He heard no more to the purpose until late that same night when the voice of Carrie, urgent and frightened at the keyhole, dragged him out of bed. ‘Egg! Please get up at once!’
‘What’s the matter?’
‘It’s Ma. She’s in a terrible taking.’
Egg opened the door and peered round it into Carrie’s small excited face. ‘Ill, is she?’ Carrie gasped out a ‘Yes.’ ‘Right-O!’ he said. ‘Won’t be a jiffy.’
She waited outside the half-open door while he scrambled into some clothes. He could feel her waiting. And when he came out of the room she greeted him with moist clutching hands. ‘She’s dying, Egg. Isn’t it awful!’ Her young body shuddered, and tears were in her voice. ‘She’s dying, and she wants you to read the Bible to her.’ She pattered down the passage.
‘Dying? How d’you know?’ he whispered, following her.
And why me to read the Bible to her? he asked himself, pausing outside the conjugal bedroom. Neither question received an answer. ‘Have you been for the doctor?’ asked Egg.
Carrie was so close to him in the darkness that he could feel her warm breath on his bare throat. ‘I’m going at once,’ she said, ‘though Ma said not to. Here, take this and go in, do!”
He felt something cold and hard being thrust into his hand. His fingers told him, in the dark, that it was shiny and black, and that it exuded a faint cold Sabbatical smell. He tapped hesitatingly upon the door of the Noom’s bedroom. ‘Go right in!’ said Carrie impatiently. ‘She sent for you, I tell you!’ With that, Carrie herself opened the door and gave him so violent a push that he almost fell, black Bible in hand, into the arms of Mr Noom, who, with trousers braced over his nightshirt, rushed into the passage. And a harsh voice from the bed cried out: ‘Richard, I forbid you to go for the doctor. Let me die in peace.’ Mr Noom came back.
The room was small and murky. It contained a double bed, a yellow wardrobe, an ottoman, and a wash-stand. A chest of drawers, on which stood a mirror, had been placed with some care in front of the window; and in front of the mirror, and reflected in it, burned a candle. The air was full of fustiness and the smell of candlegrease; and the bed was full of Mrs Noom who sat bolt-upright, grotesque in her night-dress and curl-papers, with her arms outstretched in the attitude of crucifixion, and a kind of angry exultation blazing in her eyes. She moaned and swayed her body to and fro. ‘A-a-a-ah! Ps like a knife! It’s like a knife!’
Her husband, beside himself with anxiety yet unable after all these years to break the habit of obedience, scampered to and fro in a very frenzy of indecision. ‘You hear her, Pandervil? We must have the doctor to her, whatever she says!’
‘It’s all right,’ said Egg. He caught the old man by the shoulder and whispered into his ear: ‘Carrie’s fetching him.’
‘Where’s the pain, my dear?’ cried Mr Noom, running to the bed again. ‘We’ve got you safe. Tell me where the pain is.’
‘It’s here!’ murmured Mrs Noom, clutching at her stomach.
‘Ah, there!’ said Mr Noom. He shot a swift significant look at Egg. ‘Did you see that, my boy. It’s there, poor thing!’
‘And it’s here!’ cried Mrs Noom, clutching her temples. ‘Is Egbert Pandervil in the room, Richard?’’
‘Here I am,’ said Egg, coming nearer the bed. ‘Here I am, Mrs Noom.’
‘Ah!’ She moaned again. ‘Egg Pandervil! My only friend in this dreadful, dreadful house. Will you read me a portion of the Word, please, Egg Pandervil?’
‘What shall I read?’
‘Read the thirty-seventh psalm, Egg … Ah, it’s like a knife! The thirty-seventh psalm.’
Egg went to the end of the bed and stationed himself by the chest of drawers. Holding the Bible aslant, so that the candlelight should fall upon it, he began fumbling in search of the right page. His trembling fingers were reluctant to obey him. But at last he found the place and in hurried, apologetic voice he began reading: ‘Fret not thyself because of evildoers, neither be thou envious against the workers of iniquity. For they shall soon be cut down like the grass, and wither as the green herb … ’
The voice from the bed broke in upon his reading. ‘Evildoers, Richard Noom. Mark that. Evildoers. Oh thank God there’s one friend with me when I die. Ah, but I’ll try to forgive you, Richard; deceitful trash as you are, I’ll try to forgive you. You and that loose woman … ’
Her husband, kneeling at the bedside, buried his face in his hands and murmured an inarticulate protest. ‘Go on reading, Egg,’ said Mrs Noom. ‘Never mind this evildoer here. It’s a treat to hear you read. Go on.’
