_Chapter 22_
Siegmund went up to Victoria. He was in no hurry to get down toWimbledon. London was warm and exhausted after the hot day, but thispeculiar lukewarmness was not unpleasant to him. He chose to walk fromVictoria to Waterloo.
The streets were like polished gun-metal glistened over with gold. Thetaxi-cabs, the wild cats of the town, swept over the gleaming floorswiftly, soon lessening in the distance, as if scornful of the otherclumsy-footed traffic. He heard the merry click-clock of the swinginghansoms, then the excited whirring of the motor-buses as they chargedfull-tilt heavily down the road, their hearts, as it seemed, beatingwith trepidation; they drew up with a sigh of relief by the kerb, andstood there panting--great, nervous, clumsy things. Siegmund was alwaysamused by the headlong, floundering career of the buses. He was pleasedwith this scampering of the traffic; anything for distraction. He wasglad Helena was not with him, for the streets would have irritated herwith their coarse noise. She would stand for a long time to watch therabbits pop and hobble along on the common at night; but the tearingalong of the taxis and the charge of a great motor-bus was painful toher. 'Discords,' she said, 'after the trees and sea.' She liked theglistening of the streets; it seemed a fine alloy of gold laid down forpavement, such pavement as drew near to the pure gold streets of Heaven;but this noise could not be endured near any wonderland.
Siegmund did not mind it; it drummed out his own thoughts. He watchedthe gleaming magic of the road, raced over with shadows, project itselffar before him into the night. He watched the people. Soldiers, beltedwith scarlet, went jauntily on in front. There was a peculiar charm intheir movement. There was a soft vividness of life in their carriage; itreminded Siegmund of the soft swaying and lapping of a poisedcandle-flame. The women went blithely alongside. Occasionally, inpassing, one glanced at him; then, in spite of himself, he smiled; heknew not why. The women glanced at him with approval, for he was ruddy;besides, he had that carelessness and abstraction of despair. The eyesof the women said, 'You are comely, you are lovable,' andSiegmund smiled.
When the street opened, at Westminster, he noticed the city sky, alovely deep purple, and the lamps in the square steaming out a vapour ofgrey-gold light.
'It is a wonderful night,' he said to himself. 'There are not two suchin a year.'
He went forward to the Embankment, with a feeling of elation in hisheart. This purple and gold-grey world, with the fluttering flame-warmthof soldiers and the quick brightness of women, like lights that clipsharply in a draught, was a revelation to him.
As he leaned upon the Embankment parapet the wonder did not fade, butrather increased. The trams, one after another, floated loftily over thebridge. They went like great burning bees in an endless file into ahive, past those which were drifting dreamily out, while below, on theblack, distorted water, golden serpents flashed and twisted to and fro.
'Ah!' said Siegmund to himself; 'it is far too wonderful for me. Here,as well as by the sea, the night is gorgeous and uncouth. Whateverhappens, the world is wonderful.'
So he went on amid all the vast miracle of movement in the city night,the swirling of water to the sea, the gradual sweep of the stars, thefloating of many lofty, luminous cars through the bridged darkness, likean army of angels filing past on one of God's campaigns, the purringhaste of the taxis, the slightly dancing shadows of people. Siegmundwent on slowly, like a slow bullet winging into the heart of life. Hedid not lose this sense of wonder, not in the train, nor as he walkedhome in the moonless dark.
When he closed the door behind him and hung up his hat he frowned. Hedid not think definitely of anything, but his frown meant to him: 'Nowfor the beginning of Hell!'
He went towards the dining-room, where the light was, and the uneasymurmur. The clock, with its deprecating, suave chime, was striking ten,Siegmund opened the door of the room. Beatrice was sewing, and did notraise her head. Frank, a tall, thin lad of eighteen, was bent over abook. He did not look up. Vera had her fingers thrust in among her hair,and continued to read the magazine that lay on the table before her.Siegmund looked at them all. They gave no sign to show they were awareof his entry; there was only that unnatural tenseness of people whocover their agitation. He glanced round to see where he should go. Hiswicker arm-chair remained by the fireplace; his slippers were standingunder the sideboard, as he had left them. Siegmund sat down in thecreaking chair; he began to feel sick and tired.
'I suppose the children are in bed,' he said.
His wife sewed on as if she had not heard him; his daughter noisilyturned over a leaf and continued to read, as if she were pleasantlyinterested and had known no interruption. Siegmund waited, with hisslipper dangling from his hand, looking from one to another.
'They've been gone two hours,' said Frank at last, still without raisinghis eyes from his book. His tone was contemptuous, his voice wasjarring, not yet having developed a man's fullness.
Siegmund put on his slipper, and began to unlace the other boot. Theslurring of the lace through the holes and the snacking of the tagseemed unnecessarily loud. It annoyed his wife. She took a breath tospeak, then refrained, feeling suddenly her daughter's scornfulrestraint upon her. Siegmund rested his arms upon his knees, and satleaning forward, looking into the barren fireplace, which was litteredwith paper, and orange-peel, and a banana-skin.
'Do you want any supper?' asked Beatrice, and the sudden harshness ofher voice startled him into looking at her.
She had her face averted, refusing to see him. Siegmund's heart wentdown with weariness and despair at the sight of her.
'Aren't _you_ having any?' he asked.
The table was not laid. Beatrice's work-basket, a little wickerfruit-skep, overflowed scissors, and pins, and scraps of holland, andreels of cotton on the green serge cloth. Vera leaned both her elbows onthe table.
