Bell Timson

by Marguerite Steen

  “I’ve not told you why I came.”

  She felt cold in the roots of her hair.

  “Well, Harry ... I’m pleased to see you, for the sake of old times.” She hoped it did not sound too insincere.

  “I want to come back.”

  Emotion burned in her: first a wild terror, then anger and resentment, and last a bitter irony.

  “I dare say! Now I’ve got money of my own! Now I’ve got a house and furniture and a drink to offer you! What do you take me for? A ninnv?”

  “I can’t keep you or the girls, but I can keep myself. I won’t be a charge on you.” He continued as though she had not spoken. ‘Tin lonely. I want a home and I want the kids. I want Jo.”

  “So you’ve come to the end of things, have you? Your friends won’t buy you drinks, because you can’t afford to treat them, and the women won’t look at you any longer!” Words flowed out of her, terrible words which, afterward, she could not believe she had spoken. “Why, you fool!” She was mild, at last, with exhaustion. “We’re divorced! You can’t live with me — it would be the same as if I was your mistress; only it’s usual for mistresses to be kept, and you’d be my kept man!”

  “I’ve told you I can make enough for myself, and we could get married again.” He said it passionlessly, ignoring her outburst.

  “How do you know I’m not married?” she taunted him.

  He looked at her.

  “No, Bell. You’re not that kind of woman,” he said quietly.

  She bit her lip. She was no longer afraid, she had herself in hand. It was as if her past violence had given her courage; she was no longer frightened of her own pity, of Harry’s intolerable likeness to Kathleen, or of any of the things that might have weakened her and undermined her defenses. She was strong again, strong and calm. For the first time since his arrival she allowed herself to sit in her own armchair.

  “Listen, Harry. I’m sorry I spoke like that — you took me by surprise. I don’t bear you any ill will — now; all that’s over and done with, and you know I’m not one to harp on old grievances. And while I think of it, I don’t want any more alimony from you; we can manage now by ourselves. But what you suggest is out of the question, and I’ll try to show you why.

  “I’ve made a new life for myself, and you don’t fit into it.” She was speaking slowly, trying to find the right words. “It’s a pity, for you would have done, once. It’s the sort of life I took for granted we’d have, when I married you. I never expected I’d have to tell the landlord lies or be frightened to open the door to tradesmen; why should I? You were in a good job and you were sure of keeping it — at least that’s what you said; and I took your word for it.

  “It wasn’t much of a home you took me to as a bride, but you promised me we’d have a better one. I didn’t see why we shouldn’t; you were clever and skilled at your trade. I stuck up for you to my family, who all thought I was marrying beneath me — though I allow they hadn’t done so well for themselves. You knew the sort of home I’d come from, and you swore I’d have as good, and better, than I was accustomed to, in a few years’ time.

  ‘You know how you kept that promise, Harry. We soon left that first house — we were always moving — and it was to a cheaper and worse one every time. We practically finished in a slum — and I should think it would have been jail, or the workhouse, next, if I hadn’t made up my mind. You made a big fuss of Jo, but you didn’t worry about her being dragged up alongside of gutter children, did you? I can’t understand you over that, because it wasn’t as if you were used to that kind of thing yourself. You were educated — much more than I was — but it made no difference. You only cared for yourself and your appetites, and you were prepared to sacrifice all of us, so long as you could satisfy them. That’s why I had to divorce you; not because I minded about Mrs. Hornby. I couldn’t have the girls going without the clothes and the shoes they needed, while you were Hornbying round the pubs.

  “Well, they’ve forgotten all that. To be candid, Harry, I don’t believe they ever give you a thought or even wonder what’s become of you.”

  “That’s a nice thing to say to a father!”

  “Now don’t speak like that.” Her beautiful eyes reproached him. “I don’t mean to be unkind, and I’ve got over my temper, but you’ll make me mad again if you start whining. It’s too late to talk about being a father now, Harry, so you can cut it out!

