If she had been of another type he would have saved both her and himself a scene and steered3 ably through the difficulties of the situation towards a point where they could have met upon a normal plane. A very pretty woman with whose affairs one has nothing whatever to do, and whose pretty home has been the perfection of modern smartness of custom, suddenly opening her front door in the unexplained absence of a footman and confronting a visitor, plainly upon the verge4 of hysteria, suggests the necessity of promptness.
But Feather gave him not a breath’s space. She was in fact not merely on the verge of her hysteria. She had gone farther. And here he was. Oh, here he was! She fell down upon her knees and actually clasped his immaculateness.
“Oh, Lord Coombe! Lord Coombe! Lord Coombe!” She said it three times because he presented to her but the one idea.
He did not drag himself away from her embrace but he distinctly removed himself from it.
“You must not fall upon your knees, Mrs. Lawless,” he said. “Shall we go into the drawing-room?”
“I—was writing to you. I am starving—but it seemed too silly when I wrote it. And it’s true!” Her broken words were as senseless in their sound as she had thought them when she saw them written.
“Will you come up into the drawing-room and tell me exactly what you mean,” he said and he made her release him and stand upon her feet.
As the years had passed he had detached himself from so many weaknesses and their sequelae of emotion that he had felt himself a safely unreachable person. He was not young and he knew enough of the disagreeableness of consequences to be adroit5 in keeping out of the way of apparently6 harmless things which might be annoying. Yet as he followed Mrs. Gareth-Lawless and watched her stumbling up the stairs like a punished child he was aware that he was abnormally in danger of pitying her as he did not wish to pity people. The pity was also something apart from the feeling that it was hideous7 that a creature so lovely, so shallow and so fragile should have been caught in the great wheels of Life.
He knew what he had come to talk to her about but he had really no clear idea of what her circumstances actually were. Most people had of course guessed that her husband had been living on the edge of his resources and was accustomed to debt and duns, but a lovely being greeting you by clasping your knees and talking about “starving”—in this particular street in Mayfair, led one to ask oneself what one was walking into. Feather herself had not known, in fact neither had any other human being known, that there was a special reason why he had drifted into seeming rather to allow her about—why he had finally been counted among the frequenters of the narrow house—and why he had seemed to watch her a good deal sometimes with an expression of serious interest—sometimes with an air of irritation8, and sometimes with no expression at all. But there existed this reason and this it was and this alone which had caused him to appear upon her threshold and it had also been the power which had prevented his disengaging himself with more incisive9 finality when he found himself ridiculously clasped about the knees as one who played the part of an obdurate10 parent in a melodrama11.
Once in the familiar surroundings of her drawing-room her ash-gold blondness and her black gauzy frock heightened all her effects so extraordinarily12 that he frankly13 admitted to himself that she possessed14 assets which would have modified most things to most men.
As for Feather, when she herself beheld15 him against the background of the same intimate aspects, the effect of the sound of his voice, the manner in which he sat down in a chair and a certain remotely dim hint in the hue16 of his clothes and an almost concealed17 note of some touch of colour which scarcely seemed to belong to anything worn—were so reminiscent of the days which now seemed past forever that she began to cry again.
“You mustn’t do that, Mrs. Lawless,” he said, “or I shall burst into tears myself. I am a sensitive creature.”
“I will say it now,” he answered, “if you will not weep. It is an adorable name.”
“I feel as if I should never hear it again,” she shuddered21, trying to dry her eyes. “It is all over!”
“What is all over?”
“This—!” turning a hopeless gaze upon the two tiny rooms crowded with knick-knacks and nonsense. “The parties and the fun—and everything in the world! I have only had some biscuits and raisins22 to eat today—and the landlord is going to turn me out.”
It seemed almost too preposterous23 to quite credit that she was uttering naked truth.—And yet—! After a second’s gaze at her he repeated what he had said below stairs.
“Will you tell me exactly what you mean?”
Then he sat still and listened while she poured it all forth24. And as he listened he realized that it was the mere1 every day fact that they were sitting in the slice of a house with the cream-coloured front and the great lady in her mansion25 on one side and the millionaire and his splendours on the other, which peculiarly added to a certain hint of gruesomeness in the situation.
