So the crowning achievement of the evening was not, after all, an ingenious compliment paid to the nice Americans in Pollitt Terrace, but a summons such as Isolde, waving her white scarf in the darkness, sent out to Tristan,—though, alas, there was no guarantee that this Tristan would turn his eyes that way.
[4]
The fog thickened again, and Magda, when she was settling Miss Tredennick for the night, suggested that it might be as well to shut both the windows. But Miss Tredennick insisted that one of them should be left a few inches open at the top. However poisonous a fog might be, she never found it so suffocating as the claustrophobic sensation that came over her if she was shut up in a room that had no outlet to the sky.
She went to sleep early, but woke again about midnight and found herself listening to some slow, muffled footsteps in the street. They stopped outside Number Seven. Miss Tredennick forced herself out of bed and went to the window, where she raised the corner of one of the curtains and peeped out. Even the street-lamp was only a pale, brownish smudge and illumined nothing. But though there was nothing to see, there was something to hear,—two murmuring voices, so indistinct at first that it was impossible to give them a sex. Then one of them revealed itself as a woman’s,—that woman’s—and soon became loud enough for Miss Tredennick to catch some of the words. ‘Very sweet of you. . . .’ (The tone was ironical, as the next remark showed.) ‘I wouldn’t ask you in if you were the Duke of Edinburgh. . . . Oh, get the Hell out of here and go back to Lucy. . . . It’s no use telling me. . . . Yes, I’m ever so deeply obliged to you for seeing me home, but that’s quite enough. . . . I’m through with you, I tell you. . . . I hope you fall in the river and get drowned.’ A door slammed, and once more there was the sound of muted footsteps, growing fainter and fainter, as they neared the Crescent.
What a fruitful entry for to-morrow’s Journal! But tomorrow held more than that in store.
VIII
THE SIXTH OF NOVEMBER
On Sundays the inhabitants of Pollitt Place for the most part woke late and didn’t hurry downstairs. Indeed, the first sign of life came as a rule when the news-boy made a clatter with the letter-boxes, as he delivered the papers. Miss Tredennick, who after her midnight vigil had slept soundly till nearly half-past seven, heard him approaching on the southern side of the street, while his colleague, some way behind, did the northern side. Rat-a-tat, rat-a-tat, but far clumsier than the postman’s. This knock had the air of a piece of cheek or a practical joke. Rat-a-tat, Number Eleven, and the same to you, Number Nine. Then a pause, a piercing whistle and a shout. ‘Harry, come here! Har-ry, come and look at this, quick!’ Footsteps ran down the street and stopped outside Number Seven. ‘Phew! What a nerve! Do you think we ought to tell ’em? . . . No, ’taint our business. I’m going to find Ted. Hullo, Alf! Look at this! They’ll be rubbing it out in a minute!’
Once more, Miss Tredennick was at the window. The fog had almost cleared. Outside the threshold of Number Seven, a group of boys—‘errand-boys’ one would have called them in the old days—had sprung up as if by a miracle. Their jeering comments echoed across the street. ‘That’s a bit of all right! Now, Jim, you’ll know where to leave your visiting-card! My word, won’t old Mother O’Blahoney be wild! She’ll go absolute crackers. You wait till the cops get on to it!’
Miss Tredennick almost shouted ‘Stand clear!’, so impatient was she to see what they were looking at. Then a fat female figure, wearing bedroom-slippers and an overcoat that implied a scantiness beneath it, waddled out of the basement of Number Fourteen and crossed the road. As she approached, the spectators gave ground, and Miss Tredennick saw, in big black letters against the dirty yellow paint of the front door, the inscription:
A TART LIVES HERE
With dark looks at the clustered boys, who were giggling and making indecent gestures behind her back, the woman pressed the bell and kept her finger on the push for several minutes. At last the front door opened a few inches and Mrs O’Blahoney’s dishevelled head appeared round the corner. ‘Lord! What is all this about, Mrs Petcham?’ She drew back the door, hiding herself behind it, and the visitor went inside, where presumably a conference took place. The two newspaper boys were continuing their rounds, and the other boys had thinned out and withdrawn a little, so that they could pretend in case of trouble that they were not involved in the affair. At five to eight, the door opened again. Mrs Petcham came out first, called over her shoulder, ‘Don’t you forget to ring up the police, Mrs O’Blahoney,’ crossed the road and went down to her basement home. Mrs O’Blahoney came next, in a man’s mackintosh and a huge straw sun-hat, such as one of the would-be Bright Young Things might once have worn on Margate beach. She was followed, not by Miss Varioli, but by a tall, thin, elderly woman in a brown house-coat. Between them, they carried some sheets of corrugated paper, which they tried to fix with drawing-pins over the odious words. But they didn’t find it too easy. The drawing-pins broke and the paper split, while Mrs O’Blahoney expressed her indignation in a loud monologue.
