Part 36 (1/2)

”Shoes, sir.”

”I see, I see. Let me have them.”

He handed me my own. ”The others, if you please,” I said, disdaining the number tens. ”May I inquire, sir, where you are taking _these_?”

I had the Countess's pumps in my hands. He explained that he was going to drop mine in my room and then take hers upstairs. ”You may drop mine as you intended. I shall take care of these.”

”Very good, sir,” said he, with such positive relief in his voice that I glared at him. He left me standing there, a small pump in each hand.

Five minutes later I was at her door, a pump in each hand and my heart in my mouth. A sudden, inexplicable form of panic took possession of me. I stood there ready to tap resoundingly on the panel of the door with the heel of a slipper; I never raised my hand for the purpose.

Instead of carrying out my original design, I developed an overpowering desire to do nothing of the sort. Why go on making a fool of myself?

Why add fuel to the already pernicious flame? Of course I was not in love with her, the idea was preposterous. But, just the same, the confounded servants were beginning to gossip, and back stair scandal is the very worst type. It was wrong for me to encourage it. Like a ninny, I had just given Britton something to support his contention, and he wouldn't be long in getting down to the servants' hall with the latest exhibit in the charge against me.

Moreover, if every one was talking about it, what was to prevent the silly gossip from reaching the sensitive ears of the Countess? A sickening thought struck me: could it be possible that the Countess herself suspected me of being in love with her? A woman's vanity goes a long way sometimes. The thought did not lessen the panic that afflicted me. I tip-toed away from the door to a less exposed spot at the bend in the stairway.

There, after some deliberation, I came to a decision. The proper thing for me to do was to show all of them that their ridiculous suspicions were wrong. I owed it to the Countess, to say the least. She was my guest, as it were, and it was my duty to protect her while she was in my house. The only thing for me to do, therefore, was to stay away from her.

The thought of it distressed me, but it seemed to be the only way, and the fair one. No doubt she would expect some sort of an explanation for the sudden indifference on my part, but I could attribute everything to an overpowering desire to work on my story. (I have a habit of using my work as an excuse for not doing a great many things that I ought to do.)

All this time I was regarding the small tan pumps with something akin to pain in my eyes. I could not help thinking about the tiny feet they sometimes covered. By some sort of intuitive computation I arrived at the conclusion that they were adorably small, and pink, and warm.

Suddenly it occurred to me that my present conduct was reprehensible, that no man of honour would be holding a lady's pumps in his hands and allowing his imagination to go too far. Resolutely I put them behind my back and marched downstairs.

”Britton,” said I, a few minutes later, ”you may take these up to the Countess, after all.”

He blinked his eyes. ”Wasn't she at 'ome, sir?”

”Don't be insolent, Britton. Do as I tell you.”

”Very good, sir.” He held the pumps up to admire them. ”They're very cute, ain't they, sir?”

”They are just like _all_ pumps,” said I, indifferently, and walked away. If I could have been quite sure that it was a chuckle I heard, I should have given Britton something to think about for the rest of his days. The impertinent rascal!

For some two long and extremely monotonous days I toiled. A chapter shaped itself--after a fas.h.i.+on. Even as I wrote, I knew that it wasn't satisfactory and that I should tear it up the instant it was finished.

What irritated me more than anything else was the certain conviction that p.o.o.pend.y.k.e, who typed it as I progressed, also knew that it would go into the waste paper basket.

Both nights I went to bed early and to sleep late. I could not deny to myself that I was missing those pleasant hours with the Countess.

I _did_ miss them. I missed Rosemary and Jinko and Helen Marie Louise Antoinette and Blake.

An atmosphere of gloom settled around p.o.o.pend.y.k.e and Britton. They eyed me with a sort of pathetic wonder in their faces. As time went on they began to look positively forlorn and unhappy. Once or twice I caught them whispering in the hallway. On seeing me they a.s.sumed an air of nonchalance that brought a grim smile to my lips. I was beginning to hate them. Toward the end of the second day, the four Schmicks became so aggravatingly doleful that I ordered them, one and all, to keep out of my sight. Even the emotionless Hawkes and the perfect Blatchford were infected. I don't believe I've ever seen a human face as solemnly respectful as Hawkes' was that night at dinner. He seemed to be pitying me from the bottom of his heart. It was getting on my nerves.

I took a stroll in the courtyard after dinner, and I may be forgiven I hope for the few surrept.i.tious glances I sent upwards in the direction of the rear windows in the eastern wing. I wondered what she was doing, and what she was thinking of my extraordinary behaviour, and why the deuce she hadn't sent down to ask me to come up and tell her how busy I was. She had not made a single sign. The omission was not particularly gratifying, to say the least.

Approaching the servants' hall, I loitered. I heard voices, a mixture of tongues. Britton appeared to be doing the most of the talking.

Gradually I became aware of the fact that he was explaining to the four Schmicks the meaning of an expression in which must have been incorporated the words ”turned him down.”

Hawkes, the impeccable Hawkes, joined in. ”If I know anything about it, I'd say she has threw the 'ooks into 'im.”

Then they had to explain _that_ to Conrad and Gretel, who repeated ”Ach, Gott” and other simple expletives in such a state of misery that I could almost detect tears in their voices.