‘That’s a strong one, ain’t it?’ she said.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘It’s a double double. It’s the only thing on occasions like this.’
She had never tasted whisky before. It was horrid. It was like wood or cork gone rotten. But the sharp taste of the soda cleansed her mouth. He had drunk half his already.
‘Oo, madam, I’m ever so sorry I’m late. . . .’ She still hadn’t thought of a decent excuse. And if they accepted what she said, she would have to set to and do the housework! It was too dreadful to think about. She took another sip. This drink was cleaning her mouth at any rate. And this fire was lovely. She could stay by it for ever.
‘Have you really got to go to these weird people?’ he asked.
‘Of course, I have. What do you think?’
‘Can’t you telephone them or something?’
‘They ain’t on the telephone.’
‘Well – can’t you send them a wire or something?’
‘Saying what?’ she said.
‘Oh – you can make some excuse – can’t you?’
‘Yes – I can if I want to be out of a job.’
‘Is it as good a job as all that?’
He would never understand. He was just a ‘gentleman’ – an idler without knowledge of the laws governing workers. She took another sip, and looked wretchedly at the decayed, wanly lit fountain. She ought to have gone by now. But she couldn’t leave this fire just for a moment.
‘You don’t seem to realize what trouble I’m in,’ she said.
‘I don’t see that you’re in any trouble,’ he said.
She believed this whisky was going to her head already. A strange feeling of lightheadedness had come over her, and remained as she looked at the fountain. It was not sickness – but lightheadedness. It couldn’t be drunkenness – she had had nothing. She took another sip.
‘Well, I should like to know what trouble is, then,’ she answered.
‘Oh – surely it’s not as bad as all that.’
This lightheadedness – it was the whisky. And it was something besides lightheadedness – a faint warming and enlivening feeling about the heart. It made her feel a little better. She took another sip.
‘I should say it’s bad enough,’ she said, ‘with that accident and all.’
‘No,’ he said. ‘I don’t see why. We can’t do anything now.’
He seemed to be changing his mind a bit now. He hadn’t taken that attitude before. Was it possible that she had exaggerated the horror of what had occurred? It might be so. This lightheaded feeling. . . . She didn’t seem to be able to think about anything. She was feeling better, though, inside and altogether. He was right about the whisky. It was picking her up.
‘I hope you’re right,’ she said, and took another sip.
There it went again. It seemed to trickle down and heat and awaken every little cell and channel with its brisk medicining. It was like what she had felt last night – a little nicer if anything. Last night it had been like the feeling of good news without the good news. Now it was like the news that her bad news was not such bad news after all.
‘Of course I’m right,’ he said. ‘Do you think we’re going to be behind prison bars or something?’
What was this? He was taking a different line now. Had she read too much into his odd remarks about jails and the papers this morning? She rather thought she had.
She was feeling better. It was this whisky. She took another sip. It was wonderful stuff as a reviver – there was no doubt about that. Nothing he could say, no mental comforting could so brace her as this inward corporal reassurance, this physical information, of good things descending on her. She was still lightheaded, but she felt worlds better.
‘Well,’ she said, ‘I hope you’re right.’
He had drained off his glass. ‘Of course I am,’ he said. ‘There’s nothing to get a wind up about. Let’s have another, shall we?’
‘Lord, no! I’ve got to go. I haven’t finished this one.’
‘Well – do you mind if I do?’
‘No.’
He had left her. The door opened, and two men came in, laughing and talking with each other. They went to the bar, and in an instant had enlivened the whole atmosphere.
‘Nothing to get the wind up about. . . .’ She wondered whether he was right. He had been calm like that all the time. It had been she alone that had got the wind up. She took another sip.
What, after all, had she done? She had been with a party in a car, and there had been an accident. What was wrong with that? She hadn’t been driving. It wasn’t her fault. She had exaggerated this out of all proportion.