Miss Tredennick would have liked to sit and watch for ever, but she couldn’t run the risk of being caught there by Magda, who might arrive any moment now with her early tea. She got back to bed and composed herself just in time. She found a slightly malicious pleasure in saying, as soon as Magda opened the bedroom door, ‘There seems to have been a most extraordinary commotion outside, Magda. Do you know what it was all about? Boys whistling and shouting—on a Sunday morning too.’
Magda answered, ‘Yes, Madam. Somebody painted something very offensive on the front door of Number Seven. Mrs O’Blahoney and Mrs Casey have been covering it up with paper. I hope the police will catch the hooligan.’ Something prim and smug about the reply impelled Miss Tredennick to embarrass her further.
‘Did you see the words?’
‘Yes, Madam.’
‘What were they, exactly?’
‘I’d rather not repeat them to you, Madam. Perhaps you’ll ask Mother, if you’re set on knowing.’
The counter-attack took Miss Tredennick at a disadvantage. She parried it by saying, ‘Oh, if they’re really as bad as you imply, perhaps I’d better not know,—though we elderly ladies are not so easily shocked as you young ones think. Has the fog cleared?’
‘Yes, Madam, it’s almost gone. Oh, there’s a policeman ringing the front-door bell of Number Seven.’
Miss Tredennick yawned and said, ‘Well, I’ve no doubt he’ll very soon get to the bottom of it. Thank you. Why, where’s the Sunday Times?’
‘What, Madam, isn’t it there? I am so sorry. I’ll slip down the road and get one. I suppose the boy got muddled.’
Miss Tredennick smiled as she said, ‘No doubt the excitement was too much for him,’ and complacently sipped her tea.
An hour later, when she had finished her breakfast, a strange idea came suddenly into her head. She called for Magda, who was washing up the breakfast-things, and asked to see Hugo as soon as might be convenient. Magda said, with that hint of disapproval that appeared in her tone whenever a visit from Hugo was in question, ‘Well, Madam, he seemed so very drowsy this morning that Mother said she’d give him breakfast in bed, and let him stay there till dinner-time, if he wants to. But if it’s anything urgent, I’m sure Mother’ll make him get up at once.’
‘Oh, don’t hurry him on my account. Any time will do.’
But would it, she wondered as soon as Magda had gone out and shut the door. That policeman, now, was he still nosing round? The sooner she was at her post, the better. Once more in her favourite chair she looked out of the window. No policeman was visible in the street, but a small knot of people stood in a circle watching a man who was amateurishly daubing thick black paint all over the door of Number Seven. Miss Tredennick thought, ‘So they’ll have a respectable black door like ours. That’s one thing to the good—but what shoddy work!’ She noticed that Miss Varioli’s bedroom curtains were still closely drawn. Was the guilty woman up there, squirming w
ith rage and mortification, or was she sleeping through the whole business? Surely she must have been roused by the noise earlier on? It would be interesting to see her sortie that morning—if she made one. It seemed appropriate that she should emerge in a white sheet, with a halter round her neck,—but it was much more likely that she’d go to her beat flaunting her gayest colours. Then Miss Tredennick put in some hard work on her Journal.
It was nearly midday when Hugo knocked at her door. He looked tired and paler than usual and there was an apprehensiveness in his big eyes. Miss Tredennick came to the point at once.
