounding country, which was used by the youth of the town as a parade ground on Sunday evenings when there was no band in the park. To-night it was crowded with pairs of lovers of all ages, who paced slowly up and down with intent faces or halted in large giggling groups. Lydia, who usually felt ill at ease with pairs of lovers, to-night was quite at home amongst them, and would have been content to remain there, pacing up and down beneath the clear blue August sky, admiring the silver beauty of the evening star, gazing pleasurably at the little patches of bright flame which glowed here and there on the crest of the opposing hill, and rejoicing that Wilfred was beside her. But Wilfred was not satisfied with the view; he assured his companion that the flames had looked far finer from the top windows of Boothroyd House. Lydia, who had utterly forgotten Annice, smiled vaguely and did not suggest that they should return there. Instead she followed Wilfred obediently as he tried various points of higher ground, and when he finally suggested that they should cross the valley to the moor itself, and gain a closer view, she eagerly agreed. The hill was farther than it looked, and by the
time they reached the fires the west was rosy with the threat of sunset, and the hills around were becoming silhouetted sharply against the sky. A good many other bold spirits had also come to view the flames, and Wilfred, who undoubtedly had the common touch if he could not walk with kings, strolled about amongst them collecting informative anecdotes about the fire's origin. The young women who accompanied these other watchers of the flames looked with interest at Lydia, and Lydia was pleased to be so regarded. She was perfectly happy. The fires themselves, she thought, were less impressive here than from the other side of the valley—they flickered and were not so clear, and the acrid smoke made her cough—but then there was such an air of excitement, of romance, of friendliness, about the scene, that the walk was well worth while for that alone. Wilfred was at his best amongst these other men; she admired the hearty, cordial manner of his talk with them. On his side Wilfred was proud of Lydia's light, cultivated tones, so superior to those of everybody else present; he was proud of the intelligence of her remarks, proud of the simple candour of her glance; and he swore to himself with great tenderness that it should always be his part to shield her high-mindedness from the world's corrupting touch.

They hardly knew when or why it was that they left the moor and wandered slowly down the stony path to the valley. As they climbed up the other side towards Hudley, Lydia became
pleasurably conscious that she was tired; and Wilfred, remorseful, put his hand beneath her elbow to help her up the slope. They reached the top to find the parade almost empty and twilight unmistakably falling; a sudden pang of conscience seemed to strike them both, and they struck out sharply for Cromwell Place.

“I hope Annice has been all right,” murmured Lydia in a troubled tone.

“Sure to be,” said Wilfred comfortingly. “Besides, won't Uncle Charles and Aunt be in before now?”

“No,” said Lydia, still more troubled. “He's gone to preach, you know, and they're being entertained afterwards to supper.”

Number seven, however, when at last they reached it, looked so solid, so sedate, so like itself, that Lydia was reassured, and smiled at Wilfred as she pulled the old-fashioned bell. A long pause ensued. Lydia pulled the bell again. There was another pause. The house somehow changed its aspect and appeared silent and deserted. Lydia turned to her companion.

“Can there be anything wrong?” she said, aghast.

“Why should there be?” said Wilfred sensibly. “Let
me
pull that bell.”

“It sounded before,” murmured Lydia unhappily, as he gave it a strong and experienced jerk.

In the recesses of the house the bell jangled tremendously, and went on jangling and tinkling
as though it would never cease. At last it died away; there was another pause; then at last there came a vague sound of footsteps; in the distance a door banged, causing Lydia to start nervously, and almost immediately Annice opened the front door with an abrupt and jerky movement.

“Well, Annice!” exclaimed Lydia, her voice sharpened by the intensity of her relief. “What do you mean by keeping us waiting all this time?”

“I was in the attic, Miss Lydia,” returned Annice in a rather sullen voice. “I came as quickly as I could.”

She certainly sounded breathless, and Lydia inwardly relented. She felt it necessary, however, to say something else of a reproving nature, and demanded severely: “What were you doing in the attic?”

“I was just going to brush my hair, Miss Lydia,” replied Annice in a rude and angry tone.

Her hair certainly looked as though it required brushing. Lydia felt that she was playing a mean and nagging part, and she thought she saw in Wilfred's eyes that he thought so too.

“Well, it doesn't matter,” she said soothingly. “Will you come in and have some supper, Wilfred?” she continued, turning to him.

“Well—I don't think I will, thanks,” said he. “They'll be wondering what's become of me at home.”

“Very well,” said Lydia stiffly, feeling that the
poetry of the evening was all gone. “Good night, then.”

“Good night,” said Wilfred.

“I've laid for you, Mr. Wilfred,” put in Annice suddenly. “And I told Mr. Eric you wouldn't be home for supper.”

“Has Eric been here?” asked Wilfred in surprise.

“He came to see if you was here,” explained Annice, her good humour apparently restored. “And I told him you was out with Miss Lydia and wouldn't be home for supper. So he went away.”

“In that case,” said Wilfred, hanging his hat on a convenient peg, “I may as well stay—if you'll have me, Lydia.”

Lydia, smiling, intimated that she would. Forgetting how the time had flown during their walk, she hoped for a long quiet evening with him, and was rather disconcerted when Charles and Louise burst in upon them almost before they had begun supper. Charles, who was an excellent mimic, described his evening's doings in a way which caused much hilarity; and neither Lydia's walk nor Annice's peccadillo about the door rose to the surface of the conversation just then.