by A. J. Cronin
He rang off abruptly, stood for a few seconds, the contemptuous smile still touching his lips, then he remarked to Arthur:
“We might as well look up Todd this afternoon. He seems to have been a trifle indiscreet again… in his diet. I never heard him sound so dismal.” He gave the brittle smile that served him for a laugh and turned to go. Armstrong, with an obsequious echo of Barras’s amusement, threw open the office door. The two men went into the pit yard together.
Arthur remained in the office with mixed and rather curious thoughts. He knew, of course, that Todd’s indiscretion was drink, not violent spasms of intoxication, but a quiet, melancholy and diligent application to the bottle which from time to time laid him up with jaundice. Though these bouts are not serious and had come to be accepted generally as inevitable and innocuous, Arthur never learned of them without pain. He liked Adam Todd, pitied him as a pathetic and defeated figure. He sensed that Todd, in his own youth, had known the burning ardours, the fears and hopes which afflict the sensitive soul. It was impossible to conceive that Todd, a small morose seedy man, stained with nicotine and soaked with alcohol, had once been eager and responsive to the promise of life, that his torpid eye had ever brightened or been stirred. But it was so. In his young days, when he served his apprenticeship along with Richard Barras in the Tynecastle Main, Todd had been a lively blade, full of enthusiasm for the career he had mapped out. Then the years had rolled over him. He lost his wife in child-birth. A case, the important North Hetton case, in which he was retained as the expert witness by the Briggs-Hetton Company went against him. His reputation suffered, his interest flagged, he distrusted his own decisions, his practice started to decline. His children began to grow away from him: now Laura, his favourite, had married; Alan seemed more set on the pursuit of “a good time” than the reanimation of the firm; Hetty was intent on enjoyment and her own affairs. Gradually Todd had withdrawn into himself, had stopped going out except to the County Club where, from eight until eleven on most nights, he could be found in his customary chair, drinking silently, smoking, listening, throwing out an occasional word, wearing the fixed and slightly apathetic air of a man who has finally accepted disillusionment.
As he went about his work that morning Arthur somehow couldn’t get the thought of old Todd out of his head. And when, at three o’clock in the afternoon, he accompanied his father to Tynecastle and walked up College Row towards Todd’s house he had a strange and unaccountable sense of expectation, as though some chord vibrated between his own eager personality and the snuffy personality of Adam Todd. He could not understand the feeling, it was baffling and new.
Barras rang the bell and almost at once the door opened. Todd himself let them in—that was typical of him, he never stood on ceremony—wearing an old dun dressing-gown and down-at-heel slippers.
“Well,” Barras said, glancing sideways at Todd. “You’re not in bed.”
“No, no, I’m all right.” Todd pushed up the gold-rimmed glasses that always lay at the end of his veinous nose; the glasses immediately slipped down again. “It’s just a chill. I’ll be right as rain in a couple of days.”
“Quite,” Barras agreed suavely. That Todd should always attribute his bilious attacks to chill really amused Barras, though he did not show it. He had the bland air of condescending to his old friend, even of humouring him. He had, too, an air of immense prosperity and success standing above the seedy little man in the stained dressing-gown within that narrow and rather dingy hall, where the maroon wall-paper, the heavy umbrella stand and presentation fumed oak barometer gave out a resigned, a patient sadness.
“I wanted to talk to you, you know, Richard.” Todd addressed the remark to his slippers and he did so with a certain hesitation.
“So I gathered.”
“You didn’t mind my ringing this morning?”
“My dear Todd, why should I?” Richard’s condescension grew more expansive; and Todd’s hesitation correspondingly increased.
“I felt I had to speak to you.” It was almost an apology.
“Quite so.”
“Well,” Todd paused, “we’d better go in the back room. I’ve a spot of fire there. I find it chilly, my blood’s thin I suppose.” He paused again, preoccupied, worried, and let his eyes drift round to Arthur; he smiled his indefinite smile. “Perhaps you’d like to go up to Hetty, Arthur. Laura looked over from Yarrow this afternoon. They’re upstairs in the drawing-room now.”
Arthur coloured instantly. The conversation had excited him. Todd had something unusual to discuss with his father, he had hoped to be included, maturely, in their conversation. But now he saw himself discarded, sent ignominiously to join the women-folk. He felt utterly humiliated; he attempted to cover it by pretending not to care.
