Fraternity. Galsworthy John
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he says. He’s one o’ these that works for the Vestry; an’ then ‘e’ll go an’ get upon the drink, an’ when that sets ‘im off, it seems as if there wasn’t no respect for nothing in ‘im; he goes on against the gentry, and the Church, and every sort of institution. I never met no soldiers like him. Dreadful foreign – Welsh, they tell me.”
“What do you think of the street you’re living in?”
“I keeps myself to myself; low class o’ street it is; dreadful low class o’ person there – no self-respect about ‘em.”
“Ah!” said Hilary.
“These little ‘ouses, they get into the hands o’ little men, and they don’t care so long as they makes their rent out o’ them. They can’t help themselves – low class o’ man like that; ‘e’s got to do the best ‘e can for ‘imself. They say there’s thousands o’ these ‘ouses all over London. There’s some that’s for pullin’ of ‘em down, but that’s talkin’ rubbish; where are you goin’ to get the money for to do it? These ‘ere little men, they can’t afford not even to put a paper on the walls, and the big ground landlords-you can’t expect them to know what’s happenin’ behind their backs. There’s some ignorant fellers like this Hughs talks a lot o’ wild nonsense about the duty o’ ground landlords; but you can’t expect the real gentry to look into these sort o’ things. They’ve got their estates down in the country. I’ve lived with them, and of course I know.”
The little bulldog, incommoded by the passers-by, now took the opportunity of beating with her tail against the old butler’s legs.
“Oh dear! what’s this? He don’t bite, do ‘e? Good Sambo!”
Miranda sought her master’s eye at once. ‘You see what happens to her if a lady loiters in the streets,’ she seemed to say.
“It must be hard standing about here all day, after the life you’ve led,” said Hilary.
“I mustn’t complain; it’s been the salvation o’ me.”
“Do you get shelter?”
Again the old butler seemed to take him into confidence.
“Sometimes of a wet night they lets me stand up in the archway there; they know I’m respectable. ‘T wouldn’t never do for that man” – he nodded at his rival – “or any of them boys to get standin’ there, obstructin’ of the traffic.”
“I wanted to ask you, Mr. Creed, is there anything to be done for Mrs. Hughs?”
The frail old body quivered with the vindictive force of his answer.
“Accordin’ to what she says, if I’m a-to believe ‘er, I’d have him up before the magistrate, sure as my name’s Creed, an’ get a separation, an’ I wouldn’t never live with ‘im again: that’s what she ought to do. An’ if he come to go for her after that, I’d have ‘im in prison, if ‘e killed me first! I’ve no patience with a low class o’ man like that! He insulted of me this morning.”
“Prison’s a dreadful remedy,” murmured Hilary.
The old butler answered stoutly: “There ain’t but one way o’ treatin’ them low fellers – ketch hold o’ them until they holler!”
Hilary was about to reply when he found himself alone. At the edge of the pavement some yards away, Creed, his face upraised to heaven, was embracing with all his force the second edition of the Westminster Gazette, which had been thrown him from a cart.
‘Well,’ thought Hilary, walking on, ‘you know your own mind, anyway!’
And trotting by his side, with her jaw set very firm, his little bulldog looked up above her eyes, and seemed to say: ‘It was time we left that man of action!’
CHAPTER VII
CECILIA’S SCATTERED THOUGHTS
In her morning room Mrs. Stephen Dallison sat at an old oak bureau collecting her scattered thoughts. They lay about on pieces of stamped notepaper, beginning “Dear Cecilia,” or “Mrs. Tallents Smallpeace requests,” or on bits of pasteboard headed by the names of theatres, galleries, or concert-halls; or, again, on paper of not quite so good a quality, commencing, “Dear Friend,” and ending with a single well-known name like “Wessex,” so that no suspicion should attach to the appeal contained between the two. She had before her also sheets of her own writing-paper, headed “76, The Old Square, Kensington,” and two little books. One of these was bound in marbleised paper, and on it written: “Please keep this book in safety”; across the other, cased in the skin of some small animal deceased, was inscribed the solitary word “Engagements.”
Cecilia had on a Persian-green silk blouse with sleeves that would have hidden her slim hands, but for silver buttons made in the likeness of little roses at her wrists; on her brow was a faint frown, as though she were wondering what her thoughts were all about. She sat there every morning catching those thoughts, and placing them in one or other of her little books. Only by thus working hard could she keep herself, her husband, and daughter, in due touch with all the different movements going on. And that the touch might be as due as possible, she had a little headache nearly every day. For the dread of letting slip one movement, or of being too much taken with another, was very real to her; there were so many people who were interesting, so many sympathies of hers and Stephen’s which she desired to cultivate, that it was a matter of the utmost import not to cultivate any single one too much. Then, too, the duty of remaining feminine with all this going forward taxed her constitution. She sometimes thought enviously of the splendid isolation now enjoyed by Blanca, of which some subtle instinct, rather than definite knowledge, had informed her; but not often, for she was a loyal little person, to whom Stephen and his comforts were of the first moment. And though she worried somewhat because her thoughts WOULD come by every post, she did not worry very much – hardly more than the Persian kitten on her lap, who also sat for hours trying to catch her tail, with a line between her eyes, and two small hollows in her cheeks.
When she had at last decided what concerts she would be obliged to miss, paid her subscription to the League for the Suppression of Tinned Milk, and accepted an invitation to watch a man fall from a balloon, she paused. Then, dipping her pen in ink, she wrote as follows:
“Mrs. Stephen Dallison would be glad to have the blue dress ordered by her yesterday sent home at once without alteration. – Messrs. Rose and Thorn, High Street, Kensington.”
Ringing the bell, she thought: ‘It will be a job for Mrs. Hughs, poor thing. I believe she’ll do it quite as well as Rose and Thorn.’ – “Would you please ask Mrs. Hughs to come to me? – Oh, is that you, Mrs. Hughs? Come in.”
The seamstress, who had advanced into the middle of the room, stood with her worn hands against her sides, and no sign of life but the liquid patience in her large brown eyes. She was an enigmatic figure. Her presence always roused a sort of irritation in Cecilia, as if she had been suddenly confronted with what might possibly have been herself if certain little accidents had omitted to occur. She was so conscious that she ought to sympathise, so anxious to show that there was no barrier between them, so eager to be all she ought to be, that her voice almost purred.
“Are you Getting on with the curtains, Mrs. Hughs?”
“Yes, m’m, thank you, m’m.”
“I shall have another job for you to-morrow – altering a dress. Can you come?”
“Yes, m’m, thank you, m’m.”
“Is the baby well?”
“Yes, m’m, thank you, m’m.”
There was a silence.
‘It’s no good talking of her domestic matters,’ thought Cecilia; ‘not that I don’t care!’ But the silence getting on her nerves, she said quickly: “Is your husband behaving himself better?”
There was no answer; Cecilia saw a tear trickle slowly down the woman’s cheek.
‘Oh dear, oh dear,’