Instead of replying to him, Beatrice went to the sideboard. She took outa table-cloth, pushing her sewing litter aside, and spread the clothover one end of the table. Vera gave her magazine a little knockwith her hand.
'Have you read this tale of a French convent school in here, Mother?'she asked.
'In where?'
In this month's _Nash's_.'
'No,' replied Beatrice. 'What time have I for reading, much less foranything else?'
'You should think more of yourself, and a little less of other people,then,' said Vera, with a sneer at the 'other people'. She rose. 'Let medo this. You sit down; you are tired, Mother,' she said.
Her mother, without replying, went out to the kitchen. Vera followedher. Frank, left alone with his father, moved uneasily, and bent histhin shoulders lower over his book. Siegmund remained with his arms onhis knees, looking into the grate. From the kitchen came the chinking ofcrockery, and soon the smell of coffee. All the time Vera was heardchatting with affected brightness to her mother, addressing her in fondtones, using all her wits to recall bright little incidents to retail toher. Beatrice answered rarely, and then with utmost brevity.
Presently Vera came in with the tray. She put down a cup of coffee, aplate with boiled ham, pink and thin, such as is bought from a grocer,and some bread-and-butter. Then she sat down, noisily turning over theleaves of her magazine. Frank glanced at the table; it was laid solelyfor his father. He looked at the bread and the meat, but restrainedhimself, and went on reading, or pretended to do so. Beatrice came inwith the small cruet; it was conspicuously bright.
Everything was correct: knife and fork, spoon, cruet, all perfectlyclean, the crockery fine, the bread and butter thin--in fact, it wasjust as it would have been for a perfect stranger. This scrupulousneatness, in a household so slovenly and easy-going, where it was anestablished tradition that something should be forgotten or wrong,impressed Siegmund. Beatrice put the serving knife and fork by thelittle dish of ham, saw that all was proper, then went and sat down. Herface showed no emotion; it was calm and proud. She began to sew.
'What do you say, Mother?' said Vera, as if resuming a conversation.'Shall it be Hampton Cou
rt or Richmond on Sunday?'
'I say, as I said before,' replied Beatrice: 'I cannot afford to goout.'
'But you must begin, my dear, and Sunday shall see the beginning. _Ditesdonc_!'
'There are other things to think of,' said Beatrice.
'Now, _maman, nous avons change tout cela_! We are going out--a jollylittle razzle!' Vera, who was rather handsome, lifted up her face andsmiled at her mother gaily.
'I am afraid there will be no _razzle_'--Beatrice accented the word,smiling slightly--'for me. You are slangy, Vera.'
'_Un doux argot, ma mere_. You look tired.'
Beatrice glanced at the clock.
'I will go to bed when I have cleared the table,' she said.
Siegmund winced. He was still sitting with his head bent down, lookingin the grate. Vera went on to say something more. Presently Frank lookedup at the table, and remarked in his grating voice:
'There's your supper, Father.'
The women stopped and looked round at this. Siegmund bent his headlower. Vera resumed her talk. It died out, and there was silence.
Siegmund was hungry.
'Oh, good Lord, good Lord! bread of humiliation tonight!' he said tohimself before he could muster courage to rise and go to the table. Heseemed to be shrinking inwards. The women glanced swiftly at him andaway from him as his chair creaked and he got up. Frank was watchingfrom under his eyebrows.
Siegmund went through the ordeal of eating and drinking in presence ofhis family. If he had not been hungry, he could not have done it,despite the fact that he was content to receive humiliation this night.He swallowed the coffee with effort. When he had finished he satirresolute for some time; then he arose and went to the door.
'Good night!' he said.
Nobody made any reply. Frank merely stirred in his chair. Siegmund shutthe door and went.
There was absolute silence in the room till they heard him turn on thetap in the bathroom; then Beatrice began to breathe spasmodically,catching her breath as if she would sob. But she restrained herself. Thefaces of the two children set hard with hate.
'He is not worth the flicking of your little finger, Mother,' said Vera.
Beatrice moved about with pitiful, groping hands, collecting her sewingand her cottons.
'At any rate, he's come back red enough,' said Frank, in his gratingtone of contempt. 'He's like boiled salmon.'
Beatrice did not answer anything. Frank rose, and stood with his back tothe grate, in his father's characteristic attitude.
'He _would_ come slinking back in a funk!' he said, with a young man'ssneer.
Stretching forward, he put a piece of ham between two pieces of bread,and began to eat the sandwich in large bites. Vera came to the table atthis, and began to make herself a more dainty sandwich. Frank watchedher with jealous eyes.
'There is a little more ham, if you'd like it,' said Beatrice to him. 'Ikept you some.'
'All right, Ma,' he replied. Fetch it in.'
Beatrice went out to the kitchen.
'And bring the bread and butter, too, will you?' called Vera after her.
'The damned coward! Ain't he a rotten funker?' said Frank, _sotto voce_,while his mother was out of the room.
Vera did not reply, but she seemed tacitly to agree.
They petted their mother, while she waited on them. At length Frankyawned. He fidgeted a moment or two, then he went over to his mother,and, putting his hand on her arm--the feel of his mother's round armunder the black silk sleeve made his tears rise--he said, more gratinglythan ever:
'Ne'er mind, Ma; we'll be all right to you.' Then he bent and kissedher. 'Good night, Mother,' he said awkwardly, and he went out ofthe room.
Beatrice was crying.
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