“Yes, I’ll go up,” he said glibly, forcing a smile.
Todd nodded:
“You know your way, my boy.”
Barras turned his glance of critical indulgence upon Arthur.
“I shan’t be long,” he said off-handedly, “we must catch the five-ten home.” Then he followed Todd into the back room.
Arthur remained standing in the hall, his cheek still twitching from that attempted smile. He felt horribly slighted. It was always the same: one word, the mere inflection of a voice, would do it, he was so easily offended, so quickly abashed. A kind of torment at his own wretched temperament took hold of him, mixed up with a provoked, indignant curiosity as to what Todd’s business might be with his father. Was it money Todd wished to borrow, or what? Why was Todd so anxious, his father so contemptuous and masterful? A smarting wave of exasperation surged over Arthur when suddenly he raised his head and saw Hetty coming down the stairs.
“Arthur!” cried Hetty, hurrying down. “I thought I heard you. Why on earth didn’t you sing out?”
She came to him and held out her hand. Immediately, with an almost magical abruptness, his mood altered. He looked down at her in welcome, forgetting his father and Todd in an overmastering desire to impress her. All at once he wanted to shine before Hetty, and more, he felt himself capable of doing so. Not that it was his nature to be like this; the whole thing was the reaction of that preceding rebuff.
“Hello, Hetty,” he said briskly. Then, observing that she was dressed for the street, “I say, are you going out?”
She smiled without a trace of shyness—Hetty was never shy.
“I said I’d walk down with Laura. She’s just going.” Pausing, she made a pert little face. “I’ve been doing the heavy with the rich married sister all the afternoon. But I’ll dash back and give you tea the minute I get rid of her.”
“Come and have tea with me at Dilley’s,” he suggested on an impulse.
She clapped her hands at the unexpected invitation.
“Lovely, Arthur, lovely!”
He studied her, thinking how pretty she looked since she had put her hair up. Now, at eighteen, Hetty was more than ever a pretty little thing. Though Hetty’s features were not pretty, though Hetty ought not to have been pretty, she was pretty. She was small-boned with thin wrists and small hands. She had large greenish eyes and an insignificant nose and a palish skin. But her hair was soft and blonde and she wore it attractively fluffed out from her smooth white narrow forehead. Her eyes always had a moist lustre and occasionally her pupils were wide and black, and those big black pupils against the soft blonde hair were extremely attractive. That was Hetty’s secret. She was not beautiful. But she was attractive, composed and vivacious, and provocative and appealing, rather like a nice sleek little cat. Now she smiled most appealingly at Arthur and said in a kind of artless baby talk she sometimes used:
“Nice Arthur to take Hetty to Dilley’s. Hetty likes to go to Dilley’s.”
“You mean you like going with me?” he inquired with that same factitious confidence.
“Mmm!” she agreed. “Arthur and Hetty have nice time at Dilley’s. Much nicer than here.” Unconsciously she stressed the last word. Hetty did not care mu
ch for the background of her home. It was an old house, 15 College Row, with an out-of-date atmosphere which particularly annoyed her and made her keep on trying to force her father into moving to a smarter residence.
“It’s those old coffee éclairs you’re keen on,” he persisted, striving for more balm to ease his wounded pride. “And not me?”
She screwed up her nose at him—very artless and sweet.
“Will Arthur really buy Hetty nice coffee éclair? Hetty adores coffee éclairs.”
A warning cough made them both swing round. Laura stood in the hall beside them, pulling on her gloves with too obvious preoccupation. Immediately the kittenish expression faded from Hetty’s face. Quite sharply she declared:
“What a start to give anyone, Laura! You ought to let people hear you coming.”
“I did cough,” Laura said dryly. “And I was just going to sneeze.”
“Clever!” said Hetty, darting a sharp glance at her sister.
Laura continued to pull on her gloves, gazing from one to the other quizzically. She was beautifully but quietly dressed in a dark navy costume. Arthur had not seen much of Laura since her marriage to Stanley Millington. For some obscure reason he was never quite comfortable with Laura. Hetty he understood, she was sweet, oh, transparently guileless! But Laura left him always at a loss. Her restraint in particular, that curious emotional flatness, the sense of some carefully hidden quality, a watchfulness almost, behind her pale, humorous face, disturbed him strangely.
