The Lonely House (Lowndes)/Chapter 6

ILY'S first real luncheon at La Solitude consisted of the remains of last night's excellent, almost luxurious supper. But a rough-looking, unbleached tablecloth had taken the place of the beautiful lace one, and the fine cut-glass decanters had disappeared from the sideboard.

They all three drank out of coarse, thick glass tumblers, and they ate off heavy yellow plates. But the food was of the best, and they all make a good and hearty meal—once, indeed, Aunt Cosy, looking affectionately at the girl, exclaimed: “Yes, do not stint yourself, my little Lily, for we have to live as a rule exceedingly simply. It is a strange fact”—a hard tone came into her voice—“that Cristina has never learnt to cook. Even I can cook better than Cristina!”

She looked at her husband as she spoke, and he, glancing up, observed in French: “She does well enough. We have to buy cooked food, as fuel is so dear.”

“Yes,” said the Countess crossly, “but fuel was not always dear. And Cristina always cooked badly.” She turned to Lily: “I had thought of asking you if you knew a little simple cooking—the delicious milk puddings that I used to have have at The Nest long years ago even now make my mouth water, as you so funnily say in England. They are nutritious, and at the same time cheap. But they do not teach English girls to do such useful things.”

“Indeed they do!” answered Lily, smiling. “I'll cook you a rice pudding to-night, if you like. Aunt Cosy, though I don't know if I shall be able to brown the top properly as you haven't got an oven!”

“No, no, I do not want you to roughen those pretty hands before Beppo arrives,” observed the Countess. Then, all at once, she broke into rapid French; “I am explaining to our little friend that I want her to look her best when Beppo arrives.”

“Beppo?” queried the Count. “But Beppo is not coming, that I know of, before the end of January?”

“Oh yes, he is! He is coming very soon. I heard from him to-day.”

Lily felt surprised, for Cristina had told her that morning that there were no postal deliveries on Sunday at La Solitude.

They all three got up and went back into the drawing-room, and at once the Count walked over to the card-table and, sitting down, started on his Patience again.

“And now what will you do?” said the Countess hesitatingly, turning to Lily.

“I will go into the kitchen, Aunt Cosy, and help Cristina to wash up,” said the girl.

“But take care of those pretty hands!” The warning was uttered very seriously.

Poor Lily! She could not help rather regretting her offer. At home there had been gallons of hot water, nice clean teacloths—everything, in a word, required for the tiresome process known as washing-up. But Cristina simply piled everything into a basin full of tepid water, then she rubbed each plate with a dirty-looking little mop, and finally handed each plate and dish to Lily to dry with what looked like a rather worn old towel!

Suddenly Lily realised that the towel she was using to wipe the plates was the very towel, with a hole in it, with which she had dried herself with such very mixed feelings in the outhouse this morning! It almost made the gently nurtured English girl feel sick; and yet what could she say or do? Cristina evidently saw nothing wrong in it. And it was a fact—to Lily rather a shocking fact—that the plates looked perfectly clean after having been submitted to this disgusting process.

All at once Cristina crept up close to her—it was such a quick, stealthy movement that it startled Lily.

“Listen,” said the old woman. “Listen, Mademoiselle! You must insist on having enough to eat! You are paying one hundred nad [sic] twenty-five francs a week. I know it; for the Countess had to tell me. So do not let her starve you!”

“Oh, I'm sure she wouldn't do that!” said Lily.

She smiled, but deep in her heart she was grateful to old Cristina. “What am I to say?” she whispered back.

“You are to say that you must have two eggs and two cutlets every day—also two large glassfuls of milk,” said Cristina quickly.

“But surely there will be plenty of food when Count Beppo arrives?” said Lily.

Cristina shook her head. “The young Count is not coming till after New Year,” she said.

“Oh yes, he is! The Countess told us at luncheon that she had heard from him to-day, and that he was coming very much sooner—perhaps in a week or ten days.”

Cristina looked extremely surprised. Then she said suddenly: “Even so, speak to-day, Mademoiselle. Why be short of food for ten days?”

A dozen questions sprang to the girl's lips. But she did not wish to discuss her host and hostess with even the most trusted and best-liked servant. Even so, she made up her mind to take Cristina's advice, and to tell Aunt Cosy courteously but firmly that she had been used at home to good plain food, and, further, that the doctor had said she required feeding up.

