CHAPTER XXXIII
HILARY DEALS WITH THE SITUATION
To understand the conduct of Hilary and Bianca at what “Westminister” would have called this “crisax,” not only their feelings as sentient human beings, but their matrimonial philosophy, must be taken into account. By education and environment they belonged to a section of society which had “in those days” abandoned the more old-fashioned views of marriage. Such as composed this section, finding themselves in opposition, not only to the orthodox proprietary creed, but even to their own legal rights, had been driven to an attitude of almost blatant freedom. Like all folk in opposition, they were bound, as a simple matter of principle, to disagree with those in power, to view with a contemptuous resentment that majority which said, “I believe the thing is mine, and mine it shall remain” – a majority which by force of numbers made this creed the law. Unable legally to, be other than the proprietors of wife or husband, as the case might be, they were obliged, even in the most happy unions, to be very careful not to become disgusted with their own position. Their legal status was, as it were, a goad, spurring them on to show their horror of it. They were like children sent to school with trousers that barely reached their knees, aware that they could neither reduce their stature to the proportions of their breeches nor make their breeches grow. They were furnishing an instance of that immemorial “change of form to form” to which Mr. Stone had given the name of Life. In a past age thinkers and dreamers and “artistic pigs” rejecting the forms they found, had given unconscious shape to this marriage law, which, after they had become the wind, had formed itself out of their exiled pictures and thoughts and dreams. And now this particular law in turn was the dried rind, devoid of pips or speculation; and the thinkers and dreamers and “artistic pigs” were again rejecting it, and again themselves in exile.
This exiled faith, this honour amongst thieves, animated a little conversation between Hilary and Bianca on the Tuesday following the night when Mr. Stone sat on his bed to watch the rising moon.
Quietly Bianca said: “I think I shall be going away for a time.”
“Wouldn’t you rather that I went instead?” “You are wanted; I am not.”
That ice-cold, ice-clear remark contained the pith of the whole matter; and Hilary said:
“You are not going at once?”
“At the end of the week, I think.”
Noting his eyes fixed on her, she added:
“Yes; we’re neither of us looking quite our best.”
“I am sorry.”
“I know you are.”
This had been all. It had been sufficient to bring Hilary once more face to face with the situation.
Its constituent elements remained the same; relative values had much changed. The temptations of St. Anthony were becoming more poignant every hour. He had no “principles” to pit against them: he had merely the inveterate distaste for hurting anybody, and a feeling that if he yielded to his inclination he would be faced ultimately with a worse situation than ever. It was not possible for him to look at the position as Mr. Purcey might have done, if his wife had withdrawn from him and a girl had put herself in his way. Neither hesitation because of the defenceless position of the girl, nor hesitation because of his own future with her, would have troubled Mr. Purcey. He – good man – in his straightforward way, would have only thought about the present – not, indeed, intending to have a future with a young person of that class. Consideration for a wife who had withdrawn from the society of Mr. Purcey would also naturally have been absent from the equation. That Hilary worried over all these questions was the mark of his ‘fin de sieclism.’ And in the meantime the facts demanded a decision.
He had not spoken to this girl since the day of the baby’s funeral, but in that long look from the garden he had in effect said: ‘You are drawing me to the only sort of union possible to us!’ And she in effect had answered: ‘Do what you like with me!’
There were other facts, too, to be reckoned with. Hughs would be released to-morrow; the little model would not stop her visits unless forced to; Mr. Stone could not well do without her; Bianca had in effect declared that she was being driven out of her own house. It was this situation which Hilary, seated beneath the bust of Socrates, turned over and over in his mind. Long and painful reflection brought him back continually to the thought that he himself, and not Bianca, had better go away. He was extremely bitter and contemptuous towards himself that he had not done so long ago. He made use of the names Martin had given him. “Hamlet,” “Amateur,” “Invertebrate.” They gave him, unfortunately, little comfort.
In the afternoon he received a visit. Mr. Stone came in with his osier fruit-bag in his hand. He remained standing, and spoke at once.
“Is my daughter happy?”
At this unexpected question Hilary walked over to the fireplace.
“No,” he said at last; “I am afraid she is not.”
“Why?”
Hilary was silent; then, facing the old man, he said:
“I think she will be glad, for certain reasons, if I go away for a time.”