It was not necessary to add colour and desperation to the story. Any effort Feather had made in that direction would only have detracted from the nakedness of its stark26 facts. They were quite enough in themselves in their normal inevitableness. Feather in her pale and totally undignified panic presented the whole thing with clearness which had—without being aided by her—an actual dramatic value. This in spite of her mental dartings to and from and dragging in of points and bits of scenes which were not connected with each other. Only a brain whose processes of inclusion and exclusion27 were final and rapid could have followed her. Coombe watched her closely as she talked. No grief-stricken young widowed loneliness and heart-break were the background of her anguish28. She was her own background and also her own foreground. The strength of the fine body laid prone29 on the bed of the room she held in horror, the white rigid30 face whose good looks had changed to something she could not bear to remember, had no pathos31 which was not concerned with the fact that Robert had amazingly and unnaturally32 failed her by dying and leaving her nothing but unpaid33 bills. This truth indeed made the situation more poignantly34 and finally squalid, as she brought forth one detail after another. There were bills which had been accumulating ever since they began their life in the narrow house, there had been trades-people who had been juggled36 with, promises made and supported by adroit tricks and cleverly invented misrepresentations and lies which neither of the pair had felt any compunctions about and had indeed laughed over. Coombe saw it all though he also saw that Feather did not know all she was telling him. He could realize the gradually increasing pressure and anger at tricks which betrayed themselves, and the gathering37 determination on the part of the creditors38 to end the matter in the only way in which it could be ended. It had come to this before Robert’s illness, and Feather herself had heard of fierce interviews and had seen threatening letters, but she had not believed they could mean all they implied. Since things had been allowed to go on so long she felt that they would surely go on longer in the same way. There had been some serious threatening about the rent and the unpaid-for furniture. Robert’s supporting idea had been that he might perhaps “get something out of Lawdor who wouldn’t enjoy being the relation of a fellow who was turned into the street!”
“He ought to have done something,” Feather complained. “Robert would have been Lord Lawdor himself if his uncle had died before he had all those disgusting children.”
She was not aware that Coombe frequently refrained from saying things to her—but occasionally allowed himself not to refrain. He did not refrain now from making a simple comment.
“But he is extremely robust39 and he has the children. Six stalwart boys and a stalwart girl. Family feeling has apparently gone out of fashion.”
As she wandered on with her story he mentally felt himself actually dragged into the shrimp-pink bedroom and standing40 an onlooker41 when the footman outside the door “did not know” where Tonson had gone. For a moment he felt conscious of the presence of some scent18 which would have been sure to exhale42 itself from draperies and wardrobe. He saw Cook put the account books on the small table, he heard her, he also comprehended her. And Feather at the window breathlessly watching the two cabs with the servants’ trunks on top, and the servants respectably unprofessional in attire43 and going away quietly without an unpractical compunction—he saw these also and comprehended knowing exactly why compunctions had no part in latter-day domestic arrangements. Why should they?
When Feather reached the point where it became necessary to refer to Robin44 some fortunate memory of Alice’s past warnings caused her to feel—quite suddenly—that certain details might be eliminated.
“She cried a little at first,” she said, “but she fell asleep afterwards. I was glad she did because I was afraid to go to her in the dark.”
“Was she in the dark?”
“I think so. Perhaps Louisa taught her to sleep without a light. There was none when I took her some condensed milk this morning. There was only c-con-d-densed milk to give her.”
She shed tears and choked as she described her journey into the lower regions and the cockroaches45 scuttling46 away before her into their hiding-places.
“I must have a nurse! I must have one!” she almost sniffed47. “Someone must change her clothes and give her a bath!”
“You can’t?” Coombe said.
“I!” dropping her handkerchief. “How—how can I?”
It was really Robin who was for Feather the breaking-point.
He thought she was in danger of flinging herself upon him again. She caught at his arm and her eyes of larkspur blue were actually wild.
“Don’t you see where I am! How there is nothing and nobody—Don’t you see?”
“Yes, I see,” he answered. “You are quite right. There is nothing and nobody. I have been to Lawdor myself.”
“You have been to talk to him?”
“Yesterday. That was my reason for coming here. He will not see you or be written to. He says he knows better than to begin that sort of thing. It may be that family feeling has not the vogue49 it once had, but you may recall that your husband infuriated him years ago. Also England is a less certain quantity than it once was—and the man has a family. He will allow you a hundred a year but there he draws the line.”
“A hundred a year!” Feather breathed. From her delicate shoulders hung floating scarf-like sleeves of black transparency and she lifted one of them and held it out like a night moth’s wing—“This cost forty pounds,” she said, her voice quite faint and low. “A good nurse would cost forty! A cook—and a footman and a maid—and a coachman—and the brougham—I don’t know how much they would cost. Oh-h!”
