She found it stripped. The Turkish lamp was gone, Henry’s stool and easel, his bed, all the bedding; his clothes were still there, but tied up in bundles, obviously ready for removal. These signs of the Sow’s activity roused Adelaide to sudden fury; and anger overcoming weakness, she walked straight out of the Mews to a locksmith’s and brought the man back with her to affix padlocks to both upper and lower doors. It was done in an hour. The Sow, re-entering the Mews, passed the man leaving; she waddled up to the coach-house doors, looked at them, looked at Adelaide and silently thrust out her hand.
“What d’you want?” snapped Adelaide.
“The key, o’ course, ’and it over.”
“I shan’t,” said Adelaide. “I’ll have no more thieving here!”
For some reason Mrs. Mounsey appeared to resent the term.
“I’ve took nothing but what you give me—”
Adelaide laughed loudly.
“When I thought I was leaving. Now I’ve changed my mind. You’ve had all you’re going to get.”
The Sow blinked her small eyes.
“And suppose I change me mind and go to the perlice?” she insinuated.
“You’ll lose ten shillings a week,” said Adelaide.
Almost to her surprise, the threat took effect. Mrs. Mounsey’s hand dropped, her eyes blinked again over Adelaide’s haggard, venomous face; and she turned and shuffled away.
Adelaide’s knees gave beneath her, she sat down on the iron steps and bowed her head in her lap. Her first thought was simply of food, she had to get some food; her second, that she had found her weapon of defence, and it was the ten shillings a week.
So it turned out. On this sum the Sow’s miserly spirit fastened and fed; to retain it she would give up all other perquisites. It was sweeter to her even than revenge. So long as Adelaide could produce ten shillings every Monday, Mrs. Mounsey would not go to the police; and because she could produce it, Adelaide was condemned to imprisonment. So, in some Eastern country, debtor and creditor are chained together with an iron chain; but at least Adelaide was imprisoned on her own terms.
This was the first phase. Not until a few months later did Adelaide give Mrs. Mounsey her first order. A clammy fog had settled over the Mews; only the children were driven out to steal from coal-carts, their elders creeping no further than the Cock, and Adelaide no more than any one else wished to venture forth. But she had no book. She had now become a voracious reader, drugging her brain with the works of Miss Braddon, Rhoda Broughton, Ouida, Edna Lyall—anything and everything procurable from either the public library or a private establishment in String Street where volumes were hired out at a halfpenny a time; but now, owing to the fog (and many subscribers to Mudie’s were suffering for the same reason) she had no book. She put on her coat and stepped out on to the balcony; fog billowed up in a yellow acrid wave and made her cough; she could just discern the houses opposite, but no more. Against their smoky façade, however, someone was moving: the Sow, her bulk swollen to even more monstrous dimensions by the murky atmosphere, was coming slowly down her steps. She carried a jug; she was going to the Cock.
“Mrs. Mounsey!” shouted Adelaide.
The Sow paused, peering out from the folds of the shawl over her head. So muffled there was nothing human about her outline; only bulk.
“Go to the shop in String Street where I get my books and fetch me two more,” directed Adelaide. “Ask the woman to choose them—and be quick.”
The shawl slipped back as the Sow raised her head; her face made a lighter but still shapeless patch in the fog.
“You fetch yer own bloody books. I ain’t yer servant.”
“Don’t I pay you?” asked Adelaide.
And in spite of the icy damp, the blood burned in her cheeks. She was deliberately pitting, as she had not done for months, her will against the Sow’s; she was re-testing the strength of her own hold, exploring the limit of the other’s cupidity. She had a foretaste of the pleasures of bullying.… And throwing into her voice all the menace and harshness of which she was capable, she cried, “Do as you like, you old fool! It’ll be long before you find such another fool as I am to pay you ten shillings a week!”
She made as if to go in; and out of the corner of her eye saw Mrs. Mounsey move a pace nearer.
“I’ll do it this once …” said the Sow.
