CHAPTER XXII
ELLA HAD AN aunt, on her father’s side, who dwelt at Clapham. This was a cheerful woman, early widowed and in ‘a good way’ comparatively, with a small house of her own and a back garden. In the summer Ella would often spend her whole afternoons and evenings off in this garden, thinking of it as a refuge of laziness and peace, but in the siege of winter she seldom got over there. When she did she was made warmly welcome, given muffins or hot toast in an indescribably cosy tea, and made achingly to sense the innumerable amenities and minute blisses of an independent income, however small. But the hour came to go, and she was back in the bleakness and slavery of the week.
Needless to say, Ella Loved her Aunt (she would have Loved her in any case because she was her Aunt, but she loved her over and above this) and her Aunt loved her. In fact Ella was known to be her aunt’s ‘Favourite,’ whatever that might mean. She was a younger woman than Ella’s mother, and for that reason Ella was sometimes able to confide in her certain matters which she was not fully able to confide to the latter. In fact Ella had often thought of confiding properly in her aunt about Mr. Eccles.
This did not mean, of course, that Ella Loved her Aunt more than she Loved her Mother, for in Ella’s sternly conventional hierarchy of Love, it would be a crime of the first water to place one’s Aunt in the same category as one’s Mother, who took precedence over all others, including even Father, if you had one. And Ella, in her orthodoxy, did not regard this as a purely personal classification, but one that applied to all families all over the world.
It was next Thursday that Ella decided to make a long-deferred journey over to Clapham to see this Aunt Winnie, having written her a letter the week before announcing her intention. After her last Sunday with Mr. Eccles, she really felt she could go on no longer without advice, and she fully intended, if she could lead the conversation round that way and take the plunge, to come out with the whole story, and throw herself upon her Aunt’s verdict – perhaps requisitioning her aid in the composition of that Letter, which she had no idea how to begin, but which she still felt was her only rock to cling to in that submerging flood of indefatigability which was Mr. Eccles.
But this was not to be. For no sooner had Ella, on her arrival at her aunt’s house, been welcomed and kissed in the hall way, than she was swept into the sitting-room and acquainted with the fact that instead of having her life clarified this afternoon, it was to be further confused by what her aunt with warm and innocent pleasure described as a Bit of Good News for her.
At first Ella thought that this might really be a bit of good news, though she could not conceive from what source good news could befall her; but it soon turned out to be about as middling a piece of news as she had ever heard. What it amounted to was that there was a Chance, said Aunt Winnie.
‘Oh yes?’ said Ella, looking politely bright-eyed and avid for further enlightenment.
A real Chance, said Aunt Winnie, and where did Ella think she might be packing off to before long? ‘Where?’ said Ella, a remote glaze already stealing into her eyes at the thought of her involvement with Mr. Eccles in relation to all this. ‘India!’ said Aunt Winnie, ‘What do you think of that?’
‘India!’ said Ella. ‘Good Lord!’
‘And what do you think as?’
‘What?’ said Ella.
‘It’s as a nursemaid,’ said Aunt Winnie, and then she got down to details. Ella hardly listened to these, so confused and nettled was she, but it transpired (as might be imagined) that a Mrs. So-on-and-so-forth, who in turn was an old friend of Mrs. So-on-and-so-forth, whom Aunt Winnie had been housekeeper for, twenty years ago, and so on and so forth – Ella couldn’t quite gather who was who, but anyway what this Mrs. So-on-and-so-forth wanted was a Really Reliable Girl. There were two sweet little children – a boy and a girl – and in this case they wouldn’t require looking after so much as so on and so forth. It was not so much a question of Experience, as Reliability and Honesty. Well, naturally, Mrs. So-on-and-so-forth had mentioned the matter to Mrs. So-on-and-so-forth, and somehow Aunt Winnie had got in on it, being by now as thick as thieves with both the Mrs. So-on-and-so-forths, and having suggested Ella as a candidate. In this scheme Mrs. So-on-and-so-forth had apparently shown boundless interest and hopefulness, having the greatest reasons to trust Aunt Winnie’s recommendation on account of yet another (and rather vital) Miss So-on-and-so-forth, who, by a weird coincidence knew both Mrs. So-on-and-so-forth and Aunt Winnie years before the War, though they hadn’t known it, and so on and so forth. Well, what it boiled down to was that Mrs. S.O.A.S.F. was most anxious to See Ella, and if she but fulfilled the favourable impression already created for her (and how could she do otherwise?) the thing was as good as in the bag. The salary was thirty shillings and they left for India in six weeks.
