Part 29 (1/2)
All the way home his only idea was: Could it not be hidden? Honest, kindly little man that he was, he seemed to have no thought for the unfortunate victims. The good name of his master, of his friend, gone!
Stillwood, Waterhead and Royal, a by-word! To have avoided that I believe he would have been willing for yet another hundred clients to be ruined.
I saw him to his door, then turned homeward; and to my surprise in a dark by-street heard myself laughing heartily. I checked myself instantly, feeling ashamed of my callousness, of my seeming indifference to the trouble even of myself and my mother. Yet as there pa.s.sed before me the remembrance of that imposing and expensive funeral with its mournful following of tearful faces; the hushed reading of the will with its accompaniment of rustling approval; the picture of the admirably sympathetic clergyman consoling with white hands Mrs. Stillwood, inclined to hysteria, but anxious concerning her two hundred pounds'
worth of c.r.a.pe which by no possibility of means could now be paid for--recurred to me the obituary notice in ”The Chelsea Weekly Chronicle”: the humour of the thing swept all else before it, and I laughed again--I could not help it--loud and long. It was my first introduction to the comedy of life, which is apt to be more brutal than the comedy of fiction.
But nearing home, the serious side of the matter forced itself uppermost. Fortunately, our supposed dividends had been paid to us by Mr. Stillwood only the month before. Could I keep the thing from troubling my mother's last days? It would be hard work. I should have to do it alone, for a perhaps foolish pride prevented my taking Hal into my confidence, even made his friends.h.i.+p a dread to me, lest he should come to learn and offer help. There is a higher generosity, it is said, that can receive with pleasure as well as bestow favour; but I have never felt it. Could I be sure of acting my part, of not betraying myself to her sharp eyes, of keeping newspapers and chance gossip away from her?
Good shrewd Amy I cautioned, but I shrank from even speaking on the subject to Hal, and my fear was lest he should blunder into the subject, which for the usual nine days occupied much public attention. But fortunately he appeared not even to have heard of the scandal.
Possibly had the need lasted longer I might have failed, but as it was, a few weeks saw the end.
”Don't leave me to-day, Paul,” whispered my mother to me one morning. So I stayed, and in the evening my mother put her arms around my neck and I lay beside her, my head upon her breast, as I used to when a little boy.
And when the morning came I was alone.
BOOK II.
CHAPTER I
DESCRIBES THE DESERT ISLAND TO WHICH PAUL WAS DRIFTED.
”Room to let for a single gentleman.” Sometimes in an idle hour, impelled by foolishness, I will knock at the door. It is opened after a longer or shorter interval by the ”slavey”--in the morning, slatternly, her arms concealed beneath her ap.r.o.n; in the afternoon, smart in dirty cap and ap.r.o.n. How well I know her! Unchanged, not grown an inch--her round bewildered eyes, her open mouth, her touzled hair, her scored red hands. With an effort I refrain from muttering: ”So sorry, forgot my key,” from pus.h.i.+ng past her and mounting two at a time the narrow stairs, carpeted to the first floor, but bare beyond. Instead, I say, ”Oh, what rooms have you to let?” when, scuttling to the top of the kitchen stairs, she will call over the banisters: ”A gentleman to see the rooms.” There comes up, panting, a hara.s.sed-looking, elderly female, but genteel in black. She crushes past the little ”slavey,” and approaching, eyes me critically.
”I have a very nice room on the first floor,” she informs me, ”and one behind on the third.”
I agree to see them, explaining that I am seeking them for a young friend of mine. We squeeze past the hat and umbrella stand: there is just room, but one must keep close to the wall. The first floor is rather an imposing apartment, with a marble-topped sideboard measuring quite three feet by two, the doors of which will remain closed if you introduce a wad of paper between them. A green table-cloth, matching the curtains, covers the loo-table. The lamp is perfectly safe so long as it stands in the exact centre of the table, but should not be s.h.i.+fted.
A paper fire-stove ornament in some mysterious way bestows upon the room an air of chast.i.ty. Above the mantelpiece is a fly-blown mirror, between the once gilt frame and gla.s.s of which can be inserted invitation cards; indeed, one or two so remain, proving that the tenants even of ”bed-sitting-rooms” are not excluded from social delights. The wall opposite is adorned by an oleograph of the kind Cheap Jacks sell by auction on Sat.u.r.day nights in the Pimlico Road, and warrant as ”hand-made.” Generally speaking, it is a Swiss landscape. There appears to be more ”body” in a Swiss landscape than in scenes from less favoured localities. A dilapidated mill, a foaming torrent, a mountain, a maiden and a cow can at the least be relied upon. An easy chair (I disclaim all responsibility for the adjective), stuffed with many coils of steel wire, each possessing a ”business end” in admirable working order, and covered with horsehair, highly glazed, awaits the uninitiated. There is one way of sitting upon it, and only one: by using the extreme edge, and planting your feet firmly on the floor. If you attempt to lean back in it you inevitably slide out of it. When so treated it seems to say to you: ”Excuse me, you are very heavy, and you would really be much more comfortable upon the floor. Thank you so much.” The bed is behind the door, and the washstand behind the bed. If you sit facing the window you can forget the bed. On the other hand, if more than one friend come to call on you, you are glad of it. As a matter of fact, experienced visitors prefer it--make straight for it, refusing with firmness to exchange it for the easy chair.
”And this room is?”
”Eight s.h.i.+llings a week, sir--with attendance, of course.”
”Any extras?”
”The lamp, sir, is eighteenpence a week; and the kitchen fire, if the gentleman wishes to dine at home, two s.h.i.+llings.”
”And fire?”
”Sixpence a scuttle, sir, I charge for coals.”
”It's rather a small scuttle.”
The landlady bridles a little. ”The usual size, I think, sir.” One presumes there is a special size in coal-scuttles made exclusively for lodging-house keepers.
I agree that while I am about it I may as well see the other room, the third floor back. The landlady opens the door for me, but remains herself on the landing. She is a stout lady, and does not wish to dwarf the apartment by comparison. The arrangement here does not allow of your ignoring the bed. It is the life and soul of the room, and it declines to efface itself. Its only possible rival is the washstand, straw-coloured; with staring white basin and jug, together with other appurtenances. It glares defiantly from its corner. ”I know I'm small,”
it seems to say; ”but I'm very useful; and I won't be ignored.”
The remaining furniture consists of a couple of chairs--there is no hypocrisy about them: they are not easy and they do not pretend to be easy; a small chest of light-painted drawers before the window, with white china handles, upon which is a tiny looking-gla.s.s; and, occupying the entire remaining s.p.a.ce, after allowing three square feet for the tenant, when he arrives, an attenuated four-legged table apparently home-made. The only ornament in the room is, suspended above the fireplace, a funeral card, framed in beer corks. As the corpse introduced by the ancient Egyptians into their banquets, it is hung there perhaps to remind the occupant of the apartment that the luxuries and allurements of life have their end; or maybe it consoles him in despondent moments with the reflection that after all he might be worse off.
The rent of this room is three-and-sixpence a week, also including attendance; lamp, as for the first floor, eighteen-pence; but kitchen fire a s.h.i.+lling.
”But why should kitchen fire for the first floor be two s.h.i.+llings, and for this only one?”