3
How bright, how unfairly upon a gay and sunlit peak seemed the lives on the top floor compared to those being lived below! How mean it seemed to be going eagerly up to talk to Miss Holland, with an evening ahead full of varied enchantments. Miss Holland to come back to when it was over; for more talk.
The door of her room stood open, twilight within. Miss Holland was at home. In the sitting-room. There would be lamplight, heralding the brighter radiances ahead.
The sitting-room was almost dark. The light of a guttering candle set on a chair struck dimly upwards over Miss Holland in her flannel dressing-gown; mending an ancient skirt. Her hair in wisps round a face harshly lit from below, and heavy with shadows. The reek of spilt paraffin came from the small stove in the fireplace. It was only an instant’s vision, rapidly erased by Miss Holland’s surprised greeting and eager rearrangements. But the picture of her intense private concentration on gloomy economies had added itself to the scene downstairs.
While Miss Holland cleared away, Miriam retreated to her bedroom and set Perrance’s gift down in several places in turn. Everywhere it refused to harmonise. The delicate elegant finger suggested a life moving in refined paths towards extinction; an effigy of that conscious refinement that speaks more clearly than anything else of the ugliness of dissolution. In this room so warm with life there was no place for a hint from the tomb.
“Ah, mon enfant, tout cela pourrira.”
“Oui, mon père, mais ce n’est pas encore pourri.”
She went back to the gloomy sitting-room eager to communicate to Miss Holland the newly revealed life of the household.
“M’no,” said Miss Holland, “the man Perrance I have not so far seen. His wife I fear is a poor thing. A countrywoman, from Devonshire. London conditions, though I gather she has lived here ever since her marriage, are too much for her. And it is only too evident that she does not recognise the necessity for hygiene. Everything in their quarters is, I fear, most unwholesome. And to make matters worse, they keep, like so many childless Londoners of that class, innumerable cats. I fear she rarely bestirs herself. He, I understand, brings in all foods. And requires a great deal of cookery. She complains in a mopy, resigned way, about that. I fear they do not agree any too well. There are, very frequently, loud discussions going on when I come in at night.”
She spoke with disdainful rapidity, as if eager to make way for other themes.
“He’s a freak, from a circus, the perfect mountebank. But there’s something, as there always is in a charlatan.”
“I fear I’m no psychologist. I’ve not seen the man as yet, but I fear, I fear his voice sounds suspiciously thick. M—— you’ve seen him?”
“He’s given me that finger from the window. I suppose it’s a paper-weight.”
Miss Holland was transformed. Flushed and frowning with incredulous approval.
“But what a charming tribute!” she cried. “Indeed, I am surprised. Most certainly I should not have credited Perrance with so much perception.”
“I wish he hadn’t. I can’t live up to graceful attentions.”
“No need, no need.” She was speaking meditatively towards the shaded lamp. “You have the secret of charm, an enchanting possession. Is it not enough?”
“That’s an illusion. I haven’t.” She described the scene on the first floor.
“Yes, yes, dear, dear,” interrupted Miss Holland, waving it away. “We are in strange surroundings. Those poor things are not married. That odious Sheffield who made their arrival an excuse for calling on me—I did not tell you. Eh, he is odious,” she shook her head, childishly screwing up her features. “Odious—believes, of course, that they are. They are both hotel employés. It is one of those unfortunate cases. And they are quite without circumspection, talking loudly, with open doors. The young man is a presentable fellow, nice-looking and respectful in manner. He intends, I gather, to marry her. There is, of course, an infant on the way.” Without waiting for response she waved her glasses towards the mantelshelf.