She went to bed. It made her feel sharp that she could not get at him.
The next day, she was just as usual. But at eleven o'clock she took her purse and went up town. Trade was very slack. Men stood about in gangs, men were playing marbles everywhere in the streets. It was a sunny morning. Mrs. Radford went into the furnisher-and-upholsterer's shop.
"There's a few things," she said to Mr. Allcock, "as I'm wantin' for the house, and I might as well get them now, while the men's at home, and can shift me the furniture."
She put her fat purse on to the counter with a click. The man should know she was not wanting "strap". She bought linoleum for the kitchen, a new wringer, a breakfast-service, a spring mattress, and various other things, keeping a mere thirty shillings, which she tied in a corner of her handkerchief. In her purse was some loose silver.
Her husband was gardening in a desultory fashion when she got back home. The daffodils were out. The colts in the field at the end of the garden were tossing their velvety brown necks.
"Sithee here, missis," called Radford, from the shed which stood halfway down the path. Two doves in a cage were cooing.
"What have you got?" asked the woman, as she approached. He held out to her in his big, earthy hand a tortoise. The reptile was very, very slowly issuing its head again to the warmth.
"He's wakkened up betimes," said Radford.
"He's like th' men, wakened up for a holiday," said the wife. Radford scratched the little beast's scaly head.
"We pleased to see him out," he said.
They had just finished dinner, when a man knocked at the door.
"From Allcock's!" he said.
The plump woman took up the clothes-basket containing the crockery she had bought.
"Whativer hast got theer?" asked her husband.
"We've been wantin' some breakfast-cups for ages, so I went up town an' got 'em this mornin'," she replied.
He watched her taking out the crockery.
"Hm!" he said. "Tha's been on th' spend, seemly."
Again there was a thud at the door. The man had put down a roll of linoleum. Mr. Radford went to look at it.
"They come rolling in!" he exclaimed.
"Who's grumbled more than you about the raggy oilcloth of this kitchen?" said the insidious, cat-like voice of the wife.
"It's all right, it's all right," said Radford.
The carter came up the entry with another roll, which he deposited with a grunt at the door.
"An' how much do you reckon this lot is?" he asked.
"Oh, they're all paid for, don't worry," replied the wife.
"Shall yer gi'e me a hand, mester?" asked the carter.
Radford followed him down the entry, in his easy, slouching way. His wife went after. His waistcoat was hanging loose over his shirt. She watched his easy movement of well-being as she followed him, and she laughed to herself.
The carter took hold of one end of the wire mattress, dragged it forth.
"Well, this is a corker!" said Radford, as he received the burden.
"Now the mangle!" said the carter.
"What dost reckon tha's been up to, missis?" asked the husband.
"I said to myself last wash-day, if I had to turn that mangle again, tha'd ha'e ter wash the clothes thyself."
Radford followed the carter down the entry again. In the street, women were standing watching, and dozens of men were lounging round the cart. One officiously helped with the wringer.
"Gi'e him thrippence," said Mrs. Radford.
"Gi'e him thysen," replied her husband.
"I've no change under half a crown."
Radford tipped the carter, and returned indoors. He surveyed the array of crockery, linoleum, mattress, mangle, and other goods crowding the house and the yard.
"Well, this is a winder!" he repeated.
"We stood in need of 'em enough," she replied.
"I hope tha's got plenty more from wheer they came from," he replied dangerously.
"That's just what I haven't." She opened her purse. "Two half-crowns, that's every copper I've got i' th' world."
He stood very still as he looked.
"It's right," she said.
There was a certain smug sense of satisfaction about her. A wave of anger came over him, blinding him. But he waited and waited. Suddenly his arm leapt up, the fist clenched, and his eyes blazed at her. She shrank away, pale and frightened. But he dropped his fist to his side, turned, and went out, muttering. He went down to the shed that stood in the middle of the garden. There he picked up the tortoise, and stood with bent head, rubbing its horny head.