‘Now isn’t that a piece of good news?’ said Aunt Winnie, when she had finished.
‘Yes,’ said Ella. ‘That’s wonderful.’ For to throw cold water upon the burning secret endeavours of her Aunt Winnie and a united front of amiable Mrs. So-on-and-so-forths at the same time, was more than she could find in her heart to do.
‘Look at the salary,’ said Aunt Winnie. ‘And you always said you’d love to look after children – didn’t you?’
‘Yes,’ said Ella. ‘I did.’ And this was the truth. To have something to do with ‘kids’ had naturally been her passionate ambition ever since she had had to work for her living.
‘And India, too,’ said Aunt Winnie. ‘What an adventure!’
‘Yes, it would be,’ said Ella. ‘Do you really think there’s a Chance?’
She said this half hoping that there was yet some snag which might release her from the dilemma with which fate seemed to have conspired wickedly to confront her. India! India at any other time – but India, of all things, at this time! Six weeks in which to go to India, and eight weeks in which to marry Mr. Eccles! It was utterly beyond her to explain Mr. Eccles to her aunt now, and yet if she did not explain him how was she to stop active preparations for India going ahead?
‘Of course there’s a Chance,’ said Aunt Winnie. ‘If you write the right sort of letter, and go along in the right way there shouldn’t be the slightest doubt.’
Then she had got to write a letter and go along? This was awful.
‘When should I do that?’ asked Ella.
‘As soon as possible I should think. And then you can go along next week. You’ve only got to show how willing you are,’ said Aunt Winnie.
‘And then perhaps,’ said Aunt Winnie, ‘you’ll be able to say good-bye to that dreadful public-house of yours. I never liked you being there.’
Ella saw that now Aunt Winnie’s optimism had cast ‘The Midnight Bell’ into history, she was prepared rebelliously to view it in its blackest light, whereas before she had unreservedly accepted Ella’s ‘nice situation.’ Which was silly, and likely to make them both look fools if India failed.
Shortly afterwards Aunt Winnie began to get tea ready, and they moved on to other subjects parenthetically for a little; but Ella’s afternoon was devastated. There is nothing in the world so confusing, vexing, and perplexing as having tea with an Aunt who is convinced in all her senses that one is going to India, whereas one knows in actual fact that one is engaged to be married to a gentleman in Chiswick; and Ella’s aunt could naturally not leave the theme alone for long. Ella was to do this, and to do that, not to Dwell too much on the fact that she had been a barmaid, not to stress ‘The Midnight Bell’ as a pub, but rather as a Sort of Hotel, in which she had Helped, to ‘wear that dark coat and hat’ (these seemed to have made a terrific impression!), to Mention this, and Leave Out that, and all the rest of it.
‘Well, it’s ever so kind of you, Aunt Winnie,’ said Ella, as she kissed her good-bye in the hallway on her departure, ‘And I hope something comes of it.’
‘Yes. I thought you’d be pleased,’ said Aunt Winnie. ‘It’s a chance in a thousand.’
