Читать книгу HILDA LESSWAYS - Arnold Bennett - Страница 9

The linen money-bag and the account-book, proper to the last Wednesday in the month, lay on the green damask cloth of the round table where Hilda and her mother took their meals. A paralytic stroke had not been drastic enough to mar Mr. Skellorn’s most precious reputation for probity and reliability. His statement of receipts and expenditure, together with the corresponding cash, had been due at two o’clock, and despite the paralytic stroke it was less than a quarter of an hour late. On one side of the bag and the book were ranged the older women,—Mrs. Lessways, thin and vivacious, and Mrs. Grant, large and solemn; and on the other side, as it were in opposition, the young, dark, slim girl with her rather wiry black hair, and her straight, prominent eyebrows, and her extraordinary expression of uncompromising aloofness.

“She’s just enjoying it, that’s what she’s doing!” said Hilda to herself, of Mrs. Grant.

And the fact was that Mrs. Grant, quite unconsciously, did appear to be savouring the catastrophe with pleasure. Although paralytic strokes were more prevalent at that period than now, they constituted even then a striking dramatic event. Moreover, they were considered as direct visitations of God. Also there was something mysteriously and agreeably impressive in the word ‘paralytic,’ which people would repeat for the pleasure of repeating it. Mrs. Grant, over whose mighty breast flowed a black mantle suited to the occasion, used the word again and again as she narrated afresh for Hilda the history of the stroke.

“Yes,” she said, “they came and fetched me out of my bed at three o’clock this morning; and would you believe me, though he couldn’t hardly speak, the money and this here book was all waiting in his desk, and he would have me come with it! And him sixty-seven! He always was like that. And I do believe if he’d been paralysed on both sides instead of only all down his right side, and speechless too, he’d ha’ made me understand as I must come here at two o’clock. If I’m a bit late it’s because I was kept at home with my son Enoch; he’s got a whitlow that’s worrying the life out of him, our Enoch has.”

Mrs. Lessways warmly deprecated any apology for inexactitude, and wiped her sympathetic eyes.

“It’s all over with father,” Mrs. Grant resumed. “Doctor hinted to me quiet-like as he’d never leave his bed again. He’s laid himself down for the rest of his days.... And he’d been warned! He’d had warnings. But there!...”

Mrs. Grant contemplated with solemn gleeful satisfaction the overwhelming grandeur of the disaster that had happened to her father. The active old man, a continual figure of the streets, had been cut off in a moment from the world and condemned for life to a mattress. She sincerely imagined herself to be filled with proper grief; but an aesthetic appreciation of the theatrical effectiveness of the misfortune was certainly stronger in her than any other feeling. Observing that Mrs. Lessways wept, she also drew out a handkerchief.

“I’m wishful for you to count the money,” said Mrs. Grant. “I wouldn’t like there to be any—”

“Nay, that I’ll not!” protested Mrs. Lessways.

Mrs. Grant’s pressing duties necessitated her immediate departure. Mrs. Lessways ceremoniously insisted on her leaving by the front door.

“I don’t know where you’ll find another rent-collector that’s worth his salt—in this town,” observed Mrs. Grant, on the doorstep. “I can’t think what you’ll do, Mrs. Lessways!”

“I shall collect my rents myself,” was the answer.

When Mrs. Grant had crossed the road and taken the bricked path leading to the paralytic’s house, Mrs. Lessways slowly shut the door and bolted it, and then said to Hilda:

“Well, my girl, I do think you might have tried to show just a little more feeling!”

They were close together in the narrow lobby, of which the heavy pulse was the clock’s ticking.

Hilda replied:

“You surely aren’t serious about collecting those rents yourself, are you, mother?”

“Serious? Of course I’m serious!” said Mrs. Lessways.