“Come along, then,” Hetty exclaimed pettishly; Laura’s placidity, her well-turned-out air seemed to annoy her further. “Don’t let’s stand here all day. Arthur’s taking me to Dilley’s.”
A slight smile came to Laura’s lips; she did not speak. As they went through the door into the street Arthur turned the conversation hastily.
“How is Stanley?” he asked.
“He’s very well,” Laura answered pleasantly. “I think he’s golfing this afternoon.”
They continued to talk of trivialities until they reached the corner of Grainger Street, where Laura said good-bye good-naturedly and left them to keep an appointment with Bonar, her tailor.
“She’s mad about clothes,” Hetty explained with a sharp laugh the minute Laura had gone. She let her fingers come to rest lightly on Arthur’s arm as they walked towards Dilley’s. “If she wasn’t so extravagant she might be a little more decent to me.”
“How do you mean, Hetty?”
“Well, she only gives me five pounds a month for my dress allowance, and pocket money and everything.”
He gazed at her in astonishment.
“Does Laura really allow you that, Hetty? Why, that’s pretty generous of her.”
“I’m glad you think so.” Hetty looked piqued, almost sorry she had spoken. “She can jolly well afford it, anyhow. She made a good match, didn’t she?”
There was a pause.
“I can never quite fathom Laura,” Arthur said, puzzled.
“I’m not surprised.” Hetty gave her ingenuous laugh again. “I could tell you a few things about her, not that I would though, not for anything in the world.” She dismissed the subject with a virtuous little shiver.
“I’m glad I’m not like her, anyway. So don’t let’s talk of it.”
Here they entered Dilley’s and Hetty, responding to the warm note of gaiety which met them, switched her mood to one of composed vivacity. It was half-past four and the place was crowded: Dilley’s was considered smart for tea in Tynecastle. The Resort of the Elite!—this was the proud boast used in the advertisement columns of the Courier. An orchestra was playing behind some palms, a pleasant chatter of voices met them as they went into the Mikado room, done after Sullivan in the Japanese taste. They sat down at a bamboo table and Arthur ordered tea.
“Rather nice, here.” He leaned across towards Hetty, who was nodding brightly to her friends in the crowded room. There was, in fact, a regular clientèle for afternoon tea at Dilley’s, mainly the younger generation of Tynecastle, sons and daughters of the well-to-do doctors, lawyers and merchants of the city, a perfect aristocracy of provincial snobbism and style. Hetty was quite a figure in this smartish little clique. Hetty was really popular. Though old man Todd was only a mining engineer in a not very flourishing way of business Hetty went out a great deal. She was young, sure of herself and in the swim. She was known to have a head on her shoulders. The wise ones who had prophesied a good match for pretty little Hetty, always smiled knowingly when she was seen about with Arthur Barras.
She sipped her tea nonchalantly.
“Alan’s over there.” Gaily, with a wave of recognition, she indicated her brother. “With Dick Purves and some of the Nomad Rugger crowd. We ought to go across.”
Arthur looked over dutifully to where her brother Alan, who ought to have been at the office, lounged with half a dozen young fellows at a table in the centre of the room, the smoke from their cigarettes rising with heroic languor.
“Don’t let’s bother about them, Hetty,” he murmured. “It’s nicer by ourselves.”
Hetty, sitting up with a sparkle in her eye, aware of admiring glances directed towards her, toyed absently with her cake fork.
“That Purves boy,” she remarked. “He’s too absurdly good-looking.”
“He’s just an ass.” Arthur glared across at a vapidly handsome youth with crinkly hair parted in the middle.
“Oh no, Arthur, he’s quite a nice boy, really. He dances beautifully.”
“He’s a conceited fop.” Jealously taking Hetty’s hand under the table he whispered: “You like me better than him, don’t you, Hetty?”
“Of course, you silly boy.” Hetty laughed lightly and let her eyes come back to Arthur. “He’s only a stupid little bank clerk. He’ll never be anything worth while.”
“I will, Hetty,” Arthur declared fervently.
“Well, naturally, Arthur.”