Egg read on: ‘Trust in the Lord and do good; so shalt thou dwell in the land, and verily thou shalt be fed. Delight thyself also in the Lord; and he shall give thee the desires of thine heart.’ Imperceptibly he paused at this promise, wondering what it could mean. But the sense of that waiting woman and that sobbing man made him hurry on; for the Bible was a holy book and there was no knowing what magic it might work. Yet as he read he became musingly aware of pictures in his mind that were more real than the tawdry scene in which he stood. There was something in these words that meant more to him than their meaning. ‘ … the meek shall inherit the earth; and shall delight themselves in the abundance of peace. The wicked plotteth against the just, and gnasheth upon him with his teeth. The Lord shall laugh at him; for he seeth that his day is coming … ’
‘Ah, yes!’ cried Mrs Noom. ‘Your day is coming, Richard, there’s no doubt of that.’
Egg raised his voice, impatient of the interruption and eager to shout down the cruel voice from the bed: ‘The wicked have drawn out the sword, and have bent their bow, to cast down the poor and needy, and to slay such as be of upright conversation. Their sword shall enter into their own heart, and their bows shall be broken.’ Sick with terror and disgust though he was, the ring of these sentences recalled to him, for less than an instant, the sunlit interior of the church at home, where he had sat Sunday by Sunday, with Willy at his side, dreaming indolent and vaguely splendid dreams; it recalled, too, by what association he could not tell and did not pause to inquire, that morning in the orchard when Monica had shown him those verses —‘Nor did I wonder at the lily’s white …’—which were the only verses he had ever committed to memory. But the drab room quickly returned to him; the spiritual squalor again assailed his nostrils; for Mrs Noom, achieving the climax of her melodrama, gave a loud scream and fell back upon the pillow. ‘My death’s on me. Lord Jesus, I come!’
In the profound silence that followed—for the overwrought husband seemed bereft now of the power of sound—there came a tap at the door, a tap so cool and businesslike that Egg stared across at the door in startled expectancy, almost thinking to see Death himself enter, a traditional figure with shrouded face. ‘May I come in?’ said a quiet unconcerned voice. And without waiting for an answer, without indeed allowing time for one, Dr Renwick walked into the room followed by Carrie. He walked straight to the bed and looked intently at the prostrate woman. When his fingers touched the pulse in her wrist she opened her eyes and glared at him malevolently. ‘It’s all right, Mrs Noom,’ said the doctor. ‘We’ll soon make you comfortable … Pulse normal, and no fever. Where did you say the pains were?’
‘Richard!’
‘Yes, my dear?’
‘Have you brought a doctor to see me?’
‘Yes, my dear.’
‘Then I’ll never forgive you. You Judas!’
Unperturbed, the doctor continued his examination. ‘Don’t be frightened, Mrs Noom. It’s rest you’re needing. I’ll give you something to help you sleep.’ He made signs to Carrie to fetch him a glass. ‘Come, try to sit up for a moment.’ With his arm round her shoulders he persuaded her into a sitting posture. ‘ Now … ’ He poured something from a bottle into the glass Carrie held out to him, and having taken the glass presented it to the patient’s lips. Mrs Noom, with mouth firmly closed, stared hatred at him. ‘Now drink a little of this.’ He gave back stare for
stare. A faint ironical smile curled about his lips. Mrs Noom opened her lips and drank.
The doctor turned solicitously to Mr Noom. ‘No cause for anxiety at all, my dear sir. No cause at all,’ he repeated with significance.
‘You mean … ’ stammered Mr Noom, unable to believe in his good fortune, ‘she’s not going to die?’
The doctor laughed shortly. ‘We’re all going to die. What’s her age? Fifty-seven? Well, I don’t give her more than another thirty years … And now I’ll get back to my bed. Good night.’
‘Do you mean … ’ said Mr Noom, following the doctor to the door, ‘are you suggesting that there’s nothing the matter with my poor wife?’
‘Nothing at all, unless … ’ The doctor bent over Mr Noom and whispered something inaudible to Egg.
‘Daddy!’ Again that screaming voice, but there was already drowsiness in it. ‘If you and the doctor are plotting to put me away, let me tell you I won’t have it, so there! I’m as sane as any woman alive.’