  “I’ve worked like a black and I’ve had precious little fun while I’ve been doing it; but I think I’ve accomplished what I set out after. They’ve forgotten the street, and all those sordid times, and the bad habits they learned through mixing with children from nasty homes. And I won’t have you back because I won’t have them reminded of it. You don’t suppose you can just drift in and be accepted, without their wanting to know what’s been going on all the time you’ve been away? I had to tell them some time ago about the divorce, and Kathleen, at any rate, is old enough to know what divorce means. I’m not going to start her working things over in her mind — she’s old enough, in some ways, as she is already.

  “Another thing. I’ve got myself to consider. Yes, I think it’s time I did a bit of considering on my own account, as nobody’s likely to do it for me. I’ve got my own friends: people you wouldn’t get on with and who wouldn’t get on with you. I’m not going to sacrifice my friendships to your loneliness, Harry. And that,” said Bell with relief, “is my last word.”

  “So you’re ashamed of me, are you?” He said it unpleasantly and she looked him straight in the eyes.

  “No. Ashamed of myself, for being too pigheaded to take good advice.”

  “Bell.” He had risen, and now made a movement toward her — a movement whose significance she knew, though she no longer shrank from it.

  “You can lay off that, Harry,” she told him calmly, “or I’ll call the police in and have you put out. I don’t want that from you or any other man any longer — thank God! I suppose I ought to thank you, too, for wearing that out of my system; for if a woman’s got her own way to make it’s hard luck on her if she happens to have any womanly feelings!”

  “I believe you’re as hard as nails,” he muttered.

  “I’m exactly what you’ve made me, and if you don’t like it that’s your misfortune.” She got up briskly. “I’d ask you to stop and have supper, but my servant mightn’t understand it. You’ve given her enough of a shock already — announcing yourself as Mr. Timson!” She put her hand in her pocket — it was one of Bell’s eccentricities to carry her money loose, like a man — and held out a pound note to him. “Get yourself a good supper and pretend you’re eating it with me — if that’s any satisfaction to you!”

  The look he gave her would have checked a more sensitive woman. Honest in her intention, her perception would not allow her to realize that she could not have humiliated him more deeply. Damn her! he was thinking. Damn her and her money to hell. He would have liked to refuse it, but the thought of what it would stand for in the taverns off Fleet Street sapped the roots of such pride as he had retained. He pocketed it without thanks, thinking, It means no more to her than a shilling, and she would not even understand if I told her what she has made me feel about it.

  “Come on; get your hat. I’ll see you out,” said Bell.

  Suddenly he burst into a harsh laugh, which, taking Bell by surprise, startled her.

  “Quantum quisque sua nummorum servat in arca. Tantum habet et fidei!’” He waggled an insulting finger under her nose. “To think of my marrying a woman who doesn’t know a word of Latin!” he jeered. “The sage yoked with the ass! Never mind; I’ll translate it for your benefit — or rather, I will render its meaning in the words of an Englishman, hardly less famous in his time than my old friend Juvenal — though who reads Fielding nowadays? ‘Sir,’ says Fielding — though through the lips of one of his own characters — money, money, the most charming of all things; money, which will say more in one moment that the most eloquent lover can in years
. Perhaps you will say a man is not young; I answer, he is rich. He is not genteel, handsome, witty, brave, good-humoured, but he is rich, rich, rich, rich, rich! — and that one word contradicts everything you can say against him.’”

  “You’re drunk,” said Bell calmly. “I suppose that whisky’s the first thing that’s gone into your stomach today. Go on now — get your supper; I want to have mine and get to bed.”

  He gave another look round the room, seeking some last word to punish her for the shame she had put on him.

  “At any rate I’ll know where to come if I’m short of a pound!”

  Bell, at the door, turned quickly to face him.

  “If you ever come here again I’ll give you in charge; that’s not a joke, I’m serious.”

  “That’ll look well in the papers!” he jeered.