He had returned. ‘Sure you won’t have another?’ he said, as he sat down.
‘No thanks,’ she said. ‘It’s ever so good, though, this whisky, ain’t it?’
What had happened to her? She had been tricked into speaking almost with hilarity.
‘Yes, it is,’ he said, and added, ‘I say – why don’t you cut these people out and spend the day with me?’
‘Oo – I can’t,’ she said.
To spend the day with him? What an idea. . . . Gee – she was hot. It was this fire. And lightheaded, too. She wasn’t in a fit state to go and work. Spend the day with him. . . . She took a gulp at her whisky.
‘Why not?’ he said. ‘We could go and have lunch at the Clarendon.’
The Clarendon! That swell place at Hammersmith! Gee, she was with a ‘gentleman’ all right this time – and he seemed to have money to spend. This was something a cut above Andy – if you liked. Lunch at the Clarendon. That would be something to tell ’em. What would Violet think of that? And gee! – wasn’t she just hungry!
‘But I couldn’t,’ she said. ‘I’d lose my job.’
‘Well, you can find another, can’t you?’
Find another? She had not seen it in that light. It sounded plausible enough.
‘But I ain’t got no money,’ she said.
‘Well, I can let you have some. How much do you want?’
‘Oh, I couldn’t take money,’ she said. ‘Thank you very much.’
‘Yes you could. You can’t go back in this state. I feel responsible in a way. Would ten pounds be any good?’
Was she dreaming? Ten pounds! She could live for weeks on ten pounds – for an indefinite period!
She must control herself. To accept ten pounds from a gentleman friend? This way led to destruction. She must exercise her will and get away.
‘Come on,’ he said. ‘We’ll lunch at the Clarendon, and then go and rest our weary heads at the pictures. What about it?’
The Clarendon – and then to the pictures with a gentleman friend!
And the alternative to go back, and plead lying excuses, and wash dirty dishes, and make beds, and cook!
‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Why not?’
Why not! Wild fiends of joy knocked at the gates of her will. How could she resist them? This was ruin – she was getting drunk again. This was the turning point of her life. If she lost her will now she had lost all. Yet why not? With one word of assent she could be lifted from undreamed of woe to undreamed of bliss – step out from her deep unhappiness as from a garment. She could be free of all care. She could have a grand time. She had insanely exaggerated the horrors of last night. Once again she could laugh at those two – see them pityingly as ‘two old fossils.’
‘Well, I might think about it,’ she said.
She had only opened the gate a little way, but the fiends had surged in and captured the citadel in a moment. She would! She was free again! She was going to the Clarendon with her gentleman friend! Those two old fossils could wait for her!
They were nothing but old fossils. She had always known it. They could wait for her. Serve them right! She’d find another job all right. She’d find a better one. Why had she wanted to stick to that silly job? She had been mad – distraught with absurd depression. But the mists had disappeared now – simply vanished like magic! She
had awakened. She had become herself once more!
‘That’s better,’ he said. ‘Will you have another now?’
‘All right,’ she said. ‘Ta.’
IV
MARION AND BELLA
AND SO MARION and Bella never saw their treasure again.
That was a black morning over at Chiswick. Like a plague, Jenny’s guilt infected others as well as herself, contorted them equally with pain, and brought them, for the time being at any rate, as low.
At five past eight, that is to say when Jenny was five minutes late, Marion knocked at Bella’s bedroom door and went in. She found Bella up and awake, combing her hair in front of the mirror of the dressing-table. She went to a cupboard they both used, and rearranged some clothes.
Having adroitly prefaced the query with general remarks on the weather and their health, ‘Has the girl come yet?’ asked Bella.
‘Not yet,’ said Marion, calmly. ‘It’s only just on eight.’ And she left the room.
