Buried Alive — Chapter 5
She was wearing the same red roses.
"Oh!"
she said, very quickly, pouring out the words generously from the inexhaustible mine of her good heart.
"I'm so sorry I missed you Saturday night.
I can't tell you how sorry I am.
Of course it was all my fault.
I oughtn't to have got into the lift without you.
I ought to have waited.
When I was in the lift I wanted to get out, but the lift-man was too quick for me.
And then on the platforms--well, there was such a crowd it was useless!
I knew it was useless.
And you not having my address either!
I wondered whatever you would think of me."
"My dear lady!"
he protested.
"I can assure you I blamed only myself.
My hat blew off, and----" "Did it now!"
she took him up breathlessly.
"Well, all I want you to understand really is that I'm not one of those silly sort of women that go losing themselves.
No. Such a thing's never happened to me before, and I shall take good care----" She glanced round.
He had paid both the cabmen, who were departing, and he and Mrs. Alice Challice stood under the immense glass portico of the Grand Babylon, exposed to the raking stare of two commissionaires.
"So you _are_ staying here!"
she said, as if laying hold of a fact which she had hitherto hesitated to touch.
"Yes," he said.
"Won't you come in?"
He took her into the rich gloom of the Grand Babylon dashingly, fighting against the demon of shyness and beating it off with great loss.
They sat down in a corner of the principal foyer, where a few electric lights drew attention to empty fauteuils and the blossoms on the Aubusson carpet.
The world was at lunch.
"And a fine time I had getting your address!"
said she.
"Of course I wrote at once to Selwood Terrace, as soon as I got home, but I had the wrong number, somehow, and I kept waiting and waiting for an answer, and the only answer I received was the returned letter.
I knew I'd got the street right, and I said, 'I'll find that house if I have to ring every bell in Selwood Terrace, yes', and knock every knocker!'
Well, I did find it, and then they wouldn't _give_ me your address.
They said 'letters would be forwarded,' if you please.
But I wasn't going to have any more letter business, no thank you!
So I said I wouldn't go without the address.
It was Mr. Duncan Farll's clerk that I saw.
He's living there for the time being.
A very nice young man.
We got quite friendly.
It seems Mr. Duncan Farll _was_ in a state when he found the will.
The young man did say that he broke a typewriter all to pieces.
But the funeral being in Westminster Abbey consoled him.
It wouldn't have consoled me--no, not it!
However, he's very rich himself, so that doesn't matter.
The young man said if I'd call again he'd ask his master if he might give me your address.
A rare fuss over an address, thought I to myself.
But there!
Lawyers!
So I called again, and he gave it me.
I
could have come yesterday.
I very nearly wrote last night.
But I thought on the whole I'd better wait till the funeral was over.
I thought it would be nicer.
It's over now, I suppose?"
"Yes," said Priam Farll.
She smiled at him with grave sympathy, comfortably and sensibly.
"And right down relieved you must be!"
she murmured.
"It must have been very trying for you."
"In a way," he answered hesitatingly, "it was."
Taking off her gloves, she glanced round about her, as a thief must glance before opening the door, and then, leaning suddenly towards him, she put her hands to his neck and touched his collar.
"No, no!"
she said.
"Let me do it.
I can do it.
There's no one looking.
It's unbuttoned; the necktie was holding it in place, but it's got quite loose now.
There!
I can do it.
I see you've got two funny moles on your neck, close together.
How lucky!
That's it!"
A final pat!
Now, no woman had ever patted Priam Farll's necktie before, much less buttoned his collar, and still much less referred to the two little moles, one hirsute, the other hairless, which the collar hid--when it was properly buttoned!
The experience was startling for him in the extreme.
It might have made him very angry, had the hands of Mrs. Challice not been--well, nurse's hands, soft hands, persuasive hands, hands that could practise impossible audacities with impunity.
Imagine a woman, uninvited and unpermitted, arranging his collar and necktie for him in the largest public room of the Grand Babylon, and then talking about his little moles!
It would have been unimaginable!
Yet it happened.
And moreover, he had not disliked it.
She sat back in her chair as though she had done nothing in the least degree unusual.
"I can see you must have been very upset," she said gently, "though he _has_ only left you a pound a week.
Still, that's better than a bat in the eye with a burnt stick."
