Volume Ii Part 58 (1/2)

Mrs. Cleghorne's hands were dry now, and she led the way along the pa.s.sage upstairs, sniffing as she pa.s.sed her c.r.a.pulous husband. She unlocked the door of the ground-floor rooms, and they entered. It was not an inspiring lodging as seen thus in its emptiness, with drifts of fluff along the bare dusty boards. The unblacked grate contained some dried-up bits of orange peel; with the last summons of the late tenant the bellrope had broken, and it now lay invertebrate; by the window, catching a shaft of sunlight, stood a drain pipe painted with a landscape in cobalt-blue and probably once used as an umbrella stand.

”That's all I got for two months' rent,” said Mrs. Cleghorne bitterly, surveying it. ”And it's just about fit for my old man to go and bury his good-for-nothing lazy head in, and that's all. The bedroom's in here, of course.” She opened the folding doors whose blebs of paint had been picked off up to a certain height above the floor, possibly as far as some child had been able to reach.

The bedroom was rather dustier than the sitting-room, and it was much darker owing to a number of ferns which had been glued upon the window-panes. Through this mesh could be seen the nettle-haunted square of back garden; and beyond, over a stucco wall pocked with small pebbles, a column of smoke was belching into the sky from a stationary engine on the invisible lake of railway lines.

”Do you want to see the top-floor back?” Mrs. Cleghorne asked.

”Well, if you wouldn't mind.” Michael felt bound to apologize to her, whatever was suggested.

She sighed her way upstairs, and at last flung open a door for them to enter the vacant room.

The view from here was certainly more s.p.a.cious, and a great deal of the permeating depression was lightened by looking out as it were over another city across the railway, a city with streamers of smoke, and even here and there a flag flying. At the same time the room itself was less potentially endurable than the ground-floor; there was no fireplace and the few sc.r.a.ps of furniture were more discouraging than the positive emptiness downstairs. Michael shuddered as he looked at the gimcrack washstand through whose scanty paint the original wood was visible in long fibrous sores. He shuddered, too, at the bedstead with its pleated iron laths furred by dust and rust, and at the red mattress exuding flock like cl.u.s.tered maggots.

”This is furnished, of course,” said Mrs. Cleghorne, complacently sucking a tooth. ”Well, which will you have?”

”I think perhaps I'll take the ground-floor rooms. I'll have them done up.”

”Oh, they're quite clean. The last people was a bit dirty. So I gave them an extra-special clear-out.”

”But you wouldn't object to my doing them up?” persisted Michael.

”Oh, no, I shouldn't _object,”_ said Mrs. Cleghorne, and in her accent was the suggestion that equally she would not be likely to derive very much pleasure from the fruition of Michael's proposal.

They were going downstairs again now, and Mrs. Cleghorne was evidently beginning to acquire a conviction of her own importance, because somebody had contemplated with a certain amount of interest those two empty rooms on the ground floor; in the gratification of her pride she was endowing them with a value and a character they did not possess.

”I've always said that, properly cared for, those two rooms are worth any other two rooms in the house. And of course that's the reason I'm really compelled to charge a bit more for them. I always say to everyone right out--if you want the two best rooms in the house, why, you must pay according. They're only empty now because I've always been particular about letting them. I won't have anybody, and that's a fact.

Mr. Barnes here knows I'm really fond of those rooms.”

They had reentered them, and Mrs. Cleghorne stood with arms admiringly akimbo.

”They really are a beautiful lodging,” she declared. ”When would you want them from?”

”Well, as soon as I can get them done up,” said Michael.

”I see. Perhaps you could explain a little more clearly just what you was thinking of doing?”

Michael gave some of his theories of decoration, while Mrs. Cleghorne waited in critical audience; as it were, feeling the pulse of the apartments under the stimulus of Michael's sketch of their potentiality.

”All white?” the landlady echoed pessimistically. ”That sounds very gloomy, doesn't it? More like a outhouse or a coal-cellar than a nice couple of rooms.”

”Well, they couldn't look rottener than what they do at present,” Barnes put in. ”So if you take my advice, you'll say 'yes' and be very thankful. They'll look clean, anyway.”

The landlady threw back her head and surveyed Barnes like a snake about to strike.

”Rotten?” she sniffed. ”I'm sure this gentleman here isn't likely to find a nicer and cheaper pair of rooms or a more convenient and a quieter pair of rooms anywhere in Pimlico. A lot of people is very anxious to be in this neighborhood.”

Mrs. Cleghorne was much offended by Barnes' criticism, and there was a long period of dubiety before it was settled that Michael should be accepted as a tenant.

”I've never cared for white,” she said, in final protest. ”Not since I was married.”

Reminded of Mr. Cleghorne's existence in the bas.e.m.e.nt, she hurried forthwith to rout him out. As she disappeared, Michael saw that she was searching in the musty folds of her skirt in order to deposit in her purse the month's rent he had paid in advance.