Mrs. Dersingham, Miss Verever and Mr. and Mrs. Pearson were
playing bridge upstairs at 34, Barkfield Gardens, in the Pearsons’
drawing-room. Mr. Dersingham should have been there, but he had
telephoned to say that urgent business kept him at the office, so
Miss Verever, who was usually abroad at this time of the year but had
stayed in London because she was quarrelling with her solicitors, had
taken his place. She was always ready to take anybody’s place at any
dining or bridge tables, though she never gave the least sign that she
was enjoying herself. The card table was in the middle of the room,
and there was only just space enough for it and its four players, in
spite of the fact that this was a large room, larger than any of the
Dersinghams’ downstairs. The trouble was that the Pearsons had so
many things. They had furnished the room first with good solid late
Victorian furniture, and then they had poured into it the glittering
East, all the loot of Singapore. If the Federated Malay States
had been destroyed by an earthquake and a great tidal wave, their
life could have been re-constructed out of that room, which put any
missionary exhibition to shame. Everybody looked out of place in it,
and nobody more out of place than the Pearsons themselves.
They were now playing their third rubber of auction. Mrs. Dersingham
had Mr. Pearson for her partner, and they were not badly paired, for
she was rather a bold, slap-dash player, while he was very dull,
cautious, obvious, though he always tried to give the impression of
immense cunning. Nobody believed in this cunning of his except his
wife, who would shake her mysterious dark curls at him and girlishly
protest against his sinister subtlety. “Isn’t he dreadful?” she would
cry, after Mr. Pearson, with much stroking of his chin and narrowing of
his eyes, had succeeded in some commonplace _finesse_. Mrs. Pearson,
though she had been sitting at bridge tables for years, was one of
those cheerfully bad players who continually ask for and receive
advice, but have not the slightest intention of improving their play.
Probably she only saw the cards as so many vague pieces of pasteboard,
and what was real to her was simply the social scene, the faces round
the green cloth and the pleasant chatter between games. If somebody
had suggested playing _Snap_ with the cards or telling fortunes with
them, she would have been delighted, but as people seemed to prefer
bridge, whether in Singapore or in London, she gladly made one at the
table. And if all Barkfield Gardens had been combed, it would have been
impossible to find a worse partner for Miss Verever, who played a good,
keen, close, give-no-quarter game, and loathed all idle chatterers at
the table, all idiots who would _not_ get trumps out, all the fools who
clung to their wretched aces, all the witless monsters who said, “Have
you seen her lately? I haven’t seen her for weeks and weeks. Let me
see, _what_ are trumps?” Mrs. Pearson combined smilingly every fault in
bridge-playing known to Miss Verever, and Miss Verever’s glances and
tone of voice, queer and disturbing at any time, were now more queer
and disturbing than ever, so that Mrs. Dersingham felt quite frightened
and wished she had never asked her to take Howard’s place. On Mrs.
Pearson herself, however, these very peculiar glances, these biting
accents seemed to have no effect.
“Well,” said Mr. Pearson, picking up his pencil, “that’s three down,
doubled--three hundred to us. Simple honours to you, eighteen. Didn’t
do badly that time, eh partner? Must make something while we can.
Tee-tee-tee-tee-tee.”
“Isn’t he dreadful?” cried Mrs. Pearson. “And you’re nearly as bad, my
dear, you’re encouraging him. You see what it is, playing against my
husband, Miss Verever. He’s a dreadful man. Never mind, we’ll do better
next time, won’t we?”
“But was it necessary to go Three Spades?” Miss Verever enquired
bitterly.
“Well, wasn’t it? Oh, do tell me if it wasn’t. When you’d gone One,
you see, and I had some spades, I thought we might win the rubber if
we played the spades. If you think I did anything wrong, Miss Verever,
don’t be afraid of telling me, because I know you’re ever so much
better than I am. Should I have played that king first?”
Miss Verever drew a deep breath, but Mrs. Dersingham was too quick for
her. “Oh, don’t let’s have post-mortems,” she cried. “Whose deal is it?
Mine, isn’t it?”
“I suppose Mr. Dersingham will come up when he gets back, won’t he?”
said Mrs. Pearson, who never failed to snatch at any little opportunity
for a chat. “He’s late, isn’t he? It must be so tiring for him, poor
man. We know what it is, don’t we?”