‘Good morning, Hugo. Now answer me truthfully. Did you paint those words on the door of Number Seven?’
She anticipated that he would play for time, say, ‘What words do you mean?’ or utter half-hearted denials—for she couldn’t believe he was a hardened liar—but after he had given her one quick penetrating glance, he said simply, ‘Yes, Madam, I did.’
The confession was so sudden and so complete, that Miss Tredennick didn’t know how to reply. She was far too pleased with what he had done, to simulate indignation. When at length she found her tongue, all she could say was, ‘But, Hugo, why?’
He answered, ‘Because I hate her.’
‘Whom do you mean by her? Mrs O’Blahoney, if that’s the old woman’s name?’ (Miss Tredennick knew quite well whom Hugo meant, but she had her own end to keep up.)
‘No, no. The young woman whom you can smell when she passes you in the street.’
‘Hugo, what are you saying?’
‘I suppose it’s all that cheap scent she puts on herself. I think she’s really wicked. Are you going to tell my mother?’
Miss Tredennick paused, while she pretended to be considering such a possibility. Then she said, ‘No, I’ve decided to say nothing about it. But I must warn you’—she put all the sternness she could into her voice—‘that if you were found out you would get into the most serious trouble. I mean, with the police. I think you’ve committed what is called a criminal libel. Your mother might have to pay an enormous fine, or you might be sent to a reformatory. Do you understand?’
‘Yes, Madam, I suppose what I’ve done was very wrong.’
‘Well, it was certainly very dangerous. Now tell me, what have you done with the paint-pot and the brush? If the police suspect you, they’ll search the whole house.’
‘I put them into a dust-bin.’
‘Not ours, I hope! What do you think that big red-headed dustman would say, if a pot of black paint fell out when he emptied the bin? He’d have to report his find to the police at once. This affair will be the talk of the whole neighbourhood for several days. I shall be surprised if it doesn’t get in the papers.’
Hugo blushed scarlet. Miss Tredennick had put her finger on a most tender spot. Had he not conceived the whole exploit with the hope of saving the big red-headed dustman from the perils of what the Sunday newspapers called ‘the vice of the streets’? Miss Tredennick, misconstruing his silence, went on, ‘Well, Hugo, if you’ve put the paint and the brush in our bin, you must get them out as soon as ever you can and hide them away till we can make some plan for getting rid of them properly.’
‘But, Madam,’ he said reproachfully, as if surprised that she could have thought him so stupid, ‘I didn’t put them in our bin. I carried them in a bag for a long way and put them in a bin that belongs to some flats,—council-flats, I think—near the bend in Parkwell Road. I managed to find my way there in spite of the fog, and I’m quite sure nobody saw me.’
Miss Tredennick almost clapped her hands in applause, and couldn’t resist saying, ‘Oh, Hugo,—well done! But what a dangerous criminal you would make. I hope you’ll never do anything wrong—really wrong, I mean—not like this prank of yours—though as I said, if you’d been caught, you’d be in the most dreadful trouble. Are you quite sure nobody in the street could see you leaving this house,—or while you were busy by the door opposite?’
‘The fog was so thick, I couldn’t see the letters while I was painting them.’
‘But you must have made some noise, going up the area-steps, or opening the basement-door.’
‘Mother keeps the basement-door well oiled, so it shan’t disturb you. I was very careful about the steps and about the gate at the top. It took me nearly ten minutes to get up to it.’
‘Wasn’t it lucky that the night was so foggy?’
‘But, Madam, I was waiting for a fog.’
‘So you’ve had the idea for some time?’
‘Yes, I got the idea about a fortnight ago,—one day when she walked down our side of the street. I felt that someone ought to drive her away.’
‘You know, Hugo, in some very odd respects you and I are very much alike. You don’t understand me? Perhaps it’s just as well. Now, if they ask you downstairs what we’ve been talking about, you must say—what will you say?’
Hugo smiled and said, ‘I shall tell them you were giving me just a little scolding for letting off that firework yesterday. You could make that true, if you think it’s necessary.’
