Manservant and Maidservant Read online

  “Some soot had been dislodged, ma’am, and caused the later ebullition,” said Bullivant.

  Emilia Lamb was aunt to Horace and Mortimer, and had also spent her life in the house. She was a tall, large woman of seventy-five, with a marked, individual face, a large, curved mouth, grave, pale eyes, obtrusive hands and feet, and the suggestion of imperfect control of movement, that accompanies unusual size. She was seen as a rare and impressive personality, and as she saw herself as others saw her, had one claim to the quality of rareness.

  “It is a very cold day,” said Charlotte, looking again at the grate. “They say there is no smoke without flame, but it does not seem to be true.”

  “A jackdaw might lead to the one rather than the other,” said Mortimer.

  “Why was it a jackdaw rather than any other bird?” said Emilia, bending her head with her slow smile.

  “I don’t think another bird would have done. There was a good deal of smoke. A sparrow would have been no good.”

  “Breakfast seems to get later and later,” said Horace, looking at the clock.

  “No, it keeps to its time,” said Charlotte. “It is Emilia and I who do that. In the winter eight o’clock might be the middle of the night.”

  “Many people get up earlier.”

  “Yes, those who do all manner of work.”

  “At what time do you rise, Bullivant?” said Mortimer.

  “Well, sir, the foundations of the house have to be laid.”

  “And you, George?” said Mortimer.

  “Well, sir, there is no hardship here, that I did not get used to in the workhouse.”

  Horace glanced up in question of this word for George’s experience, and the latter, in relief that his secret was out, moved about rapidly, without encountering anyone’s eye.

  “George was born in the town,” said Mortimer. “The workhouse is on the market square. We are all natives of the place.”

  But a silence ensued, and Bullivant, feeling that George was unsuitably the cause of it, put something into his hands and motioned to him to withdraw.

  “So that was George’s start in life,” said Charlotte.

  “Yes, ma’am,” said Bullivant, in a tone in which regret and acquiescence had an equal part.

  “I had not heard of it before.”

  “No, ma’am. I thought the boy had his feelings about it, and of a nature to be respected. He drew no veil over it with me.”

  “I wonder how it has served him as a background for his life,” said Emilia.

  “Oh, well, ma’am, it has to serve some people.”

  “What happened to his mother?” said Mortimer.

  Horace looked a question.

  “Well, George had to be born of woman, my dear boy, even in a modern institution.”

  Bullivant gave a slight, involuntary sound, and answered as if it had not occurred.

  “I have understood that his mother died in his infancy, sir.”

  “Poor George!” said Emilia.

  “Oh, well, ma’am, he knew nothing better.”

  “That is what I mean.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” said Bullivant, in submission to her feeling.

  “How about the father?” said Mortimer.

  Bullivant did not lift his eyes and busied himself with something on the table.

  “Well, so much for the parents,” said Mortimer, finding himself speaking for Bullivant’s ears, or rather for the ears of the women as Bullivant regarded them. “The only problems for George concern himself.”

  “He would have no problems, sir,” said Bullivant, as though George would hardly be up to these.

  “What made you engage him?” said Horace.

  “Well, sir, the lad wished to better himself. And I was not averse to a piece of plastic clay. It takes one’s own mould. It is better than having someone who knows everything and can learn nothing. And the first can hardly be said of George.”

  “And you find he shapes, do you?”

  “Oh, well, sir, shapes!” said Bullivant, lifting his shoulders and then glancing at the women and lowering his voice. “But we have to think of our wages, sir.”

  “He takes the rough work off you, doesn’t he?” said Mortimer.

  “Well, sir, I give him what chance I can,” said Bullivant, piling some china on a tray and bearing it to the door on one hand, in illustration of his personal standard.

  “It is true that George is underpaid,” said Charlotte, “though it is not like Bullivant to refer to it almost aloud. And he has lived down the workhouse stigma by now.”

  “We knew nothing about the workhouse,” said Horace.

  “Bullivant knew,” said Mortimer, “and kept it in his heart.”

  “We cannot ask Bullivant about it,” said Charlotte, “because he is not paid quite enough himself. Of course we do not dare to pay him much too little. We only oppress the weak.”

  “From him that hath not, shall be taken away,” said Emilia.

  “Not everyone would engage a man of Bullivant’s age,” said Horace. “I remember him in George’s stage when I was a child. He must be years older than I am.”

  “His years of service here have put him beyond serving anywhere else,” said Mortimer. “It must happen, if we give it time. The same thing is true of me, though I have not his footing in the house. And talking of time reminds me that to-day is my birthday. If there is any money to spare, Charlotte, do not give it to—to anyone but me.”

  Bullivant, whose return had determined this conclusion, resumed his duties without sign of having heard it. This was no indication that he had not done so, but he did not concern himself with the material affairs of the family. Such things, as they managed them, were beyond his range, and so outside his interest. He knew that Mortimer was dependent on his relatives, but did not know the unusual nature of the situation, saw it indeed as another form of private means, and had no idea how it differed from other forms.

  “Mrs. Selden is hoping to see you this morning, ma’am,” he said to Emilia.