“We do,” replied her husband. “At least I do, my dear.
Tee-tee-tee-tee-tee.”
“He used to work terribly late sometimes out in Singapore,” Mrs.
Pearson explained. “Night after night, sometimes in the hot season,
too.”
“Couldn’t grumble though,” said Mr. Pearson. “It meant that business
was good.”
“Yes, of course, that’s what I feel,” said Mrs. Dersingham, pausing in
her dealing. “I suppose they’ve had a sudden rush or something.”
“That’s splendid, isn’t it?” cried Mrs. Pearson. “I do like to hear of
anybody I know doing so well. So many people don’t now, do they?”
“It’s made a great difference to Howard, being so busy,” said Mrs.
Dersingham, still with the cards motionless in her hand. “He really
likes being in the City now. He was getting very depressed about it
some time ago. Now let me see----”
“The next card should be mine,” said Miss Verever coldly.
“Oh, should it? That’s all right, then.” And she continued dealing.
“Well, I didn’t want to say anything at the time, my dear,” Mrs.
Pearson began, but she was cut short. Mrs. Dersingham looked up to see
Miss Verever, on her right, giving her a terrible glance, and so she
hastily declared “Pass.”
“But I thought he seemed rather depressed about it, too,” Mrs. Pearson
continued. “About six months ago, wasn’t it?”
“_One Heart_,” said Miss Verever, quietly, but with a fearful
intonation. “_One Heart._”
“Oh dear, have you started bidding already? How quick you are with your
cards!” Mrs. Pearson began sorting hers in a frantic fashion. “Did you
say One Heart? You did, didn’t you? Well, after last time, I shall
say--nothing.”
“But it’s not your turn to say anything,” Mr. Pearson pointed out. “In
this game, your husband for once gets a chance to speak. And I say--One
No Trumps. Yes, this is where your husband’s allowed to speak, my dear.
Tee-tee-tee-tee-tee.”
They were a game all in this rubber, so Miss Verever struggled up to
Three Hearts, but her opponents went Three No Trumps, got them, won the
rubber, and put her down eight hundred points.
“Is there time for another rubber?” said Mrs. Pearson, who was always
quite willing to go on playing, perhaps because she never really
started.
“I hardly think there is,” said Miss Verever, with one of her peculiar
smiles.
“No, let’s stop now,” cried Mrs. Dersingham.
“Somebody owes me four and ninepence,” Mr. Pearson pointed out.
“Listen to him! Isn’t he really a dreadful man when he plays this
game? I believe I’ve lost four and nine--or is it five and nine?”
Mrs. Pearson shook her curls at the score. “But I refuse to pay _you_
anything, so there!”
“Tee-tee-tee-tee-tee.”
“Well, I suppose I must pay _my_ debts,” said Miss Verever, looking
at her score as if it was composed of something filthy, then glancing
round without removing all the last expression from her face. “I pay
you, I think, my dear. I’m afraid--yes, I’m afraid--I shall have to ask
you for change.”
“It doesn’t matter,” said Mrs. Dersingham hastily. “I haven’t got any
change.”
“Please remind me then, the next time.” Miss Verever said this as if
they would soon be meeting in some torture chamber.
Somebody had arrived. It must be--it was--Mr. Dersingham. He came
forward, blinking a little. His wife did not like the look of him. He
was flushed and rather untidy.
Mrs. Pearson rushed at him. “Come along, you poor, poor man! Sit down
here. Make yourself comfortable. You’ve been working all this time
while we’ve been enjoying ourselves. Walter, give poor Mr. Dersingham a
drink this minute. I’m sure you’d like one, wouldn’t you?”
Mr. Dersingham said that he would, and the next minute he was taking
a good swig of a large whisky and soda. When he put the glass down,
he caught his wife’s eye, and for a moment he just stared at her. She
liked the look of him now less than ever. To begin with, this was by
no means the first large whisky he had had that night. She saw that
at once. But that was not all. There was something wrong. She glanced
round and saw Miss Verever staring at him, and decided immediately that
the sooner Miss Verever left them the better. She did not mind much
about the Pearsons, who were kind and homely people, but she did not
want Maud Verever to see or hear anything. She was about to suggest
that they must go, when Mr. Pearson spoke.
