‘You see, sir,’ the straight-aproned old man had retorted with equal confidentiality, ‘it is not so much the alterations. They are what you might call un-cir-cum-ventible, sir. It’s the stream, sir. Behind the counter here, we are like rocks in it. But even if I can’t for the moment put a thought to your face – though it’s already stirring in me in a manner of speaking, I shall in the future, sir. You may rely upon that. And the same, sir, to you; and many of them, I’m sure.’
Somehow or other Jimmie’s vanity had been mollified by this pleasing little ceremoniousness; and that even before he had smiled yet once again at the saffron young lady in the Pay Box.
‘The truth is, my dear,’ he had assured himself, as he once more ascended into the dingy porch, ‘the truth is when once you begin to tamper, you won’t know where you are. You won’t, really.’
And that night he had lain soberly on, in a peculiar state of physical quiescence and self-satisfaction, his dark bright eyes wandering from nymph to nymph, his hands folded over his breast under the bedclothes, his heart persisting in its usual habits. Nevertheless, the fountain of his thoughts had continued softly to plash on its worn basin. With ears a-cock, he had frankly enjoyed inhaling the parched, spent, brilliant air.
And when his fingers had at last manifested the faintest possible itch to experiment once more with the bell-pull, he had slipped out of bed, and hastily searching through a little privy case of his uncle’s bedside books, had presently slipped back again, armed with a fat little copy of The Mysteries of Paris, in its original French.
The next day a horrible lassitude descended upon him. For the better part of an hour he had stood staring out of the drawing-room window into the London street. At last, with a yawn that was almost a groan, and with an absurdly disproportionate effort, he turned himself about. Heavily hung the gilded chandeliers in the long vista of the room; heavily gloomed the gilded furniture. Scarcely distinguishable in the obscurity of the further wall stood watching him from a mirror what might have appeared to be the shadowy reflection of himself. With a still, yet extreme aversion he kept his eyes fixed on this distant nonentity, hardly realizing his own fantastic resolve that if he did catch the least, faint independent movement there, he would give Soames Junior a caustic piece of his mind …
He must have been abominably fast asleep for hours when, a night or two afterwards, he had suddenly awakened, sweat streaming along his body, his mouth stretched to a long narrow O, and his right hand clutching the bell-rope, as might a drowning man at a straw.
The room was adrowse with light. All was still. The flitting horrors between dream and wake in his mind were already thinning into air. Through their transparency he looked out once more on the substantial, the familiar. His breath came heavily, like puffs of wind over a stormy sea, and yet a profound peace and tranquillity was swathing him in. The relaxed mouth was now faintly smiling. Not a sound, not the feeblest, distant unintended tinkling was trembling up from the abyss. And for a moment or two the young man refrained even from turning his head at the soundless opening and closing of the door.
He lay fully conscious that he was not alone; that quiet eyes had him steadily in regard. But, like rats, his wits were beginning to busy themselves again. Sheer relief from the terrors of sleep, shame of his extremity and weakness, a festering sense of humiliation – yes, he must save his face at all costs. He must put this preposterous spying valet in his place. Oddly enough, too, out of the deeps a peculiar little vision of recollection had inexplicably obtruded itself into consciousness. It would be a witticism of the first water.
‘They are dreadfully out of season, you know,’ he began murmuring affectedly into the hush, ‘dreadfully. But what I’m really pining for is a bunch of primroses … A primrose by the river’s brim … must be a little conservative.’ His voice was once more trailing off into a maudlin drowsiness. With an effort he roused himself, and now with an extremely sharp twist of his head, he turned to confront his visitor.
But the room was already vacant, the door ajar, and Jimmie’s lids were on the point of closing again, sliding down over his tired eyes like leaden shutters which no power on earth could hinder or restrain, when at the faintest far whisper of sound they swept back suddenly – and almost incredibly wide – to drink in all they could of the spectacle of a small odd-looking child who at that moment had embodied herself in the doorway.