She drooped50 forward upon her sofa and laid face downward on a cushion—slim, exquisite51 in line, lost in despair.
The effect produced was that she gave herself into his hands. He felt as well as saw it and considered. She had no suggestion to offer, no reserve. There she was.
“It is an incredible sort of situation,” he said in an even, low-pitched tone rather as if he were thinking aloud, “but it is baldly real. It is actually simple. In a street in Mayfair a woman and child might—” He hesitated a second and a wailed52 word came forth from the cushion.
“Starve!”
He moved slightly and continued.
“Since their bills have not been paid the trades-people will not send in food. Servants will not stay in a house where they are not fed and receive no wages. No landlord will allow a tenant53 to occupy his property unless he pays rent. It may sound inhuman—but it is only human.”
The cushion in which Feather’s face was buried retained a faint scent of Robert’s cigar smoke and the fragrance54 brought back to her things she had heard him say dispassionately about Lord Coombe as well as about other men. He had not been a puritanic or condemnatory55 person. She seemed to see herself groveling again on the floor of her bedroom and to feel the darkness and silence through which she had not dared to go to Robin.
Not another night like that! No! No!
“You must go to Jersey56 to your mother and father,” Coombe said. “A hundred a year will help you there in your own home.”
Then she sat upright and there was something in her lovely little countenance57 he had never seen before. It was actually determination.
“I have heard,” she said, “of poor girls who were driven—by starvation to—to go on the streets. I—would go anywhere before I would go back there.”
“Anywhere!” he repeated, his own countenance expressing—or rather refusing to express something as new as the thing he had seen in her own.
“Anywhere!” she cried and then she did what he had thought her on the verge of doing a few minutes earlier—she fell at his feet and embraced his knees. She clung to him, she sobbed58, her pretty hair loosened itself and fell about her in wild but enchanting59 disorder60.
“Oh, Lord Coombe! Oh, Lord Coombe! Oh, Lord Coombe!” she cried as she had cried in the hall.
He rose and endeavoured to disengage himself as he had done before. This time with less success because she would not let him go. He had the greatest possible objection to scenes.
“Mrs. Lawless—Feather—I beg you will get up,” he said.
But she had reached the point of not caring what happened if she could keep him. He was a gentleman—he had everything in the world. What did it matter?
“I have no one but you and—and you always seemed to like me, I would do anything—anyone asked me, if they would take care of me. I have always liked you very much—and I did amuse you—didn’t I? You liked to come here.”
There was something poignant35 about her delicate distraught loveliness and, in the remoteness of his being, a shuddering61 knowledge that it was quite true that she would do anything for any man who would take care of her, produced an effect on him nothing else would have produced. Also a fantastic and finely ironic62 vision of Joseph and Potiphar’s wife rose before him and the vision of himself as Joseph irked a certain complexness of his mentality63. Poignant as the thing was in its modern way, it was also faintly ridiculous.
Then Robin awakened64 and shrieked65 again. The sound which had gained strength through long sleep and also through added discomfort66 quite rang through the house. What that sound added to the moment he himself would not have been able to explain until long afterwards. But it singularly and impellingly added.
“Listen!” panted Feather. “She has begun again. And there is no one to go to her.”
“Get up, Mrs. Lawless,” he said. “Do I understand that you are willing that I should arrange this for you!”
He helped her to her feet.
Her uplifted eyes were like a young angel’s brimming with crystal drops which slipped—as a child’s tears slip—down her cheeks. She clasped her hands in exquisite appeal. He stood for a moment quite still, his mind fled far away and he forgot where he was. And because of this the little simpleton’s shallow discretion68 deserted69 her.
“If you were a—a marrying man—?” she said foolishly—almost in a whisper.
He recovered himself.
Something which was not the words was of a succinctness71 which filled her with new terror.
“I—I know!” she whimpered, “I only said if you were!”
“If I were—in this instance—it would make no difference.” He saw the kind of slippery silliness he was dealing72 with and what it might transform itself into if allowed a loophole. “There must be no mistakes.”
In her fright she saw him for a moment more distinctly than she had ever seen him before and hideous dread73 beset74 her lest she had blundered fatally.
“Do you know what you are asking me?” he inquired.
“Yes, yes—I’m not a girl, you know. I’ve been married. I won’t go home. I can’t starve or live in awful lodgings76. Somebody must save me!”
“Do you know what people will say?” his steady voice was slightly lower.
“It won’t be said to me.” Rather wildly. “Nobody minds—really.”