She stood hesitating, watching him. Her heart was heavy, and yet there was a curious, cat-like look of satisfaction round her eyes. Then she went indoors and gazed at her new cups, admiringly.
The next week he handed her his half-sovereign without a word.
"You'll want some for yourself," she said, and she gave him a shilling. He accepted it.
RAWDON'S ROOF
Rawdon was the sort of man who said, privately, to his men friends, over a glass of wine after dinner: "No woman shall sleep again under my roof!"
He said it with pride, rather vaunting, pursing his lips. "Even my housekeeper goes home to sleep."
But the housekeeper was a gentle old thing of about sixty, so it seemed a little fantastic. Moreover, the man had a wife, of whom he was secretly rather proud, as a piece of fine property, and with whom he kept up a very witty correspondence, epistolary, and whom he treated with humorous gallantry when they occasionally met for half an hour. Also he had a love affair going on. At least, if it wasn't a love affair, what was it? However!
"No, I've come to the determination that no woman shall ever sleep under my roof again--not even a female cat!"
One looked at the roof, and wondered what it had done amiss. Besides, it wasn't his roof. He only rented the house. What does a man mean, anyhow, when he says "my roof"? My roof! The only roof I am conscious of having, myself, is the top of my head. However, he hardly can have meant that no woman should sleep under the elegant dome of his skull. Though there's no telling. You see the top of a sleek head through a window, and you say: "By Jove, what a pretty girl's head!" And after all, when the individual comes out, it's in trousers.
The point, however, is that Rawdon said so emphatically--no, not emphatically, succinctly: "No woman shall ever again sleep under my roof." It was a case of futurity. No doubt he had had his ceilings whitewashed, and their memories put out. Or rather, repainted, for it was a handsome wooden ceiling. Anyhow, if ceilings have eyes, as walls have ears, then Rawdon had given his ceilings a new outlook, with a new coat of paint, and all memory of any woman's having slept under them--for after all, in decent circumstances we sleep under ceilings, not under roofs--was wiped out for ever.
"And will you neither sleep under any woman's roof?"
That pulled him up rather short. He was not prepared to sauce his gander as he had sauced his goose. Even I could see the thought flitting through his mind, that some of his pleasantest holidays depended on the charm of his hostess. Even some of the nicest hotels were run by women.
"Ah! Well! That's not quite the same thing, you know. When one leaves one's own house one gives up the keys of circumstance, so to speak. But, as far as possible, I make it a rule not to sleep under a roof that is openly, and obviously, and obtrusively a woman's roof!"
"Quite!" said I with a shudder. "So do I!"
Now I understood his mysterious love affair less than ever. He was never known to speak of this love affair: he did not even write about it to his wife. The lady--for she was a lady--lived only five minutes' walk from Rawdon. She had a husband, but he was in diplomatic service or something like that, which kept him occupied in the sufficiently-far distance. Yes, far enough. And, as a husband, he was a complete diplomat. A balance of power. If he was entitled to occupy the wide field of the world, she, the other and contrasting power, might concentrate and consolidate her position at
home.
She was a charming woman, too, and even a beautiful woman. She had two charming children, long-legged, stalky, clove-pink-half-opened sort of children. But really charming. And she was a woman with a certain mystery. She never talked. She never said anything about herself. Perhaps she suffered; perhaps she was frightfully happy, and made that her cause for silence. Perhaps she was wise enough even to be beautifully silent about her happiness. Certainly she never mentioned her sufferings, or even her trials: and certainly she must have a fair handful of the latter, for Alec Drummond sometimes fled home in the teeth of a gale of debts. He simply got through his own money and through hers, and, third and fatal stride, through other people's as well. Then something had to be done about it. And Janet, dear soul, had to put her hat on and take journeys. But she never said anything of it. At least, she did just hint that Alec didn't quite make enough money to meet expenses. But after all, we don't go about with our eyes shut, and Alec Drummond, whatever else he did, didn't hide his prowess under a bushel.
