His eye could not blaze like hers, but all his self-respect depended on his valour now, and with desperation he affronted her. She opened the door wider, and he stepped in, and at once began to wipe his boots on the mat with nervous particularity.
"Frightful morning!" he grinned.
"Yes," she said. "Is that your cab outside?"
He admitted that it was.
"Perhaps if we go upstairs," she suggested.
Thanking her, he followed her upwards into the gloom at the head of the narrow stairs, and then along a narrow pa.s.sage. The house appeared quite as unfavourably by day as by night. It was shabby. All its tints had merged by use and by time into one tint, nondescript and unpleasant, in which yellow prospered. The drawing-room was larger than the dining-room by the poor width of the hall. It was a heaped, confused ma.s.s of chairs, sofas, small tables, draperies, embroideries, and valueless knick-knacks. There was no peace in it for the eye, neither on the walls nor on the floor. The gaze was driven from one ugliness to another without rest.
The fireplace was draped; the door was draped; the back of the piano was draped; and none of the dark suspicious stuffs showed a clear pattern.
The faded chairs were hidden by faded antimaca.s.sars; the little futile tables concealed their rickets under vague needlework, on which were displayed in straw or tinsel frames pale portraits of dowdy people who had stood like sheep before fifteenth-rate photographers. The mantelpiece and the top of the piano were thickly strewn with fragments of coloured earthenware. At the windows hung heavy dark curtains from great rings that gleamed gilt near the ceiling; and lest the light which they admitted should be too powerful it was further screened by greyish white curtains within them. The carpet was covered in most places by small rugs or bits of other carpets, and in the deep shadows beneath sofas and chairs and behind the piano it seemed to slip altogether out of existence into black nothingness. The room lacked ventilation, but had the appearance of having been recently dusted.
THREE.
Hilda closed the draped door with a mysterious, bitter, cynical smile.
"Sit down," she said coldly.
"Last night," Edwin began, without sitting down, "when you mentioned the broker"s man, were you joking, or did you mean it?"
She was taken aback.
"Did I say "broker"s man"?"
"Well," said Edwin, "you"ve not forgotten, I suppose."
She sat down, with some precision of pose, on the princ.i.p.al sofa.
"Yes," she said at length. "As you"re so curious. The landlords are in possession."
"The bailiffs still here?"
"Yes."
"But what are you going to do?"
"I"m expecting them to take the furniture away to-morrow, or Tuesday at the latest," she replied.
"And then what?"
"I don"t know."
"But haven"t you got any money?"
She took a purse from her pocket, and opened it with a show of impartial curiosity. "Two-and-seven," she said.
"Any servant in the house?"
"What do you think?" she replied. "Didn"t you see me cleaning the door-plate last night? I do like that to look nice at any rate!"
"I don"t see much use in that looking nice, when you"ve got the bailiffs in, and no servant and no money," Edwin said roughly, and added, still more roughly: "What should you do if anyone came inquiring for rooms?"
He tried to guess her real mood, but her features would betray nothing.
"I was expecting three old ladies--sisters--next week," she said. "I"d been hoping I could hold out till they came. They"re horrid women, though they don"t know it; but they"ve stayed a couple of months in this house every winter for I don"t know how many years, and they"re firmly convinced it"s the best house in Brighton. They"re quite enough to keep it going by themselves when they"re here. But I shall have to write and tell them not to come this time."
"Yes," said Edwin. "But I keep asking you--what then?"
"And I keep saying I don"t know."
"You must have some plans?"
"I haven"t." She put her lips together, and dimpled her chin, and again cynically smiled. At any rate she had not resented his inquisition.
"I suppose you know you"re behaving like a perfect fool?" he suggested angrily. She did not wince.
"And what if I am? What"s that got to do with you?" she asked, as if pleasantly puzzled.
"You"ll starve. You can"t live for ever on two-and-seven."
"Well?"
"And the boy? Is he going to starve?"
"Oh," said Hilda, "Janet will look after him till something turns up.
The fact is, that"s one reason why I allowed her to take him."
""Something turns up," "something turns up!"" Edwin repeated deliberately, letting himself go. "You make me absolutely sick! It"s absolutely incredible how some people will let things slide! What in the name of G.o.d Almighty do you think will turn up?"
"I don"t know," she said, with a certain weakness, still trying to be placidly bitter, and not now succeeding.
"Where is the bailiff-johnny?"
"He"s in the kitchen with one of his friends, drinking."
Edwin with bravado flopped his hat down forcefully on a table, pushed a chair aside, and strode towards the door.
"Where are you going?" she asked in alarm, standing up.
"Where do you suppose I"m going? I"m going to find out from that chap how much will settle it. If you can"t show any common sense for yourself, other folks must show some for you--that"s all. The brokers in the house! I never heard of such work!"
And indeed, to a respected and successful tradesman, the entrance of the bailiffs into a house did really seem to be the very depth of disaster and shame for the people of that house. Edwin could not remember that he had ever before seen a bailiff. To him a bailiff was like a bug-- something heard of, something known to exist, but something not likely to enter the field of vision of an honest and circ.u.mspect man.
He would deal with the bailiff. He would have a short way with the bailiff. Secure in the confidence of his bankers, he was ready to bully the innocent bailiff. He would not reflect, would not pause. He had heated himself. His steam was up, and he would not let the pressure be weakened by argumentative hesitations. His emotion was not disagreeable.