Easy to say, easy to do, step right
Now you’ve stepped left.
Tertium Quid, R. Browning.
There is a fascination to be felt in walking homewards on a wet evening, seeing the gleam of light from windows, perhaps the flicker of firelight on a ceiling, and knowing that soon one will turn out of the damp and cold of the street into a warm, bright room.
Something of the sort was passing through the mind of Henry Godfrey as he turned up the steps and rang the bell of No. 5A Clevedon Street. Certainly the evening was raw and unpleasant, and he had every confidence in the warmth and comfort he would find within. He was coming to have tea, and pick up his wife, at the flat where his aunt, Mrs. Dutton, lived. Godfrey himself lived down in Putney, but to-night he had left his office early and had come round to Kensington. Glancing upwards as he waited to be admitted to the flat, he could see that Simon Ewing, in whose collection of jade he was interested, was at home, for the light shone through the chinks of the row of tall windows above. Reflecting that he might possibly find it opportune to go up before he and his wife went on home, he turned now as the door before him opened, and his sister Anne welcomed him in. She did not live there, but had come now to spend Christmas with her aunt.
Mrs. Dutton’s maisonette had not the style and elegance of her neighbour, Mr. Ewing’s. She had the lower part of the house, including the basement. She thus had two very large rooms on the ground-floor, formerly the dining-room and study behind, which, in her case, now were respectively her big living-room in front and her bedroom behind. Downstairs she had a room in front, which she had turned into her spare-room, looking, really, into the area. The steps leading down, however, had been taken away, and the windows were barred, so that there was no possible entrance to the room that way. The rest of the basement she used as box-room and a tiny kitchen, for like many other dwellers in service flats she preferred occasionally to provide herself with light meals which she cooked herself. As she had the original ground-floor and entrance, she should have had a large square entrance hall. When, however, the house was converted, half of the hall was divided off in order to provide a separate entrance to the flat above. She still was left, however, with a good broad passage-way, once the narrow entrance itself was passed, and this gave an air of spaciousness to the house.
The furniture was of the kind so often met with in the houses of good middle-class English families. A few beautiful chests and chairs and mirrors; some good Persian rugs, gay chintz, brass bowls filled with ferns, rather too many pictures on the walls, and too many pieces of china and knick-knacks on the tables; a dearth of books; a general air of comfort and of enjoyment in harmonious colours, and well-polished furniture. Nothing very original or striking, but everything agreeable and bright.
Entering the hall, Godfrey took off his wet raincoat, hung it up, banged his umbrella down into the stand with an air of relief, and followed his sister into the room on the left, which faced into the street and was actually the room beneath Simon Ewing’s sitting-room in the flat above. In the Dutton’s flat this big living-room was, at the moment, rather untidy in appearance, for scattered over it were numbers of parcels, sheets of paper, cardboard boxes, and all the impedimenta of parcels yet to be done up. Christmas preparations, in fact, were desolating many homes. However, the room was warm, a fine fire blazed, tea was set out by the hearth. So, sinking gratefully into an arm-chair, Henry prepared for a little family gossip.
He was a handsome man in his own way, fairly tall, well set up, strongly built. His colouring was unusual, for he had fair hair, straight and thick, with a gleam in it, and a fair complexion, but his eyes were dark brown. Clearly this was a family trait, for the same combination was found in his sister, who stood now beside him, looking down affectionately at him. She too was tall and well built. Her hair was slightly wavy and showed definitely golden, where Henry’s, kept closely cut and smoothly brushed, appeared rather darker. Her eyes, larger and softer than his, were beautiful, and gave colour to her whole face. While neither was, perhaps, strikingly handsome, yet both were unusual in appearance and distinctly pleasing. Brother and sister appeared to be on friendly terms, as was indicated by the way in which Henry spoke.
“Well, Anne,” he began, “it’s nice to see you again. I’m sorry to be late. I got kept at the office, and couldn’t get along here earlier.”