A bat in the eye with a burnt stick reminded him vaguely of encounters with the police; otherwise it conveyed no meaning to his mind.
"I hope you haven't got to go on duty at once," she said after a pause.
"Because you really do look as if you needed a rest, and a cup of tea or something of that, I'm quite ashamed to have come bothering you so soon."
"Duty?"
he questioned.
"What duty?"
"Why," she exclaimed, "haven't you got a new place?"
"New place!"
he repeated after.
"What do you mean?"
"Why, as valet."
There was certainly danger in his tendency to forget that he was a valet.
He collected himself.
"No," he said, "I haven't got a new place."
"Then why are you staying here?"
she cried.
"I thought you were simply here with a new master, Why are you staying here alone?"
"Oh," he replied, abashed, "it seemed a convenient place.
It was just by chance that I came here."
"Convenient place indeed!"
she said stoutly.
"I never heard of such a thing!"
He perceived that he had shocked her, pained her.
He saw that some ingenious defence of himself was required; but he could find none.
So he said, in his confusion-- "Suppose we go and have something to eat?
I do want a bit of lunch, as you say, now I come to think of it.
Will you?"
"What?
Here?"
she demanded apprehensively.
"Yes," he said.
"Why not?"
"Well--!"
"Come along!"
he said, with fine casualness, and conducted her to the eight swinging glass doors that led to the _salle à manger_ of the Grand Babylon.
At each pair of doors was a living statue of dignity in cloth of gold.
She passed these statues without a sign of fear, but when she saw the room itself, steeped in a supra-genteel calm, full of gowns and hats and everything that you read about in the _Lady's Pictorial,_ and the pennoned mast of a barge crossing the windows at the other end, she stopped suddenly.
And one of the lord mayors of the Grand Babylon, wearing a mayoral chain, who had started out to meet them, stopped also.
"No!"
she said.
"I don't feel as if I could eat here.
I really couldn't." "But why?"
"Well," she said, "I couldn't fancy it somehow.
Can't we go somewhere else?"
"Certainly we can," he agreed with an eagerness that was more than polite.
She thanked him with another of her comfortable, sensible smiles--a smile that took all embarrassment out of the dilemma, as balm will take irritation from a wound.
And gently she removed her hat and gown, and her gestures and speech, and her comfortableness, from those august precincts.
And they descended to the grill-room, which was relatively noisy, and where her roses were less conspicuous than the helmet of Navarre, and her frock found its sisters and cousins from far lands.
"I'm not much for these restaurants," she said, over grilled kidneys.
"No?"
he responded tentatively.
"I'm sorry.
I thought the other night----" "Oh yes," she broke in, "I was very glad to go, the other night, to that place, very glad.
But, you see, I'd never been in a restaurant before."
"Really?"
"No," she said, "and I felt as if I should like to try one.
And the young lady at the post office had told me that _that_ one was a splendid one.
So it is.
It's beautiful.
But of course they ought to be ashamed to offer you such food.
Now do you remember that sole?
Sole!
It was no more sole than this glove's sole.
And if it had been cooked a minute, it had been cooked an hour, and waiting.
And then look at the prices.
Oh yes, I couldn't help seeing the bill."
"I thought it was awfully cheap," said he.
"Well, _I_ didn't!"
said she.
"When you think that a good housekeeper can keep everything going on ten shillings a head a _week_....
Why, it's simply scandalous!
And I suppose this place is even dearer?"
He avoided the question.
"This is a better place altogether," he said.
"In fact, I don't know many places in Europe where one can eat better than one does here."
"Don't you?"
she said indulgently, as if saying, "Well, I know one, at any rate."
"They say," he continued, "that there is no butter used in this place that costs less than three shillings a pound."
"_No_ butter costs them three shillings a pound," said she.
"Not in London," said he.
"They have it from Paris."
"And do you believe that?"
she asked.
"Yes," he said.
"Well, I don't. Any one that pays more than one-and-nine a pound for butter, _at the most_, is a fool, if you'll excuse me saying the word.
Not but what this is good butter.
I couldn't get as good in Putney for less than eighteen pence."
She made him feel like a child who has a great deal to pick up from a kindly but firm sister.
"No, thank you," she said, a little dryly, to the waiter who proffered a further supply of chip potatoes.
"Now don't say they're cold," Priam laughed.
And she laughed also.
