by E. H. Young
The doorstep was spotless, the knocker gleamed, potted chrysanthemums were arranged in tiers in the porch, and Hannah had her nose against a flower and was savouring its sweet bitterness, when the door opened. From the parlour-maid’s point of view, this was a bad beginning, and either in punishment or on her quick estimate of this caller’s place in the world, she took Hannah to a small room which had a feeling of not being lived in. Here the humble and the suppliant sat on the edges of the chairs; here were kept the books which were not obviously the right ones for the Spenser-Smiths to possess. The classics, Hannah guessed, were displayed somewhere to advantage, and these were the pickings from book-stalls, children’s books and those by writers of whose eminence and respectability Lilia was not assured.
Hannah took down a volume and prepared to wait, but Lilia, apparently, was anxious to know the worst as soon as possible, and after tactfully showing annoyance that Hannah should have been left in a room without a fire, she took her cousin into a drawing-room bright with gay cretonne, a wood fire and sunshine, and asked cheerfully if this were her free afternoon.
‘Well, yes, as you might say and in a manner of speaking, it is. And a very nice afternoon, too. It will help us through the winter, as they always say. And this is a very nice room. You see, Lilia, all’s right with my world.’
‘I’m very glad to hear it,’ Mrs. Spenser-Smith said with reserve. She had had some experience of Hannah’s high spirits. ‘Are you going to stay to tea?’
‘If you press me like that, dear, of course I will. Time exists for me no longer, unless I’m hungry, and there are ways of misleading one’s stomach. By staying in bed till ten o’clock, I can manage on a cup of tea till the middle of the day; you’re giving me a free meal and I shall be in bed with a book before the pangs begin again.’
‘For goodness’ sake,’ said Lilia, who had rung the bell, ‘don’t talk any of your nonsense while Maud’s bringing in the tea. And afterwards, you’d better tell me what you mean by it.’
‘I mean,’ said Hannah, when the ban of silence was removed, ‘that I’m resting at present, as we say on the stage. Remark the pronoun, Lilia. I was on the stage once, you know. In a crowd. And they let me wear my own clothes!’
‘Then, if I were you,’ said Lilia, ‘I should be careful not to mention it. How you could do it! But I don’t suppose you really did. And true or not, if you say things like that, what’s going to become of you?’
‘It was a virtuous crowd,’ Hannah said meekly. ‘We were all booing a bad man. You can’t ask more than that. I booed for a week and they picked up another shabby female in the next town.’
‘I don’t want to hear about it,’ Lilia said. ‘For your own sake, you’d better not tell me what you know I shan’t approve of.’
‘Ah,’ said Hannah, ‘what’s your little scheme?’
Lilia tightened her lips. ‘I don’t know that I’m justified in having one.’
‘That doesn’t matter in the least, dear.’
‘It matters to me,’ she said, and then, with a quick change from the noble to the practical, she asked sharply, ‘Did you get a month’s wages?’
A little shamefaced, Hannah nodded her head. ‘I did. I managed to be unbearably irritating without being actually rude, so she could neither keep nor rob me. It took some doing, I can tell you. And I was longing to be rude – personally abusive, you know – but there, I don’t suppose you do; you’re so genteel.’
Lilia pushed a cushion behind her back, wreaking on the impassivity of down the annoyance which would have made as little permanent impression on Hannah. ‘And where are you staying now? You didn’t go the same night, I suppose?’
‘No. The next morning – in a cab.’ She spoke slowly and her eyes had the fixity of careful thought. ‘A horse cab, with a beery, bottle-nosed old man on the box.’
‘I don’t want details.’