“When are you going?” asked Mr. Stone.
“As soon as I can.”
Mr. Stone’s eyes, wistfully bright, seemed trying to see through heavy fog.
“She came to me, I think,” he said; “I seem to recollect her crying. You are good to her?”
“I have tried to be,” said Hilary.
Mr. Stone’s face was discoloured by a flush. “You have no children,” he said painfully; “do you live together?”
Hilary shook his head.
“You are estranged?” said Mr. Stone.
Hilary bowed. There was a long silence. Mr. Stone’s eyes had travelled to the window.
“Without love there cannot be life,” he said at last; and fixing his wistful gaze on Hilary, asked: “Does she love another?”
Again Hilary shook his head.
When Mr. Stone next spoke it was clearly to himself.
“I do not know why I am glad. Do you love another?”
At this question Hilary’s eyebrows settled in a frown. “What do you mean by love?” he said.
Mr. Stone did not reply; it was evident that he was reflecting deeply. His lips began to move: “By love I mean the forgetfulness of self. Unions are frequent in which only the sexual instincts, or the remembrance of self, are roused – ”
“That is true,” muttered Hilary.
Mr. Stone looked up; painful traces of confusion showed in his face.
“We were discussing something.”
“I was telling you,” said Hilary, “that it would be better for your daughter – if I go away for a time.”
“Yes,” said Mr. Stone; “you are estranged.”
Hilary went back to his stand before the empty fireplace.
“There is one thing, sir,” he said, “on my conscience to say before I go, and I must leave it to you to decide. The little girl who comes to you no longer lives where she used to live.”
“In that street…” said Mr. Stone.
Hilary went on quickly. “She was obliged to leave because the husband of the woman with whom she used to lodge became infatuated with her. He has been in prison, and comes out tomorrow. If she continues to come here he will, of course, be able to find her. I’m afraid he will pursue her again. Have I made it clear to you?”
“No,” said Mr. Stone.
“The man,” resumed Hilary patiently, “is a poor, violent creature, who has been wounded in the head; he is not quite responsible. He may do the girl an injury.”
“What injury?”
“He has stabbed his wife already.”
“I will speak to him,” said Mr. Stone.
Hilary smiled. “I am afraid that words will hardly meet the case. She ought to disappear.”
There was silence.
“My book!” said Mr. Stone.
It smote Hilary to see how white his face had become. ‘It’s better,’ he thought, ‘to bring his will-power into play; she will never come here, anyway, after I’m gone.’
But, unable to bear the tragedy in the old man’s eyes, he touched him on the arm.
“Perhaps she will take the risk, sir, if you ask her.”
Mr. Stone did not answer, and, not knowing what more to say, Hilary went back to the window. Miranda was slumbering lightly out there in the speckled shade, where it was not too warm and not too cold, her cheek resting on her paw and white teeth showing.
Mr. Stone’s voice rose again. “You are right; I cannot ask her to run a risk like that!”
“She is just coming up the garden,” Hilary said huskily. “Shall I tell her to come in?”
“Yes,” said Mr. Stone.
Hilary beckoned.
The girl came in, carrying a tiny bunch of lilies of the valley; her face fell at sight of Mr. Stone; she stood still, raising the lilies to her breast. Nothing could have been more striking than the change from her look of guttered expectancy to a sort of hard dismay. A spot of red came into both her cheeks. She gazed from Mr. Stone to Hilary and back again. Both were staring at her. No one spoke. The little model’s bosom began heaving as though she had been running; she said faintly: “Look; I brought you this, Mr. Stone!” and held out to him the bunch of lilies. But Mr. Stone made no sign. “Don’t you like them?”
Mr. Stone’s eyes remained fastened on her face.
To Hilary this suspense was, evidently, most distressing. “Come, will you tell her, sir,” he said, “or shall I?”
Mr. Stone spoke.
“I shall try and write my book without you. You must not run this risk. I cannot allow it.”
The little model turned her eyes from side to side. “But I like to copy out your book,” she said.
“The man will injure you,” said Mr. Stone.
The little model looked at Hilary.
“I don’t care if he does; I’m not afraid of him. I can look after myself; I’m used to it.”
“I am going away,” said Hilary quietly.
After a desperate look, that seemed to ask, ‘Am I going, too?’ the little model stood as though frozen.