"Shall I tell you one thing that puts me against these restaurants?"
she went on.
"It's the feeling you have that you don't know where the food's _been_.
When you've got your kitchen close to your dining-room and you can keep an eye on the stuff from the moment the cart brings it, well, then, you do know a bit where you are.
And you can have your dishes served hot.
It stands to reason," she said.
"Where is the kitchen here?"
"Somewhere down below," he replied apologetically.
"A cellar kitchen!"
she exclaimed.
"Why, in Putney they simply can't let houses with cellar kitchens.
No!
No restaurants and hotels for me--not for _choice_--that is, regularly."
"Still," he said, with a judicial air, "hotels are very convenient."
"Are they?"
she said, meaning, "Prove it."
"For instance, here, there's a telephone in every room."
"You don't mean in the bedrooms?"
"Yes, in every bedroom."
"Well," she said, "you wouldn't catch me having a telephone in my bedroom.
I should never sleep if I knew there was a telephone in the room!
Fancy being forced to telephone every time you want--well!
I And how is one to know who there is at the other end of the telephone?
No, I don't like that.
All that's all very well for gentlemen that haven't been used to what I call _com_fort in a way of speaking.
But----" He saw that if he persisted, nothing soon would be left of that noble pile, the Grand Babylon Hotel, save a heap of ruins.
And, further, she genuinely did cause him to feel that throughout his career he had always missed the very best things of life, through being an uncherished, ingenuous, easily satisfied man.
A new sensation for him!
For if any male in Europe believed in his own capacity to make others make him comfortable Priam Farll was that male.
"I've never been in Putney," he ventured, on a new track.
_Difficulty of Truth-telling_ As she informed him, with an ungrudging particularity, about Putney, and her life at Putney, there gradually arose in his brain a vision of a kind of existence such as he had never encountered.
Putney had clearly the advantages of a residential town in a magnificent situation.
It lay on the slope of a hill whose foot was washed by a glorious stream entitled the Thames, its breast covered with picturesque barges and ornamental rowing boats; an arched bridge spanned this stream, and you went over the bridge in milk-white omnibuses to London.
Putney had a street of handsome shops, a purely business street; no one slept there now because of the noise of motors; at eventide the street glittered in its own splendours.
There were theatre, music-hall, assembly-rooms, concert hall, market, brewery, library, and an afternoon tea shop exactly like Regent Street (not that Mrs. Challice cared for their alleged China tea); also churches and chapels; and Barnes Common if you walked one way, and Wimbledon Common if you walked another.
Mrs. Challice lived in Werter Road, Werter Road starting conveniently at the corner of the High Street where the fish-shop was--an establishment where authentic sole was always obtainable, though it was advisable not to buy it on Monday mornings, of course.
Putney was a place where you lived unvexed, untroubled.
You had your little house, and your furniture, and your ability to look after yourself at all ends, and your knowledge of the prices of everything, and your deep knowledge of human nature, and your experienced forgivingness towards human frailties.
You did not keep a servant, because servants were so complicated, and because they could do nothing whatever as well as you could do it yourself.
You had a charwoman when you felt idle or when you chose to put the house into the back-yard for an airing.
With the charwoman, a pair of gloves for coarser work, and gas stoves, you 'made naught' of domestic labour.
You were never worried by ambitions, or by envy, or by the desire to know precisely what the wealthy did and to do likewise.
You read when you were not more amusingly occupied, preferring illustrated papers and magazines.
You did not traffic with art to any appreciable extent, and you never dreamed of letting it keep you awake at night.
You were rich, for the reason that you spent less than you received.
You never speculated about the ultimate causes of things, or puzzled yourself concerning the possible developments of society in the next hundred years.
When you saw a poor old creature in the street you bought a box of matches off the poor old creature.
The social phenomenon which chiefly roused you to just anger was the spectacle of wealthy people making money and so taking the bread out of the mouths of people who needed It.
The only apparent blots on existence at Putney were the noise and danger of the High Street, the dearth of reliable laundries, the manners of a middle-aged lady engaged at the post office (Mrs. Challice liked the other ladies in the post office), and the absence of a suitable man in the house.
Existence at Putney seemed to Priam Farll to approach the Utopian.
It seemed to breathe of romance--the romance of common sense and kindliness and simplicity.
It made his own existence to that day appear a futile and unhappy striving after the impossible.
Art?