“You’ll do it as often as I tell you,” said Adelaide. “Take these back.” She tossed the two books she was holding over the rail; it gave her great pleasure to see the Sow stoop laboriously to pick them up. She added, “And as you come back by the Cock, I’ll have fourpennyworth of gin.”
For Adelaide had now begun to drink a little; not much, but a little; and not at the Cock, where she would have had to encounter the eyes of her neighbours, but in the Ladies’ Bar of a rather superior house in Paddington. But this was ten minutes’ walk away, and Adelaide at once saw the advantage of being able to procure spirits from the Cock without entering it. Sitting by the fire, waiting for the Sow to return (as she punctually did) Adelaide smiled grimly. She thought, I’ve a dog to fetch and carry. Only her lips moved, her eyes remained hard and cold; and in expression at least she bore, at that moment, a strange, fleeting resemblance to Mrs. Mounsey.
Thus the Sow became Adelaide’s servant, as Adelaide was the Sow’s victim; there arose between them the evil relationship, not unknown among women, of the maid who blackmails and the mistress who bullies: they were complementary to each other. To gloss over her subservience Mrs. Mounsey sometimes put on an air of unctuous geniality; sometimes, to show that all she did was of her own free will, she brought up a pennyworth of gin unasked; and Adelaide, so long as she tolerated, and even demanded, these attentions, with however open a contempt, could not deny the familiarity that springs from habit. In the eyes of Britannia Mews they appeared almost cronies; presently Adelaide became aware that as the Mews had once avoided her from a mixture of dislike and resentment, she was now avoided from something like fear. She partook of the Sow’s ominousness. Old Bert no longer looked out for her to come and talk to him, but slunk away, or shuffled behind his booth, not wishing for her notice; after one or two attempts to win back his confidence Adelaide let the Old ’Un go.
She let so many things go: the habit of pleasant courtesy, scruples of speech and thought; the habit of consideration for others. In Britannia Mews these were not qualities but weaknesses; Adelaide discarded them without a pang. She still took care of her person, for this was instinctive, and her instinct of order still ruled in the flat. She ate wholesomely, refraining from the papers of cooked foods on which her neighbours appeared to subsist; what with housewifery, shopping, visits to the library, Adelaide’s time was sufficiently occupied. When she had nothing else to do, she read. She never went into the Gardens, for fear of meeting anyone she used to know. It was in many ways the life of a hermit; and hermits, it is said, find the days pass swiftly enough.
2
Adelaide did not hear of her mother’s visit until some days after the event. She heard of it from the Blazer, who vaguely hoped to do Mrs. Mounsey an ill-service by “splitting,” and one morning waylaid Adelaide under the archway to tell her. Adelaide had many reasons for disliking this young woman, and would have passed on; but the Blazer planted herself firmly in the path.
“Pity you was out t’other day; you missed yer ma.”
Adelaide halted. She would not answer, but she listened. The Blazer set her fine arms akimbo and laughed raucously.
“Good as a play, it was: yer poor ma banging at the door, askin’ does anyone know if Mrs. Lambert is ’ome, till up steps the Sow, lookin’ like butter wouldn’t melt in ’er mouth, and tells ’er you bin gone a twelvemonth.…”
Still Adelaide did not speak; and the Blazer, piqued, threw more drama into the recital.
“‘Ain’t she left no address?’ asks yer ma. ‘Ain’t my cruel daughter left no word?’ ‘Nary a word,’ says the Sow. ‘She’s gone, leavin’ no address.’ And w
ith that yer ma goes away, the Sow seein’ ’er off; and I shouldn’t be surprised if she got some tin out of ’er.”
At last Adelaide spoke. She said stiffly:—
“You’re in my way. Get out.”