“Had a long day, Dersingham, eh?” said Mr. Pearson, his cheeks wobbling
sympathetically. “We were just talking about it. I know what it is.
I’ve had these rushes, you know, working half the night--in the hot
season too, not a breath of air. Takes it out of you, I’ll tell you.
Still, it’s good for business, isn’t it? Better than the other way
round, eh? Tee-tee-tee-tee-tee.”
“I think I really ought to be going now,” said Miss Verever, with one
of her dreadful smiles.
“Enjoyed yourself?” said Mr. Dersingham.
She started back. “Oh--of course,” she replied, keeping her eyes fixed
on him.
“Good. I’m glad to hear it. I like to hear of anybody enjoying
themselves, and specially you, Miss Verever.”
There was something very extraordinary about this, but Miss Verever
did not care to stop and investigate it. She began saying Good-night.
Mrs. Dersingham said that they must go too, but Mr. Dersingham refused
to stir, so Miss Verever left by herself, though Mrs. Dersingham
accompanied her down the stairs.
“Howard doesn’t seem to be very well to-night, does he?” said Miss
Verever, when they reached the hall below, in the Dersingham half of
the building.
“He’s tired, that’s all. I don’t think he’s very well. He’s been
working tremendously hard. It’s terribly tiring working late like this
down in the City.”
“I suppose it is.” And it would be impossible to cram a larger amount
of dubiety into four words than Miss Verever did into those four.
“Of course it is,” cried Mrs. Dersingham, a trifle impatiently. “You
just try it and see.”
“Why, have you tried it, my dear? If you have, it’s news to me.
However, I hope Howard’s better soon. He shouldn’t tire himself out
like that. It must be very bad for him. Don’t you think so? Well, it
was very nice of you to ask me to make the four up and play with Mrs.
Pearson. Good-bye, my dear.”
Mrs. Dersingham hurried back to the Pearsons, slightly alarmed and
considerably annoyed. It looked as if Howard had not been kept late at
the office at all, but had sneaked off to his club, where he had had
more drinks than were good for him. There was always just a little, a
little, danger of that with Howard. She found him sitting with his legs
stretched out straight in front of him, listening to the Pearsons, who
were still talking about Singapore.
“Taking it all round, y’know, the good with the bad,” Mr. Pearson
concluded, “it’s not such a bad life out there, though it’s not so good
as it was. It isn’t anywhere in the East. Still, even so, I believe
if I’d my time over again, I’d go out there again, I really believe I
would.”
“Good!” said Mr. Dersingham, with a kind of dreary solemnity. “All
right then, Pearson, what about that job out there you promised to get
me?”
“Any time, any time! Tee-tee-tee-tee-tee. When would you like it?
Tee-tee-tee.” Mr. Pearson evidently regarded this as a great joke.
“You can start getting it for me now, old man.”
Mrs. Pearson joined in the joke. “You’d better be getting your clothes
ready, my dear,” she told Mrs. Dersingham, who smiled, though not very
brightly. She did not see anything very funny in all this, and her
husband was behaving very stupidly. It was time she got him away.
“I’m serious, y’know,” he declared now, with the same dreary solemnity.
“I’m not joking. You get me that job out there as soon as you can. I’m
serious.”
“That’s right. So are we. When would you like it then?
Tee-tee-tee-tee-tee.”
Mr. Dersingham drained his glass, then examined what was left in it,
the last golden drops, with a thoroughness that suggested he was
conducting a chemical experiment.
“We _really_ must go, yes, really we must,” cried Mrs. Dersingham, with
a forced brightness; and in less than two minutes she had said all
there was to say and had hustled her husband and herself out of the
room. There was no fire in the drawing-room below, but there was the
whitening ruin of one in the dining-room, and immediately he stumped in
there in a heavy sort of way and sat down. She walked in after him, but
did not sit down.
“I’m going to bed,” she announced coldly.
“Just a minute,” he said in a muffled voice.
“I prefer to go to bed. I’m tired, even if you’re not.” And she turned
away.