She seemed to have not the least intention of returning the compliment. Her whole gaze, from out of her fair flaxen-pigtailed face, was fixed on the coarse blue-banded kitchen bowl which she was carrying with extreme care and caution in her two narrow hands. The idiots down below had evidently filled it too full of water, for the pale wide-petalled flowers and thick crinkled leaves it contained were floating buoyantly nid-nod to and fro as she moved – pushing on each slippered foot in turn in front of the other, her whole mind concentrated on her task.
A plain child, but extraordinarily fair, as fair as the primroses themselves in the congregation of candle-light that motionlessly flooded the room – a narrow-chested long-chinned little creature who had evidently outgrown her strength. Jimmie was well accustomed to take things as they come; and his brief sojourn in his uncle’s house in his present state of health had already enlarged the confines of the term ‘thing’. Anyhow, she was a relief from the valet.
He found himself, then, watching this new visitor without the least trace of astonishment or even of surprise. And as his dark eyes coursed over the child, he simply couldn’t decide whether she most closely ‘took after’ Soames Junior or Mrs Thripps. All he could positively assure himself of was just the look, ‘the family likeness’. And that in itself was a queerish coincidence, since whatever your views might be regarding Soames Junior, Mrs Thripps was real enough – as real, at any rate, as her scrubbing-brush and her wholesome evil-smelling soap.
As a matter of fact, Jimmie was taking a very tight hold of himself. His mind might fancifully be compared to a quiet green swarming valley between steep rock-bound hills in which a violent battle was proceeding – standards and horsemen and smoke and terror and violence – but no sound.
Deep down somewhere he really wanted to be ‘nice’ to the child. She meant no ill; she was a demure far-away harmless-looking creature. Ages ago … On the other hand he wished to heaven they would leave him alone. They were pestering him. He knew perfectly well how far he was gone, and bitterly resented this renewed interference. And if there was one thing he detested, it was being made to look silly – ‘I hope you are trying to be a good little boy? … You have not been talking to the servants?’ That kind of thing.
It was, therefore, with mixed feelings and with a tinge of shame-facedness that he heard his own sneering, toneless voice insinuate itself into the silence; ‘And what, missikins, can I do for you? … What, you will understand; not How?’ The sneer had degenerated into a snarl. The child at this had not perceptibly faltered. Her face had seemed to lengthen a little, but that might have been due solely to her efforts to deliver her bowl without spilling its contents. Indeed she actually succeeded in so doing, almost before Jimmie had time to withdraw abruptly from the little gilt-railed table on which she deposited the clumsy pot. Frock, pigtail, red hands – she seemed to be as ‘real’ a fellow creature as you might wish to see. But Jimmie stared quizzically on. Unfortunately primroses have no scent, so that he could not call on his nose to bear witness to his eyes. And the congested conflict in the green valley was still proceeding.
The child had paused. Her hands hung down now as if they were accustomed to service; and her pale blue eyes were fixed on his face in that exasperating manner which suggests that the owner of them is otherwise engaged. Not that she was looking through him. Even the sharpest of his ‘female friends’ had never been able to boast of that little accomplishment. She was looking into him; and as if he occupied time rather than space. Or was she, sneered that weary inward voice again, was she merely waiting for a tip?
‘Look h
ere,’ said Jimmie, dexterously raising himself to his elbow on the immense lace-fringed pillow, ‘it’s all very well; you have managed things quite admirably, considering your age and the season, and so on. But I didn’t ask for primroses, I asked for violets. That’s a very old trick – very old trick.’
For one further instant, dark and fair, crafty and simpleton face communed, each with each. But the smile on the one had fainted into a profound childlike contemplation. And then, so swift and imperceptible had been his visitant’s envanishment out of the room, that the very space she had occupied seemed to remain for a while outlined in the air – a nebulous shell of vacancy. She must, apparently, have glided backwards through the doorway, for Jimmie had assuredly not been conscious of the remotest glimpse of her pigtail from behind.
Instantly on that, the stony hillside within had resounded with a furious clangour – cries and shouts and screamings – and Jimmie, his face bloodless with rage, his eyes almost blind with it, had leapt out of the great bed as if in murderous pursuit. There must, however, have been an unusual degree or so of fever in his veins that night so swift was his reaction. For the moment he was on his feet an almost unendurable self-pity had swept into possession of him. To take a poor devil as literally as that! To catch him off his guard; not to give him the mere fleck of an opportunity to get his balance, to explain, to answer back! Curse the primroses.