  “I will come to the kitchen at the usual hour.”

  “It is good of you to relieve Charlotte of the housekeeping,” said Horace.

  “I have done it since the day of your birth and your mother’s death. A habit is formed in that time.”

  “There is no time left for me to form it,” said Charlotte. “And I admit the housekeeping does not attract me. It seems so frugal and spare and plain. And if my children are to be unwarmed and poorly fed, it shall not be my arrangement for them.”

  “We are all very well,” said Horace.

  “But hardship is known to mean that people are never ill.”

  “You had a letter that seemed to trouble you, Charlotte. Can I be of any help?”

  “My father is feeling his age, and wants me to go and see him. And he lives on the other side of the earth.”

  “Does he ask you to pay him a visit?”

  “No. He says it is my duty to do so.”

  Charlotte’s father had made over money to her, in view of the expense of her family, and his son-in-law could not ignore his claim.

  “I could take you, if both of us could leave the children.”

  “It is I who cannot do that, and I who shall have to. That is the beginning and the end.”

  “We will all do our best,” said Emilia, who had heard with grave eyes. “But the news is not good.”

  “Bullivant, are you going to be all day, lifting that cloth off the table?” said Horace.

  Bullivant took up the cloth by the corners to preclude the escape of crumbs, and bore it to the door, his manner acquiescing in the occasional propriety of his absence.

  “We must not think Bullivant has no sense of hearing,” said Horace.

  “I thought you did think so,” said Mortimer. “But he will not accuse you of it on this occasion.”

  “He has so much, that it is no good to reckon with it,” said Charlotte.

  “Now I do not know why I should be belittled an
d left out of account, as if I were a nonentity in my own house,” said Horace, taking enough advantage of Bullivant’s absence to explain his desire for it. “What children have a better father? Do I ever forget them for a day? Do I ever spend time or money on myself? Do I ever think of the life I could lead, if I had no family?”

  “Why could not Bullivant tell you, my dear boy?” said Mortimer. “Why should he be the one to go?”

  “Why should I not be granted the position that is mine?”

  “It is assumed that it goes without saying,” said Emilia.

  “That is a dangerous line to take. You might estrange anyone by acting on it.”

  “Why, so we might,” said Mortimer. “So it appears we have.”

  “What is my life but sacrifice of myself?”

  “What is anyone’s life?” said Charlotte. “We all owe so much to each other, that no life can be anything else.”

  Horace fixed his eyes on her face with a conscious, questioning look that repelled and angered her.

  “A woman is not the creature that cannot bear to be stared at,” she said.

  As Horace withdrew his eyes, they happened to fall on the grate, and he was carried away on a more instinctive emotion.

  “Now how often have I forbidden this piling up of a fire, that is to be of no use until the afternoon? I have said it and said it until I am weary of the words. What a waste of fuel that might be of use to somebody! What a coarse and common thing to do! It savours of ostentation, of display for its own sake. I could not have believed that anyone in this house would stoop so low. Now who was it who did the thing? It must have been somebody.”

  “Why, so it must,” said Mortimer. “You might have thought of that.”

  “It was Bullivant,” said Emilia, keeping her mouth grave.

  Horace walked to the bell and stood with his hand upon it, and withdrew it only as steps approached the door.

  “Who made up the fire, Bullivant?”

  “Either George or myself, sir.”

  “But which of you?”

  “Well, there were various dealings with it this morning, sir. I could not definitely say who was the last to be in contact.”

  “You were seen to make it up,” said Horace, in a deepening tone. “Miss Emilia can bear witness to it.”

  “Then it was I, sir,” said Bullivant, turning to Emilia with a slight bow, in acknowledgement of her aid to the position.

  “But what possessed you to go counter to my wishes? Have you not heard me say a hundred times that this fire is to be low in the morning? What moved you to build up this great, showy pile?” Horace, who had removed some coal from the grate, restored it to show its previous condition.

  “Well, sir, the ladies remarked upon the cold, and I felt I had perhaps overstressed economy in postponing the putting of the match until so late. And I hoped by some extra attention to redress the balance.”

  “I thought you did not remember making it up.”

  “It has been recalled to me, sir,” said Bullivant, with another bow towards Emilia, who would have felt inclined to return it, if she could have accepted his view that she had served him.

  “But there was no need to overdo things like this.”

  “No, sir, overdo is perhaps the word. But there were matters to contend with in various shapes this morning.”

  “And one of them took the shape of a jackdaw,” said Emilia, with a smile, but disappointed of an answering one from Bullivant.

  “See that it does not occur again,” said Horace.

  “No, sir, the circumstances would hardly repeat themselves,” said Bullivant, in an acquiescent tone, as he went to the door.

  “You informed against your aunt, my dear boy,” said Mortimer. “And she informed against Bullivant. He comes out better than either of you.”

  “Oh, he was going to blame it all on to George, a helpless orphan from the workhouse,” said Horace. “There is not much to choose between us.”

  “It was a bad hour for George, when he told the truth about himself,” said Mortimer. “It was sad to see him thinking that honesty was the best policy.”

