The Lonely House (Lowndes)/Chapter 3

OME, come, Cristina, the young girl is hungry! It will not take you a moment to boil an egg.”

“The fire is out.”

“That does not matter; you may use my little English stove—it will not take many drops of wood spirit to boil an egg.”

And then Lily heard the Countess add in a low, meaning tone: “Remember that we are receiving with her a hundred and twenty-five francs a week. If she is not satisfied she will go. Also, as the Count said only the other day, she may be useful to us in other ways.”

The unwilling listener felt desperately uncomfortable. She began moving towards the door, but just at that moment the Countess, turning, saw that Lily must have overheard what had been said. Her already dusky face darkened. She looked excessively annoyed—a vindictive look came into her oddly coloured eyes. She evidently thought the English girl had been eavesdropping. But with an obvious effort she recovered her composure.

She motioned Lily farther into the darkened room and shut the door—this time making sure that it was shut.

“I desire to tell you one or two things,” she said slowly. “You are going to be a member of our household for, I hope, a long time, dear child—so it is better to cross the t's and to dot the i's, as they say in France. Cristina is not only an old and faithful servant—she was my husband's foster-sister. You know what that means?”

Lily nodded.

“Thus we do not really regard her as a servant,” went on the Countess. “We are both very fond of her. She is an excellent creature, but she is not very amiable. I had to tell her that you were coming as a paying guest”—the Countess made a slight grimace. “Cristina is an old woman, and I hope you will not be offended with me when I say that I shall be glad if you will help a little in the work of the house.”

“I shall be delighted to do anything I can, Aunt Cosy,” said Lily eagerly. “A home was started in Epsom for the Belgian refugees, and the ladies of the place took it in turns to go in and do the housework.”

“You have relieved my mind! As I said just now to Cristina, I'm sure you will make yourself useful to us, as a dear, cherished little daughter might do. How sorry the Count will be that he was not at home to welcome you!”

Lily suddenly felt happier. It was nice of Aunt Cosy to have spoken to her so frankly.

“Do let me go into the kitchen and boil an egg for myself,” she exclaimed.

“Very well,” smiled the Countess. She preceded the girl till they came to a narrow passage, cut like a slit in the wall, to the right of the corridor. It led into the queerest little kitchen Lily had ever seen, and was not much bigger than an English bathroom. The stove—if you could call it a stove—was one for the exclusive use of charcoal. What light there was came from a far from clean skylight. On the distempered green walls hung various mysterious-looking copper pots and pans, the quaintest being a little roasting-machine in which could be cooked a tiny joint, or chicken. On the table was an old-fashioned methylated spirit lamp, on which there was now poised an enamelled saucepan full of water in which was an egg.

“Unfortunately La Solitude was built against the side of the mountain,” said the Countess, “so both the kitchen and the dining-room are lit from the sky. But from the front of the house we enjoy a view into three countries! We are not many yards from the frontier—the frontier which divides Monaco from France; and straight over the sea is Corsica, the cradle of the great Napoleon! To the left, of course, is Italy, my beloved country, though I count myself English, as you know. And now,” she concluded, “I will leave you in the good care of our excellent Cristina. I have some work to finish before to-morrow.”

When the Countess had gone the old servant laid a clean, unbleached napkin across the end of the kitchen table. She put out a plate, an egg-cup, salt and pepper, and half a long loaf. Then she turned, with a look of apology, to Lily.

“The dining-room is already prepared for dinner,” she said, in her soft, refined voice. “I fear I must ask you. Mademoiselle, to eat your egg here.”

“Of course I will,” exclaimed Lily. “And, Cristina, I hope you will allow me to help you a little in the housework?”

A curious look—was it of surprise or gratitude?—perhaps something of both—quivered for a moment over Cristina's pale face. “You are very good,” she said quietly. “There is a good deal of work sometimes—when we have visitors.”

The water was now boiling, and as she spoke she took the egg out of the saucepan, and put it deftly into the egg-cup. And then, after Lily had sat down, the old woman stood and watched her eat. Had not the girl been so very hungry she would have felt a little shy and awkward under that silent, tense scrutiny.

Cristina suddenly observed: “I suppose Mademoiselle is a Protestant?”

Lily looked up. “Yes, of course I am.”

A sad look came over Cristina's face. “Mademoiselle looks so good, so pure,” she murmured. “I thought perhaps that Mademoiselle was thinking of being a nun.”

“Oh, no, indeed I'm not!” Lily laughed outright, for the first time in this strange house.

“I myself,” said Cristina slowly, “at one time hoped to be a nun.” And then, clasping her hands, and with an emotion which transformed her quietude into something which greatly startled Lily, so violent and unexpected was it, her pale face became convulsed. “The devil prevented my becoming a nun. But for the devil I should now be a good and perhaps even a holy woman!”

Her breast heaved—she seemed extraordinarily moved and distressed.

Lily jumped up—not perhaps quite so surprised as she would have been but for some of her experiences with the more emotional Belgians. “I'm quite sure that you are a very good woman,” she said kindly.

But Cristina shook her head with an air of ineffable sadness and distress.

The kitchen door opened suddenly and Lily was astounded to see the change that came over the old waiting woman. She became coldly rigid; her look of agitation disappeared as if by magic.