But there was no time to lose.
With one hand clutching his pyjamas, the other carrying the bowl, he poked forward out of the flare of the room into the cold lightlessness of the wide stone staircase.
‘Look here,’ he called down in a low argumentative voice, ‘look here, You! You can cheat and you can cheat, but to half strangle a fellow in his sleep, and then send him up the snuffling caretaker’s daughter – No, No … Next time, you old makebelieve, we’d prefer company a little more – a little more congenial.’
He swayed slightly, grimacing vacantly into the darkness, and listening to his speech as dimly as might a somnambulist to the distant roar of falling water. And then, poor benighted creature, Jimmie tried to spit, but his lips and tongue were dry, and that particular insult was spared him.
He had stooped laboriously, had put down the earthenware bowl on the Persian mat at the head of the staircase, and was self-congratulatorily re-welcoming himself into the scene of still lustre he had dared for that protracted minute to abandon, when he heard as if from beneath and behind him a kind of lolloping disquietude and the sound as of a clumsy-clawed, but persistent animal pushing its uncustomary awkward way up the soap-polished marble staircase.
It was to be tit for tat, then. The miserable ménage had let loose its menagerie. That. They were going to experiment with the mouse-cupboard-and-keyhole trickery of his childhood. Jimmie was violently shivering; his very toes were clinging to the mat on which he stood.
Swaying a little, and casting at the same time a strained whitened glance round the room in which every object rested in the light as if so it had rested from all eternity, he stood mutely and ghastly listening.
Even a large bedroom, five times the size of a small boy’s attic, affords little scope for a fugitive, and shutting your eyes, darkening your outward face, is no escape. It had been a silly boast, he agreed – that challenge, that ‘dare’ on the staircase; the boast of an idiot. For the ‘congenial company’ that had now managed to hoof and scrabble its way up the slippery marble staircase was already on the threshold.
All was utterly silent now. There was no obvious manifestation of danger. What was peering steadily in upon him out of the obscurity beyond the door, was merely a blurred whitish beast-like shape with still, passive, almost stagnant eyes in its immense fixed face. A perfectly ludicrous object – on paper. Yet a creature so nauseous to soul and body, and with so obscene a greed in its motionless piglike grin that with one vertiginous swirl Jimmie’s candles had swept up in his hand like a lateral race of streaming planets into outer darkness.
If his wet groping fingers had not then encountered one of the carved pedestals of his uncle’s bedstead, Jimmie would have fallen; Jimmie would have found, in fact, the thing’s physical level.
Try as he might, he had never in the days that followed made quite clear in his mind why for the third time he had not made a desperate plunging clutch at the bell rope. The thing must have been Soames Junior’s emissary, even if the bird-faced scullery maid with the primroses had not also been one of the ‘staff.’
That he had desisted simply in case she should herself have answered his summons and so have encountered the spurious animal as she mounted the dark staircase seemed literally too ‘good’ to be true. Not only was Jimmie no sentimentalist, but that particular kind of goodness, even in a state of mind perfectly calm and collected, was not one of his pleasanter characteristics.
Yet facts are facts – even comforting ones. And unless his memory was utterly untrustworthy, he had somehow – somehow contrived to regain his physical balance. Candelabrum in hand, he had actually, indeed, at last emerged from the room, and stooped his dark head over the balusters in search of what unaccountably had not awaited his nearer acquaintance. And he had – he must have – flung the substantial little blue-banded slopbasin, primroses and all, clean straight down in the direction of any kind of sentient target that happened to be in its way.