‘They’re part of the story, and old bottle-nose is the knight-errant. It’s a pity his type is dying out. They know a lot about life, those old men, and I like them. They always believe the worst and they don’t mind a bit. He knew what had happened at once and I’m sorry to tell you that he winked at me. No, I didn’t wink back, but I let him know that I knew how, and then I told him I wanted some cheap lodgings and he said he knew the very place for me. And so he did. He took me to a house in Prince’s Road, quite near your place of worship, dear, and I’m sure you’ll feel quite happy about me because Mrs. Gibson is a member of the congregation. I would have let you know sooner, but I’ve been so busy in the free library, looking at the advertisements.’
‘Nothing,’ said Lilia after a pause, ‘could have been more unfortunate.’
‘Why? I call it very lucky. Only a pound a week for a bed-sitting-room, a shilling in the slot for the gas fire, and a share of Mrs. Gibson’s dinner for practically nothing. She’s far too generous, but I try to help her and she says she finds my conversation very bright.’
‘Most unfortunate!’ Lilia repeated. ‘And why that cabman should have taken you to one of the houses I should have wished you to avoid, is more than I can understand.’
‘It seems quite respectable,’ Hannah murmured. ‘Mr. Blenkinsop lives there, you know.’
‘Of course I know it! But I suppose you don’t see much of him?’
‘As much as I can,’ Hannah answered cheerfully. ‘But he’s rather a shy bird. And if you’re worrying about what I’ve told these people, you can set your mind at rest. The name of Spenser-Smith has never passed my lips. Mrs. Gibson wouldn’t feel at ease with me if she knew I had such grand connections.’
Lilia assumed the expression with which she tried to counter Hannah’s attacks. It was almost, but not quite, blank. She gave the cushion another push and said, ‘I was thinking of this silly way of talking about theatres. It doesn’t do, Hannah. It may be bright,’ she made the word astonishingly acid, ‘but it will be remembered against you. The fact is – mind, I’m not sure about it, but I do want you to be careful – there’s a chance that I can get you a post as Mr. Corder’s housekeeper.’
‘Who’s he? Oh, I know. The minister. Does he want one?’
‘No,’ said Lilia, compressing her lips again, ‘but I think he ought to have one.’
‘Then he’s doomed,’ said Hannah. ‘Thank you, Lilia. I take this very kind. What’s the salary?’
‘Nothing’s settled. You mustn’t count on it. Mr. Corder is a widower and he’s talking it over with his daughter.’
‘Oh, he’s got a daughter.’
‘Two,’ said Lilia. ‘Ruth is still at school and somebody ought to look after her. The other night at the Literary meeting –’
‘Was Mr. Blenkinsop amusing?’ Hannah interpolated.
‘No. He didn’t seem to be thinking about what he was saying.’
‘No wonder!’ Hannah murmured. ‘But go on, dear, go on. At the Literary meeting – ?’
‘Ruth had a large hole in her stocking. It looks so bad. Ethel’s useless, she’s always at the Mission, and I’ve been thinking for some time that they ought to have a responsible woman in the house. There’s only a skimpy little servant and there’s a young man cousin who lives with them – Mr. Corder’s son is at Oxford and, between you and me, Hannah, I make that possible – and I don’t think it’s quite nice, but I wasn’t going to suggest anything until I could recommend somebody. There are plenty of women in the chapel who would jump at the chance, but I was fond of Mrs. Corder –’
‘Say no more, dear!’ Hannah exclaimed. I understand it all! You want a good, solid sand-bag to fill up the gap; you want a watchdog, of no breed or beauty, but warranted to bark; your affection for the poor woman’s memory is stronger than his and you’re not going to let him forget her altogether. Quite right!’ Hannah’s thin, odd face was glowing, her eyes, greener than usual, shone. ‘It’s not complimentary to me, but it’s magnificent and I’ll bark like fury. And they say women are not loyal to each other! Why, already I feel like a sister to Mrs.
What’s-her-name myself!’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ said Mrs. Spenser-Smith. ‘I liked Mrs. Corder well enough. She was rather a nonentity, compared with him, poor little woman, but I believe she did her best, and when I see that Patsy Withers making eyes at him –’
‘I’ll remember the name,’ Hannah said.