Lily had only half-written her first letter to Uncle Tom when she heard the front-door bell echo through the house. She had not heard that bell ring since M. Popeau had pulled the rusty iron bell-pull on her first arrival at La Solitude, for their last night's visitor had come up through the orange grove and across the lawn. The front door seemed to be scarcely ever used.

She got up and opening her door, waited for quite a little while. No doubt it was M. Popeau and Captain Stuart? She was astonished at her own keen pleasure, and, yes, relief, at the idea of seeing her two kind friends again. And then, when there came another peal, she made up her mind to run downstairs. She could not help feeling that Aunt Cosy was not at all anxious to continue her slight acquaintance with M. Popeau. It would be dreadful, dreadful, if Cristina had been told to say 'Not at home.'

At the bottom of the staircase a door was open, giving access to a room Lily had not yet seen. It was evidently the Countess's own sitting-room. But there was a big writing-table near the window, and it looked more like a man's study than a lady's boudoir.

The Countess was standing not far from the door, with a very singular expression on her face. She appeared startled, even frightened, as also did Cristina, who was standing close to her. They both looked up when they heard the girl's light footsteps on the uncarpeted stairs. “Shall Mademoiselle answer the door?” Lily heard Cristina whisper.

“I think it must be M. Popeau and Captain Stuart,” said Lily a little nervously.

“Of course! How foolish of me not to have thought of them!”

The Countess's face cleared, her look of anxiety was succeeded by one of relief. “Run, Cristina! Run and open the door to the two English gentlemen. What will they think of us keeping them waiting like this?” Then she turned to the girl: “I have no tea in the house, but you have some tea, I know, Lily. Will you give a little to Cristina?”

“It's so early—only three o'clock. I don't think they'll want tea now,” said the girl smiling. She was feeling extraordinarily pleased at the thought of seeing her two travelling companions again.

But alas the visit was a disappointment to Lily.

They all five sat in a formal circle round the empty grate of the stuffy salon for some time, and Lily had no opportunity of exchanging a word alone with the visitors. M. Popeau talked a great deal, in fact at one moment he even out-talked the Countess. He answered her many questions as to life in war-time Paris with the utmost frankness and good humour; and he carelessly brought into his conversation the names of many well-known Parisians, all, it appeared, good friends of his. As he had intended should happen, his hostess's respect for him visibly grew.

But when the genial Frenchman threw out a suggestion that Miss Fairfield should come back with him and with Captain Stuart to spend an hour at the Casino, the Countess shook her head.

“No, no,” she exclaimed. “Nice English people do not gamble on Sunday, M. Popeau! I should have thought that even you would have known that, speaking such beautiful English as you do. I seldom go down the hill. But soon my son will be here, and he will escort Miss Fairfield where I myself may not go. My son is an Italian, so he can do as he likes when he comes here; he can even go to the Club and play—to my regret. But his father cannot do so, being a native of the Principality!”

At last the Countess turned her attention to Captain Stuart, and it is not too much to say that she riddled her younger visitor with questions. How long had he been a soldier? In which of the battles of the war had he fought? Where exactly had he been wounded? How much money did a British captain earn? Was he an only child, or had he brothers and sisters? Were his parents still alive, and in what part of Scotland did they live?

All these somewhat indiscreet questions Captain Stuart answered with composure. But finally, when the Countess, looking at him searchingly, suddenly asked how long he had known Miss Fairfield, Lily was astonished to hear him answer thoughtfully: “It seems a lifetime to me since I first met Miss Fairfield.” But after he had made this surprising answer, he looked across at Lily, and she saw a funny little twinkle in his eye.

A break occurred when Cristina opened the door noiselessly and announced that gouter was quite ready.

The whole party went off to the dining-room, where, Lily saw with amazement, the splendours of the night before had been restored. Once more the lace tablecloth was spread out on the round table, once more the fruit was piled on the beautiful high crystal dishes, and now there were five old painted china teacups set out in a semi-circle. The only incongruous touch was that the tea had been made in a fine old silver coffee-pot.

“Will you pour out the tea, dear child?” said the Countess suavely. “That is a task we always delegate to young ladies,” she said, turning to M. Popeau. “In England the old wait upon the young. But that is not right.”

Lily poured out some of the straw-coloured liquid into each of the cups. Both M. Popeau and Uncle Angelo took three lumps of sugar; Captain Stuart took none. As for the Countess, she declared she would not have any tea at all.