“We thought something of the sort had happened,” returned his sister placidly. “But we were all so busy getting off our parcels we were quite glad you were behind time. Now they’re nearly all done, and we can have our tea in great peace and comfort.”
At this juncture they were interrupted by Doreen, Henry’s wife, who had been busy at the table behind them, and who came towards her husband, holding out a book.
“Now, Henry, before I send off Aunt Agnes’s book you really must write her name in it. Here it is—just scribble a line!”
“Oh heavens, don’t start pestering me at once,” replied Henry, half vexed, half good-humouredly. “I want a bit of peace first. Don’t start harassing me at once. Why can’t you write her name in it? It’s all the same really.”
“Not at all the same,” answered his wife promptly. “You know Aunt Agnes infinitely prefers to have something from you, and she knows the difference between our writings. And you know she loves those absurd old quotations you always put in to amuse her. Come now, Henry! I’ve bought the book, and I’ll do it up—just be an angel and scribble something in.”
Realizing that peace was most quickly attained by prompt action, Henry demurred no further, but, extracting his fountain-pen from his breast-pocket, he took the book his wife held out and, balancing it on his knee, began to inscribe in it an elaborate greeting for his aunt.
His wife stood watching him triumphantly, her pretty, rather silly little face expressing her pleasure in this small victory. She did not, on careful consideration, seem exactly the wife one might have expected such a man as Henry Godfrey to choose. He was clearly intelligent, with an active brain, and probably a good many interests in life. She was pretty enough—smart, and made the most of herself—but there was weakness bordering on silliness in her mouth and expression. She looked an empty-headed, vapid little thing by the side of her sister-in-law, and her looks and charms were not of a sufficiently high order quite to explain why Godfrey had married her.
Something of the sort was perhaps passing through the mind of Anne herself as she stood looking down on them both; on Doreen’s neat dark head, now pressed close to Henry’s shoulder as she leant from the arm of his chair where she had perched herself. For a faintly contemptuous smile hovered round Anne’s mouth, and a slight sigh issued from her lips, as if she thought this little scene typical, and not altogether to her taste.
While Henry’s pen travelled swiftly over the title-page, his beautifully neat, tiny writing being the subject of admiring comments from his wife, Mrs. Dutton herself came into the room.
She, though grey-haired and faded, had the same clear dark eyes as her nephew and niece, and the remains of what had once been the same bright complexion. Theirs was an example of a type of looks which, arising in a family, persists from one generation to another, and where the portraits of the grandfather as a boy might be taken for those of the son.
She was carrying in her hands a little tray laden with a covered muffin dish, and, smiling at her nephew, she first stood the dish on the tea-table, and then turned to him to say cheerfully:
“Well, Henry, I heard you come in, so I brought up the muffins. How nice to see you again! I haven’t had you here for a long time. Anne,” turning to her niece, “will you make the tea now. I think we’re all ready for it.”
Anne went to the fireplace, and lifting the kettle from the brass hob, where it had been simmering and hissing, put it on to the fire to bring it definitely to the boil.
Mrs. Dutton sat down in the comfortable chair facing Henry, with the low tea-table between them. The red and gold tea-set, bright silver teapot, the covered dish with its hint of excellent, hot, buttery muffins, a delicacy and a custom only fully relished by those who go through our cold, inclement winter season, all combined to emphasize the pleasures of tea-time in December.
The very likeness which showed itself in three of the four faces round the table added another note of comfort. Here were members of one family, all bound together apparently not only by ties of blood but of affection. The idea of harmony, of solidarity, of something more than simple friendship seemed to find expression here.
While they waited for the kettle to be pronounced truly boiling, Anne, sitting back on her heels on the hearthrug, spoke over her shoulder to her brother, who, after a brief nod of acquiescence from his aunt, had resumed his inscription.
“Henry, Doreen has been telling us about this possibility of you going to Germany—”
She broke off abruptly, for, at this moment, all were startled by a sound coming from above.