He ceased altogether to look serious. He smiled with the light detached air his world was most familiar with.
“No—they don’t really,” he answered. “I had, however, a slight preference for knowing whether you would or not. You flatter me by intimating that you would not.”
He knew that if he had held out an arm she would have fallen upon his breast and wept there, but he was not at the moment in the mood to hold out an arm. He merely touched hers with a light pressure.
“Let us sit down and talk it over,” he suggested.
A hansom drove up to the door and stopped before he had time to seat himself. Hearing it he went to the window and saw a stout77 businesslike looking man get out, accompanied by an attendant. There followed a loud, authoritative78 ringing of the bell and an equally authoritative rap of the knocker. This repeated itself. Feather, who had run to the window and caught sight of the stout man, clutched his sleeve.
“It’s the agent we took the house from. We always said we were out. It’s either Carson or Bayle. I don’t know which.”
Coombe walked toward the staircase.
“He has doubtless come prepared to open it himself.” he answered and proceeded at leisure down the narrow stairway.
The caller had come prepared. By the time Coombe stood in the hall a latchkey was put in the keyhole and, being turned, the door opened to let in Carson—or Bayle—who entered with an air of angered determination, followed by his young man.
The physical presence of the Head of the House of Coombe was always described as a subtly impressive one. Several centuries of rather careful breeding had resulted in his seeming to represent things by silent implication. A man who has never found the necessity of explaining or excusing himself inevitably80 presents a front wholly unsuggestive of uncertainty81. The front Coombe presented merely awaited explanations from others.
Carson—or Bayle—had doubtless contemplated82 seeing a frightened servant trying to prepare a stammering83 obvious lie. He confronted a tall, thin man about whom—even if his clothes had been totally different—there could be no mistake. He stood awaiting an apology so evidently that Carson—or Bayle—began to stammer84 himself even before he had time to dismiss from his voice the suggestion of bluster85. It would have irritated Coombe immensely if he had known that he—and a certain overcoat—had been once pointed86 out to the man at Sandown and that—in consequence of the overcoat—he vaguely87 recognized him.
“I—I beg pardon,” he began.
“Quite so,” said Coombe.
“Some tenants88 came to look at the house this morning. They had an order to view from us. They were sent away, my lord—and decline to come back. The rent has not been paid since the first half year. There is no one now who can even pretend it’s going to be paid. Some step had to be taken.”
“Quite so,” said Coombe. “Suppose you step into the dining-room.”
He led the pair into the room and pointed to chairs, but neither the agent nor his attendant was calm enough to sit down.
Coombe merely stood and explained himself.
“I quite understand,” he said. “You are entirely89 within your rights. Mrs. Gareth-Lawless is, naturally, not able to attend to business. For the present—as a friend of her late husband’s—I will arrange matters for her. I am Lord Coombe. She does not wish to give up the house. Don’t send any more possible tenants. Call at Coombe House in an hour and I will give you a cheque.”
There were a few awkward apologetic moments and then the front door opened and shut, the hansom jingled90 away and Coombe returned to the drawing-room. Robin was still shrieking91.
“She wants some more condensed milk,” he said. “Don’t be frightened. Go and give her some. I know an elderly woman who understands children. She was a nurse some years ago. I will send her here at once. Kindly92 give me the account books. My housekeeper93 will send you some servants. The trades-people will come for orders.”
Feather was staring at him.
“Yes—everything,” he answered. “Don’t be frightened. Go upstairs and try to stop her. I must go now. I never heard a creature yell with such fury.”
She turned away and went towards the second flight of stairs with a rather dazed air. She had passed through a rather tremendous crisis and she was dazed. He made her feel so. She had never understood him for a moment and she did not understand him now—but then she never did understand people and the whole situation was a new one to her. If she had not been driven to the wall she would have been quite as respectable as she knew how to be.
Coombe called a hansom and drove home, thinking of many things and looking even more than usually detached. He had remarked the facial expression of the short and stout man as he had got into his cab and he was turning over mentally his own exact knowledge of the views the business mind would have held and what the business countenance would have decently covered if he—Coombe—had explained in detail that he was so far—in this particular case—an entirely blameless character.