And then, at last, having spent altogether a little over an hour at La Solitude, the two visitors prepared to depart. Lily and the Count walked down with them through the garden, the Countess having decided that she would stay in the house. And then, for the first time, Lily and Captain Stuart were able to exchange a few words.

“Can't you give your aunt the slip and come off with us now, just as you are?” he asked in a low voice.

Lily shook her head. “Aunt Cosy would never forgive me! She'd be awfully shocked if I were to do that after what she said.”

“I suppose she would,” said the young man reluctantly. “Still, she can't keep you cooped up here all the time. Do make her understand that in England girls go about by themselves, Miss Fairfield.”

“I'll try and make her understand it,” said Lily, smiling, “but it won't be easy. She's tremendously determined.”

“I can see that. I hope they're nice to you?” he added a little anxiously. And he looked at her with one of the quick, shrewd looks to which she had become accustomed during their long journey together.

But this time there was something added—a something which made Lily's heart beat. She asked herself inconsequently what exactly he had meant when he said that he felt as if he had known her a lifetime? But all she said was:

“They are very kind to me in their own way, and I think I'm going to be quite happy here.”

Twice, while she and the young man had been talking apart together, she had seen Uncle Angelo look towards them uncomfortably, hesitatingly, almost as if he thought he ought to cut across their conversation.

“Can't you come down for a game of tennis early to-morrow morning? Do! I could come and fetch you any time you fix.”

Perhaps M. Popeau heard the whispered invitation, for he said to Uncle Angelo: “By the way, it has suddenly occurred to me, could not you and Mademoiselle lunch with me to-morrow?”

The Count hesitated. It was clear that he was very much tempted to accept. “I'm not certain about my wife's plans,” he said at last, “so I fear I must refuse your kind invitation this time.”

“Captain Stuart has to go to Milan for a few days, and I am giving myself the pleasure of accompanying him. But we shall certainly be back by next Sunday,” said M. Popeau amiably.

Lily felt curiously taken aback—indeed, sharply disappointed. The thought that her late fellow-travellers were going to be away for something like a week filled her with dismay.

She had known vaguely about this proposed trip of Captain Stuart's, for during their journey he had asked M. Popeau about the trains from Monte Carlo to Milan, explaining that he had a relation living there who had asked him to come over and see him. But at that time Captain Stuart had been a stranger to her—now she felt as if he was an old friend!

Perhaps something of what she was feeling showed in her face, for the Scotsman said suddenly: “I don't really want to go to Milan this week, Popeau. Why shouldn't I wire and say I will come later on?"

But M. Popeau shook his head decidedly.

“You forget, my friend, that all arrangements have been made. I do not think that we can make any change now."

“Well, well," said the Count easily. “I shall look forward to seeing you again, messieurs, in about ten days' time. Meanwhile, my young niece can have a real rest. She has been ill, and must not over-exert herself. There will be plenty of time to show her the sights of Monte Carlo after you return."

They were standing round the little gate which formed the boundary of the property of La Solitude, and after shaking hands, English fashion, with Captain Stuart and M. Popeau, the Count and Lily slowly made their way up to the house again.

The Countess was waiting for them, rather impatiently, in the salon. And then all at once Lily summoned up courage to say very quietly but very firmly: “I'm afraid, Aunt Cosy, you'll have to become accustomed to my going about by myself. You see, I'm not a French girl but an English girl. I simply couldn't stay in a house where I didn't feel free to come and go.”

“But of course you're free!” exclaimed the Countess. “Absolutely free, dear child. I regret not having allowed you to go out this afternoon with M. Popeau and your old friend, Captain Stuart, but I did not think you would like to do what English people do at Monte Carlo on Sundays.”

“I did not want to go to the Casino," said Lily, firmly. “But I do want to join the tennis club, and to have a good game now and again. I suppose you know some lady who would put me up, Aunt Cosy?”

The Countess hadn't the slightest idea of what Lily meant by being “put up,” but she nodded amiably.

“Oh, yes,” she said, “I will certainly find some lady. Meanwhile your Uncle Angelo will take you down to Monte Carlo to-morrow morning, just to show you the way. He has purchases to make, and he will be able to see about the tennis. It is, so I understand, quite a young girl's game.”

“That Parisian asked me to lunch to-morrow; he desired Lily to come too,” interposed the Count.

“Oh, I do not think you can do that, my friend,” said the Countess decidedly. “I wish you to help with several important matters to-morrow. You can go some other day.”

“He and the Englishman are going away to Italy for a few days.”

