CHAPTER XXXIII

UNDER THE STARS

The bus rolled on, past Saffrons Croft, the stars now twittering in the branches of the elms.

"Who was that?" asked Ruth.

"My brother," answered Ernie, a thought surlily.

"He doesn't favour you," said Ruth after a pause.

"No," answered Ernie. "He's a master-man now, Alf is. Got his own garage and men working for him and all. He drives for Mr. Trupp."

At the pier, at Ernie's suggestion, they got down. It was dark now; the sea moon-silvered and still.

They walked along, rubbing elbows. Ernie broke the silence, to ask a question that had long haunted him.

"Ruth," he said, "however did you come into service at the Hohenzollern?"

Both of them had unconsciously resumed the accent of the town as they returned to the town.

Ruth told him simply and without reserve.

She had been maid to Squire Caryll's sister at the Dowerhouse in Aldwoldston. Her mistress had been taken ill, and Mr. Trupp had ordered her to Beachbourne.

"We was going to the Grand," Ruth told him. "But it was full. So cardingly we went to the Hohenzollern till the Grand could have us. And once there we stayed there two years--till she died. See Mr. Trupp likes the Hotel for his patients. There's the lawns straight onto the sea; and the Invalids' Corner by the anonymous hedge he got Madame to build."

Madame had throughout been kind, so kind--first to her mistress and then to her; for after Miss Caryll's death Ruth had broken down from over-strain. The Manageress and Mr. Trupp had pulled her through. Then when she came round, Madame, who was clearly fond of the girl, had kept her on as personal maid, "cosseting me," said Ruth with a little laugh, "like a bottle-lamb." At Easter, when the crush came, and Ruth was quite recovered, Madame had asked her to go to the Third Floor to help, saying she would take her back if the girl didn't like it.

"I went tempory to oblige Madame," Ruth explained. "I'd do a lot for her. She's been that kind."

Ruth had been there some weeks now, too lazy or too shy to take the step that would involve another change.

"I don't ardly like to see you there, Ruth," said Ernie gently. "I don't really."

She lifted her face to him in the darkness.

"Where?"

"The Third Floor."

Ruth turned her face to him. Her wall was down. She was talking intimately almost as a woman to a woman she trusts.

"I don't hardly myself," she said in the musing voice of the disturbed. "The gentlemen are that funny. Seem scarcely respectable, some of em. And the couples too. Might not be married the way they go on. London, I suppose."

He glanced at her covertly.

She met his eyes--so frank, so fearless.

What a man of the world Ernie felt beside this white ewe-lamb straying far from the fold in the hollow of its native coombe!

They were skirting now the fosse of the Redoubt.

Before them on the shore rose the great Hotel, like a brilliantly lighted mausoleum, blocking out a square patch of stars.

They made towards it.

"Ruth," said Ernie quietly, "if I was you I'd get Madame to change you. Second Floor's more your sort. More steadified. There's a Bishop there now and his wife and three-four daughters or so. Go to bed at ten, and get up at seven. I can hear em all a-snorin in chorus like so many hoggets in a stye when I take the lift down last turn at night."

"Hap I will," said Ruth thoughtfully. "Madame'd take me back herself, only she's got a German maid now, and I wouldn't do anything to put Madame out for worlds."

A struggle was taking place in Ernie's heart. If Ruth left the Third Floor for the Second he would still see her sometimes. If she left the Hotel altogether he might lose her.

"Ruth," he said at last. "I sometimes wonder why you stay on there at all."

She glanced at him mischievously.

"Shall I tell you?" she asked, her voice deeper than ever.

"Yes."

"It's the bathin. I just do adore the swimmin. Madame arranges it nice for the maids. And the season's coming on. We start next week if this weather holds. When the season's over I shall cut my stick--if so be Madame wasn't to want me for her own maid again."

She chuckled at her own cunning.

They came to the servants' gate.

Ernie stopped.

"Good-bye, Ruth," he said. "I'll say good-night."

She looked up at him surprised.

"Aren't you comin then?" she asked.

"Yes," he said. "But I'm just a-goin to finish my fag first."

She gave him a delicious look.

Innocent as she was, she understood his consideration and thanked him for it mutely.

She gave him her hand. He took it, shook it, and held it awhile, as though weighing it. It was firm and very capable.

Swiftly he lifted it to his lips and kissed it.

She made no protest, looking at him with kind eyes that knew no thought of coquetry.

Then she vanished with her flowers.

He gave her five minutes, and then followed her.

Ruth had been detained in the basement, and was vanishing up the back-stairs as he entered, her roses in her hand.

Don John, the Austrian, with his dingy face and greasy moustache, winked at Ernie as he passed.

"Peach," he whispered. "Don't you wish you ad the pickin of her?"