‘You haven’t got the post yet,’ Lilla said sharply, ‘and I don’t believe you’re really fit for it. I’ve stretched a point, Hannah. I don’t suppose you could produce a written character which Mr. Corder would look at twice, and goodness knows what you’ve been doing all these years, and if you go, I do hope you’ll remember that I’ve practically guaranteed you. And, by the way, I’ve said nothing about our relationship. I thought it wouldn’t be fair to either of you. I want you to go there on your own merits. I mentioned this to Ernest and he quite agrees.’
Hannah smiled with pleasant maliciousness and said nothing, but she gave the impression of being ready to say a good deal and Lilia went on hastily. ‘I’ll let you know what happens. I shall see him at the week-night service.’
‘But won’t he want to see me?’
‘Not necessary,’ said Mrs. Spenser-Smith in her best Spenser-Smithian manner.
‘Not advisable, you mean! I daresay you’re right. What sort of man is he? Is he brisk and hearty, or one of those gentle paw-folders?’
‘That isn’t funny, Hannah, it’s vulgar; I might say irreverent. Do try to remember you’re a lady.’
‘But I’m not. I come of the same stock as you do, Lilia, and we know what that is. Simple yeoman stock, and my father often dropped his aitches and so did yours. I know you don’t like remembering it, but there’s the fact. I happened to be educated above my station – though you, of course, were not! – and there are times when I revert – revert, Lilia! But I’ll try to behave myself and I’ll keep my eye on Patsy. Thank you for the tea, and now I’ll go back to Mrs. Gibson and cobble up some of my underclothes, though I hope they’ll be a matter of indifference to the Reverend Corder.’
‘There you are again!’ Lilia said with a sigh, and she offered her cool, rosy face to be kissed.
‘It’s only a bit of fun between us girls!’ Hannah cried, and as she brushed her cheek against her cousin’s, she added, ‘You’re a good soul, Lilia. I always liked you.’
‘Oh, go along with you,’ Lilia said good-naturedly, and gently urged her to the door. There was no knowing what generous foolishness Ernest would commit, if he found her in the house when he came home.
Chapter 5
The wind had risen strongly as night came on and Hannah crossed the Downs under swaying branches and swirling leaves. The football-players, the riders, the children had all gone home; lamps edged the roads, but, where Hannah walked under the elms, there was a stormy darkness. The branches creaked lugubriously or with shrill protest, and those which still kept their leaves were like great flails, threshing the winds, maddened by their sterile efforts, for it was the wind, threshing harder, that produced the harvest, whipping it from the trees and driving it before him. Hannah was driven, too; a wisp of a woman, exhilarated by the noise and the buffeting. Lilia’s comfortable, bright room seemed unreal to her, Mr. Corder was the invention of an idle moment and Hannah Mole had no past, no future, only this breathless present when the wind would have had her go westwards and she was making for the south. For ten minutes or a quarter of an hour, until she reached lower ground and the shelter of the streets, where the wind did its best with the trees in the gardens but found their weaker resistance a dull affair, she had that freedom from care which is the reward of exciting physical effort; but in the comparative quiet of Chatterton Road she became conscious of the self which needed money for food and clothing and, absurdly, she saw it handed to her by Mr. Corder on one of his own offertory plates. She shook her head and made a grimace of refusal. She had a prejudice against Non-conformist ministers, she pictured Mr. Corder according to the pattern in her mind, ignorantly unctuous, pretending to a humility which was patently absent, and she had a moment of rebellion. She could see herself clearly enough with other people’s eyes: she was drab, she was nearing, if she had not reached, middle-age, she bore the stamp of a woman who had always worked against the grain, she was, in fact, the ideal housekeeper for Mr. Corder. She admitted that no one sitting in his dining-room and mending his woven underwear at a table with a rusty little fern in the middle of a green serge cloth, could look more suitable than Hannah Mole. Who would suspect her of a sense of fun and irony, of a passionate love for beauty and the power to drag it from its hidden places? Who could imagine that Miss Mole had pictured herself, at different times, as