“Are they indeed?” said the Countess, indifferently. She hesitated—“I would like to ask you what is perhaps a very indiscreet question, my sweet child,” and she fixed her bright, differently-coloured eyes full on Lily.

“Yes, Aunt Cosy?” The girl looked up.

“I suppose you are not what is called in England 'engaged'?” asked Aunt Cosy, very deliberately.

The colour flamed up in Lily's cheeks. “No, I am not engaged, Aunt Cosy.”

There was a curious pause, and then the Countess went on: “When you are writing to your uncle, dear girl, I hope you will tell him that we are doing our best to make you happy”—there was a pleading, almost an anxious, tone in her voice.

“Of course I will!” said Lily affectionately.

She felt, as she expressed it to herself, “rather a pig” for having stood up to the Countess. She was astonished too, at her easy victory. Aunt Emmeline had been so very different! She would never give in if she thought a thing wrong. Lily could not help reflecting that the five pounds a week must mean a great deal to Count and Countess Polda. She could see that they were both painfully anxious that she should stay on at La Solitude, and be happy and comfortable there.

A week can pass like a flash, or it can seem an eternity. The first week of Lily Fairfield's stay at La Solitude was, truth to tell, more like a month, and a very long month, than a week. She did her best to feel happy and comfortable, though it was a strange kind of life for a girl used to all the cheerful comings and goings of an English country town. After she had helped Cristina with the housework each morning there was absolutely nothing left to do during the rest of the day.

Twice during that long week Lily accompanied the Count into Monte Carlo, or rather into that part of the Principality which lies in a hollow between Monaco and Monte Carlo, and which is called the Condamine. While there, they had spent the whole of their time shopping in the funny little native shops, the Count bargaining as if the question of a few sous was of the utmost moment to him.

The second time they went down the hill, she asked Uncle Angelo to show her where the English service was held each Sunday, and it was then that he offered to show her the English bank. Indeed, the only time she was allowed to go to Monte Carlo by herself was when she suggested that she should pay the Countess four weeks in advance.

It had seemed strange at first to be walking all alone in a foreign town, but she had managed quite well, and the famous bankers had been very courteous to their pretty new client. The gentleman to whom she had given her letter of credit had shaken his head when she had told him about the unfortunate theft of fifty pounds, but he had not been as surprised as she had been that the police had not been told about it.

“It would have been sheer waste of time, my dear young lady,” he said smiling, “and would have only exposed your relations to a great deal of worry. A visit from the police always entails a great deal of fuss and unpleasantness on the Continent.”

During the same little expedition Lily bought, at a very big price, six wicker chairs and a little outdoor table as a present to Aunt Cosy; and to her relief the Countess seemed delighted with the gift. As the days went on it became increasingly clear to Lily Fairfield that either the Count and Countess Polda were very poor, or very mean. They were always trying to save a sou here and a sou there; they were extraordinarily fond, too, of talking about money.

One rather surprising, and, yes, exciting, thing happened to Lily during that long, dull first week at La Solitude.

Captain Stuart wrote her three longish letters. They were simple, informal, pleasant letters, telling her something of how Milan had struck him, and how grateful he was to good-natured M. Popeau. But though they were in a sense quite ordinary epistles, they gave the girl pleasure, and made her feel less lonely.

But when the second letter came Lily could not help having an uncomfortable suspicion that it had been steamed open and then closed down again. She hated herself for suspecting such a thing, but she had already come to the conclusion that Aunt Cosy was sly and, when it suited her, very unscrupulous.

Now, it is an unfortunate fact that slyness always breeds slyness. Lily had a frank, open, straightforward nature; but, then, she had always been treated by Uncle Tom and Aunt Emmeline in a frank, open, straightforward way. Neither of them would have dreamt of opening one of her letters! Had they thought she was carrying on an unsuitable correspondence they would have taxed her with it at once, and Aunt Emmeline might have gone so far as to forbid her to receive letters from a correspondent of whom she did not approve. But it would all have been frank and above board.

Henceforth Lily took good care to be up when the postman came to the door, and so, when Captain Stuart's third letter arrived on the Saturday morning, it was handed to her direct. In this last letter the Scotsman told her that he hoped to see her at the English Church service on Sunday morning.

That was all. And yet it cast a glow of pleasure over the whole of that long, dull Saturday. It was hot and airless, even up at La Solitude, and in the night there was a terrific storm of thunder, wind, and rain.