Wishing to end the painful scene, Hilary went up to Mr. Stone.
“Do you want to dictate to her this afternoon, sir?”
“No,” said Mr. Stone.
“Nor to-morrow?”
“Will you come a little walk with me?”
Mr. Stone bowed.
Hilary turned to the little model. “It is goodbye, then,” he said.
She did not take his hand. Her eyes, turned sideways, glinted; her teeth were fastened on her lower lip. She dropped the lilies, suddenly looked up at him, gulped, and slunk away. In passing she had smeared the lilies with her foot.
Hilary picked up the fragments of the flowers, and dropped them into the grate. The fragrance of the bruised blossoms remained clinging to the air.
“Shall we get ready for our walk?” he said.
Mr. Stone moved feebly to the door, and very soon they were walking silently towards the Gardens.
CHAPTER XXXIV
THYME’S ADVENTURE
This same afternoon Thyme, wheeling a bicycle and carrying a light valise, was slipping into a back street out of the Old Square. Putting her burden down at the pavement’s edge, she blew a whistle. A hansom-cab appeared, and a man in ragged clothes, who seemed to spring out of the pavement, took hold of her valise. His lean, unshaven face was full of wolfish misery.
“Get off with you!” the cabman said.
“Let him do it!” murmured Thyme.
The cab-runner hoisted up the trunk, then waited motionless beside the cab.
Thyme handed him two coppers. He looked at them in silence, and went away.
‘Poor man,’ she thought; ‘that’s one of the things we’ve got to do away with!’
The cab now proceeded in the direction of the Park, Thyme following on her bicycle, and trying to stare about her calmly.
‘This,’ she thought, ‘is the end of the old life. I won’t be romantic, and imagine I’m doing anything special; I must take it all as a matter of course.’ She thought of Mr. Purcey’s face – ‘that person!’ – if he could have seen her at this moment turning her back on comfort. ‘The moment I get there,’ she mused, ‘I shall let mother know; she can come out to-morrow, and see for herself. I can’t have hysterics about my disappearance, and all that. They must get used to the idea that I mean to be in touch with things. I can’t be stopped by what anybody thinks!’
An approaching motor-car brought a startled frown across her brow. Was it ‘that person’? But though it was not Mr. Purcey and his A.i. Damyer, it was somebody so like him as made no difference. Thyme uttered a little laugh.
In the Park a cool light danced and glittered on the trees and water, and the same cool, dancing glitter seemed lighting the girl’s eyes.
The cabman, unseen, took an admiring look at her. ‘Nice little bit, this!’ it said.
‘Grandfather bathes here,’ thought Thyme. ‘Poor darling! I pity everyone that’s old.’
The cab passed on under the shade of trees out into the road.
‘I wonder if we have only one self in us,’ thought Thyme. ‘I sometimes feel that I have two – Uncle Hilary would understand what I mean. The pavements are beginning to smell horrid already, and it’s only June to-morrow. Will mother feel my going very much? How glorious if one didn’t feel!’
The cab turned into a narrow street of little shops.
‘It must be dreadful to have to serve in a small shop. What millions of people there are in the world! Can anything be of any use? Martin says what matters is to do one’s job; but what is one’s job?’
The cab emerged into a broad, quiet square.
‘But I’m not going to think of anything,’ thought Thyme; ‘that’s fatal. Suppose father stops my allowance; I should have to earn my living as a typist, or something of that sort; but he won’t, when he sees I mean it. Besides, mother wouldn’t let him.’
The cab entered the Euston Road, and again the cabman’s broad face was turned towards Thyme with an inquiring stare.
‘What a hateful road!’ Thyme thought. ‘What dull, ugly, common-looking faces all the people seem to have in London! as if they didn’t care for anything but just to get through their day somehow. I’ve only seen two really pretty faces!’
The cab stopped before a small tobacconist’s on the south side of the road.
‘Have I got to live here?’ thought Thyme.
Through the open door a narrow passage led to a narrow staircase covered with oilcloth. She raised her bicycle and wheeled it in. A Jewish-looking youth emerging from the shop accosted her.
“Your gentleman friend says you are to stay in your rooms, please, until he comes.”
His warm red-brown eyes dwelt on her lovingly. “Shall I take your luggage up, miss?”
“Thank you; I can manage.”