‘You must understand, Mrs Thripps,’ he had afterwards solemnly explained, ‘I don’t care to be disturbed, and particularly at night. All litter should, of course, be immediately cleared away. That’s merely as things go in a well-regulated household, as, in fact, they do go. And I see you have replaced the one or two little specimens I was looking over out of the cabinet on the staircase. Pretty things, too; though you hadn’t the advantage of being in the service of their late owner – my uncle. As I was. Of course, too, breakages cannot be avoided. There, I assure you, you are absolutely free. Moth and rust, Mrs Thripps. No; all that I was merely enquiring about at the moment is that particular pot. There was an accident last night – primroses and so on. And one might have expected, one might almost have sworn, Mrs Thripps, that at least a shard or two, as the Psalmist says, would have been pretty conspicuous even if the water had completely dried away. Not that I heard the smash, mind. I don’t go so far as that. Nor am I making any insinuations whatever. You are the best of good creatures, you are indeed – and it’s no good looking at me like Patience on a monument; because at present life is real and life is earnest. All I mean is that if one for a single moment ceases to guide one’s conduct on reasonable lines – well, one comes a perfectly indescribable cropper, Mrs Thripps. Like the pot.’
Mrs Thripps’s grey untidy head had remained oddly stuck out from her body throughout this harangue. ‘No, sir,’ she repeated once more. ‘High and low I’ve searched the house down, and there isn’t a shadder of what you might be referring to, not a shadder. And once more, I ask you, sir; let me call in Dr Stokes. He’s a very nice gentleman; and one as keeps what should be kept as close to himself as it being his duty he sees right and proper to do. Chasing and racketing of yourself up and down these runs of naked stairs – in the dead of night – is no proper place for you, sir, in your state. And I don’t like to take the responsibility. It’s first the candles, then the bells, and then the kitching, and then the bason; I know what I’m talking about, sir, having lost two, and one at sea.’
‘And suppose, my dear,’ Jimmie had almost as brilliantly as ever smiled; ‘suppose we are all of us “at sea.” What then?’
‘Why then, sir,’ Mrs Thripps had courageously retorted, ‘I’d as lief be at the bottom of it. There’s been as much worry and trouble and making two ends meet in my life not to make the getting out of it what you’d stand on no ceremony for. I say it with all decent respect for what’s respectful and proper, sir; but there isn’t a morning I step down those area steps but my heart’s in my mouth for fear there won’t be anything in the house but what can’t answer back. It’s been a struggle to keep
on, sir; and you as generous a gentleman as need be, if only you’d remain warm and natural in your bed when once there.’
A little inward trickle of laughter had entertained Jimmie as he watched the shapeless patient old mouth utter these last few words.
‘That’s just it, Mrs Thripps,’ he had replied softly. ‘You’ve done for me far more effectively than anyone I care to remember in my insignificant little lifetime. You have indeed.’ Jimmie had even touched the hand bent like the claw of a bird around the broom-handle. ‘In fact, you know – and I’m bound to confess it as gratefully as need be – they are all of them doing for me as fast as they can. I don’t complain, not the least little bit in the world. All that I might be asking is, How the devil – to put it politely – how the goodness gracious is one to tell which is which? In my particular case, it seems to be the miller that sets the wind: not, of course, that he’s got any particular grain to grind. Not even wild oats, you funny old mother of a youthful mariner. No, no, no. Even the fact that there wasn’t perhaps any pot after all, you will understand, doesn’t positively prove that neither could there have been any primroses. And before next January’s four months old we shall be at the end of yet another April. At least —’ and a sort of almost bluish pallor had spread like a shadow over his face – ‘at least you will be. All of which is only to say, dear Madam, as Beaconsfield remarked to Old Vic, that I am thanking you now.’
At which Mrs Thripps immediately fell upon her knees on her housemaid’s pad and plunged her hands into her zinc pail – only instantly after to sit back on her heels, skinny hands on canvas apron. ‘All I says, sir, is, We go as we go; and a nicer gentleman, taking things on the surface, I never worked for. But one don’t want to move too much in the Public Heye, sir. Of all the houses below stairs I’ve worked for and all alone in I don’t want to charnst on a more private in a manner of speaking than this. All that I was saying, sir, and I wouldn’t to none but you, is the life’s getting on my nerves. When that door there closes after me, and every day drawing out steady as you can see without so much as glancing at the clock – I say, to myself, Well, better that pore young gentleman alone up there at night, cough and all, than me. I wouldn’t sleep in this house, sir, not if you was to offer me a plateful of sovereigns … Unless, sir, you wanted me.’
Out of the Deep: And Other Supernatural Tales Page 6