“No, don’t go,” he cried, quite sharply now, with hardly anything of
that thickness in his voice that had been there before. “You mustn’t,
Pongo. I’ve got something to tell you.”
She closed the door and came back. “Pongo” was his old specially
silly delightful name for her, and even now, when she was annoyed
with him, when he was a large, pink, sagging creature, whose every
stupidity she knew by heart, when he was sitting there, flushed and
thick with whisky, not at all the sort of man she ever imagined she was
marrying, a hundred times less attentive and considerate and clever
and courageous, even now, the sound of that “Pongo” gave her a little
thrill. She was annoyed with herself for feeling it. If he imagined he
was going to be forgiven at once, simply because he had called her by
that name, he was sadly mistaken.
She took up a position on the other side of the hearth, and stood
looking down on him. “I should think you have something to say! Have
you been to the club?”
He nodded and waved an impatient hand. “That was nothing,” he muttered.
“No, but if you _must_ pretend you have to work late and then you go on
to the club and fuddle yourself with drinks, you might at least have
the sense to keep out of the way, instead of barging in like that and
behaving so stupidly. No, Howard, I’m really disgusted. You know I’m
not silly about drinking, as some women are. But there’s a limit. I
believe you’re drinking a jolly sight too much these days, a lot more
than is good for you. Yes, I mean it. Anybody could see what was the
matter with you to-night, up there.”
“Oh, could they?” He gave a little laugh.
“Yes, of course they could.”
“Well, believe me, my dear, they _couldn’t_. Not one of ’em. Not you,
even. No, not you.”
“Oh, don’t be silly, Howard.”
“I’m not being silly. I wish to God I was. You know when I asked
Pearson about that job? I suppose you thought I was being funny then,
didn’t you?”
“I didn’t think you were being particularly funny,” she told him,
“though you obviously thought you were. If you want to know what I
thought, it was that you were just being rather stupid.”
“Well, I wasn’t, Pongo,” he said quietly. “I was quite serious.
No, listen. We’re absolutely done--I mean the firm, Twigg and
Dersingham--completely finished.”
“Howard, you don’t mean it?”
“Yes, I do. That’s what kept me to-night. I had a drink or two just
because I felt played out, and I suppose I did show it--sorry about
that--but I’ve had a hell of a day. Golspie’s cleared out and left
us----”
“But you told me the other day that even if Golspie did go, it wouldn’t
matter and you’d arranged everything so that you could do without him.”
“I know, but the rotten swine did me down----”
“But how? I don’t understand. Howard, you don’t really mean it’s as
serious as all that? The firm can go on, can’t it?”
He shook his head, and kept his face turned away. He looked like a
great foolish baby. She swept down on him. “Tell me what’s happened.
Why didn’t you tell me at once? I’m sorry I was cross with you. I
didn’t know it was anything serious--naturally. Now tell me.”
He told her the whole wretched story.
“But do you mean to say that brute has gone and you can’t do anything,
anything at all? But it’s ridiculous. Can’t you tell the police? Why,
it’s just as bad as burglary or swindling. It _is_ swindling. But I
knew, I _knew_ all the time that something would happen because of that
man. He hated us after that night he came here and I lost my temper
with that vile little minx of a daughter. I felt all the time he did. I
told you to get rid of him, didn’t I? Oh, Howard, you have been stupid.
Yes, you have. I’ll never believe in you again as a business man. You
used to tell me I didn’t understand about these things, but I’m sure I
understand about people--and that’s the main thing--better than you.
But what’s going to happen now?”
“I don’t know,” he mumbled miserably, and he explained as best he could
the position they were in. As she listened, she suddenly saw the four
walls enclosing them, the table and chairs and sideboard, everything in
sight, no longer as solid objects, fixed, rooted in a secure existence,
but as things brittle as glass, unstable and wavering as water. Nor
did her imagination stop there. It explored the whole maisonette,
the drawing-room, the kitchen below, the nursery and bedrooms, and
discovered nothing substantial there, except the two children asleep
upstairs and a few personal possessions that had long ceased to be
mere things. She realised now, with a shock of dismay, that something
absurd and fantastic could happen in Angel Pavement, far away, that
could change all this. Their life here in Barkfield Gardens, not their
personal life, but everything else, all the cleaning and cooking and
shopping and visiting, was a mere candle-flame--one puff of wind,
a wind that came from nowhere, and it was gone. She understood how
millions of people live. It was a moment of revelation.
