‘De-ar me!’ her soft falsetto rose. ‘But that will be a very o-ald tune, Mr Oleron! I will not have heard it this forty years!’
‘What tune?’ Oleron asked.
‘The tune, indeed, that you was humming, sir.’
Oleron had his thumb in the flap of a letter. It remained there.
‘I was humming? … Sing it, Mrs Barrett.’
Mrs Barrett prut-prutted.
‘I have no voice for singing, Mr Oleron; it was Ann Pugh was the singer of our family; but the tune will he very o-ald, and it is called “The Beckoning Fair One”.’
‘Try to sing it,’ said Oleron, his thumb still in the envelope; and Mrs Barrett, with much dimpling and confusion, hummed the air.
‘They do say it was sung to a harp, Mr Oleron, and it will be very o-ald,’ she concluded.
‘And I was singing that?’
‘Indeed you wass. I would not be likely to tell you lies.’
With a ‘Very well – let me have breakfast’, Oleron opened his letter; but the trifling circumstance struck him as more odd than he would have admitted to himself. The phrase he had hummed had been that which he had associated with the falling from the tap on the evening before.
5
Even more curious than that the commonplace dripping of an ordinary water-tap should have tallied so closely with an actually existing air was another result it had, namely, that it awakened, or seemed to awaken, in Oleron an abnormal sensitiveness to other noises of the old house. It has been remarked that silence obtains its fullest and most impressive quality when it is broken by some minute sound; and, truth to tell, the place was never still. Perhaps the mildness of the spring air operated on its torpid old timbers; perhaps Oleron’s fires caused it to stretch its old anatomy; and certainly a whole world of insect life bored and burrowed in its baulks and joists. At any rate, Oleron had only to sit quiet in his chair and to wait for a minute or two in order to become aware of such a change in the auditory scale as comes upon a man who, conceiving the midsummer woods to be motionless and still, all at once finds his ear sharpened to the crepitation of a myriad insects.
And he smiled to think of man’s arbitrary distinction between that which has life and that which has not. Here, quite apart from such recognisable sounds as the scampering of mice, the falling of plaster behind his panelling, and the popping of purses or coffins from his fire, was a whole house talking to him had he but known its language. Beams settled with a tired sigh into their old mortices; creatures ticked in the walls; joints cracked, boards complained; with no palpable stirring of the air window-sashes changed their positions with a soft knock in their frames. And whether the place had life in this sense or not, it had at all events a winsome personality. It needed but an hour of musing for Oleron to conceive the idea that, as his own body stood in friendly relation to his soul, so, by an extension and an attenuation, his habitation might fantastically be supposed to stand in some relation to himself. He even amused himself with the far-fetched fancy that he might so identify himself with the place that some future tenant, taking possession, might regard it as in a sense haunted. It would be rather a joke if he, a perfectly harmless author, with nothing on his mind worse than a novel he had discovered he must begin again, should turn out to be laying the foundation of a future ghost! …
In proportion, however, as he felt this growing attachment to the fabric of his abode, Elsie Bengough, from being merely unattracted, began to show a dislike of the place that was more and more marked. And she did not scruple to speak of her aversion.
‘It doesn’t belong to today at all, and for you especially it’s bad,’ she said with decision. ‘You’re only too ready to let go your hold on actual things and to slip into apathy; you ought to be in a place with concrete floors and a patent gas-meter and a tradesmen’s lift. And it would do you all the good in the world if you had a job that made you scramble and rub elbows with your fellow-men. Now, if I could get you a job, for, say, two or three days a week, one that would allow you heaps of time for your proper work – would you take it?’
Somehow, Oleron resented a little being diagnosed like this. He thanked Miss Bengough, but without a smile.
‘Thank you, but I don’t think so. After all each of us has his own life to live,’ he could not refrain from adding.
‘His own life to live! … How long is it since you were out, Paul?’
‘About two hours.’
‘I don’t mean to buy stamps or to post a letter. How long is it since you had anything like a stretch?’