  “I don’t give a damn,” she bluffed him. “If you’re ever in a tight corner you can go to my solicitors. You know who they are — the same ones that did the divorce. I’ll instruct them, and they’ll use their own discretion; so you needn’t waste your breath in making up a fairy tale. But if you ever come near me or the girls again — as God’s my judge, I’ll have you jailed! Good night, Harry — and when you get your salary, for goodness’ sake get yourself a new overcoat; that one looks as if the rats have been in it.”

  Have I made him afraid of me? Can I really get protection against Harry? Whatever happens — if he bleeds me dry — he shan’t get near the girls. Not near Kathleen. It would be the death of Kathleen if she saw her father.

  As she closed the street door her hand was shaking. All her fear had returned. She called down the basement stairs for her supper and poured herself half a tumbler of whisky, spilling it on her hand as she did so. I’ve got to pull myself together. I must be in a rotten state, to let Harry upset me like this.

  I’d better have some advice, she was thinking. She would have to keep her promise and see her solicitors — with whom she had had no personal dealings since the divorce. She had posted her will to them, that was all; they had written, proposing some amendments, and she had accepted their suggestion. But that meant, of course, they were still her solicitors. They were a sharp, Jewish firm; it would not be easy to talk to that young man with hair like wet patent leather and a jockey’s face about as personal an affair as this of Harry’s. Poor old Harry ...

  “You look very tired, Mrs. Timson. Let me slip a glass of sherry in the soup and hot it up again —”

  “No fear. I should be bingo.” She held up the glass of whisky. “My God, I forgot the soda; it’s neat.”

  Susan took the glass quietly, pressed the trigger of the siphon, and brought it back to Bell’s side.

  “I’ll put the fire on in your room.”

  “What would you do if you’d got a husband who turned up at the wrong moment?” She plunged her spoon greedily into the soup; that was it — she was ravenous!

  “I don’t know, I’m sure,” said Susan thoughtfully. “Why don’t you ask Mr. Somervell?”

  “Is he back in England?” She raised her head quickly.

  “I saw his name in The Times last week — at somebody’s memorial service,” was the calm reply.

  “That’s not a bad idea.” She was careful to be casual.

  Indeed, why not get him to come and see her? They had seen very little of each other for nearly six months. During the holidays he had been up in Scotland — which for some reason had not displeased her — and then she had had a short note from him, telling her he was going to Vienna. Bell had begun to wonder if he was getting tired of their friendship. She did not wish to think it was so, for Richard Somervell’s was one of the few friendships she minded about keeping. She was perhaps a little flattered that a man of his type should call her a friend of his; in moments of rare sentimentality she admitted to herself that if she were ever to consider marrying again he would be the one to persuade her — after which she always braced herself by remembering that he was married already and that, if he was not, he was not the kind to marry out of his own class. She always chuckled at herself over these rather vapid imaginings, more becoming to a girl in her twenties than a woman of mature years. But it sometimes occurred to her that she had, for most of her life, been starved of sentiment and that indulging in an occasional fancy of this sort was not much more harmful than stealing a chocolate out of a box of candies.

  It was odd that, although her work lay entirely among women, all her real friends were men. There was George, of course — dear old stickin-the-mud — and Dr. Remington; there were two or three whom she had picked up casually on railway stations or in bars — Bell made friends as easily as she breathed, and her unmistakable candor usually prevented her from being misunderstood. Chance acquaintances easily solidified into friendships, and she had even had a couple of proposals — which she had jollied aside with so much good will that no bitterness was left behind. There was Mr. Somervell — and now there was the duke! That made her laugh every time she thought of it. The idea of her being friends with a duke! The fact that his intentions were, from the beginning, transparently dishonorable made no difference to their good-fellowship, for Bell knew how to deal with that kind — although, to do them justice, the men (at least, those who knew her well) had not put her to much trouble.