“What are we going to do?” she asked.
“I don’t know yet,” he replied wearily. “Give me time. I haven’t had a
chance to think yet. Hang it all, this has all been dropped on me like
a ton of bricks. God!--I’m tired.”
He sounded helpless, looked helpless. Her mind began working
furiously now, and the effect, after months and months of stagnation,
of pretending and dreaming and vague discontent, was curiously
exhilarating. “Do you think Mr. Pearson could get you a job out East?”
“No, I don’t.”
“But why? You haven’t asked him properly. He doesn’t know you want
one--if you really do want one, and I’m not sure about that.”
“I know he doesn’t, my dear. But I’m sure when he does he’ll change
his tune. I felt that when he was talking to-night. It’s all right,”
he added bitterly, as if he had suddenly discovered what the world was
like and what men were made of, “while it’s still a joke. The minute
he finds I’m serious, he’ll pull a long face. I don’t mean he’s not a
decent chap and all that. But he thinks he’s talking to a prosperous
business man who doesn’t really want a job. That’s the difference.”
“I must have some tea,” she announced. “It’s no good; we must talk it
over; if I went to bed I shouldn’t sleep a wink--and if we’re going
to stay up, I must have some tea. I’ll go down and make some. No, I
can do it by myself. You stay here, and, Howard, do, do try and think
of something. Try and find out how much money we’ll have left--and
everything.”
When she returned with the tea, he was still sitting in the same
huddled fashion. “Listen, I’ve been thinking,” she began, almost gaily.
But seeing him there, a large melancholy heap of man, she put down the
tray, came across, pushed him back in his chair, and stood looking down
at him, her hands still on his shoulders.
“Do you love me?” she asked.
He found this question as difficult as ever, but this time there was
none of that masculine impatience or grinning intolerance. “As a matter
of fact, I do,” he told her in a shamefaced mumble, “but I don’t feel
this is the time to say so.”
“Of course it is. Why not?”
“Well, I’ve let you down. I’ve let you down badly. I’ve been a fool.
I’ll admit I have. But I never liked the business, you know that, don’t
you? If it hadn’t been for the cursed War, I’d never have gone into
it. Not my style at all. I always hated it really--Angel Pavement and
all those damned furniture places and sniffling East End Jews, and
the whole thing. I’ve tried my best, but it’s always gone against the
grain. I’m not excusing myself, mind, though honestly I think anybody
might have been let down the same way by that artful devil. Smeeth--and
he’s been in business all his life--never had a suspicion. He was more
surprised than I was. And a fellow I talked to at the Club said he’d
never heard of such a thing, said I couldn’t be blamed at all. But
there it is. What bothers me is that there’s some of your money gone,
too. I’m sorry, Pongo. I seem to have made a mess of it.”
“I have some money left, though.”
“Not much,” he told her gloomily. “About twelve hundred, perhaps. No,
not quite that.”
“Well, that’s something, isn’t it? It’s quite a lot, really. And after
all you’ve had very good business experience now. Then--you remember
what Uncle Phil said? Just a minute; I’ll pour out the tea. Yes, you
must have some.” She did not sound at all depressed.
She was not depressed. In a few weeks, she might be miserable--she knew
that too; she seemed to know everything to-night--but now, at this
moment, she might have just had good news instead of very bad. Unlike
her husband, who appeared to be only half the man he usually was, a
listless lump, she felt twice her customary self. The footlights had
blazed out, the curtain had shot up, and she had responded at once to
the call of the drama. But there was more in it than that. She was no
longer playing and pretending in the background. The situation, leaving
him crushed, challenged her, and there was something exhilarating in
accepting the challenge. Everything was suddenly real and exciting.
Plans by the score, some of them born of old idle day-dreams, were
stirring in her mind, and now while he listened, sometimes shaking his
head, sometimes looking at her hopefully, they came tumbling out. “Of
course, we’ll give this place up as soon as we can--we ought to get a
decent premium too--look what we’ve spent on the decoration--and then
I’m sure mother would take the children for a few months....”