‘Oh, some little time perhaps. I don’t know.’
‘Since I was here last?’
‘I haven’t been out much.’
‘And has Romilly progressed much better for your being cooped up?’
‘I think she has. I’m laying the foundations of her. I shall begin the actual writing presently.’
It seemed as if Miss Bengough had forgotten their tussle about the first Romilly. She frowned, turned half away, and then quickly turned again.
‘Ah! … So you’ve still got that ridiculous idea in your head?’
‘If you mean,’ said Oleron slowly, ‘that I’ve discarded the old Romilly, and am at work on a new one, you’re right. I have still got that idea in my head.’
Something uncordial in his tone struck her; but she was a fighter. His own absurd sensitiveness hardened her. She gave a ‘Pshaw!’ of impatience.
‘Where is the old one?’ she demanded abruptly.
‘Why?’ asked Oleron.
‘I want to see it. I want to show some of it to you. I want, if you’re not wool-gathering entirely, to bring you back to your senses.’
This time it was he who turned his back. But when he turned round again he spoke more gently.
‘It’s no good, Elsie. I’m responsible for the way I go, and you must allow me to go it – even if it should seem wrong to you. Believe me, I am giving thought to it … The manuscript? I was on the point of burning it, but I didn’t. It’s in that window-seat, if you must see it.’
Miss Bengough crossed quickly to the window-seat, and lifted the lid. Suddenly she gave a little exclamation, and put the back of her hand to her mouth. She spoke over her shoulder.
‘You ought to knock those nails in, Paul,’ she said.
He strode to her side.
‘What? What is it? What’s the matter?’ he asked. ‘I did knock them in – or, rather, pulled them out.’
‘You left enough to scratch with,’ she replied, showing her hand. From the upper wrist to the knuckle of the little finger a welling red wound showed.
‘Good – gracious!’ Oleron ejaculated … ‘Here, come to the bathroom and bathe it quickly –’
He hurried her to the bathroom, turned on warm water, and bathed and cleansed the bad gash. Then, still holding the hand, he turned cold water on it, uttering broken phrases of astonishment and concern.
‘Good Lord, how did that happen! As far as I knew I’d … is this water too cold? Does that hurt? I can’t imagine how on earth … there; that’ll do –’
‘No – one moment longer – I can bear it,’ she murmured, her eyes closed …
Presently he led her back to the sitting-room and bound the hand in one of his handkerchiefs; but his face did not lose its expression of perplexity. He had spent half a day in opening and making serviceable the three window-boxes, and he could not conceive how he had come to leave an inch and a half of rusty nail standing in the wood. He himself had opened the lids of each of them a dozen times and had not noticed any nail; but there it was …
‘It shall come out now, at all events,’ he muttered, as he went for a pair of pincers. And he made no mistake about it that time.
Elsie Bengough had sunk into a chair, and her face was rather white; but in her hand was the manuscript of Romilly. She had not finished with Romilly yet. Presently she returned to the charge.
‘Oh, Paul, it will be the greatest mistake you ever, ever made if you do not pub
lish this!’ she said.
He hung his head, genuinely distressed. He couldn’t get that incident of the nail out of his head, and Romilly occupied a second place in his thoughts for the moment. But still she insisted; and when presently he spoke it was almost as if he asked her pardon for something.
‘What can I say, Elsie? I can only hope that when you see the new version, you’ll see how right I am. And if in spite of all you don’t like her, well …’ he made a hopeless gesture. ‘Don’t you see that I must be guided by my own lights?’
She was silent.
‘Come, Elsie,’ he said gently. ‘We’ve got along well so far; don’t let us split on this.’
The last words had hardly passed his lips before he regretted them. She had been nursing her injured hand, with her eyes once more closed; but her lips and lids quivered simultaneously. Her voice shook as she spoke.
‘I can’t help saying it, Paul, but you are so greatly changed.’
‘Hush, Elsie,’ he murmured soothingly; ‘you’ve had a shock; rest for a while. How could I change?’