She knew what Bella was feeling, but she rather despised her for giving way to herself so early and readily. She was not going to let Bella’s nervousness and morbidity stimulate her own. So often had Marion doubted and feared concerning such matters, and so often had her doubts and fears been proved foolish, that she felt she at least had enough control of herself now, not to start worrying when the girl was less than ten minutes late. All the same, the sheer effort of control (like all other efforts) was a little painful, and she could not help wishing that the girl would come, so that she might be released merely from that effort.
When it was twenty minutes past eight, that is to say when the girl was twenty minutes late, Bella came and knocked at Marion’s door.
‘Come in,’ said Marion, and Bella entered.
Marion was now combing her own hair.
‘Here’s that paper you were wanting,’ said Bella, and she laid a copy of The Daily Express (which Marion had asked for yesterday) on the dressing-table beside Marion. She then went to the window, without a word, and looked out.
Seeing that the girl was twenty minutes late, Marion now thought that it was rather absurd, and in itself symptomatic of acute nervousness, to say nothing and pretend that nothing had happened. So she said, quite firmly and coolly:
‘She’s twenty minutes late. I wonder what’s happened.’
This made Bella think that this was an opportunity to show self-control.
‘Oh,’ she said, ‘She’s just a little late. I shouldn’t worry, if I were you.’
This annoyed Marion, because she knew that it was only Bella that was worrying. So she said, rather tartly:
‘I’m not worrying.’
This annoyed Bella, because it implied that she (Bella) was the one that was worrying, whereas exactly the opposite was the case. So, being annoyed, she said:
‘Well, you seem to be, Marion.’
This annoyed Marion extremely, because it was directly provocative, and she did think that Bella might have refrained from bringing personal feeling into a crisis like this. And so she said:
‘Really, Bella, I’m not going to quarrel with you, you know. You’d better leave me alone, hadn’t you?’
This quite enraged Bella, because it looked as though she were being ordered out of the room. And so she said:
‘Really, Marion, how dare you speak to me like that?’
And so in this way the wretched little servant girl, who had gone and got drunk and was at this very moment having a bath in a strange gentleman’s flat at Richmond, had unwittingly brought about a prodigious event at Chiswick – a full blown quarrel between the two old women. So widespread and capsizing is the wash of the barge of sin.
There was no doubt about its being a quarrel.
‘Oh, shut up, shut up – can’t you!’ cried Marion. ‘You’ll drive me mad!’
‘Mad! I like that!’ cried Bella. ‘Mad, indeed! It’s you that’s mad!’
‘Well, get on out – can’t you! Get on out! Leave me alone!’
‘Leave you alone! I’ll leave you alone all right! I’ll — ’
‘Where is the girl!’ cried Marion. ‘Where is the girl! That’s what I want to know!’
‘Ah, that’s what I want to know,’ said Bella, quietly, and because they had now stumbled upon the true origin and fount of their trouble, they both lost in a moment all their rage against each other and were quite calm.
‘We’re getting worried about this girl,’ said Marion, after a pause, ‘that’s all.’
No further apology was needed.
‘Yes,’ said Bella. ‘You’re quite right. We must keep calm.’
‘That’s right,’ said Marion. ‘We must keep calm.’
Keep calm. From that moment ‘ Keep calm’ was their standard and watchword. But how could they keep calm when the situation contained not the ingredients of calm? – when they had rapidly to decide what was to be done? – when a thousand alternatives of action clamoured for their due?
What were they to do? Were they to get breakfast themselves? If so, were they to get it at once, or wait till the half-past and see if the girl turned up? Should they get Robert a cup of tea to go on with? Should they tell Robert? Should they beguile Robert? Should they go out and send a wire to the girl’s address? Should Bella go out and send the wire, and Marion get the breakfast? Or should Marion go out and send the wire, and Bella get the breakfast? Should they cease bothering about the girl, and do all the housework themselves? Should they go out and try and get Mrs. Brackett to come in for an hour or two? Was it wise to have that awful woman in the house again? Was it not unwise to turn from possible aid in a crisis? Should Bella go out for Mrs. Brackett while Marion got the breakfast? Or should Marion go out for Mrs. Brackett while Bella got the breakfast? Would Mrs. Brackett come? Hadn’t they better go to the Registry Office for a new servant altogether? But wasn’t Mrs. Brackett better than a new servant at this juncture because she was familiar with the house? Hadn’t they better see if the girl turned up? . . .