For a moment the Blazer tried to outstare her; she met the cold and snakelike look which even Mrs. Mounsey feared. For Adelaide had not given the tale more than a moment’s attention; she accepted it as true, realized the spring of the Sow’s action, and indeed approved it; her mind was on what had gone before, on what had once passed between her husband and this creature; and hatred showed so nakedly in her eyes that the Blazer’s eyes fell. With a shrug of her magnificent shoulders, half-defiant, half-defensive, she swung away; and Adelaide walked on without a backward look.
She did not mention the matter to the Sow. But Mrs. Mounsey by some witchcraft learned what had happened, and made an oblique reference to it.
“If anyone was to come arter you,” she said cautiously, “I take it you don’t want no interferin’ with.…”
“No,” said Adelaide. It amused her to watch the Sow’s tortuous approach.
“If anyone was to come askin’ where you was, I’d tell ’em you was gone …?”
“Leaving no address,” supplied Adelaide. “I dare say you’d get a shilling for your trouble.”
Mrs. Mounsey gave her a sly look. She knew a lot, this young Tartar, but she didn’t know all; she didn’t know what had happened outside the Mews. In the long game of bluff and counter-bluff, blackmail and chicanery, it was a point to the Sow.
CHAPTER III
1
On the last Sunday in August the weather broke in a thunderstorm, and though the temperature scarcely dropped, by nightfall there was a perceptible lightening of the atmosphere. The rain ceased, leaving a freshness on the air: the wet leaves of the lime-tree gave off a faint country scent. At such an hour, when a failing light blurred its more squalid details, Britannia Mews showed at its best: a stranger glancing through the archway from outside might have called it picturesque, and envied its tranquillity. Adelaide, standing on her balcony within, took no such exaggerated view; but she was grateful for the absence of her neighbours, whom the rain had driven indoors, or into the Cock. The quiet soothed her nerves, as the cool air her face; she stood on, scarcely thinking, giving herself up to a temporary respite from noise and heat. The years had not altered her carriage: she still stood easily erect, her hands lightly clasped before her—as she used to stand at Mrs. Orton’s parties; seen thus in silhouette, she was unchanged, for the dusk was as kind to her as to the Mews, and hid the stony set of her features.
A quarter of an hour passed, and still the silence was untroubled. The air was so still that the lime-tree’s foliage stirred only when a leaf shook free from its weight of rain-drops; then the tiny sound was perfectly audible. Adelaide could see the tree distinctly, for the lamp on the angle of the Cock cast its light through the branches, throwing up each twig with theatrical precision. This light seemed to increase as the sky darkened, but at the other end of the Mews the archway loomed darker than the sky. Through that archway Adelaide had entered the Mews four years ago—fifteen years ago; but if she suddenly moved and sighed it was not because of any such memories; she had learned not to give memory rein. She sighed because she knew that if she stayed there much longer the character of Britannia Mews would inevitably reassert itself, and with some grotesque or sordid incident mar her interlude of peace.
As it was, she had lingered over-long. At that moment the side-door of the Cock clashed open, and a man was thrown out.
2
The impulse of a powerful hand, perhaps a powerful knee, flung him halfway down the Mews, still on his feet, but staggering; as the door clashed to again he lost his balance; his final collapse took place almost directly under Adelaide’s balcony, where he pitched forward and lay motionless, his head in a puddle, his limbs cast north, south, east, and west to the four points of the compass. The suddenness and violence of his appearance—a man cast up so to speak at her feet—made Adelaide start back; she put her hand to the door. But there was no one else in the Mews, and the man’s stillness frightened her. Leaning over the rail she called sharply down to him, asking if he were hurt.
To her immense relief, he stirred; reassembled his sprawled limbs, propped himself on an elbow, and with only a little difficulty focussed his gaze on herself. He spoke:—
“But, soft! what light through yonder window breaks?
It is the east, and Juliet is the sun.
Arise, fair sun …”
Far more than by his words, unexpected as they were, Adelaide was struck by his voice. It was unmistakably the voice of a gentleman. This was a point on which she could not err, for her life with Henry Lambert had perfectly familiarized her with the accents of the gentleman-drunk, and so slightly softened her tone.