‘I don’t know, but you are. You’ve not been yourself ever since you came here. I wish you’d never seen the place. It’s stopped your work, it’s making you into a person I hardly know, and it’s made me horribly anxious about you … Oh, how my hand is beginning to throb!’
‘Poor child!’ he murmured. ‘Will you let me take you to a doctor and have it properly dressed?’
‘No – I shall be all right presently – I’ll keep it raised –’
She put her elbow on the back of her chair, and the bandaged hand rested lightly on his shoulder.
At that touch an entirely new anxiety stirred suddenly within him. Hundreds of times previously, on their jaunts and excursions, she had slipped her hand within his arm as she might have slipped it into the arm of a brother, and he had accepted the little affectionate gesture as a brother might have accepted it. But now, for the first time, there rushed into his mind a hundred startling questions. Her eyes were still closed, and her head had fallen pathetically back; and there was a lost and ineffable smile on her parted lips. The truth broke in upon him. Good God! … And he had never divined it!
And stranger than all was that, now that he did see that she was lost in love of him, there came to him, not sorrow and humility and abasement, but something else that he struggled in vain against – something entirely strange and new, that, had he analysed it, he would have found to be petulance and irritation and resentment and ungentleness. The sudden selfish prompting mastered him before he was aware. He all but gave it words. What was she doing there at all? Why was she not getting on with her own work? Why was she here interfering with his? Who had given her this guardianship over him that lately she had put forward so assertively? – ‘Changed?’ It was she, not himself, who had changed …
But by the time she had opened her eyes again he had overcome his resentment sufficiently to speak gently, albeit with reserve.
‘I wish you would let me take you to a doctor.’
She rose.
‘No, thank you, Paul,’ she said. ‘I’ll go now. If I need a dressing I’ll get one; take the other hand, please. Goodbye –’
He did not attempt to detain her. He walked with her to the foot of the stairs. Half-way along the narrow alley she turned.
‘It would be a long way to come if you happened not to be in,’ she said; ‘I’ll send you a postcard the next time.’
At the gate she turned again.
‘Leave here, Paul,’ she said, with a mournful look. ‘Everything’s wrong with this house.’
Then she was gone.
Oleron returned to his room. He crossed straight to the window-box. He opened the lid and stood long looking at it. Then he closed it again and turned away.
‘That’s rather frightening,’ he muttered. ‘It’s simply not possible that I should not have removed that nail …’
6
Oleron knew very well what Elsie had meant when she had said that her next visit would be preceded by a postcard. She, too, had realised that at last, at last he knew – knew, and didn’t want her. It gave him a miserable, pitiful pang, therefore, when she came again within a week, knocking at the door unannounced. She spoke from the landing; she did not intend to stay, she said; and he had to press her before she would so much as enter.
Her excuse for calling was that she had heard of an enquiry for short stories that he might be wise to follow up. He thanked her. Then, her business over, she seemed anxious to get away again. Oleron did not seek to detain her; even he saw through the pretext of the stories; and he accompanied her down the stairs.
But Elsie Bengough had no luck whatever in that house. A second accident befell her. Half-way down the staircase there was the sharp sound of splintering wood, and she checked a loud cry. Oleron knew the woodwork to be old, but he himself had ascended and descended frequently enough without mishap …
Elsie had put her foot through one of the stairs.
He sprang to her side in alarm. ‘Oh, I say! My poor girl!’
She laughed hysterically.
‘It’s my weight – I know I’m getting fat –’
‘Keep still – let me clear these splinters away,’ he muttered between his teeth.
She continued to laugh and sob that it was her weight – she was getting fat –
He thrust downwards at the broken boards. The extrication was no easy matter, and her torn boot showed him how badly the foot and ankle within it must be abraded.
‘Good God – good God!’ he muttered over and over again.
‘I shall be too heavy for anything soon,’ she sobbed and laughed.
But she refused to reascend and to examine her hurt.
‘No, let me go quickly – let me go quickly,’ she repeated.
