Chapter 17

About three o’clock that afternoon Priscilla saw quite clearly what she had dimly perceived in the morning, that if there was to be domestic peace in Creeper Cottage she must bestir herself. She did not like bestirring herself; at least, not in such directions. She would go out and help the poor, talk to them, cheer them, nurse their babies even and stir their porridge, but she had not up to this point realized her own needs, and how urgent they could be and how importunate. It was hunger that cleared her vision. The first time she was hungry she had been amused. Now when it happened again she was both surprised and indignant. “Can one’s wretched body never keep quiet?” she thought impatiently, when the first twinges dragged her relentlessly out of her dejected dreaming by the fire. She remembered the cold tremblings of the night before, and felt that that state would certainly be reached again quite soon if she did not stop it at once. She rang for Annalise. “Tell the cook I will have some luncheon after all,” she said.

“The cook is gone,” said Annalise, whose eyes were more aggressively swollen than they had yet been.

“Gone where?”

“Gone away. Gone for ever.”

“But why?” asked Priscilla, really dismayed.

“The Herr Geheimrath insulted her. I heard him doing it. No woman of decency can permit such a tone. She at once left. There has been no dinner to-day. There will be, I greatly fear, n—o—o—supp—pper.” And Annalise gave a loud sob and covered her face with her apron.

Then Priscilla saw that if life was to roll along at all it was her shoulder that would have to be put to the wheel. Fritzing’s shoulder was evidently not a popular one among the lower classes. The vision of her own doing anything with wheels was sufficiently amazing, but she did not stop to gaze upon it. “Annalise,” she said, getting up quickly and giving herself a little shake, “fetch me my hat and coat. I’m going out.”

Annalise let her apron drop far enough to enable her to point to the deluge going on out of doors. “Not in this weather?” she faltered, images of garments soaked in mud and needing much drying and brushing troubling her.

“Get me the things,” said Priscilla.

“Your Grand Ducal Highness will be wet through.”

“Get me the things. And don’t cry quite so much. Crying really is the most shocking waste of time.”

Annalise withdrew, and Priscilla went round to Fritzing. It was the first time she had been round to him. He was sitting at his table, his head in his hands, staring at the furnisher’s bill, and he started to see her coming in unexpectedly through the kitchen, and shut the bill hastily in a drawer.

“Fritzi, have you had anything to eat to-day?”

“Certainly. I had an excellent breakfast.”

“Nothing since?”

“I have not yet felt the need.”

“You know the cook Lady Shuttleworth sent has gone again?”

“What, that woman who burst in upon me was Lady Shuttleworth’s cook?”

“Yes. And you frightened her so she ran home.”

“Ma’am, she overstepped the limits of my patience.”

“Dear Fritzi, I often wonder where exactly the limits of your patience are. With me they have withdrawn into infinite space—I’ve never been able to reach them. But every one else seems to have a knack—well, somebody must cook. You tell me Annalise won’t. Perhaps she really can’t. Anyhow I cannot mention it to her, because it would be too horrible to have her flatly refusing to do something I told her to do and yet not be able to send her away. But somebody must cook, and I’m going out to get the somebody. Hush”—she put up her hand as he opened his mouth to speak—”I know it’s raining. I know I’ll get wet. Don’t let us waste time protesting. I’m going.”

Fritzing was conscience-stricken. “Ma’am,” he said, “you must forgive me for unwittingly bringing this bother upon you. Had I had time for reflection I would not have been so sharp. But the woman burst upon me. I knew not who she was. Sooner than offend her I would have cut out my tongue, could I have foreseen you would yourself go in search in the rain of a substitute. Permit me to seek another.”

“No, no—you have no luck with cooks,” said Priscilla smiling. “I’m going. Why I feel more cheerful already—just getting out of that chair makes me feel better.”

“Were you not cheerful before?” inquired Fritzing anxiously.

“Not very,” admitted Priscilla. “But then neither were you. Don’t suppose I didn’t see you with your head in your hands when I came in. Cheerful people never seize their heads in that way. Now Fritzi I know what’s worrying you—it’s that absurd affair last night. I’ve left off thinking about it. I’m going to be very happy again, and so must you be. We won’t let one mad young man turn all our beautiful life sour, will we?”

He bent down and kissed her hand. “Permit me to accompany you at least,” he begged. “I cannot endure—”