“If you’re not hurt,” called Adelaide, “please get up.”
And now her own voice, heard the second time, appeared to make a similar impression upon the stranger. He stared; scrambled up; and moved his hand to his head with a gesture she had no trouble in interpreting: he was raising a non-existent hat.
“I beg your pardon,” he said, quite clearly. “No idea ladies present. Lemme call you a cab.”
Adelaide was extraordinarily touched. His swiftness in recognizing her for a lady, his immediate appreciation of her incongruousness with her surroundings—and at a moment, too, of great physical distress—showed, she thought, a most remarkable understanding. And he not only realized and sympathized with her position, he was prepared to take steps to relieve it. How many gentlemen, wondered Adelaide, thrown out of a public-house, would immediately rise up to fetch a lady a cab?
“Thank you,” she said gratefully. “I don’t want a cab; but thank you.”
He looked at her with increasing bewilderment: every word she spoke, all he could see of her, confirmed his first impression. She must want a cab. He became persuasive.
“Would you object to a hansom? They are more easily found, at this time of night, than the growler. The growler, as its name suggests, belongs to the dog-and-daylight order of vehicles; the hansom to the cat—nocturnal and amorous. However, in an emergency—”
“I don’t want either,” said Adelaide. “But I do wish you’d tell me whether you are hurt.”
“Not in the least. Not physically. Morally, yes, because I perceive you do not trust me even in the capacity of cab-hailer. Will you tell me, please, how you propose to get home?”
Adelaide laughed. It was not a very pleasant sound.
“This is my home. This is where I live. I live here, in Britannia Mews.”
The stranger sat down again, this time on the bottommost of the steps, and stared up. He did not express incredulity: did not exclaim or commiserate. Instead, he made another extraordinarily perceptive remark.
“I had an aunt who lived in Kensington. Beauchamp Place.”
Adelaide leaned impulsively towards him.
“What was her name?”
“Ferrier. Perhaps you knew her?”
“No, we didn’t, but I believe my aunt did; they had a much wider circle …” Adelaide’s expression changed, and she looked at him resentfully. “But you’re quite right, of course; I did live in Kensington. It’s so long since I’ve talked to any one, you’ll find it easy to trick things out of me.”
In a swift movement—all his movements were remarkably rapid—he was up, and up the remaining steps, and standing beside her.
“Please forgive me. I’m unforgivable, but forgive me. You can’t imagine how extraordinarily interesting and fascinating you are—a woman, a lady like yourself, here in this place. You say it’s long since you’ve talked to any one: when I heard your voice just now I thought it was a delusion. It’s so long—”
He broke off, turning away from her. The lamplight reached towards his face, exaggerating its bony structure, deepening the hollows round his eyes, making him look older, Adelaide th
ought, than he probably was; for in spite of the brindled hair over his ears she did not take him for more than thirty. His appearance appealed to her strongly. To find out his name, she told him hers; and saw nothing odd in using the conventional phrase.
“Let me introduce myself,” said Adelaide. “I am Mrs. Lambert.”
He bowed.
“My name is Lauderdale. Gilbert Lauderdale.”
“I feel more and more convinced that I once met Mrs. Ferrier. Do you keep in touch with her?”
“As a matter of fact, I haven’t seen her for years; it’s odd how one’s relations are always bores. I’ve a brother in the Church who is the greatest bore alive. You know, from this level, and in this light, the Mews is really quite picturesque.”
“So my husband used to say.”
“Used …?”
“He passed away two years ago.”
There was a short silence. Already, and despite the politeness of these exchanges, they had crossed the border into familiarity. Naturally, thought Adelaide; for if, while making a gentleman’s acquaintance, one was at the same time remarking how quickly he sobered up, one already knew a good deal about him. His mind was probably working along the same lines; when he spoke again it was with complete frankness.
“You know, you oughtn’t to be living here alone,” said Mr. Lauderdale.
With equal frankness Adelaide answered him.
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