Rawdon and he were quite friendly, but really! None of them ever talked. Drummond didn't talk, he just went off and behaved in his own way. And though Rawdon would chat away till the small hours, he never "talked". Not to his nearest male friend did he ever mention Janet save as a very pleasant woman and his neighbour: he admitted he adored her children. They often came to see him.
And one felt about Rawdon, he was making a mystery of something. And that was rather irritating. He went every day to see Janet, and of course we saw him going: going or coming. How can one help but see? But he always went in the morning, at about eleven, and did not stay for lunch: or he went in the afternoon, and came home to dinner. Apparently he was never there in the evening. Poor Janet, she lived like a widow.
Very well, if Rawdon wanted to make it so blatantly obvious that it was only platonic, purely platonic, why wasn't he natural? Why didn't he say simply: "I'm very fond of Janet Drummond, she is my very dear friend?" Why did he sort of curl up at the very mention of her name, and curdle into silence: or else say rather forcedly: "Yes, she is a charming woman. I see a good deal of her, but chiefly for the children's sake. I'm devoted to the children!" Then he would look at one in such a curious way, as if he were hiding something. And after all, what was there to hide? If he was the woman's friend, why not? It could be a charming friendship. And if he were her lover, why, heaven bless me, he ought to have been proud of it, and showed just a glint, just an honest man's glint.
But no, never a glint of pride or pleasure in the relation either way. Instead of that, this rather theatrical reserve. Janet, it is true, was just as reserved. If she could, she avoided mentioning his name. Yet one knew, sure as houses, she felt something. One suspected her of being more in love with Rawdon than ever she had been with Alec. And one felt that there was a hush put upon it all. She had had a hush put upon her. By whom? By both the men? Or by Rawdon only? Or by Drummond? Was it for her husband's sake? Impossible! For her children's? But why! Her children were devoted to Rawdon.
It had now become the custom for them to go to him three times a week, for music. I don't mean he taught them the piano. Rawdon was a very refined musical amateur. He had them sing, in their delicate girlish voices, delicate little songs, and really he succeeded wonderfully with them; he made them so true, which children rarely are, musically, and so pure and effortless, like little flamelets of sound. It really was rather beautiful, and sweet of him. And he taught them music, the delicacy of the feel of it. They had a regular teacher for the practice.
Even the little girls, in their young little ways, were in love with Rawdon! So if their mother were in love too, in her ripened womanhood, why not?
Poor Janet! She was so still, and so elusive: the hush upon her! She was rather like a half-opened rose that somebody had tied a string round, so that it couldn't open any more. But why? Why? In her there was a real touch of mystery. One could never ask her, because one knew her heart was too keenly involved: or her pride.
Whereas there was, really, no mystery about Rawdon, refined and handsome and subtle as he was. He had no mystery: at least, to a man. What he wrapped himself up in was a certain amount of mystification.
Who wouldn't be irritated to hear a fellow saying, when for months and months he has been paying a daily visit to a lonely and very attractive woman--nay, lately even a twice-daily visit, even if always before sundown--to hear him say, pursing his lips after a sip of his own very moderate port: "I've taken a vow that no woman shall sleep under my roof again!"
I almost snapped out: "Oh, what the hell! And what about your Janet?" But I remembered in time, it was not my affair, and if he wanted to have his mystifications, let him have them.
If he meant he wouldn't have his wife sleep under his roof again, that one could understand. They were really very witty with one another, he and she, but fatally and damnably married.
Yet neither wanted a divorce. And neither put the slightest claim to any control over the other's behaviour. He said: "Women live on the moon, men on the earth." And she said: "I don't mind in the least if he loves Janet Drummond, poor thing. It would be a change for him, from loving himself. And a change for her, if somebody loved her--"
Poor Janet! But he wouldn't have her sleep under his roof, no, not for any money. And apparently he never slept under hers--if she could be said to have one. So what the deuce?
Of course, if they were friends, just friends, all right! But then in that case, why start talking about not having a woman sleep under your roof? Pure mystification!
The cat never came out of the bag. But one evening I distinctly heard it mewing inside its sack, and I even believe I saw a claw through the canvas.
