THE INTERIOR
Rather a curious state of things prevailed in Mrs. Lamb's
residence in Connaught Square. The largest and best regulated
establishments are apt to be disorganised when festival has been
kept the night before--that is true enough. But in this case the
disorganisation was something altogether out of the common. Mr.
Lamb, who never attended his wife's receptions, and so pleased
himself and the lady, had come home with the milk, just sober
enough to wonder why the place was in such a state of singular
confusion. The servants seemed to be occupying the reception
rooms, enjoying themselves in a fashion in which servants are
not supposed to do. He had a vague recollection of having a
drink with a footman or some such menial while endeavouring to
ascertain what was the meaning of the proceedings, and of
pledging a housemaid's health in what he was convinced was a
glass of his wife's champagne. But as, later, he was only too
glad to be assisted upstairs by any one and every one, his
memory of what took place was scarcely to be relied upon.
His wife had shut herself in her room, constraining her guests
to take their departure without affording them an opportunity of
saying good-bye to their hostess, and offering her their thanks
for a very pleasant evening. Exactly what occurred behind that
locked door she alone knew. When her senses returned she was
still in her splendour of the previous night. She half lay, half
sat, upon her boudoir floor, with her head upon a couch. A
broken wine-glass was at her side. A decanter which had held
ether was overturned on a buhl table. The day streamed through
the windows.
It was some seconds before she recognised these facts. Then she
rose to her feet and looked about her. The first thing she did
was to go to the boudoir door and try if it was locked. When she
found that it was, and that the key was nicely adjusted in the
keyhole, so as to prevent any one peeping in from without, she
strode through another door, which stood ajar, into her bedroom,
which adjoined. She tried the outer door of that, to find that
it also was locked. She glanced at a silver clock which stood
upon the mantelpiece. According to it the time was twenty
minutes to one, so that more than half of the day had already
gone. Then she went to a cheval glass, which mirrored her from
head to foot, and glanced at herself.
What she saw seemed to afford her a grim sort of amusement. Her
hair was all in disorder, one long tress trailed down her neck.
Her eyes were dull and heavy. Her cheeks were smeared; such
"aids to beauty" as she patronised had become misplaced. Her
gown was all creased and crumpled; a stain straggled right
across the bodice. In a few curt words she recognised the
situation so far as the dress was concerned.
"That's done for."
It looked as if it were, it might have been worn twenty times
instead of only once. She removed her jewels--her bracelets from
her wrists, rings from her fingers, her necklace, ornaments from
her hair. When they were all off she took them in her hands and
stared at them.
"At any rate, you're worth money. I daresay I could get
something on you if I tried, though perhaps not so much as some
might think."
She tossed them on to the dressing-table with a mirthless laugh.
Disrobing herself, donning her nightdress, she ensconced herself
between the sheets. There she tossed and tumbled about in such a
fashion that one was almost disposed to suspect her of indulging
in some new form of physical exercise. When she had got the bed
into a condition which suggested that it had been occupied
throughout the entire night by some peculiarly restless person,
ceasing to turn and twist, for some minutes she lay quite still,
as if she listened.
"Those servants of mine don't seem to be making much noise;
there aren't many sounds of their moving about the house. I
should like to know where Stephanie is; she ought to have woke
me long before this."
Stretching out her arm she pressed the electric button which was
by her bedside--once, twice, thrice, indeed half-a-dozen times,
on each occasion for an unusual length of time, and with a fair
interval between each pressure. Nothing, however, transpired to
show that she had rung at all, certainly no one answered her
summons. As she began to realise that apparently she was not
meeting with attention of any sort or kind, her temper did not
improve. She kept up a continuous ringing; still no one
answered, nor was there aught to show that there was any that
heard. She began to be concerned.
"Has every one taken French leave, and am I alone in the house?
What's it mean?"
She kept her finger on the button for another good five minutes,
then she decided that the moment had arrived when it would
probably be desirable that she should make some inquiries on her
own account. Rising, she put on some clothes, over them a
dressing-gown. Then, unlocking the bedroom door, she went out on
to the landing. Nothing could be heard. She descended to the
floor below, on which were the drawing-rooms. No attempt to tidy
them had been made since the guests departed; they were in a
state of almost picturesque confusion. Not even the electric
lights had been turned off; they were blazing away as merrily as
if it were still the middle of the night. The apartments
contained certain articles which, as refreshments were provided
in the dining-room, could scarcely have been there when the
guests retired. Bottles and glasses were everywhere--all kinds
of bottles and all kinds of glasses, indeed Mrs. Lamb had nearly
stumbled over what looked like an empty brandy bottle as she
came out of her bedroom door. To Mrs. Lamb the sight of those
various empty receptacles was pregnant with meaning.