‘But, Hugo, it was a lovely firework. I certainly can’t bring myself to scold you for that. Mr Bray and I thought it very beautiful, and the Americans enjoyed it too. I’m afraid you’ll have to think of a better story.’
Hugo shrugged his hunched shoulders, as if the subject were not worth discussing. Then he said pleadingly, ‘So you really won’t tell Mother or Magda about what I’ve done? I couldn’t bear Magda to know. She spies on me.’
There was the sound of a footstep on the landing outside the bedroom door. Miss Tredennick put a finger to her lips and said, ‘Sh! There she is. Goodbye—and remember, you’ve been lucky this time.’
Hugo made his little bow and went out of the room, while Magda, giving him an unfriendly look, went through the sitting-room into the kitchen to prepare Miss Tredennick’s luncheon. Meanwhile, the old woman sat full of her thoughts in her chair by the window. Miss Varioli’s curtains were still closely drawn. Could she be lying behind them, dead of shame?
IX
THE REST OF NOVEMBER
It wasn’t surprising that Magda’s nerves were on edge. Since her evening walk with Robert round Thurloe Square, she had hardly seen him. He had just found time, the next morning, to whisper to her on his way downstairs, ‘She was in such a state when I got back last night, I couldn’t say anything. It wouldn’t have been fair. But she’s going away on Thursday for a whole fortnight, and I’ve got the flat in Twickenham till after Christmas. So we’ve plenty of time to make our plans.’
The cause of Magda’s uneasiness wasn’t the doubt as to whether Robert intended to marry her or not. She was anything but a sacramentalist, and didn’t believe that even if all the formalities,—divorce, banns, marriage in church—were complied with, they could ever wash away the fatal stain on her conscience. That would remain—to torment her in her last illness and damn her when dead. But her delight in Robert’s presence had the power to make the joy of the moment outweigh Hell’s eternity. (She never ventured to wonder if a just God could be so ruthless as to requite a momentary sin with eternal damnation.) Oh, if Robert could always be with her, she’d be his servant, his slave, gladly losing her soul to keep his body. But, alas, he couldn’t. He went to work in the morning and came back at six to spend the evening with his wife,—while she herself trudged grimly up and down stairs, looking after Miss Tredennick and Mr Bray and helping her mother and keeping an eye on Hugo.
The antipathy which she now had for Hugo almost frightened her. She had long admitted to herself that she was jealous of him, though she had done her best to repress the ugly feeling. But somehow, since she had given way to a guilty romance, her self-control had weakened in other respects as well. It wasn’t difficult to excuse herself for drawing Justin’s attention to the missing cigarettes. After all, he might easily have suspected her, and it wasn’t fair to expect her to bear that burden for Hugo’s sake, even had she been fond of him. But she knew
that part of her motive was sheer malice,—the wish to discredit a mother’s favourite child. She was ashamed of herself, but not repentant, and regretted that Justin himself had refused to play up. She was convinced that he was shielding Hugo, but what could she do, with the two of them against her?
What a way the boy had of getting round people! Even the hard and matter-of-fact Miss Tredennick seemed to dote on him, and was prepared to forgive almost any liberty he might choose to take. There was something unpleasant, something almost unhealthy, in the way she kept inviting him to come to her bedroom. Oh, why couldn’t he be like other boys,—play with other boys or even run after girls? He was old enough, despite all those baby-ways which he shed and assumed so easily by turns.
Magda knew that she had already gone too far in her dislike of him. She had lost some of her mother’s affection by urging her to send him to a school and the caution she had given Miss Tredennick against giving him too free a run of the house had not been received with favour. Quite possibly Justin despised her for telling tales about her brother. It was a mercy that the Fawleys so seldom saw him, or he might make mischief in that quarter too. But Mrs Fawley was always so wrapped up in herself that it was doubtful if she remembered the existence of the cripple who lived in the basement. Perhaps dear Robert, with his readier sympathy, thought him rather pathetic, though he had once remarked, ‘Your brother somehow makes me feel uncomfortable,—poor little chap.’ (She didn’t know that Robert had said to himself, ‘I think that boy’s a bloody little pervert. He looks at me as a woman looks at a man!’)
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