‘But it’s a frightful gash!’
‘No – not so bad – let me get away quickly – I’m – I’m not wanted.’
At her words, that she was not wanted, his head dropped as if she had given him a buffet.
‘Elsie!’ he choked, brokenly and shocked.
But she too made a quick gesture, as if she put something violently aside.
‘Oh, Paul, not that – not you – of course I do mean that too in a sense – oh, you know what I mean! … But if the other can’t be, spare me this now! I – I wouldn’t have come, but – but – oh, I did, I did try to keep away!’
It was intolerable, heartbreaking; but what could he do – what could he say? He did not love her …
‘Let me go – I’m not wanted – let me take away what’s left of me –’
‘Dear Elsie – you are very dear to me –’
But again she made the gesture, as of putting something violently aside.
‘No, not that – not anything less – don’t offer me anything less – leave me a little pride –’
‘Let me get my hat and coat – let me take you to a doctor,’ he muttered.
But she refused. She refused even the support of his arm. She gave another unsteady laugh.
‘I’m sorry I broke your stairs, Paul … You will go and see about the short stories, won’t you?’
He groaned.
‘Then if you won’t see a doctor, will you go across the square and let Mrs Barrett look at you? Look, there’s Barrett passing now –’
The long-nosed Barrett was looking curiously down the alley, but as Oleron was about to call him he made off without a word. Elsie seemed anxious for nothing so much as to be clear of the place, and finally promised to go straight to a doctor, but insisted on going alone.
‘Goodbye,’ she said.
And Oleron watched her until she was past the hatchet-like ‘To Let’ boards, as if he feared that even they might fall upon her and maim her.
That night Oleron did not dine. He had far too much on his mind. He walked from room to room of his flat, as if he could have walked away from Elsie Bengough’s haunting cry that still rang in his ears. ‘I’m not wante
d – don’t offer me anything less – let me take away what’s left of me –’
Oh, if he could only have persuaded himself that he loved her!
He walked until twilight fell, then, without lighting candles, he stirred up the fire and flung himself into a chair.
Poor, poor Elsie! …
But even while his heart ached for her, it was out of the question. If only he had known! If only he had used common observation! But those walks, those sisterly takings of the arm – what a fool he had been! … Well, it was too late now. It was she, not he, who must now act – act by keeping away. He would help her all he could. He himself would not sit in her presence. If she came, he would hurry her out again as fast as he could … Poor, poor Elsie!
His room grew dark; the fire burned dead; and he continued to sit, wincing from time to time as a fresh tortured phrase rang again in his ears.
Then suddenly, he knew not why, he found himself anxious for her in a new sense – uneasy about her personal safety. A horrible fancy that even then she might be looking over an embankment down into dark water, that she might even now be glancing up at the hook on the door, took him. Women had been known to do those things … Then there would be an inquest, and he himself would be called upon to identify her, and would be asked how she had come by an ill-healed wound on the hand and a bad abrasion of the ankle. Barrett would say that he had seen her leaving his house …
Then he recognised that his thoughts were morbid. By an effort of will he put them aside, and sat for a while listening to the faint creakings and tickings and rappings within his panelling … If only he could have married her! … But he couldn’t. Her face had risen before him again as he had seen it on the stairs, drawn with pain and ugly and swollen with tears. Ugly – yes, positively blubbered; if tears were women’s weapons, as they were said to be, such tears were weapons turned against themselves … suicide again …
Then all at once he found himself attentively considering her two accidents.
Extraordinary they had been, both of them. He could not have left that old nail standing in the wood; why, he had fetched tools specially from the kitchen; and he was convinced that that step that had broken beneath her weight had been as sound as the others. It was inexplicable. If these things could happen, anything could happen. There was not a beam nor a jamb in the place that might not fall without warning, not a plank that might not crash inwards, not a nail that might not become a dagger. The whole place was full of life even now; as he sat there in the dark he heard its crowds of noises as if the house had been one great microphone …