These converted flats, originally built as good, solid, family mansions, possessed the one great advantage of being fairly sound-proof, or, as the Scots say, “well-deafened.” Usually nothing was heard by the occupants of one flat of those above or below. It was therefore the more noticeable when there came at this juncture a muffled thud from immediately above their heads. Indeed, as the room seemed for a moment to quiver, all looked up at the ceiling, and Henry’s pen, which he still held, slipped from his fingers to the floor. He reached for it with an impatient exclamation, but glancing at the open book on his knee, and seeing that no smudge or damage had resulted, he calmly proceeded to complete his inscription.
But his wife interrupted him at once. “Oh, Henry!” she exclaimed, laying her hand on his shoulder and glancing upwards, as if she expected something to fall down upon them. “Whatever was that?”
“Old Ewing throwing the furniture about,” answered Henry promptly.” He’s enraged at that nurse he’s got, staying out shopping.” For gossip filters easily from one flat to the other, and from one member of a family to another, and the ways of the Ewing ménage were familiar to him by repute. “Awful temper that old tartar’s got, really,” he continued, pensively gazing at his handiwork. “And I dare say—”
But here Doreen Godfrey interrupted him again.
“Oh! be quiet, Henry! Don’t try to be so funny!” she snapped.” Listen! Whatever can they be doing up there?”
She held up her hand to enforce her words, and for a moment they all paused and were silent. Even Mrs. Dutton laid down her piece of muffin and looked upwards. The ceiling was still quivering slightly, making the electric lamps suspended from it sway quite distinctly. The effect was so strange that Doreen’s grip tightened on Henry’s arm, in the effort to ensure his stillness. Her husband, however, shook her off impatiently, and glanced quite angrily at his aunt and sister, as if vexed at their continued immobility. The vibration soon ceased, however, and no further sound came from above. There was no movement perceptible at all, in fact, neither footsteps, nor the moving of a chair, nor the scraping of furniture across the floor. Complete silence reigned.
The spell was broken by the kettle, which chose this moment to boil over, and as Anne bent hastily forward to snatch it off the fire her aunt, roused by the movement, spoke.
“Dear me!” she said in a tone of mild surprise, “that was a crash. I wonder if Mr. Ewing could have pulled over one of his cabinets? He so often opens them, and gets bits of his collection out in the evening, and goes through them. It sounded to me as if one of those big cabinets might have fallen over. Do you think that could be so?”
“Oh, well,” replied Anne, now preparing to pour out the tea, “even if it has, I don’t suppose he’s hurt, and it will give him something to do to pick up the pieces!”
“Dear me! How unsympathetic you are, Anne!” exclaimed her sister-in-law, rather spitefully. “Why, the poor old thing may have had it fall on him.”
“I don’t think of him as a poor old thing,” retorted Anne, her cheeks, already flushed by the heat of the fire, colouring more deeply with annoyance at Doreen’s tone. “I don’t think he deserves any pity. He has that nurse there to look after him, too, if he wants any help. Selfish, self-indulgent old man! Coddling himself up with a trained nurse!”
“Well, dear,” interrupted Mrs. Dutton, “he really does need that nurse. He’s quite crippled now, with his arthritis. Some days he can’t even walk, and quite often he has to stay in bed. These are service flats, you know, and he’d have no one to look after him if it weren’t for the nurse.”
“Yes, I dare say,” put in Doreen, rather impertinently, something having evidently caused her to change sides; “but you know, Aunt Mary, I think I agree with Anne there. He is appallingly selfish. Penelope Fordham,” with a sideways glance, first at her husband and then at Anne, “is one of our great friends, you know, and it always makes us quite furious to know how miserably she and George live, while old Mr. Ewing doesn’t deny himself anything, and lives in perfect luxury, spending heaven knows what on himself. Isn’t that true, Henry?”
“That’s not our business,” said Mrs. Dutton, rather reprovingly, and, as if aware of undercurrents, and wishful to leave this subject, she added, turning to her nephew: “But, Henry, do you think anything is wrong up there? Do you think one of us should go up to see? Perhaps we ought just to run up and inquire?”