“Wait till I go in with father… just wait… you’ll see.” He paused, excited suddenly by the prospect of the future, eager to impress her with his own ardour. “We landed a new contract to-day, Hetty. With P. W. & Co. A whacking good one. You just wait and see.”
She widened her eyes at him ingenuously.
“Going to make lots and lots more money?”
He nodded seriously.
“But it isn’t just that, Hetty. It’s… oh, everything. Being in with father, pulling my weight at the Neptune, the way all we Barrases have done, thinking of settling down too, having someone to work for. Honestly, Hetty, it thrills me when I think about it.”
Quite carried away, he gazed at her, his face alight with eagerness.
“It is rather nice, isn’t it, Arthur?” she agreed, studying him with a sympathetic smile. She really was quite drawn to him at this moment. He looked his best with a faint colour in his cheeks and this ardour in his eyes. Of course, he was not really good-looking, she had regretfully to admit it, his fair eyelashes, pale complexion and thin jaw gave him too sensitive an air. He couldn’t for an instant be compared to Dick Purves, who was the most handsome boy. But he was, on the whole, rather a dear, with the Neptune pit and pots of money simply waiting on him. She let him hold her hand under the table again.
“I’m enjoying myself tremendously, this afternoon,” he said impulsively. “I don’t know why.”
“Don’t you?”
“Well, yes, I do.”
They both laughed. Her laugh, whereby she showed her small even teeth, enthralled him.
“Are you enjoying it too, Hetty?”
“Yes, of course.”
The feel of her fragile hand beneath the table set his heart thumping with its silent promise. A kind of intoxication mounted to his head, a glorious sense of hope—in himself, in Hetty, in the future. He reached the crisis of his boldness. Nerving himself, he said with a rush:
“Listen, Hetty, I’ve been meaning to ask you for a long time, why can’t we be engaged?”
She laughed again, not
in the least disconcerted, pressing his hand lightly.
“You’re such a dear, Arthur.”
His colour came and went. He blurted out:
“You know how I feel about you, Hetty. I think I’ve always felt that way. Remember how we played at the Law when we were kids. You’re the nicest girl I know. Father’ll be giving me a partnership soon…” His own incoherence brought him up short.
Hetty considered swiftly. She had been proposed to before, callow offers made usually in the semi-darkness when “sitting-out” at dances. But this was different, this was the real thing. And yet her shrewdness warned her not to hurry. She saw quite sharply how ridiculous her premature engagement to Arthur might be, the subject of gossip, malicious innuendo. Besides, she wanted to have her fling before she settled down.
“You’re a dear, Arthur,” she breathed, with downcast lashes. “A perfect dear. And you know how fond I am of you. But I do think we’re both a little young for anything, well, official. We’ve got our understanding, of course. Everything’s all right between us.”
“You do like me then, Hetty?” he whispered.
“Oh, Arthur, you know I do.”
An immense elation possessed him. At the facile intensity of his emotion tears came into his eyes. He felt unbelievably happy. He felt mature and manly, capable of anything, he could have thanked her on his knees for loving him.
A few minutes passed.
“Well,” she said with a sigh, “I suppose I must get back and see how old man Todd is getting on.”
He looked at his watch.
“Twenty to five. I promised to meet father at the five-ten train.”
“I’ll walk with you to the station.”
He smiled at her tenderly. Already her devotion to himself, as to her invalid father, entranced him. He beckoned to the waitress with a lordly confidence and paid the bill. They rose to go.
On the way out they stopped for a moment at Alan’s table. Alan was a good sort, a big heavy smiling fellow, inclined perhaps to be lazy and a little wild. But there was no real harm in him. He played football for the Northern Nomads, was in the Territorials and knew a few barmaids by their Christian names. Now amidst a certain amount of chaff and laughter he began to jolly Arthur for taking Hetty out to tea. Usually Arthur was painfully shy under banter, but this afternoon he scored off Alan right and left. His spirits bounded higher. He felt strong, happy, confident. He knew that little things would never worry him again, his flushing, his fits of lassitude and depression, his complex of inferiority, his jealousy. Purves, for instance, “glad-eyeing” Hetty, trying “to get off with her,” was no more than a silly little bank clerk, completely negligible. With a final repartee that set the table in a roar he lit a cigarette and gallantly escorted Hetty to the street.