  “Well, he cannot learn too soon that it is not,” said Charlotte. “He should leave the workhouse training behind.”

  “Honesty does not involve a complete lack of reticence,” said Horace.

  “George thinks that is what it does,” said Emilia.

  “There are things he could reasonably keep to himself.”

  “He was asked a question and answered it truthfully,” said Mortimer. “We know we should not ask questions, but the reasons given are wrong. I asked him where he was born.”

  “Why did you want to know?” said Horace.

  “I don’t know, my dear boy; I don’t think I did want to. But Bullivant had told us where he was born, and I had told people where I was; I don’t know if they wanted to know. So when George did not tell us, I asked him. I think it was just to include him as a fellow creature. And then the poor lad had to confess that he was not one. It was sad to see him thinking how much credit the confession did him.”

  “I wonder who began this treating of people as fellow creatures,” said Charlotte. “It is never a success.”

  “Once begun, it is a difficult thing to give up,” said Emilia.

  “We shall lose interest in it, when the novelty wears off,” said Mortimer. “It seemed such an original idea.”

  “We can see how unnatural it is, by what comes of it,” said Charlotte.

  “I wonder if George regards us as fellow creatures,” said Emilia.

  “I believe he does,” said Mortimer. “But I do not think Bullivant would approve of it.”

  “Are you really thinking of leaving us, Charlotte?” said Horace.

  “I am thinking of visiting my father, which will involve my doing so.”

  “And we can do nothing,” said Mortimer. “Only count the hours to your return.”

  “That will hardly be of help to her,” said Horace.

  “I think it will be a little help, my dear boy. It is nice to be missed.”

  “We had better not tell the children until just before she goes,” said Emilia.

  “They should face the truth,” said Horace. “It is a sounder preparation for the future.”

  “We can never prepare for that,” said his wife. “We know too little of it. And facing things is not a good habit; it causes needless suffering.”

  “Coming events very seldom cast their shadows before them,” said Emilia. “But in this case we see the event itself. Perhaps they should be told while it is still ahead. Then they will be spared the shock.”

  “Of course that is how it is,” said Horace, as if this had been his thought all the while.

  “It was not the account you gave,” said Charlotte.

  “Well, no, it was not, my dear boy,” said Mortimer.

  Horace rose and left the room in an abstracted manner, and Emilia glanced at the other pair and followed.

  “So you are deserting me, Charlotte,” said Mortimer.

  “I am deserting the children and am thankful to leave you with them.”

  “I will serve them because they are yours. But I wish I were your child.”

  “I do not wish it. I have enough children. I often wonder how much harm I have done. Would it be better for them, if they had not been born?”

  “The change for them is coming. Your return must be our sign. If we hesitate longer, we shall lose our time and theirs. We must break from Horace and live apart and at peace. We will marry, if he makes it possible. It will be easier for him after this break in his life; the parting will smooth the way. How we find ourselves considering him! Is it a sign of some nobility in us?”

  “Not unless there is a touch of nobility in every human creature, as I have heard it said.”

  “Is there something in Horace that twines itself about the heart? Perhaps it is his being his own worst enemy. That seems to be thought an appealing attribute.”

&nbsp
; “The trouble with those who have it,” said Charlotte, “is that they are bad enemies to other people, even if not the worst.”

  “Will he be able to remain in this house, without your income?”

  “He can live in a corner of it, with Cook and Bullivant.”

  “That will bring back his early days. And of course home is where Bullivant is. But still, the poor boy! A poor thing but mine own.”

  Bullivant returned to the kitchen and to conversation with the cook. The latter was engaged in supervising her underling, a work in which she and Bullivant were equally versed.

  “Fire too large, Mrs. Selden,” he said, taking a seat with a view of George in the distance, in order to maintain this usefulness. “And the master as heated as the fire, if you ask my opinion.”

  “As seems to increase in frequency,” said Cook. “Was it you or George?”

  “Myself, as I freely admitted, Mrs. Selden.”

  Mrs. Selden was really Miss Selden, but Bullivant followed the address of the cook observed in formal house holds, deprecating the modest fashion of basing it on her calling. George did the same, whether by reason of precept or example was not known. Cook showed indifference on the matter, and thereby showed her dignity as dependent on itself.

  “More can be asked of no one than admitting it,” she said. “It is at once the most and the least that can be done. Miriam, are you attending to your work or listening to me?”

  Miriam, who was doing the latter, gave the start she was accustomed to give when addressed, and proved the bracing effect of the words by proceeding to do both.

  “It emerged about George and the workhouse this morning,” said Bullivant, lifting one knee over the other. “All of it out in the open! And where was the need? It had better have remained where I had consigned it, in oblivion.”

  “How did it transpire?” said Cook.

  “There was talk about our places of birth, and we all made our contribution,” said Bullivant, with a note of complacence. “The master and Mr. Mortimer and I had spent the major part of our lives under this roof. With George, as we know, it has been otherwise.”

  “And what was made of it?”

  “Nothing much on the surface, Mrs. Selden. But I suspect there was consternation beneath. But, as I hinted to the master, wages such as ours can hardly preclude slurs of the venial kind.”