“Good heavens, no!” replied Henry crossly. “Whatever makes you suggest such a thing? I must say I agree with Anne. I really detest that selfish old fish, and I certainly don’t see why we should concern ourselves with him. Probably he’s just knocked over a chair, or a picture’s fallen down and smashed.”
Doreen, as though suddenly realizing from his irritation that her husband wanted to enjoy some peace and quiet after his day at the office, and repenting the provocation she had given, now glanced imploringly at her aunt, but Mrs. Dutton, intent on her own ideas, never noticed the unspoken signal.
“But it seemed to me rather a loud thump,” she went on. “And I’m not sure if Nurse Edwards is back yet. She often goes out for her walk about this time. It would be dreadful if anything had fallen on Mr. Ewing; he’s so crippled he’s not able to look after himself like anyone else. I think, perhaps, Henry,” turning to the only male present, with a cheerful reliance on his capacity and willingness, “that it might be better if you just went up to inquire.”
Henry’s face had grown positively red with vexation as his aunt gently mused aloud, but, as she gazed with mild but infuriating appeal towards him, he broke out in temper which, even as he spoke, grew more and more uncontrollable.
“Oh, Aunt Mary, for goodness’ sake don’t fuss like this! I’ve had a grilling day at the office, and I want a bit of peace! I tell you I’m sure everything’s all right up there. There’s no need for us to bother ourselves. They’ve just knocked something over and now they’ve picked it up. Even if one of his beastly pictures has fallen off the wall, what on earth does it matter? I only hope old Ewing cuts his fingers on the glass!”
Catching sight of his aunt’s face of amazement at his outburst, Henry checked himself, and then, fuming still, turned on his wife, who was frowning at him from the other side of the hearth. Before he could carry the war into that camp, however, Anne intervened decisively.
“Well, all right, Henry; don’t get into such a fuss yourself. I agree with you; I don’t think any of us need go dashing up. If Mr. Ewing wants any help he has only to telephone down to the porter. He’s not too lame to get to the telephone, you know.” The last words she addressed apologetically to her aunt, who, meekly accepting the views of the majority, and seeing the evident wish of her guests to get on with the business of tea, said no more. She stooped to reach up the muffin dish from the hearth, and within a moment or two the little group had settled itself peaceably down.
Yet there was some lingering feeling of constraint or apprehension abroad. For the next few minutes talk seemed to flag; Henry did not regain his amiability, Mrs. Dutton remained rather distrait, Anne rather abrupt. Every member of the party seemed to be unable to give whole-hearted attention to what was going on. No one appeared really to concentrate on the tea and muffins, and it was with that sudden feeling of vague, unreasoning apprehension, crystallizing into definite discomfort, that the silence which had fallen was interrupted by the loud and persistent trilling of the front door bell.
“I’ll see who it is,” said Anne, who was nearest the door, and rising swiftly to her feet she went out of the room, leaving the door slightly ajar. The others all paused, and then, clear and distinct, they heard an exclamation of horror and surprise.
“Why! Nurse Edwards! Oh! Whatever has happened to you? Poor thing! What is the matter?”
A faint murmur followed, and just as Mrs. Dutton rose hastily from her chair, Anne reappeared leading in a woman in nurse’s outdoor uniform, but with her face heavily strapped up with plaster and lint, and one arm in a sling. She was a tall, strongly built young woman, the type of one who was well able to cope with all the fatigues and labours of a nurse’s life. Indeed, as Mr. Ewing was often rendered so helpless by his illness, he had found it essential to choose as his attendant a young woman of the sturdy, well-developed type. This, incidentally, was far from pleasing to him. He greatly preferred the gentle, mild-eyed, slender woman. Unfortunately, being himself tall, and still quite heavy in spite of his age, and being, therefore, a solid weight to move and manage, he had been obliged, after two or three trials, to abandon his ideal, and fall back on a less ethereal but more robust variety. Partly in consequence of this perpetual slight source of irritation, he tended to vent his secret sense of disappointment by giving way to his moods of bad temper, and in exercising all the petty tyranny which an ailing employer can display towards a paid attendant.
