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Lady of the Basement Flat

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<h3>Chapter Twenty.</h3> <h4>Strange Conversations.</h4> Billie is slowly recovering. He is sitting up in his cot, languidly permitting himself to be adored, waited upon by obsequious attendants, and fed upon the fat of the land. This is the period when outsiders cry gushingly to an invalid’s relations, “How happy you must be!” But as a cold matter of fact they usually feel very depressed and snappy and bored. This sounds thankless, but it is nothing of the sort; the thankfulness is all there, stored up for later realisation, but for the moment tired nerves are in the ascendant, and pay one out for the long-drawn strain. Relieved from acute anxiety, Mr Thorold began to think of the cost, count up doctors’ visits, and sigh like a furnace; Miss Brown gave notice. “She wasn’t blind and she wasn’t deaf. She was aware that she was not giving satisfaction, and it would be better for both parties—” The general servant, who had been quite heroic during the time when work went on the twenty-four hours round, now took to banging dishes and muttering as she left the room. Old Miss Harding, having lost much sleep, and spent her few leisure hours in reading aloud to her small guests, exhibited a tendency to tears and self-pity. Mr Hallett, disappointed of a hoped-for holiday with his friend as companion, shrugged his shoulders, and inquired dismally: “What can you expect? Things always go wrong in this miserable world!” Each man in turns paid visits to my flat, and discussed his troubles at length. Mr Thorold’s were mostly financial. What could he do to cut down expenses? Would I recommend sending the children to live in the country? Ridiculously cheap houses could be had, if one did not mind living miles from a station. He himself must, of course, remain in town; but in a cheap boarding-house he could manage to live on very little—say a hundred a year—and when he took a holiday he could “run down to the country”. It would be good for the children. “While it lasted,” I said drily. “Their father might live—with luck—for a year or eighteen months. It seems hardly worth while having the expense of a removal for such a short time.” He sighed, looked for a moment as if he were going to declare that he would be glad to be out of it, then pulled himself together and said:— “Well, but I must pull in somehow to pay for all these extra expenses! Have you anything to suggest?” “You might let this flat furnished for a few months in spring. The porters tell me there are tenants to be found at that time. Odd, isn’t it, that the season should affect ‘Weltham Mansions’? It’s the lap of the waves, I suppose, but it seems a long way to flow. I could help you to find cheap country quarters, and you could fit in your own holiday at the same time, and so save travelling expenses. Lazing about in a garden may not be exciting, but it’s the rest you need. I knew a very tired man who went off for a golfing week with a friend. His wife told me he took a fortnight to recover. She said so to the doctor, and he said, ‘Of course! What did you expect? It would have been better if he had gone to bed.’” He shrugged impatiently. “Maybe it is quite true. I suppose it is. But when a man has only one fortnight in the year, he might be allowed to enjoy it in his own way! It’s an idea, though—letting the flat. Thanks for the suggestion. I’ll speak to an agent.” Mr Hallett rested his big shoulders against my cushions, and said in his low, grave tones:— “You are a woman—you understand these things. Is there any way in which I can help? It’s pretty tough to see an old friend worried to death, and just sit and look on—but Thorold’s proud, and it’s difficult to interfere. It seems a cruel thing that illness should fall so heavily upon the middle classes. The rich are independent, the poor have hospitals; but a man in Thorold’s position is no sooner through with the mental torture than he is up against an army of bills. It seems that Billie is bound to keep his nurses for several weeks longer. That’s a big item in itself.” It was! Often during these last weeks I had thought to myself what a grand occupation it would be for an independent woman to train as a nurse, and then give one or two doctors leave to call her in to serve—without payment—in cases like the present, where need was great and means were small. I went off into a day-dream in which I saw myself, in cap and apron, acting as ministering angel to the suffering middle class, to be roused by Mr Hallett’s voice saying tentatively:— “I’m a poor man, but I am alone in the world, so there’s no object in saving. Why shouldn’t I settle a few of the bills for Billie’s illness and say nothing about it?” I shook my head. “Mr Thorold would find out and be furious. You must help openly, or not at all. You have helped by keeping him company all these weeks.” He hitched his shoulders, and made a grimace of disparagement. “It’s a long time since my company could be called cheering, I’m afraid. Thorold is ‘down and out’ himself, and he ought to have happy people about him.” He turned his dark eyes upon me with sudden interest. “Like you!” he said emphatically, “like you! Excuse a personal remark, Miss Harding, but you seem to have an eternal flow of vitality. Thorold and I were talking about you last night, comparing you with other women of your—er—your generation. We agreed that you left an extraordinary impression of youth!” He looked at me with wistful eyes. He was a lonely man, and I was a woman, conveniently at hand, and possessed of a “feeling heart”. An impulse towards confidence struggled to birth. In his eyes I could see it grow. “I suppose,” he began tentatively, “you have had an easy life?” “In a material sense—yes! But I have had my trials.” A wave of self-pity engulfed me and quivered in my voice. “I have been separated, by death or distance, from all my relatives. My best friend is abroad.” “Death—or distance!” he repeated the words in his deep, slow tones, as though they had struck a note in his own heart. “But distance is death, Miss Harding! The worst kind of death. Desolation without peace! Thorold thinks himself brokenhearted, but there are men who would envy him his clean, sweet grief. His sorrow is for himself alone. She is at peace!” “Ah,” I said quickly, “I know what you mean. When we are quite young, death seems the crowning loss, but there are worse things—I’ve discovered that! I realised it in those terrible days when we feared for Billie’s brain. When you love people very much, it would be a daily death to know that they were suffering.” He gazed gloomily