In other words, what in God’s name were they going to do? Running about the kitchen and the house, and looking out of the windows down the street, and putting on the kettle, and finishing their dressing, their minds and conversation revolved around the crisis, and they swore that they would keep calm.
From this turmoil a line of action finally evolved. They prepared Robert a reasonable breakfast, and Marion took it up to his room. She yelled at him that the girl was delayed, but would be coming later. His grave eyes gave no intimation as to whether he had been deceived by the semi-falsehood or was resigned to the truth, and she left it at that. Then she got ready to go out for Mrs. Brackett.
At the front door she departed from Bella with a kiss, like a last messenger to the lines from a beleaguered outpost, and Bella was left in charge. It was then half-past ten.
An hour later Marion returned. Bella had only to look at her to see that she was transfigured with important tidings.
‘Well?’ she said.
‘She’s coming at five o’clock,’ said Marion.
‘Well, that’s something,’ said Bella. The moment was too great for any further display of relief.
‘Now I must lie down,’ said Marion. ‘I’ve been hurrying too much.’
Bella did what housework she could, and when Marion rose they began to get lunch together.
As there was no proper food in the house, and so the questions arose as to whether they should go out to buy food, what manner of food they should go out to buy, which of them should go out for it, whether there was not enough in the house after all, whether there was time to go out for it in any case, why Marion had not got some while she was out before, and so on and so forth – the getting of lunch had as wearing effect upon the nerves as the pursuit of Mrs. Brackett. At the very last moment they decided not to go out for any food, and they poached some eggs.
And so it went on all day. At five Mrs. Brackett, true to her word, came. She cooked them an evening meal, she cleared u
p the house, she re-established order in every way, and she promised to come to-morrow, and continue exactly as before the change.
Much as they disliked her, and inferior as she was to the little treasure they had for some mysterious reason lost, they had to admit that she had turned up trumps on this occasion.
And then, three or four days later, as they were sitting talking peacefully just before going to bed, a curious thing occurred. Jenny underwent a horrible metamorphosis. From a perfect little treasure of a girl who for some reason (probably illness) had failed to return, she was converted, in a moment, into a black scheming little devil of all evil. As they talked they discovered that in their hearts they had never liked her, but not until now, when they had returned to the solid Mrs. Brackett, did they realize what danger they had been in, and how insane they had been to engage such a painted, saucy, specious, common little factory thing like that. How could they be surprised that she had run away? It was a good thing she had not taken anything with her, and they might very well find that she had when they looked things over. Indeed, it was more than likely that she belonged to some gang of thieves, and had been sent by them to look over the house. They could hardly credit that they had not seen through her. However, it was no use regretting anything now. They had Mrs. Brackett back, after all. They had every admiration for Mrs. Brackett. She might have her faults, but you could rely on Mrs. Brackett. And what more could you ask, in these days, than a servant to rely on?
Thus they talked, and flattered themselves with hopeful thoughts, and went to bed once more unconscious of their long-drawn-out sorrow and helplessness. And so they would go on and on, day after day, and perhaps year after year, in the same tormented way – and never, oddly enough, have anything but a kind of horror of the thought of the day when they would not be able to get up and go on, but would have perforce to lie and be patient, and then, of a sudden, while all the world moved and suffered around them, become startling waxen images which did not move or suffer.
CONCLUSION
‘ALL THROUGH A glass of port,’ Jenny, the girl of the streets, had said. She had said it in jest, but who shall decline to surmise that she had stumbled upon the literal truth?