Now, however, the nurse’s rather heavy, ruddy face was pale. She looked shaken and nervous, and, to Mrs. Dutton’s surprise, her voice trembled slightly as she began:
“I’m so sorry to bother you, Mrs. Dutton; I’m really ashamed to burst in on you like this,” with a glance towards Henry and his wife. “But, you see, I’ve met with an accident—I’ve been knocked over!”
“By a car?” interrupted Mrs. Dutton anxiously, pushing a chair towards her. “Do sit down. You don’t look fit to stand.”
The nurse hesitated. Then, as if aware from the kindness of the tone that she really was meeting with sympathy, and might perhaps let herself go a little, she sank down thankfully. For a moment her eyes seemed to brim with tears, and her lips quivered. Evidently she had been badly shaken, and her nerves were thoroughly upset. No one took any notice, and after a scarcely perceptible pause she recovered her self-control and went on to answer the question put to her.
“No, not by a car. Luckily for me, perhaps! In one sense it seems so silly. It was only a bicycle really, but it sent me spinning, and I fell bang against the curb—with all my fairy weight on my arm—” She tried to laugh a little ruefully, as if at her own substantial build, but again sounded slightly hysterical.
“I’ve had it all done up—it’s sprained not broken, and only needed a couple of stitches where I cut the wrist—and I’ve been trying to hurry back to Mr. Ewing. He’ll wonder what on earth I’m up to!”
“Let him wonder!” murmured Doreen, full of sympathy, but quelled at once by an almost fierce look cast by her aunt.
“Oh, I don’t want him to be worrying,” the nurse hastened to reply. “And I went straight upstairs to the flat when I got back from the hospital, but it’s so stupid—it’s my right arm I’ve hurt, and when I got there I couldn’t manage to turn the latch-key with my left hand. The key’s a bit stiff—so I can’t get in!”
“But Mr. Ewing’s there!” said Anne in astonishment. “Why, we heard him up there not five minutes ago! Didn’t you ring for him to come and let you in?”
“Oh yes, of course I did. Indeed I rang two or three times, but naturally Mr. Ewing didn’t know it was me ringing, and he’s a great objection to going to the door, lame as he is too, so I suppose he won’t bother. Anyhow,” rather hastily, as if aware of censure in the air, “he hasn’t come to open the door, and I thought if one of you would be so very kind and come up?”
“Why, of course, Nurse,” said Mrs. Dutton kindly. “I’ll come up with you myself and open the door.”
“No, Aunt Mary,” interposed Henry. “Don’t you bother. I’ll go up with Nurse. I’ll bear the brunt of breaking the news to Mr. Ewing!”
Mrs. Dutton looked at her nephew and, realizing that his offer was meant to atone for his previous bad-temper, smiled affectionately at him. “Well, that would be very kind of you, Henry, if you’re not too tired yourself.”
Doreen, who knew better than the others how cross her husband was after what had almost certainly been a worrying day in the city, and that his present amiability to his aunt might change to something different towards her when they should be on the way home, rose uneasily and, pushing herself forward, said: “Don’t you worry, Henry; we know you’re tired. I’ll go up with Nurse.”
“Nonsense, Doreen!” said Anne sharply, before Henry could reply. “That’s ridiculous. Let Henry go; it won’t hurt him to go up one flight of stairs!”
She spoke so vehemently that both Doreen and her aunt gazed at her with some surprise, and poor mild Mrs. Dutton, who felt her tea-party was not turning out at all well, turned, rather aghast, to her nephew, to see how he would take this little outburst. Henry, however, by now appeared to have recovered his temper, or at least his self-control, and he merely smiled quite agreeably at his aunt, repeating: “It’s all right, Aunt Mary, I don’t mind a bit. Of course I’ll go.” Reassured, Mrs. Dutton turned to the nurse, who stood there looking rather pale and shaken: “But won’t you just stay and have a cup of tea, Nurse? You must need one after an accident, even if it’s not a very serious one, and there’s no one upstairs to get you one. You can leave Mr. Ewing just a little longer—or Mr. Godfrey will go up and tell him now what has happened.”