into the fire. “It is extraordinary—the capacity for suffering of the human heart! Physically we are so easily destroyed. An invisible germ will do it, the prick of a finger, a draught of cold air; but a man can live on, suffering mental torture, month after month, year after year, and his weight will hardly decrease by a pound. You read of broken hearts, but there are no such things! Hearts are invulnerable, torture-proof, guaranteed to endure all shocks!” It occurred to me that it was time that Miss Harding exerted her vitality and stopped this flow of repining. The poor man had evidently had some tragedy in his life which had warped his outlook. He needed cheering—we all needed cheering; proverbially the surest way of cheering yourself is to cheer other people; therefore the sane and obvious way of spending his money was in providing cheer for the company. I said as much, and he said, “Certainly; but how? It was winter time. A winter’s day in London holds an insuperable barrier against any possibility of enjoyment.” I said, “Not at all! There were heaps of things—heaps of ways.” He said, “Would I kindly specify one or two of the ‘heaps’?” I said, “Certainly not! The essence of a treat lay in its quality of surprise. It was for him to think.” He smiled at me with whimsical amusement, and cried, “You said that just like a girl. You are a girl at heart, Miss Harding, in spite of your grey hairs. What a pity you did not marry, you would have given some man and some kiddies such a thundering good time. I know, of course, that it was your own doing. There must have been—” “Oh, there were!” I cried glibly. “Several!” “But you couldn’t—You were never tempted?” “No, never. At least—” Suddenly I found that it was necessary to qualify that denial. “There are two things which are always tempting to a woman, Mr Hallett—love and strength! Every woman would be glad to have a strong, loving man to take care of her—if he were the right man!” “Well!” he sighed, and rose heavily from his seat. “No doubt you knew best, but—I hope you gave him his chance! We men have many sides, but the best side is apt to remain hidden until some woman brings it out. If he loved you, you owed him something. I hope you played fair and gave him his chance!” He turned towards the door; we shook hands, and he left without another word. I turned back to the fire, sat me down, and thought. Ralph Maplestone had demanded his chance, and I had thought myself noble and brave in refusing to give it. He was strong and he was loving; he had asked nothing better than to take care of me. Would the time ever come, when I was really old, when I should sit by a lonely hearth and look back and regret? I thought of Mr Hallett’s voice as he spoke those last words, and saw a vision of his face. It is a beautiful face, and I dearly love beauty. What a satisfaction it would be to go through life looking at the curve of that nose and the modelling of that chin and jaw! I thought of the Squire’s stern voice, and his blunt, plain-featured face. Always, always, so long as I lived, I should long to take a pair of pincers and tweak that nose into shape, and nip little pieces of flesh from the neck, and pad them on the hollows beneath the cheek-bones. Suddenly I began to laugh. I imagined myself doing it—saw the expression in the blue, startled eyes. Strange how plain faces can fascinate more than beautiful ones! My laughter died away. It is difficult to keep on laughing by oneself. I was tired, and had been giving out sympathy all day; depression clutched me, and a restless irritability. At this auspicious moment the orphan knocked at the door and announced that Number 19 would be glad to speak a few words. “Show her in!” I said, and in she came—a pretty, thin, little woman, with a tempery eye. “I am sorry to intrude, but you must really understand that this is too much! When people live in flats, it is essential that they show some consideration for their neighbours. Will you kindly listen to that?” I listened. Winifred and Marion were playing at “bears,” and chasing Bridget to her death. Engrossed in my own thoughts, I had paid no attention, beyond a subconscious satisfaction that they were enjoying themselves. The roars did not annoy me, but they were certainly fairly loud. I tendered a civil explanation. “It’s Mr Thorold’s little girls. Their brother has been dangerously ill. They are staying with me.” “Is there any necessity for them to shriek at the pitch of their voices?” “They are out for hours every day. This is their play-time before they go to bed. They go at seven.” “And wake at six! For the last fortnight we have been disturbed every morning. My husband wishes me to say that if it goes on he will complain to the landlord. I have complained before, as you know, but without effect. Ever since you came we have been annoyed.” I was furious. Whatever had happened during the last fortnight, no one could have been quieter before. “And what about themselves?” I said coldly. “Do you imagine that the landlord will be able to make children sleep beyond their usual hour?” “Certainly not, but they can be kept quiet. When people go to bed late”—she stopped short, arrested by my expression, stared for a moment, and then concluded—“they naturally object to being disturbed in the morning. We breakfast at nine. This morning we were kept awake by quarrelling voices for over an hour.” I bowed politely. “I am sorry. It is most disagreeable. I have had the same experience myself, but at the beginning of the night.” The words jumped out. The moment I had said them I was sorry, and when I saw her poor startled face I could have cried. The slow red rose in her cheeks; we stared into each other’s eyes, and both spoke at the same time. She said:— “Oh–oh! Can you hear?” I said:— “Oh, I’m sorry! I should not have said it. Forgive me! I’m tired and cross after nursing upstairs. I want to quarrel myself. I’m sorry! I’ll keep the children quiet. They will soon be going home. Please always let me know if I’m a bother. I’ll do everything I can!” She looked at me—a puzzled look—and mumbled cold thanks. This was a case when my apparent years were against me. If I had been Evelyn—a girl like herself—we would have clasped hands and made friends. As it was, she distrusted the elderly woman who showed an impulsiveness foreign to her years. She departed hurriedly, leaving me plunged in fresh woe. A nice person I am, to blame a man for having a bad temper! I have hurt a sister woman, who has the hardest lot which any woman can have in life—a loveless home! <hr /></div> <div class="bodytext"> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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