What was it?
What did it lead to?
He was sick of art, and sick of all the forms of activity to which he had hitherto been accustomed and which he had mistaken for life itself.
One little home, fixed and stable, rendered foolish the whole concourse of European hotels.
"I suppose you won't be staying here long," demanded Mrs. Challice.
"Oh no!"
he said.
"I shall decide something."
"Shall you take another place?"
she inquired.
"Another place?"
"Yes."
Her smile was excessively persuasive and inviting.
"I don't know," he said diffidently.
"You must have put a good bit by," she said, still with the same smile.
"Or perhaps you haven't. Saving's a matter of chance.
That's what I always do say.
It just depends how you begin.
It's a habit.
I'd never really blame anybody for not saving.
And men----!"
She seemed to wish to indicate that men were specially to be excused if they did not save.
She had a large mind: that was sure.
She understood--things, and human nature in particular.
She was not one of those creatures that a man meets with sometimes--creatures who are for ever on the watch to pounce, and who are incapable of making allowances for any male frailty--smooth, smiling creatures, with thin lips, hair a little scanty at the front, and a quietly omniscient 'don't-tell-_me_' tone.
Mrs. Alice Challice had a mouth as wide as her ideas, and a full underlip.
She was a woman who, as it were, ran out to meet you when you started to cross the dangerous roadway which separates the two sexes.
She comprehended because she wanted to comprehend.
And when she could not comprehend she would deceive herself that she did: which amounts to the equivalent.
She was a living proof that in her sex social distinctions do not effectively count.
Nothing counted where she was concerned, except a distinction far more profound than any social distinction--the historic distinction between Adam and Eve.
She was balm to Priam Farll.
She might have been equally balm to King David, Uriah the Hittite, Socrates, Rousseau, Lord Byron, Heine, or Charlie Peace.
She would have understood them all.
They would all have been ready to cushion themselves on her comfortableness.
Was she a lady?
Pish!
She was a woman.
Her temperament drew Priam Farll like an electrified magnet.
To wander about freely in that roomy sympathy of hers seemed to him to be the supreme reward of experience.
It seemed like the good inn after the bleak high-road, the oasis after the sandstorm, shade after glare, the dressing after the wound, sleep after insomnia, surcease from unspeakable torture.
He wanted, in a word, to tell her everything, because she would not demand any difficult explanations.
She had given him an opening, in her mention of savings.
In reply to her suggestion, "You must have put a good bit by," he could casually answer: "Yes, a hundred and forty thousand pounds."
And that would lead by natural stages to a complete revealing of the fix in which he was.
In five minutes he would have confided to her the principal details, and she would have understood, and then he could describe his agonizing and humiliating half-hour in the Abbey, and she would pour her magic oil on that dreadful abrasion of his sensitiveness.
And he would be healed of his hurts, and they would settle between them what he ought to do.
He regarded her as his refuge, as fate's generous compensation to him for the loss of Henry Leek (whose remains now rested in the National Valhalla).
Only, it would be necessary to begin the explanation, so that one thing might by natural stages lead to another.
On reflection, it appeared rather abrupt to say: "Yes, a hundred and forty thousand pounds."
The sum was too absurdly high (though correct).
The mischief was that, unless the sum did strike her as absurdly high, it could not possibly lead by a natural stage to the remainder of the explanation.
He must contrive another path.
For instance-- "There's been a mistake about the so-called death of Priam Farll."
"A mistake!"
she would exclaim, all ears and eyes.
Then he would say-- "Yes.
Priam Farll isn't really dead.
It's his valet that's dead."
Whereupon she would burst out-- "But _you_ were his valet!"
Whereupon he would simply shake his head, and she would steam forwards-- "Then who are you?"
Whereupon he would say, as calmly as he could-- "I'm Priam Farll.
I'll tell you precisely how it all happened."
Thus the talk might happen.
Thus it would happen, immediately he began.
But, as at the Dean's door in Dean's Yard, so now, he could not begin.
He could not utter the necessary words aloud.
Spoken aloud, they would sound ridiculous, incredible, insane--and not even Mrs. Challice could reasonably be expected to grasp their import, much less believe them.
"_There's been a mistake about the so-called death of Priam Farll.
_" "_Yes, a hundred and forty thousand pounds.
_" No, he could enunciate neither the one sentence nor the other.