“It’s the first floor,” said the young man.
The little rooms which Thyme entered were stuffy, clean, and neat. Putting her trunk down in her bedroom, which looked out on a bare yard, she went into the sitting-room and threw the window up. Down below the cabman and tobacconist were engaged in conversation. Thyme caught the expression on their faces – a sort of leering curiosity.
‘How disgusting and horrible men are!’ she thought, moodily staring at the traffic. All seemed so grim, so inextricable, and vast, out there in the grey heat and hurry, as though some monstrous devil were sporting with a monstrous ant-heap. The reek of petrol and of dung rose to her nostrils. It was so terribly big and hopeless; it was so ugly! ‘I shall never do anything,’ thought Thyme-'never – never! Why doesn’t Martin come?’
She went into her bedroom and opened her valise. With the scent of lavender that came from it, there sprang up a vision of her white bedroom at home, and the trees of the green garden and the blackbirds on the grass.
The sound of footsteps on the stairs brought her back into the sitting-room. Martin was standing in the doorway.
Thyme ran towards him, but stopped abruptly. “I’ve come, you see. What made you choose this place?”
“I’m next door but two; and there’s a girl here – one of us. She’ll show you the ropes.”
“Is she a lady?”
Martin raised his shoulders. “She is what is called a lady,” he said; “but she’s the right sort, all the same. Nothing will stop her.”
At this proclamation of supreme virtue, the look on Thyme’s face was very queer. ‘You don’t trust me,’ it seemed to say, ‘and you trust that girl. You put me here for her to watch over me!..’
“I ‘want to send this telegram,” she said
Martin read the telegram. “You oughtn’t to have funked telling your mother what you meant to do.”
Thyme crimsoned. “I’m not cold-blooded, like you.”
“This is a big matter,” said Martin. “I told you that you had no business to come at all if you couldn’t look it squarely in the face.”
“If you want me to stay you had better be more decent to me, Martin.”
“It must be your own affair,” said Martin.
Thyme stood at the window, biting her lips to keep the tears back from her eyes. A very pleasant voice behind her said: “I do think it’s so splendid of you to come!”
A girl in grey was standing there – thin, delicate, rather plain, with a nose ever so little to one side, lips faintly smiling, and large, shining, greenish eyes.
“I am Mary Daunt. I live above you. Have you had some tea?”
In the gentle question of this girl with the faintly smiling lips and shining eyes Thyme fancied that she detected mockery.
“Yes, thanks. I want to be shown what my work’s to be, at once, please.”
The grey girl looked at Martin.
“Oh! Won’t to-morrow do for all that sort of thing? I’m sure you must be tired. Mr. Stone, do make her rest!”
Martin’s glance seemed to say: ‘Please leave your femininities!’
“If you mean business, your work will be the same as hers,” he said; “you’re not qualified. All you can do will be visiting, noting the state of the houses and the condition of the children.”
The girl in grey said gently: “You see, we only deal with sanitation and the children. It seems hard on the grown people and the old to leave them out; but there’s sure to be so much less money than we want, so that it must all go towards the future.”
There was a silence. The girl with the shining eyes added softly: “1950!”
“1950!” repeated Martin. It seemed to be some formula of faith.
“I must send this telegram!” muttered Thyme.
Martin took it from her and went out.
Left alone in the little room, the two girls did not at first speak. The girl in grey was watching Thyme half timidly, as if she could not tell what to make of this young creature who looked so charming, and kept shooting such distrustful glances.
“I think it’s so awfully sweet of you to come,” she said at last. “I know what a good time you have at home; your cousin’s often told me. Don’t you think he’s splendid?”
To that question Thyme made no answer.
“Isn’t this work horrid,” she said – “prying into people’s houses?”
The grey girl smiled. “It is rather awful sometimes. I’ve been at it six months now. You get used to it. I’ve had all the worst things said to me by now, I should think.”
Thyme shuddered.
“You see,” said the grey girl’s faintly smiling lips, “you soon get the feeling of having to go through with it. We all realise it’s got to be done, of course. Your cousin’s one of the best of us; nothing seems to put him out. He has such a nice sort of scornful kindness. I’d rather work with him than anyone.”