It was in November--everything much as usual--myself pricking my ears to hear if the rain had stopped, and I could go home, because I was just a little bored about "cornemuse" music. I had been having dinner with Rawdon, and listening to him ever since on his favourite topic: not, of course, women, and why they shouldn't sleep under his roof, but fourteenth-century melody and windbag accompaniment.
It was not late--not yet ten o'clock--but I was restless, and wanted to go home. There was no longer any sound of rain. And Rawdon was perhaps going to make a pause in his monologue.
Suddenly there was a tap at the door, and Rawdon's man, Hawken, edged in. Rawdon, who had been a major in some fantastic capacity during the war, had brought Hawken back with him. This fresh-faced man of about thirty-five appeared in the doorway with an intensely blank and bewildered look on his face. He was really an extraordinarily good actor.
"A lady, sir!" he said, with a look of utter blankness.
"A what?" snapped Rawdon.
"A lady!"--then with a most discreet drop in his voice: "Mrs. Drummond, sir!" He looked modestly down at his feet.
Rawdon went deathly white, and his lips quivered.
"Mrs. Drummond! Where?"
Hawken lifted his eyes to his master in a fleeting glance.
"I showed her into the dining-room, there being no fire in the drawing-room."
Rawdon got to his feet and took two or three agitated strides. He could not make up his mind. At last he said, his lips working with agitation:
"Bring her in here."
Then he turned with a theatrical gesture to me.
"What this is all about, I don't know," he said.
"Let me clear out," said I, making for the door.
He caught me by the arm.
"No, for God's sake! For God's sake, stop and see me through!"
He gripped my arm till it really hurt, and his eyes were quite wild. I did not know my Olympic Rawdon.
Hastily I backed away to the side of the fire--we were in Rawdon's room, where the books and piano were--and Mrs. Drummond appeared in the doorway. She was much paler than usual, being a rather warm-coloured woman, and she glanced at me with big reproachful eyes, as much as to say: You intruder! You interloper! For my part, I could do nothing but stare. She wore a black wrap, whic
h I knew quite well, over her black dinner-dress.
"Rawdon!" she said, turning to him and blotting out my existence from her consciousness. Hawken softly closed the door, and I could feel him standing on the threshold outside, listening keen as a hawk.
"Sit down, Janet," said Rawdon, with a grimace of a sour smile, which he could not get rid of once he had started it, so that his face looked very odd indeed, like a mask which he was unable either to fit on or take off. He had several conflicting expressions all at once, and they had all stuck.
She let her wrap slip back on her shoulders, and knitted her white fingers against her skirt, pressing down her arms, and gazing at him with a terrible gaze. I began to creep to the door.
Rawdon started after me.
"No, don't go! Don't go! I specially want you not to go," he said in extreme agitation.
I looked at her. She was looking at him with a heavy, sombre kind of stare. Me she absolutely ignored. Not for a second could she forgive me for existing on the earth. I slunk back to my post behind the leather armchair, as if hiding.
"Do sit down, Janet," he said to her again. "And have a smoke. What will you drink?"
"Nothanks!" she said, as if it were one word slurred out. "Nothanks."
And she proceeded again to fix him with that heavy, portentous stare.
He offered her a cigarette, his hand trembling as he held out the silver box.
"Nothanks!" she slurred out again, not even looking at the box, but keeping him fixed with that dark and heavy stare.
He turned away, making a great delay lighting a cigarette, with his back to her, to get out of the stream of that stare. He carefully went for an ash-tray, and put it carefully within reach--all the time trying not to be swept away on that stare. And she stood with her fingers locked, her straight, plump, handsome arms pressed downwards against her skirt, and she gazed at him.
He leaned his elbow on the mantelpiece abstractedly for a moment--then he started suddenly, and rang the bell. She turned her eyes from him for a moment, to watch his middle finger pressing the bell-button. Then there was a tension of waiting, an interruption in the previous tension. We waited. Nobody came. Rawdon rang again.
Collected Short Stories Page 4