“No, thank you very much,” replied the nurse, clearly impatient to be off. “I’ve been kept out a long time as it is, and Mr. Ewing will wonder wherever I’ve got to—I must really get up to him at once—I’d rather, thank you”—this with an anxious glance at Henry.
He, with the obvious determination to do the thing thoroughly, smiled back at her. “Very well, Nurse, come along, and perhaps I’ll have a chat with Mr. Ewing while you get yourself some tea up there. I’ll quite like to see his collection again, really.”
The two went off together, but Anne, turning to her aunt, after a moment’s hesitation said: “I think I’ll go up too, Aunt Mary. That poor woman looks thoroughly upset, and I don’t suppose Mr. Ewing will be in the least sympathetic or considerate. He’ll probably just grumble at her for being late. Don’t you think I’d better go after them? I can get her some tea, and see she lies down.”
But her aunt hesitated. “Mr. Ewing isn’t very smooth-tempered, dear. I think you’d better wait a little, and go up, perhaps, after the first commotion is over.”
Anne did not answer, but recognizing the force of her aunt’s suggestion she moved towards the door rather slowly, and then murmured, as she went out into the hall:
“Yes, you’re right. I’ll just wait a moment or two, and then slip up and see if I can do anything without seeing him, perhaps.”
She paused in the hall, where a blast of cold air, blowing in from the street, told her that her brother had left the front door open behind him. Anne moved rather uneasily down the passage, and went slowly out on to the broad top step, sheltered by the old-fashioned portico beyond. She stood there for a moment, shivering in the raw damp which struck her coming from the warm room, her gaze idly turning to the door of No. 5B, which stood ajar too, and as she gazed she heard footsteps running lightly but swiftly down the stairs within. She did not recognize them as her brother’s, but before she had time to collect herself a man came out, not apparently noticing her, for she stood in the shadow cast by one of the stout pillars supporting the porch. He hesitated for a second on the top step, glancing up and down the street. Anne subconsciously thought he was shrinking from the plunge into the cold and damp, a feeling experienced by those who must adventure out from the warmth into a thoroughly wet night. Before she could begin to connect him with anything in the flat above he had run quickly down the steps, and, walking very swiftly, he vanished down the street, holding his coat collar closely together round his chin as he went.
Vaguely reassured by a gesture so homely and prosaic, and realizing that all seemed peaceful in the flat above—no sound of angry voice nor exclamations—Anne turned back to tell the others she thought they had vexed Henry without cause, and that Mr. Ewing had taken Nurse’s adventure quite peaceably, but even as she reached the passage within she stopped dead, for bursting out above came shriek upon shriek, followed by the thud of flying feet coming down the stairs. As she rushed instantly back towards the portico, the sounds came towards her.
Horrified, she beheld Nurse Edwards, her face ghastly, her veil awry, stumbling frantically down, crashing wildly against the wall with her injured arm, apparently oblivious to what she was doing. She flung herself towards Anne, who, rushing forward, tried to catch her and restrain her desperate flight. The only effect she produced as she clutched at the swaying figure was apparently to add to the woman’s terror. As Anne’s firm grip seized her sound arm, she lost all self-control and, screaming and uttering wild peal upon peal of laughter, collapsed in violent hysterics at Anne’s feet.
Helpless until someone could come to her assistance, and calling loudly to Doreen and her aunt, Anne glanced frantically up at the next staircase, just visible from where she stood, hoping to see her brother appear. Doreen and her aunt, she felt, would be inadequate helpers, and she needed Henry’s strength to carry the woman in. But no sound came from above, and no Henry appeared.