She looked past her new associate into that world outside, where the sky seemed all wires and yellow heat-dust. She did not notice Thyme appraising her from head to foot, with a stare hostile and jealous, but pathetic, too, as though confessing that this girl was her superior.
“I’m sure I can’t do that work!” she said suddenly.
The grey girl smiled. “Oh, I thought that at first.” Then, with an admiring look: “But I do think it’s rather a shame for you, you’re so pretty. Perhaps they’d put you on to tabulation work, though that’s awfully dull. We’ll ask your cousin.”
“No; I’ll do the whole or nothing.”
“Well,” said the grey girl, “I’ve got one house left to-day. Would you like to come and see the sort of thing?”
She took a small notebook from a side pocket in her skirt.
“I can’t get on without a pocket. You must have something that you can’t leave behind. I left four little bags and two dozen handkerchiefs in five weeks before I came back to pockets. It’s rather a horrid house, I’m afraid!”
“I shall be all right,” said Thyme shortly.
In the shop doorway the young tobacconist was taking the evening air. He greeted them with his polite but constitutionally leering smile.
“Good-evening, mith,” he said; “nithe evening!”
“He’s rather an awful little man,” the grey girl said when they had achieved the crossing of the street; “but he’s got quite a nice sense of humour.”
“Ah!” said Thyme.
They had turned into a by-street, and stopped before a house which had obviously seen better days. Its windows were cracked, its doors unpainted, and down in the basement could be seen a pile of rags, an evil-looking man seated by it, and a blazing fire. Thyme felt a little gulping sensation. There was a putrid scent as of burning refuse. She looked at her companion. The grey girl was consulting her notebook, with a faint smile on her lips. And in Thyme’s heart rose a feeling almost of hatred for this girl, who was so business-like in the presence of such sights and scents.
The door was opened by a young red-faced woman, who looked as if she had been asleep.
The grey girl screwed up her shining eyes. “Oh, do you mind if we come in a minute?” she said. “It would be so good of you. We’re making a report.”
“There’s nothing to report here,” the young woman answered. But the grey girl had slipped as gently past as though she had been the very spirit of adventure.
“Of course, I see that, but just as a matter of form, you know.”
“I’ve parted with most of my things,” the young woman said defensively, “since my husband died. It’s a hard life.”
“Yes, yes, but not worse than mine – always poking my nose into other people’s houses.”
The young woman was silent, evidently surprised.
“The landlord ought to keep you in better repair,” said the grey girl. “He owns next door, too, doesn’t he?”
The young woman nodded. “He’s a bad landlord. All down the street ‘ere it’s the same. Can’t get nothing done.”
The grey girl had gone over to a dirty bassinette where a half-naked child sprawled. An ugly little girl with fat red cheeks was sitting on a stool beside it, close to an open locker wherein could be seen a number of old meat bones.’
“Your chickabiddies?” said the grey girl. “Aren’t they sweet?”
The young woman’s face became illumined by a smile.
“They’re healthy,” she said.
“That’s more than can be said for all the children in the house, I expect,” murmured the grey girl.
The young woman replied emphatically, as though voicing an old grievance: “The three on the first floor’s not so bad, but I don’t let ‘em ‘ave anything to do with that lot at the top.”
Thyme saw her new friend’s hand hover over the child’s head like some pale dove. In answer to that gesture, the mother nodded. “Just that; you’ve got to clean ‘em every time they go near them children at the top.”
The grey girl looked at Thyme. ‘That’s where we’ve got to go, evidently,’ she seemed to say.
“A dirty lot!” muttered the young woman.
“It’s very hard on you.”
“It is. I’m workin’ at the laundry all day when I can get it. I can’t look after the children – they get everywhere.”
“Very hard,” murmured the grey girl. “I’ll make a note of that.”
Together with the little book, in which she was writing furiously, she had pulled out her handkerchief, and the sight of this handkerchief reposing on the floor gave Thyme a queer satisfaction, such as comes when one remarks in superior people the absence of a virtue existing in oneself.
“Well, we mustn’t keep you, Mrs. – Mrs. – ?”
“Cleary.”
“Cleary. How old’s this little one? Four? And the other? Two? They are ducks. Good-bye!”
In the corridor outside the grey girl whispered: “I do like the way we all pride ourselves on being better than someone else. I think it’s so hopeful and jolly. Shall we go up and see the abyss at the top?”