OCTOBER was dying, its russet tints slowly merging into grey. Thin
mists, laden with fine specks of soot, had penetrated into the
'Rosebud.' Victoria, in her black business dress, under which she now
had to wear a vest which rather killed the tip-drawing power of her
openwork blouse, was setting her tables, quickly crossing red cloths
over white, polishing the glasses, arranging knives and forks in
artistic if inconvenient positions. It was ten o'clock, but business had
not begun, neither Mr Stein nor Butty having arrived.
'Cold, ain't it?' remarked Gertie.
'Might be colder,' said Bella Prodgitt.
Victoria came towards them, carrying a trayful of cruets.
''Ow's Beauty?' asked Gertie.
Victoria passed by without a word. This romance had not added to the
popularity of the chairman's favourite. Cora and Gladys were busy
dusting the counter and polishing the urns. Lottie, in front of a wall
glass, was putting the finishing touches to the set of her cap. The door
opened to let in Mr Stein, strapped tight in his frock coat, his top hat
set far back on his bullet head. He glared for a moment at the staff in
general, then without a word took a letter addressed to him from a rack
bearing several addressed to customers, and passed into the cash desk.
The girls resumed their polishing more busily. Quickly the night
wrappings fell from the chandeliers; the rosebud baskets were teased
into shape; the tables, loaded swiftly with their sets, grew more
becoming. Victoria, passing from table to table set on each a small vase
full of chrysanthemums.
'I say, Gladys, look at Stein,' whispered Cora to her neighbour. Gladys
straightened herself from under the counter and followed the direction
of Cora's finger.
'Lord,' she said, 'what's up?'
Bella's attention was attracted. She too was interested in her bovine
way. Mr Stein's attitude was certainly unusual. He held a sheet of paper
in one hand, his other hand clutching at his cheek so hard as to make
one of his eyes protrude. Both his eyes were fixed on the sheet of
paper, incredulous and horror-stricken.
'I say, Vic, what's the matter with the little swine?' suddenly said
Lottie, who had at length noticed him.
Victoria looked. Stein had not moved. For some seconds all the girls
gazed spellbound at the frozen figure in the cashbox. The silence of
tragedy was on them, a silence which arrests gesture and causes hearts
to beat.
'Lord, I can't stick this,' whispered Cora, 'there's something wrong.'
Quickly diving under the counter flap she ran towards the pay box where
Stein still sat unmoving, as if petrified. The little group of girls
watched her. Bella's stertorous breathing was plainly heard.
Cora opened the glass door and seized Stein by the arm.
'What's the matter, Mr Stein?' she said excitedly, 'are you feeling
queer?'
Stein started like a somnambulist suddenly awakened and looked at her
stupidly, then at the motionless girls in the shop.
'Nein, nein, lassen sie doch,' he muttered.
'Mr Stein, Mr Stein,' half-screamed Cora.
'Oh, get out, I'm all right, but the game's up. He's gone. The game's up
I tell up. The game's up.'
Cora looked at him round-eyed. Mr Stein's idioms frightened her almost
more than his German.
Stein was babbling, speaking louder and louder.
'Gone away, Burton. Bankrupt and got all the cash. . . . See? You get
the sack. Starve. So do I and my vife. . . . Ach, ach, ach, ach. Mein
Gott, Mein Gott, was solls. . . .'
Gertie watched from the counter with a heightened colour. Lottie and
Victoria, side by side, had not moved. A curious chill had seized
Victoria, stiffening her wrists and knees. Stein was talking quicker and
quicker, with a voice that was not his.
'Ach, the damned scoundrel . . . the schweinehund . . . he knew the
business was going to the dogs, ach, schweinehund, schweinehund. . . .'
He paused. Less savage his thoughts turned to his losses. 'Two hundred
shares he sold me. . . . I paid a premium . . . they vas to go to four
. . . ach, ach, ach. . . . I'm in the cart.'
Gertie sniggered gently. The idiom had swamped the tragedy. Stein looked
round at the sound. His face had gone leaden; his greasy plastered hair
was all awry.
'Vat you laughing at, gn?' he asked savagely, suddenly resuming his
managerial tone.
'Take it we're bust, ain't we?' said Gertie, stepping forward jauntily.
Stein lifted, then dropped one hand.
'Yes,' he said, 'bust.'
'Thank you for a week's wages, Mr Stein,' said Gertie, 'and I'll push
off, if yer don't mind.'
Stein laughed harshly. With a theatrical movement he seized the cash
drawer by the handle, drew it out and flung it on the floor. It was
empty.
'Oh, that's 'ow it is,' said Gertie. 'You're a fine gentleman, I don't
think. Bloomin' lot of skunks. What price that, mate?' she screamed
addressing Bella, who still sat in her chair, her cheeks rising and
falling like the sides of a cuttlefish. ''Ere's a fine go. Fellers comes
along and tikes in poor girls like me and you and steals the bread outer
their mouths. I'll 'ave yer run in, yer bloody foreigner.' She waved her
fist in the man's face. 'For two pins,' she screamed, 'I'd smash yer
fice, I'd. . . .'
'Chuck it, Gertie,' said Lottie, suddenly taking her by the arm, 'don't
you see he's got nothing to do with it?'
'Oh, indeed, Miss Mealymouth,' sneered Gertie, 'what I want is my money
. . . .'
'Leave him alone, Gertie,' said Victoria, 'you can't kick a man when
he's down.'