The doctor bowed to her. ‘Then your only possible excuse is denied to you, madam. Good night.’
The door closed on the departing doctor, and on Carrie who went to escort him downstairs. Mrs Noom, with a sigh, nestled into her pillow and in a few minutes was asleep. Her husband, moving stealthily, seated himself in a chair at the side of the bed and made ready for a night of vigilance.
‘Won’t you try to get a bit of rest!’ whispered Egg in his ear. Mr Noom shook his head sadly. ‘There’s my bed if you care to have it. I’m going to stay up now I am up.’ Mr Noom shook his head still more emphatically. ‘He said there was nothing the matter, you know,’ urged Egg.
In response to this final appeal, Mr Noom’s benevolent features were twisted into a shape of scorn and wrath. ‘That fellow!’ he whispered hoarsely. ‘He doesn’t know what he’s about. And he’s no gentleman. Good God, Pandervil, he tried to make me believe the poor woman was shamming, and her in such terrible pain!’
Egg, afraid to say more, tiptoed his way out of the room and went downstairs. In the kitchen he found a lamp lit, an oil-stove burning, and Carrie.
‘Is she asleep?’ asked Carrie. He nodded. ‘Then we may as well make ourselves comfortable. I’m glad you’ve come down. Myself, I can’t sleep after all that set-out.’
Egg stood over the stove, warming his hands. ‘Why is she such a beast to him?’ he asked. ‘Why is she such a rotten beast? Does she hate him?’
Carrie shrugged her shoulders. ‘Huh! She loves him. Like a dog loves a bone she loves him. He’s been away for a day or two, so he’s got to be paid out for it. That’s all it is.’
Habitual ways of thought made Egg say to himself: What a way for a girl to speak of her mother! He was a little shocked, for it seemed wrong to him that Carrie should criticize her mother as freely as he did, a mere stranger. Another thought came, and he expressed it feelingly. ‘If I was married to a woman like your Ma, Carrie, I just wouldn’t stand it. Your father’s too easy with her by half. If it was me I’d walk out of the house and never see her again.’
Carrie looked at him thoughtfully. ‘I daresay you would.’ After a pause she added: ‘But you don’t know Ma.’
It was true. He didn’t know Ma. There were, indeed, many things that Egg, at twenty-four, didn’t know.
4
Time passed slowly in Farringay, because, although there was much to occupy Egg, both in the shop and out of it, life had become for him nowadays a series, superficially, of repetitions. He never, happily for himself, became fully and continuously aware of repetition, never observed with disgust or dismay how like one day was to another, and how week followed week like a row of impressions made by the same rubber stamp. He did not observe this, because such observations were not part of his mental habit; he could not have observed it because, indeed, it was not, in any fundamental sense, true. True as it might have seemed to a clearsighted but unreflecting spectator, the very existence of Egg, in whom everything but his own indestructible identity was incessantly however subtly changing, availed to prevent its being so. The fingers of time were never idle upon him; they took his plastic form, and, with a caress here, a thrust there, they secretly and imperceptibly remodelled him. His mind to its old store added multitudinous images gathered from the new environment, experienced sensations, needing only utterance to make them thoughts, that rose out of the ceaseless chemical action going on inside him between past and present. In Farringay things seemed always much as usual. The village continued more and more resolutely to affiliate itself to the great metropolis six miles distant; the beneficent Blogg (and Brother) continued to build his rows of villas; more shops sprang up, and competition became keener; there was talk of a local theatre; Mr Pummice continued to quote, and to attribute fragments of Longfellow, Mrs Hemans, Isaac Watts, Martin Tupper, and others, to ‘the Bard of Avon’; Mr Farthing continued to despise Teetotalism and all its works; and Mr Wimmett continued to wish that he could lay his hand on a fifty-pound note. At Noom’s, life ran in its accustomed grooves. Mr Noom, save on the subject of his wife, from time to time opened his heart to Egg; Egg, though his affections were ungrudgingly bestowed, kept his own heart closed; Carrie remained as dependable and cheerful and managing as ever; and Mrs Noom, who breathed melodrama as her native element and was never herself without it, continued, in obedience to the law of self-preservation, manufacturing that element in all places and at all seasons. Everything was the same except—and the exception, however trite, is great enough to rob the statement of significance—except that everyone was growing older.