an explorer in strange lands, as a lady wrapped in luxury and delicate garments, as the mother of adorably naughty children and the inspiringly elusive mistress of a poet? She could turn up her own long nose at these fanciful excursions, without convincing herself of their improbability. The desires, the energy, the gaiety were there, but they were ruled by an ironic conception of herself which did not seem inconsistent and which was also the armour she assumed against the world when it was not willing to be friendly. And, after all, as she told herself, quelling her useless rebellion, the things she wanted, if she had them, would soon turn into those she wanted no longer and – here was God’s happy idea of compensation again – she found a wealth of amusement in going about disguised, while because her clear-sightedness was not kept entirely for the weaknesses of others, she had to own that she who had been a failure in the lot forced on her, was not likely to be a success in any one she chose. She was a vagrant and with the vagrant’s advantages, the readiness to move on, the carelessness of possessions, she had to support the inconvenience of being moved on before she was ready to go and of finding herself poorer than was comfortable. Now both these conditions had befallen her. Few things, she thought at that moment, could be more distasteful than leaving the house, where she was treated as a friend, where she had a sly, lazy pleasure in listening to Mrs. Gibson’s platitudes and a keener one in discomfiting Mr. Blenkinsop by waylaying him on the stairs and forcing him into conversation; a house which she could leave at her caprice for a saunter round Upper Radstowe or a long walk on the other side of the river, to which she could return with the certainty of a welcome, and she must resign all this for the sake of mending Mr. Corder’s daughter’s stockings and keeping herself fed and clad.
Yet it was better to be Hannah Mole than to be Lilia who could see herself as one person only, and that was Mrs. Spenser-Smith, who had never broken a basement window to save a man from gas poisoning, dragged him from the neighbourhood of the oven, and then consoled the baby who was crying, neglected, in his perambulator: better than to be poor little Mrs. Ridding with that strange look on her face. It was the look, Hannah thought, of someone who had braced herself for approaching an inevitable catastrophe and seen its postponement with despair. The look had no more than flashed across her face but Hannah had seen it and she could recall it plainly now, in the darkness. ‘Oh, for money!’ Hannah moaned, not thinking of herself. Money could cause neurotics to be cured or, if it failed in that, it could enable a young widow to bring up her boy, and Hannah began to desire it passionately. She had heard Lilia speak with grand disparagement of it, but that was just what Lilia, who had always had it, would take care to do. Money was one of the best things in the world, used properly, used by Miss Hannah Mole, and all the way down Prince’s Road she was buying annuities for people like herself, settling some thousands of pounds on Mrs. Ridding, and sending people Christmas cards and valentines in the shape of five-pound notes.
When she reached Mrs. Gibson’s house she saw a light in the basement kitchen and, through the mended window, which was open, she could hear Mrs. Ridding singing. Hannah’s big mouth drooped. She heard that singing every morning before Mr. Ridding went to work and every evening when he came home, but never at any other time of day, and it hurt her that anyone so young should be so unhappy and so brave. She was ashamed of her o
wn discontent and her concentration on herself. What happened to her, who had lived more than half her life and had some fun in it and, yes, one mad, romantic interlude, was of very little importance now, but Mrs. Ridding was a girl and Hannah’s large, erratic heart was aching for her. And there was nothing she could do. Her funds of advice – which she did not take herself – of drollery, of encouragement, were of no use, for Mrs. Ridding was very bright and cold with the witnesses of that sordid scene in the basement, even with the woman who had comforted and bathed the baby. Hannah wished she could bath the baby again. Mrs. Gibson had been much impressed by her handling of him; Mrs. Gibson, in fact, admired everything Hannah did, and perhaps it would be salutary for her to live with a man who was much more likely to admire what he did himself.