"The beauties! I suppose they're sleeping it off. They shall
smart for this, every one of them."
She turned towards the staircase which led to the servants'
quarters, with the intention, no doubt, of making them smart,
when she encountered one of them. An unkempt, untidy figure,
clad in a nondescript costume, consisting of checked tweed
trousers, carpet slippers, dress-coat and waistcoat, crumpled
shirt and collar and no necktie, came strolling leisurely down
the stairs as Mrs. Lamb was about to ascend them. It was James
Cottrell, the butler, in general, so far as appearances went,
the most immaculate of beings. His mistress stared at him in not
unnatural surprise.
"Cottrell!--you!--in that state!--at this time of day!--why,
you're not even dressed."
So far from showing any signs of being ashamed or disconcerted,
Mr. Cottrell's manner was not only self-possessed, it was
affability itself. Thrusting his hands into his trouser pockets,
he tilted himself on his heels, till his legs touched the stair
behind, and he smiled.
"No, Mrs. Lamb, I am not dressed--that is, my costume is not in
that perfect state of completeness which I prefer. It is not my
habit to make personal remarks, but since we are on the subject,
I may observe that you're not dressed either. I shouldn't call
that dressing-gown full dress--would you? Your hair don't
look--to me--as if it had been done for days, and you really
must excuse my mentioning that your complexion seems to have got
itself all mixed up anyhow."
"Cottrell, you're drunk; how dare you speak to me like that?"
"No, Mrs. Lamb, I am not drunk; I do assure you that I am at
least as sober as you are. If you want to know what drink can do
for a man, I recommend you to go and look at your husband--there
is a drunkard, if you like; he's like a perambulating sponge.
Last night it took six of us to get him upstairs; that man ought
to be black-listed. As for daring to speak to you, Mrs. Lamb,
there may be some folks whom you inspire with awe, but you don't
inspire me with any."
"Don't you think I'll let you speak to me like that, although
you are a man and I'm a woman. You'll leave my service at
once--and without a character."
"As for a character, any character which you might give me, Mrs.
Lamb, would, in all human probability, do me more harm than
good. It will be my constant endeavour to conceal the fact that
I ever occupied a position in your establishment; it might do me
a serious injury were it to become known. As to leaving your
service, I shall be only too glad to do so inside sixty seconds;
only there's a little formality which I should like to have
completed before I go. I should like to have my overdue wages,
Mrs. Lamb. They are more than three months overdue, and I should
like to see the colour of my money, Mrs. Lamb."
"You shall have your wages; you needn't be afraid."
"Thank you; that is good news. Because, to be quite frank, I was
beginning to be afraid--in fact, we all were."
"You impertinent brute! Where are those other creatures?"
"Other creatures? You refer to my colleagues, male and female?
We are all of us creatures, Mrs. Lamb--including you. I believe
that two or three of them have already quitted your service,
including the young Frenchwoman who was supposed to be your own
particular maid. She said that she never bargained to wait on a
woman of your class, so she's gone. I noticed two young women in
the kitchen when I was down there just now. They seemed to be in
a more or less tearful condition. Poor wretches! perhaps they
never expected to find themselves in such a place as this. As
for the rest of my colleagues, I fancy they are still in bed. I
do not doubt that if you take them their overdue wages they'll
get up, and get out of the house also, as quickly as you like. I
imagine they'll be only too glad of the chance."
Mrs. Lamb looked at Mr. Cottrell as if she were meditating
measures of a distinctly active kind. Although he might not have
been conscious of it, for some seconds he stood in imminent
peril of realising that, at least physically, his mistress was
more than a match for the average man. But, apparently, after
thinking things over she changed her mind and postponed
hostilities.
"You shall be paid for this, my man--they all shall--just wait a
bit." She moved, as if to return to her bedroom, then paused.
"There's some one at the door."
There did seem to be some one at the front door, some one who
saluted with equal vigour both the bell and the knocker. Mr.
Cottrell was philosophical.