Further afield more obvious changes were taking place. The Ridge Farm, Egg heard, had changed hands, and the Pandervil family was scattered to the four points of the compass. Flisher had become the third wife of Sam Reddick the dairyman, who was fifteen years her senior; Martha was employed as nursemaid in the pretty rural district of Muswell Hill; Jane, still a child, was once more under the care of sister Sarah; and Jinny Randall had been romantically met, and seized, and married, and translated to Manchester, by a commercial gentleman named Glover who happened, in the course of his duties, to pass through Keyborough. And what of Algernon himself, by whom these events were reported? The choicest fate of all had been reserved for Algernon, who seemed to have blossomed into a luxuriant and exotic growth since the removal of his parents’ authority and his brother’s innocent competition. It appeared that his bit of schooling had, as he said, come in useful. He had been taken on as a clerk by no less a personage than Mr Fox, of Fox, Fox, Fox and Nephew, the leading auctioneer in Mercester, and was rapidly, if his own account was to be trusted, climbing high into favour with his employers. Fast following his letter came Algernon himself, eager, after a lapse of two years, to see, as he said, young Egg again.
Whatever changes the years had wrought in Egg were neither conspicuous nor unexpected; but Algernon they had re-created, filling out his person (always a plump person), giving an air of importance to his carriage, enriching his voice with the deep velvet tones of self-satisfaction, and leaving only so much of the old Algernon as to make it demonstrable that this was indeed he and no impudent, well-fed, plausible impostor. Having sent warning of his visit, he secured—and by post, without requiring his brother’s intervention—a room at the Green Man. And there, wearing a magnificent check suit, a crimson waistcoat, and a stock that was fully the equal of Mr Pummice’s, he received and entertained young Egg. He was wonderfully genial and benevolent. His voice boomed, and he went on shaking Egg’s hand so heartily, so long, and with such ample pumping movement, as to cause some little embarrassment to the recipient of this honour. ‘Well, old man,’ said Algernon, ‘and how’s things with you? I hear from old Sarah that you’re getting along famous. In business, I mean. Bray-vo, Eggie! Nothing like business, is there? Ah, nothing.’ Egg, unfeignedly glad to see his brother, was hypnotized into attempting an imitation of this bluff cordiality. But it was Algernon who did most of the talking. Algernon, to do him justice, was pleased
with the world, with Farringay, with the quality of his accommodation, with Egg, no less than with himself. He described nearly everything that was shewn him, nearly every piece of news that Egg gave him, as ‘capital, capital, old man’. He was very free, too, with diminutives. ‘I shouldn’t wonder, old man, between you and me and the feather bed, I shouldn’t wonder if there wasn’t a nice little partnership coming the way of yours truly before many moons are out, as they say.’ In one of the less frequented lanes of Farringay he interrupted Egg’s answer to an urgent question of his own in order to give a performance in his best auctioneering style. In two minutes he sold a score of sheep at extravagant prices. It was his own opinion, ‘though I don’t go in for chucking bowkays at myself, old man,’ that he could get the bids, and take the bids, and keep the patter going, as smart as any fellow in Mercester; and Egg, who found difficulty in distinguishing one word from another of his brother’s passionate professional gabble, warmly agreed that it must be so. ‘I don’t say,’ said Algernon, ‘that I haven’t had a nice little bit of practice, for that would be telling you a lie. And practice, as they say, makes perfect. I daresay you’ve found that out in your business, old man.’ And just as Egg was making yet another desperate attempt to describe the life of a grocer Algernon burst in with: ‘Yes, I know, old man. Jolly interesting it must be. Only too glad to see you settled and that’s a fact. As for me, I’ve got a nice little billet and I don’t mind admitting it. What’s more—’ He smiled and winked and unconsciously expanded his chest before leaning close to his brother’s ear to say confidentially: ‘What’s more, Egg old son, there’s a certain little woman out Flaxted way. Nothing settled yet, of course. Time enough for that when that little partnership comes along. But I fancy we understand one another. Trust me.’ At the end of his brief visit, Algernon repeated with augmented enthusiasm the pumping operation that had signalized his greeting. ‘Well, all the best, old man,’ he said. ‘It’s been nice to see you and talk over old times. Bye bye, boy!’ Algernon’s visit was perhaps the most highly coloured incident that occurred during the drab period that followed Mrs Noom’s deathbed performance.
The Pandervils Page 14