She turned round: “Madame la Comtesse?” she said inquiringly, almost forbiddingly.

“Only to say, Cristina, that I'm going down the hill a little way to try and meet Monsieur le Comte. He will be loaded, as you know, with all manner of good things.” The speaker smiled, showing a row of strong, white teeth. “Will you show Mademoiselle her room?” She turned to Lily. “And you, dear child? Have you had a nice fresh egg?”

Without waiting for an answer she turned and left the little dark kitchen.

Cristina waited, listening, and then, when she heard the front door, at the end of the corridor, close to: “Are you really her relation?” she asked slowly. “You are not at all like her.”

“No: I'm not really related to the Countess.” Had she been more at home in French she would have tried to explain the peculiar connection. Meanwhile a pleased look came over old Cristina's face. “I thought not!” she exclaimed.

There was a pause. Lily was telling herself with some amusement that, however fond the Countess might be of Cristina, Cristina was not over fond of the Countess. And yet how very nicely Aunt Cosy had spoken of the old woman!

Suddenly the huge cat, which had been the first living thing seen by Lily Fairfield at La Solitude, came noiselessly into the kitchen.

“Here is Mimi,” exclaimed Cristina. “He is so faithful, so intelligent! He follows me about like a dog.” She stooped and picked up Mimi. “Say good-day to Mademoiselle!” &he said caressingly, but, as Lily drew near, the cat suddenly spat and swore.

Cristina put the creature down. “He is jealous,” she said. “He perceives that I am going to love Mademoiselle.” And sure enough, Mimi walked away with offended dignity.

“Before we go upstairs would Mademoiselle like to see the dining-room?” asked the old woman.

And then the girl had another of the surprises which seemed to be always meeting her in this curious French house—for she thought of Monaco as being part of France; which of course it is not. Turning the key in a door at the end of the corridor, Cristina stepped aside while Lily walked through into what struck her as a gloomy, and yet, in its way, a splendid room, and she realised suddenly that it was the windowless building she had seen from the lawn.

Through a circular skylight there fell a softened light on the beautiful old tapestry, moth-eaten in places, with which the walls were hung; and in the centre of the room was a round table, now spread with a lace tablecloth. It was set for three, a lace d'oyley marking each place, as did also three sets of exquisite old cut-glass goblets of varying sizes. In the middle of the table was a gold vase containing a bunch of brilliant coloured blossoms, such as may be bought anywhere along the Riviera for a few pence. They made a charming note of colour in the large room, and gave an air of festivity to the well-arranged dining-table.

The only other furniture in the apartment was a set of six tapestry-covered chairs, and a yellow marble sideboard with gilt legs.

On the sideboard were now set out three green and gold dessert plates, with Venetian glass finger-bowls on them, and two graceful, delicately-painted dessert dishes were placed ready for fruit.

Lily was rather surprised to see that there were no fewer than six cut-glass and coloured decanters filled with various wines and liqeurs [sic], standing in a row behind the fruit plates.

Cristina stood by, looking at her expectantly.

“What beautiful tapestries, and—and what a lovely table-cloth,” said Lily at last.

She felt bewildered. She had never seen anything quite like this before. It was the sort of dining-table that she would have expected to see laid out in a palace. “The glasses must be very valuable,” she said admiringly. “I once saw a much less nice set, very like these, in a famous collection of cut glass.”

“I suppose I must now lay a fourth place,” said Cristina slowly. And then she added: “Mademoiselle was not expected till the day after to-morrow. Perhaps the Count will put off the visitor.”

“Who is coming to dinner—a lady or a gentleman?” asked Lily pleasantly.

Cristina hesitated a moment—and then, “A gentleman,” she answered.

The old woman led the English girl back into the corridor. A short, ladder-like staircase led to the upper floor of the villa. The storey above was divided like that below, by a corridor which ran right down the middle of the house.

Cristina took up the bunch of keys which hung at her girdle. “I sleep there,” she said, pointing to the first door to the right, “and Mademoiselle here.”

She unlocked the first door to their left, and ushered Lily into a room which impressed the girl as curiously dark and gloomy. But she soon saw the reason for that. The one window gave on to a stretch of deep, barren, heath-covered hill. Only by craning her head right out of the window could she see the sky. Below was a small, oblong yard, bounded by an outhouse.

Within the room, an old-fashioned mahogany bed of the low, curved Empire shape stood against the left wall. By the tiny fireplace was a shabby armchair upholstered in some kind of discoloured green material. There was no hanging cupboard; only a row of wooden pegs on the door. A pair of splendid brocaded silk and velvet curtains, looped up by the window, gave a touch of incongruous grandeur.

The room looked very unhomelike, and Lily suddenly felt sad and dispirited. “I think I will try and get a little sleep, so will you kindly call me, Cristina, when you think I ought to get up?” She hesitated a moment. “Does Aunt Cosy have afternoon tea?” she asked.

“Only when visitors are expected.” And then Cristina added, “We have no tea in the house now.”

“I have brought a little,” said Lily quickly; “about two pounds.”

Cristina went over to the window and drew the heavy curtains together, and then she slipped noiselessly from the room.