"Ah! there's been one or two already this morning. You've
perhaps been in such a queer state yourself that you didn't hear
them, though they made noise enough; but there have been several
visitors. Jones the fishmonger wants his little account, and
Franks the butcher wants his, and Murphy the greengrocer, and
the baker, and the grocer, and the milkman, and, I think, the
laundry, and three or four more besides. They all want their
little accounts--good big ones some of them are. I peeped
through the dining-room window, but I didn't notice just who was
there, and I didn't open to them either. I've had about enough
of opening to those kind of people; they won't go round to the
side entrance, and it's no use asking them to. But that sounds
as if it was the landlord come to put the brokers in for rent. A
landlord always thinks himself entitled to make as much noise as
he likes at his own front door."
Some one seemed to consider himself at liberty to make as much
clatter as he liked.
"Cottrell, go down at once and see who is at the door."
"Wouldn't you like to go and see yourself, Mrs. Lamb?"
"If you don't obey my orders and go at once I'll throw you out
of the house with my own hands, and you shall whistle for your
wages."
"Like this? Do I look as if I were in a fit state of attire to
open the door of even such a lady as yourself, Mrs. Lamb?"
"Are you going?"
The lady mounted two or three steps; there was something so
significant in her manner that Mr. Cottrell temporised.
"I shall be only too happy to open the door as I am!--if you
will allow me to pass." She allowed him, and he passed, firing a
passing shot as he went. "You must understand that I intend to
be perfectly frank with whoever's there--perfectly frank, and
truthful. I have had more than sufficient of telling lies on
your account, Mrs. Lamb." At this point, throwing the hall-door
wide open, he addressed some unseen individuals who were without
in tones which were perhaps unnecessarily loud. "If any of you
people want money--and by the look of you I can see you do--it's
no use your asking me, and so I may tell you at once, because I
want money too, and from the same person, and that's Mrs. Lamb;
and as Mrs. Lamb happens to be standing at this moment at the
top of the staircase, in her dressing-gown and with her hair all
over the place, perhaps you'll step in right away, and just say
to her what you've got to say. Well, sir, and what might you
happen to be wanting? Oh, it's Mr. Luker, is it? May I ask, sir,
what you mean by pushing me about as if I was a mechanical toy?"
It was indeed Mr. Isaac Luker, who had come into the hall with
complete disregard of the fact that Mr. Cottrell was standing in
the doorway. Being in, the visitor regarded the voluble butler
with characteristic impassivity. Then, stretching out the
forefinger of his right hand, he tapped at the centre of Mr.
Cottrell's crumpled shirt-front, and he delivered himself
thus:--
"My advice to you is to put your head under the pump if there is
one, and under the tap if there isn't, and let the water run for
a good half-hour, for a complaint like yours it's the best
medicine you can possibly have".
It seemed that Mr. Cottrell was so taken aback by the proffer of
this very handsome advice that for a moment or two he was at a
loss for a retort; before he found one his mistress had
interposed.
"Luker, come up here!"
Mr. Luker looked at the lady at the head of the staircase, at
Mr. Cottrell, at the invisible persons who still remained
without. He seemed to hesitate, as if in doubt whether or not to
take a hand in the game just where he was; then, arriving at a
sudden resolution, he did as the lady requested: he went
upstairs, followed by the retort which Mr. Cottrell had found at
last.
"Perhaps if you were to try a little of that medicine you
recommend on your own account it mightn't do you any harm."
The observation went unheeded. Mr. Luker was captured by the
lady the moment he reached the topmost stair. She pointed to the
flight in front.
"Up you go!" Up he went, with her at his heels. On the next
landing she called his attention to the open bedroom door. "In
you go." Perceiving what the apartment was he favoured her with
what he perhaps meant for a whimsical glance, and in he went.
"Go straight through into the next room--that's my boudoir." He
went straight through, and she also. Closing the door of her
bedroom she stood with her back to it, putting to him a question
almost as if she were aiming a pistol at his head. "Have you
brought that money?"
Mr. Luker did not at once give her the answer she so
imperatively demanded. Instead, holding his ancient top-hat in
front of him as if it were some precious possession, he ventured
on a remark of his own.
"Things seem a little at sixes and sevens; they almost suggest
that domestic relations are a trifle strained. That man who
calls himself a butler is not behaving as if he were a butler;
and I regret to notice something about the establishment which
one hardly expects to find in a lady's high-class mansion."
"Cottrell's going--at once. All the servants are going--lot of
drunken brutes! I'm only waiting for the money to pay them their
wages."
"Oh, I see. And--those other persons on the doorstep, do they
want money also?"