And as Ella made h
er way reflectively homeward she found that some of Aunt Winnie’s enthusiasm had infected her, and that the idea after all was not so inconceivable. In fact, putting Mr. Eccles aside for a moment, the notion, in its very wildness, strangeness, and novelty, had an extraordinary appeal to her in her present mood. What if she ran away from Mr. Eccles and began a new life in India! And looking after kids – had that not at one time been the highest peak of her desire in her life of compelled service? And India! India – for one who had looked upon the Euston Road and the endless washing of glasses and pulling of beer for men as her blind and never-varying station in life. Where and what was India? – she didn’t know much about it – except that it was that big red bit that came down to a point. They had Coolies there or something, didn’t they? And Curry, of course. And then there was Caste, wasn’t there? She didn’t quite know what Caste was, but they had it in India – together with Sahibs, and Tiffin, and Rajahs and Hindus and Fakirs and Heaven knew what – a whole different world of picturesque and intriguing paraphernalia in a remote, sun-baked clime. And reached over hundreds of miles of enchanted sea. That, as compared to the fog and rain of London! Suppose India suited her and she had been fated for India all along? Suppose adventure and romance were coming into her life at last? But she was going too fast. To begin with Aunt Winnie was known to be a huge optimist in matters of this kind, and Ella could not see what anybody would want to take her to India for. Possibly it would all turn out in nothing. And then what about Mr. Eccles? This notion could only be harboured on the assumption that she was going coolly to jilt Mr. Eccles, and how could she do that? And should she tell Mr. Eccles about India, or keep India up her sleeve? She rather thought the latter. Then, if it came to a question of jilting Mr. Eccles, she would have India to fall back upon. In fact India might even justify her in the jilting of Mr. Eccles, and it might be a good idea to refrain from fully deciding about him until India had been substantiated. Then she might jilt India – she did not know. It was rather mean, to play a double game like this, but as far as Mr. Eccles was concerned she had an irresistible feeling of being justified in considering her own welfare before his, since he had not really any feeling for her as a human being, and had landed her into this engagement with him by gradual assumptions which had never, at any given moment, exacted her full consent. Besides, it was quite impossible to conceive of a state of affairs in which Mr. Eccles endured any really heart-broken suffering over her. That, probably, was one of the main reasons why she so often felt she did not like him enough to marry him.
Well, whatever else it was, India was at any rate another diversion and excitement in her life. She would write to-night if she could to Mrs. Whatever-her-name was (her Aunt had given her a card, which was in her bag) and ask for an interview next week. It would have to be in the afternoon, of course, and if Mr. Eccles was wanting to take her to tea that day, she would have to resort to falsehood. She was skating on pretty thin ice, wasn’t she?
She did not, however, make any attempt to write any such letter that night, for on arriving at ‘The Midnight Bell’ there was a letter awaiting her. This was from her mother, begging her to go over to Pimlico to-morrow afternoon if she could manage it, as her stepfather, Mr. Prosser, lay dangerously ill. The wheels of fate were indeed speeding up.
CHAPTER XXIII
THERE WERE THREE or four different Ellas battling for supremacy in the Ella that hastily left her work and hurried out to board a bus to Victoria next afternoon, and her mind was in a fever of speculation.
She had hardly slept last night, and having had no further word from her mother, she had no means of guessing what developments there had been since last night or how ‘ill’ her stepfather actually was. Naturally her first concern was for the sick man – or at any rate that was what she stoutly and resolutely held to amid the innumerable, irrelevant, base, rebellious, unscrupulous, egoistic thoughts and impulses springing up on all sides from her subconscious mind. And in a way she was sincere. Death is the only common foe which unites all parties and sinks all differences in a blind contest against its onslaught, and so far as deeds alone were concerned Ella was ready enough to show the genuineness of her feeling for the victim. In fact, it would hardly be an exaggeration to say that Ella would have willingly given her life for her stepfather if it could have been done – so deeply ingrained is the instinct in live people to battle against the mystery, pathos, and irredeemability of this event. Then how was this feeling to be reconciled with her other feelings – her past hatred of the fiend in human shape, of the ‘wicked’ man – her resentment of his whole existence, her real longing to have him out of the way? If he died, of course, then all his sins would be forgiven – in fact his sins were forgiven already. But suppose he didn’t die? Would his sins be forgiven then? Therefore, could she say that she had truly forgiven his sins now and desired nothing but to preserve his life? Ella succeeded in doing so, but at the cost of her integrity – such being the penalty paid by orthodox souls like hers in moments of testing reality.