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1
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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innate
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| adj.天生的，固有的，天赋的 | |
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steered
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| v.驾驶( steer的过去式和过去分词 )；操纵；控制；引导 | |
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verge
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| n.边，边缘；v.接近，濒临 | |
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adroit
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| adj.熟练的，灵巧的 | |
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6
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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7
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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8
irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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9
incisive
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| adj.敏锐的，机敏的，锋利的，切入的 | |
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10
obdurate
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| adj.固执的，顽固的 | |
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melodrama
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| n.音乐剧；情节剧 | |
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extraordinarily
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| adv.格外地；极端地 | |
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frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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15
beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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16
hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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discreet
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| adj.(言行)谨慎的；慎重的；有判断力的 | |
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implored
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| 恳求或乞求（某人）( implore的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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shuddered
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| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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raisins
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| n.葡萄干( raisin的名词复数 ) | |
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preposterous
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| adj.荒谬的，可笑的 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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stark
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| adj.荒凉的；严酷的；完全的；adv.完全地 | |
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exclusion
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| n.拒绝，排除，排斥，远足，远途旅行 | |
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anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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prone
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| adj.(to)易于…的，很可能…的；俯卧的 | |
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rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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pathos
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| n.哀婉，悲怆 | |
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unnaturally
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| adv.违反习俗地；不自然地；勉强地；不近人情地 | |
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unpaid
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| adj.未付款的，无报酬的 | |
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poignantly
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poignant
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| adj.令人痛苦的，辛酸的，惨痛的 | |
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juggled
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| v.歪曲( juggle的过去式和过去分词 )；耍弄；有效地组织；尽力同时应付（两个或两个以上的重要工作或活动） | |
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gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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creditors
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| n.债权人，债主( creditor的名词复数 ) | |
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robust
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| adj.强壮的，强健的，粗野的，需要体力的，浓的 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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onlooker
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| n.旁观者，观众 | |
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exhale
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| v.呼气，散出，吐出，蒸发 | |
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43
attire
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| v.穿衣，装扮[同]array；n.衣着；盛装 | |
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robin
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| n.知更鸟，红襟鸟 | |
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cockroaches
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| n.蟑螂( cockroach的名词复数 ) | |
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46
scuttling
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| n.船底穿孔，打开通海阀（沉船用）v.使船沉没( scuttle的现在分词 )；快跑，急走 | |
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47
sniffed
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| v.以鼻吸气，嗅，闻( sniff的过去式和过去分词 )；抽鼻子（尤指哭泣、患感冒等时出声地用鼻子吸气）；抱怨，不以为然地说 | |
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48
aloof
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| adj.远离的；冷淡的，漠不关心的 | |
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49
Vogue
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| n.时髦，时尚；adj.流行的 | |
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drooped
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| 弯曲或下垂，发蔫( droop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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wailed
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| v.哭叫，哀号( wail的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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tenant
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| n.承租人；房客；佃户；v.租借，租用 | |
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fragrance
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| n.芬芳，香味，香气 | |
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condemnatory
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| adj. 非难的，处罚的 | |
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jersey
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| n.运动衫 | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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sobbed
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| 哭泣，啜泣( sob的过去式和过去分词 )； 哭诉，呜咽地说 | |
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enchanting
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| a.讨人喜欢的 | |
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disorder
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| n.紊乱，混乱；骚动，骚乱；疾病，失调 | |
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shuddering
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| v.战栗( shudder的现在分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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ironic
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| adj.讽刺的，有讽刺意味的，出乎意料的 | |
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mentality
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| n.心理，思想，脑力 | |
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awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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shrieked
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| v.尖叫( shriek的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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discomfort
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| n.不舒服，不安，难过，困难，不方便 | |
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faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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discretion
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| n.谨慎；随意处理 | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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surgical
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| adj.外科的，外科医生的，手术上的 | |
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succinctness
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| n.简洁；简要；简明 | |
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dealing
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| n.经商方法，待人态度 | |
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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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beset
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| v.镶嵌；困扰，包围 | |
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gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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authoritative
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| adj.有权威的，可相信的；命令式的；官方的 | |
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shrilled
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| （声音）尖锐的，刺耳的，高频率的( shrill的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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inevitably
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| adv.不可避免地；必然发生地 | |
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uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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contemplated
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| adj. 预期的 动词contemplate的过去分词形式 | |
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stammering
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的现在分词 ) | |
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stammer
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| n.结巴，口吃；v.结结巴巴地说 | |
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bluster
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| v.猛刮；怒冲冲的说；n.吓唬，怒号；狂风声 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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tenants
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| n.房客( tenant的名词复数 )；佃户；占用者；占有者 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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jingled
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| 喝醉的 | |
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shrieking
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| v.尖叫( shriek的现在分词 ) | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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stammered
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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