"I don't know who's there, and I don't care; but I daresay every
one wants money. I do! Did you hear me ask if you've brought
that money I told you to bring?"
"To what money are you alluding?"
"You know very well! None of your fooling! Have you brought that
ten thousand pounds?"
"Ten thousand pounds!" He held up his hands, with his top-hat
between them. "Ten thousand pounds! She speaks of that great sum
as if it were a mere nothing!"
"Have you brought it?"
"I certainly have not."
"Then what have you brought?"
"I have brought--nothing."
"Look here, Luker, I'm in an ugly temper. You ought to know the
signs of it as well as any man, so I advise you to take care. I
told you you were to bring me ten thousand pounds. When I said
it I meant it; why haven't you brought it?"
"My dear Isabel----"
"Haven't I told you not to call me that?"
"Very well; it's a matter of utter indifference to me what I
call you--utter! I was merely about to remark that I have laid
your proposition before my friend, and, as I anticipated, he has
decided that he doesn't care to lend money except on adequate
security."
"Adequate security! Don't you call a quarter of a million
adequate security?"
"Certainly, if you had it, but you haven't. And you have nothing
tangible to show that you ever will have, or any part of it."
"There are those Hardwood Company shares--ten thousand of them."
"You tell me that you are in an ugly temper, and I can perceive
for myself that you are not so calm as I should wish, otherwise
I should ask for permission to be quite frank with you."
"You had better be frank! Never you mind about my temper; it
won't be improved by your shuffling. Out with what you've got to
say!"
"Remember, it will only be said at your express invitation."
"Do you hear? Out with it!"
"Then briefly and plainly it's this: If you were anybody else
it's possible that money--some money--might be got on your
expectation of the Hardwood Company's shares, but, as things
are, it's out of the question."
"Why? What's the matter with my being me?"
"A good deal, as you're as well aware as I am. In a matter of
this sort it's character which tells, and, unfortunately--I say
it with deep sorrow!--your character's against you."
"What's my character got to do with a thing of this kind?"
"Everything. Suppose my friend were to advance you money upon
your expectation of these shares, from your point of view you'd
have him between your finger and thumb, and you'd keep him
there."
"How do you make that out?"
"The process of extracting compensation from Messrs. McTavish &
Brown would be, at best, both a lengthy and a tiresome one, one,
moreover, in which not a step could be taken without your active
assistance. You'd find that out, and you'd say, 'If you won't
let me have so much more I won't move a finger, then you'll lose
all that you've advanced already'. And you'd mould your conduct
on those lines to the bitter end--my friend might find it a very
bitter end. That would not suit him at all."
"You----! I've half a mind to kill you!"
"Keep it at half a mind; many of my friends and clients have
found it wiser to stop right there."
"Then do you mean to tell me that I can't get money out of any
one--anyhow?"
"Not at all; money can always be obtained upon security. You
have personal property--the furniture of this house, jewels, and
so on."
"What I might get out of that sort of thing would be gone before
I got it."
"Then you might get money out of Messrs. McTavish & Brown."
"You've told me over and over again that it would take no
end of a time to do that. I can't wait; I want money--a lot of
it!--now."
"There's such a thing as compromise."
"Compromise? What do you mean?"
"If you insist on receiving the full amount of your demand, no
doubt Messrs. McTavish & Brown will keep you waiting as long as
they can--if you ever succeed in getting it at all. But,
supposing you agree to accept half----"
"Or three-quarters."
"Or three-quarters. The major sum might be mentioned first; but,
if time is of importance, I should advise you to allow yourself
to be persuaded to accept half, or even a trifle less, and to
give a full quittance for all claims, on condition, say, that
the amount agreed upon is paid within four-and-twenty hours."
"They shall pay it!--I'll see to that! And then when I've got it
I'll go at 'em for the rest."
"Ahem! I cannot allow myself to be associated with any such
scheme as that."
"Can't you? We'll see! You stop where you are. I'll dress, and
then you shall go with me to Messrs. McTavish & Brown as my
legal adviser! and when I leave them I'll be richer than when I
started, or they'll be sorry!" Mrs. Lamb passed into her
bedroom, through the partially open door of which her voice
proceeded: "Don't you go meddling with any of the things in
there; I know exactly what there is, so don't you think I don't.
If I suspected you of taking so much as a paper-knife, I'd have
it out of you if I had to strip every rag of clothing off you to
get at it."