Then again, if she was to regard herself as mentally battling for and selflessly concentrating upon the unhappy man, why was it that she found her mind continually wandering away into criminal speculations as to the possible result of the event of his death upon herself and her mother? India, for instance. What effect would Mr. Prosser’s death have upon India? And India was only the beginning for it might have the profoundest effect in every imaginable way upon her mother and herself. For had it not always been tacitly understood between them that in the event of Mr. Prosser’s death, in the event (in their shy and respectful parlance) of Anything Happening to him, there was a ‘little something coming’? How much exactly this little something coming amounted to Ella did not know, but in his savage way Mr. Prosser had always been a saving man, and it was known that from his better days he had at one time put by a sum in Post Office Savings amounting, she believed, to not less than three hundred pounds. How much of this astounding sum had been drawn upon in his latter days of ignominious employment she did not know, but she knew that it had been his bitter and semi-fanatical endeavour to keep it intact for illness and old age, and that there had often been quarrels between her mother and himself on account of his refusal to provide her with necessities when the money was there. While sympathizing with her mother Ella had in this single instance also a certain sympathy for Mr. Prosser, as she was a great saver herself, seldom failing to put by something like three shillings weekly from her own meagre earnings, and having now accumulated the sum of seven pounds, which all the pressure in the world would not induce her to touch.
Three hundred pounds – however you might reproach yourself, it simply was not a sum which could float into your orbit and exert no magnetic power. Ella did her utmost to forget about it, but the effort was beyond her strength. What could you do with three hundred pounds? What could you not do with three hundred pounds? With such a capital Ella could foresee happiness, health, freedom, a cottage, fresh air – everything she had dreamed about for her mother and herself. It was a sum which, in its proportional hugeness to Ella, had no defined limits, though she had at the same time a perfectly practical knowledge of the prime objects upon which she would expend it and eke it out. Besides that, the moral reinforcement of three hundred pounds, the temporary freedom from the gnawing pains of penury! Would she want to go on working at ‘The Midnight Bell’ if she and her mother had three hundred pounds? Would she (and here was the point) want to marry Mr. Eccles if she and her mother had those three hundred pounds? It was impossible to say. Three hundred pounds lifted her whole existence on to a plane so giddy that she dared not examine the view.
But she must not think like that, she told herself again and again in the bus going to Victoria. It was tempting Providence, among other things. ‘Tempting Providence.’ What was this? Ella all at once realized that by using that expression mentally she had hopelessly caught herself out. While her stepfather lay dangerously ill – and possibly in agony – she was bl
aming herself, not for her vulture-like contemplation of his savings, but for tempting the Providence which might put those savings into her hands! She could not credit her own baseness, and marvelled at the contradictions in human nature.
Her heart beat faster as she neared the house, and climbed the dark, hollow stairway to the stricken abode.
The door to the kitchen she found ajar, and putting her head timidly around, she was smitten in a moment by the breathless quiet of critical illness – an atmosphere which seemed in some way to reproach her, to be, as it were, one up on her, in that those who were living in it had all the medical technique and latest vital information in their hands, had put all the furniture in different places for good reasons, and had been conducting all the ardours of the crisis on their own initiative and without aid from her.
Also there was no sign of her mother in the kitchen, but instead a young lady whom she at once recognized as the Floor Above (in other words the Top Floor) who was washing up. This young lady (whom Ella afterwards ascertained had rendered assiduous and invaluable assistance) was about thirty-seven years of age, and had not previously been on friendly terms either with the Prossers or any of the other floors – this on account of the frightful way she painted her face, and smuggled gentlemen up to her room when others had gone to bed, leading them warily down again by candlelight and bolting the door on them in the early hours of the morning – a furtive sound by night, bringing a keen sense of further and subtle degradation to all those who, sufficiently downcast merely by the day-time circumstances of this lowly lodging-house, might be awake and listening in those zero hours. But Poverty strikes in a thousand underhand ways. Moreover, she had been no friend of Mr. Prosser himself, who had been known publicly to storm at her and Show her Up (as the phrase was) from his landing, although, oddly enough, he had himself acquired the sinister reputation of having been Seen with her in a public-house not far away, and even of having been in the early days one of the actual smuggled concupiscent gentlemen in the nightly Takings-Place Above – but this was gossip. Anyway, here she was, making herself useful, and, as Ella was to discover soon, being intensely sentimental about the whole thing, and frantically Helping everybody on all sides, in that rather maudlin and too highly charged emotional manner common to those of her loveless calling when they are given the opportunity to prove their worth by participating in the affairs of those whose instinct it is to despise them.