  Of all these, Richard Somervell was the only one to whom she could talk freely about Harry; for she knew that his imagination and the fineness of his nature would help him to understand her fear, her anxiety, and the ‘soft spot” she was still obliged to acknowledge for her former husband. It was one of the anomalies of Bells character that she could appreciate in others the qualities in which she herself was most conspicuously lacking. Herself neither delicate nor sensitive, it interested and in a way fascinated her to meet these finer shades of feeling in the sex which (she had been brought up to believe) was crude in comparison with her own.

  Richard would not scoff or dwell upon Harrys shortcomings in such a way as to make her feel she was a fool for wanting to do something for him; he would not point out to her that w licit MIC was proposing to do was tantamount to allowing Harry to blackmail her (which she knew already), or take Georges pusillanimous line of advising her to leave it all to her solicitors. He would understand the human side of the situation: that a woman cannot live ten years with a man and bear him children without preserving some spot of feeling about him — unless she were devoid of feminine nature! Richard would give her sympathy as well as counsel ...

  Furthermore he would “take her out of herself,” and this, Bell considered, was what she really needed. Her present anxiety had brought others crowding to her mind; she was as usual short of money, and heavily overdrawn, for her, at the bank, which only the day before had sent her a note of warning. She must have been crazy to tell Harry she would give up the alimony! It was only a drop in the ocean, but it would have helped with the light and the heating, and she need not have felt bad about taking it if he was earning again. Kathleen’s school fees would end, of course, at Christmas; but this would not help much, as she was already owing two terms. She was living much ahead of her means; that was the truth, and she must face it. But facing did not mean giving up; she had set herself a certain standard of living, and nothing should induce her to lower it — to fall back on the ladder she had climbed so painfully.

  Yes, she must see Richard Somervell; a visit from him was always as good as a tonic; it was to be reminded of all those things which he took for granted, toward which she, for the children’s sake, was struggling. It was to draw nearer in love and knowledge to Kathleen, who seemed to share with him so many things of which once, to her eternal shame, she had been jealous, which she now accepted, only hoping that she might be allowed some part in them as well. It was not, after all, her fault that she had not had the education she had managed to give her children; and as time went on she would no doubt have more opportunities of interesting herself in matters her circumstances had obliged her to neglect. Yes, she would send for Mr
. Somervell ...

  It was in this rather leaning and feminine state of mind that she rang Richard’s office in the morning — she would have telephoned him at night, but she had made a habit of going to bed early, and Richard, like most men leading a bachelor life, was rarely in before midnight. She was disappointed not to get him at the office, but as his secretary said he was in town and asked if she could take a message, Bell said shortly that she would be writing, her own principle being not to fill the ears of underlings with information: a principle good enough in theory but a little galling to those who take the trouble to provide themselves with responsible servants.

  She wrote her note and posted it, and in due course was made happy by Richard’s reply — that he would come and have tea with her on the following Sunday.

  Chapter IX

  THE WEEK of the examinations had arrived. Bell remembered to send Kay a wire and reminded Richard to do the same — at which she thought he had seemed amused. He had probably remembered it without her reminder; he always remembered things to do with the children. And actually it was Jos letter which had informed Bell of her parental duty on the occasion. “You will remember to send Kay a telegram, won’t you, Mummy? Some of the girls get three or four. Some of the kids in my bedroom are sending her one! I think Mr. Dick would send her one if you told him ...”

  Thank goodness all this would soon be over. It was no use telling Kathleen it did not matter if she passed or not; she had made up her mind it was a matter of life and death. Yes, Bell knew what it would be like: the pen gripped in cramped fingers, the knotted brows, the body twisted and bowed with anxiety. “For mercy’s sake, child, put your work down and get out in the sunshine a bit! What’ll it all be, a hundred years hence?” No one would have the sense to say that to her, as Bell had said it a dozen times in the holidays. “Oh, Mummy, I’ve got to finish my holiday work.” If she was getting flustered her lips would be moving, she would claw her fingers through her hair from brow to crown, leaving faint traces of ink in the gold-feathery roots, and no one would stroke that piteous, overanxious head and tell the child not to make a mountain out of a molehill.