Gertie looked as if she were about to explode. Then the problem became
too big for her. In her little Cockney brain the question was insolubly
revolving: 'Can you kick a man when he's down. . .? Can you kick. . .?'
Mr Stein passed his hand over his forehead. He was pulling himself
together.
'Close de door, Cora,' he commanded. 'Now then, the company's bankrupt,
there's nothing in the cashbox. You get the push. . . . I get the push.'
His voice broke slightly. His face twitched. 'You can go. Get another
job.' He looked at Gertie.
'Put down your address. I give it to the police. You get something for
wages.' He slowly turned away and sat down on a chair, his eyes fixed on
the wall.
There was a repressed hubbub of talking. Then Gertie made the first move
and went up to the change room. She came back a minute or two later in
her long coat and large hat, carrying a parcel which none noticed as
being rather large for a comb. It contained the company's cap and apron
which, thought she, she might as well save from the wreck.
Gertie shook hands with Cora. 'See yer ter-night,' she said airily,
'same old place; 'bye Miss Prodgitt, 'ope "Force" 'll lift you out of
this.' She shook hands with Victoria, a trifle coldly, kissed Lottie,
threw one last malevolent look at Stein's back. The door closed behind
her. She had passed out of the backwater into the main stream.
Lottie, a little self consciously, pulled down the pink blinds, in token
of mourning. The 'Rosebud' hung broken on its stalk. Then, silently, she
went up into the change room, followed by Cora; a pace behind came
Victoria, all heavy with gloom. They dressed silently. Cora, without a
word, kissed them both, collected her small possessions into a reticule,
then shook hands with both and kissed them again. The door closed behind
her. When Lottie and Victoria went down into the shop, Cora also had
passed into the main stream. Gladys had gone with her.
The two girls hesitated for a moment as to whether they should speak to
Stein. It was almost dark, for the October light was too weak to filter
through the thick pink blinds. Lottie went up to the dark figure.
'Cheer up,' she said kindly, 'it's a long lane that has no turning.'
Stein looked up uncomprehendingly, then sank his head into his hands.
As Lottie and Victoria turned once more, the front door open behind
them, all they saw was Bella Prodgitt, lymphatic as ever, motionless on
her chair, like a watcher over the figure of the man silently mourning
his last hopes.
As they passed into the street the fresh air quickened by the coming
cold of winter, stung their blood to action. The autumn sunlight, pale
like the faded gold of hair that age has silvered, threw faint shadows
on the dry white pavements where little whirlwinds of dust chased and
figured like swallows on the wing.
Lottie and Victoria walked quickly down the city streets. It was
half-past eleven, a time when, the rush of the morning over, comparative
emptiness awaits the coming of the midday crowds; every minute they were
stopped by the blocks of drays and carriages which come in greater
numbers in the road as men grow fewer on the pavements. The unaccustomed
liberty of the hour did not strike them; for depression, a sense of
impotence before fatality, was upon them. Indeed, they did not pause
until they reached on the Embankment the spot where the two beautiful
youths prepare to fasten on one another their grip of bronze. They sat
down upon a seat and for a while remained silent.
'What are you going to do? Lottie?' asked Victoria.
'Look out for another job, of course,' said Lottie.
'In the same line?' said Victoria.
'I'll try that first,' replied Lottie, 'but you know I'm not particular.
There's all sorts of shops. Nice soft little jobs at photographers, and
manicuring showrooms, I don't mind.'
Victoria, with the leaden weight of former days pressing on her, envied
Lottie's calm optimism. She seemed so capable. But so far as she herself
was concerned, she did not feel sure that the 'other job' would so
easily be found. Indeed the memory of her desperate hunt for work
wrapped itself round her, cold as a shroud.
'But what if you can't get one,' she faltered.
'Oh, that'll be all right,' said Lottie, airily. 'I can live with my
married sister for a bit, but I'll find a job somehow. That doesn't
worry me. What are you thinking of?'
'I don't know,' said Victoria slowly, 'I must look out I suppose.'
'Hard up?' asked Lottie.
'No, not exactly,' said Victoria. 'I'm not rolling in wealth, you know,
but I can manage.'
'Well, don't you go and get stranded or anything,' said Lottie. 'It
doesn't do to be proud. It's not much I can do, but anyhow you let me
know if--' She paused. Victoria put her hand on hers.
'You're a bit of all right, Lottie,' she said softly, her feelings
forming naturally into the language of her adopted class. For a few
minutes the girls sat hand in hand.
'Well, I'd better be going,' said Lottie. 'I'm going to my married
sister at Highgate first. Time enough to look about this afternoon.'
The two girls exchanged addresses. Victoria watched her friend's slim
figure grow smaller and slimmer under her crown of pale hair, then
almost fade away, merge into men and women and suddenly vanish at a
turn, swallowed up. With a little shiver she got up and walked away
quickly towards the west. She was lonely suddenly, horribly so. One by
one, all the links of her worldly chain had snapped. Burton, the sensual
brute, was gone; Stein was perhaps sitting still numb and silent in the
darkened shop; Gertie, flippant and sharp, had sailed forth on life's
ocean, there to be tossed like a cork and like a cork to swim; now
Lottie was gone, cool and confident, to dangers underrated and unknown.
She stood alone.
As she reached Westminster Bridge a strange sense of familiarity
overwhelmed her. A well-known figure was there and it was horribly
symbolical. It was the old vagrant of bygone days, sitting propped up
against the parapet, clad in his filthy rags. From his short clay pipe,
at long intervals, he puffed wreaths of smoke into the blue air.