“Not a bit,” said Eustace: “it’s nothing.”
“‘Ere we are, Sir,” said the mechanician, stopping at the side door of some business premises; “we live in the basement. If it’s not presuming, would you take a cup o’ tea with us?” And at this moment the child’s legs ceased to function altogether.
“‘Ere, Milly, ‘old up, dearie, we’re just ‘ome.”
But the child’s head sagged.
“She’s gone off—paw little thing!”
“Lift her!” said Eustace.
“Open the door, Mother, the key’s in my pocket; you go on and light the gas.”
They supported the spindly child, who now seemed to weigh a ton, down stone stairs into a basement, and laid her on a small bed in a room where all three evidently slept. The mechanician pressed her head down towards her feet.
“She’s comin’ to. Why, Milly, you’re in your bed, see! And now you’ll ‘ave a nice ‘ot cup o’ tea! There!”
“I’ll kill that Kaiser,” murmured the spindly child, her china-blue eyes fixed wonderingly on Eustace, her face waxy in the gaslight.
“Stir yer stumps, Mother, and get this gentleman a cup. A cup’ll do you good, Sir, you must be famished. Will you come in the kitchen and have a smoke, while she’s gettin’ it?”
A strange fellow-feeling pattered within Eustace looking at that white-faced altruist. He stretched out his cigarette case, shining, curved, and filled with gold-tipped cigarettes. The mechanician took one, held it for a second politely as who should imply: ‘Hardly my smoke, but since you are so kind.’
“Thank’ee, Sir. A smoke’ll do us both a bit o’ good, after that Tube. It was close in there.”
Eustace greeted the miracle of understatement with a smile.
“Not exactly fresh.”
“I’d ‘a come and ‘ad the raid comfortable at ‘ome, but the child was scared and the Tube just opposite. Well, it’s all in the day’s work, I suppose; but it comes ‘ard on children and elderly people, to say nothing of the women. ‘Ope you’re feelin’ better, Sir. You looked very white when you come out.”
“Thanks,” said Eustace, thinking: ‘Not so white as you, my friend!’
“The tea won’t be a minute. We got the gas ’ere, it boils a kettle a treat. You sit down, old girl, I’ll get it for yer.”
Eustace went to the window. The kitchen was hermetically sealed.
“Do you mind if I open the window,” he said, “I’m still half suffocated from that Tube.”
On the window-sill, in company with potted geraniums, he breathed the dark damp air of a London basement, and his eyes roved listlessly over walls decorated with coloured cuts from Christmas supplements, and china ornaments perched wherever was a spare flat inch. These presents from seaside municipalities aroused in him a sort of fearful sympathy.
“I see you collect china,” he said, at last.
“Ah! The missis likes a bit of china,” said the mechanician, turning his white face illumined by the gas ring; “reminds ‘er of ‘olidays. It’s a cheerful thing, I think meself, though it takes a bit o’ dustin’.”
“You’re right there,” said Eustace, his soul fluttering suddenly with a feather brush above his own precious Ming. Ming and the present from Margate! The mechanician was stirring the teapot.
“Weak for me, if you don’t mind,” said Eustace, hastily.
The mechanician poured into three cups, one of which he brought to Eustace with a jug of milk and a basin of damp white sugar. The tea looked thick and dark and Indian, and Eustace, who partook habitually of thin pale China tea flavoured with lemon, received the cup solemnly. It was better than he hoped, however, and he drank it gratefully.
“She’s drunk her tea a treat,” said the splotchy woman, returning from the bedroom.
“‘Ere’s yours, Mother.”
“‘Aven’t you ‘ad a cup yerself, ‘Enry?”
“Just goin’ to,” said the white-faced mechanician, pouring into a fourth cup and pausing to add: “Will you ‘ave another, Sir? There’s plenty in the pot.”
Eustace shook his head: “No, thanks very much. I must be getting on directly.” But he continued to sit on the window-sill, as a man on a mountain lingers in the whiffling wind before beginning his descent to earth. The mechanician was drinking his tea at last. “Sure you won’t ‘ave another cup, Sir?” and he poured again into his wife’s cup and his own. The two seemed to expand visibly as the dark liquid passed into them.
“I always say there’s nothin’ like tea,” said the woman.
“That’s right; we could ‘a done with a cup dahn there, couldn’t we, Sir?”
Eustace stood up.
“I hope your little girl will be all right,” he said: “and thank you very much for the tea. Here’s my card. I’ve enjoyed meeting you.”
The mechanician took the card, looking up at Eustace rather like a dog.
“I’m sure it’s been a pleasure to us, and it’s you we got to thank, Sir. I shall remember what you did for the child.”
Eustace shook his head: “No, really. Good-night, Mrs.—er—”
“Thompson, the nyme is, Sir.”
He shook her hand, subduing the slight shudder which her face still imposed on him.
“Good-night, Mr. Thompson.”
The hand of the white-faced mechanician, polished on his trousers, grasped Eustace’s hand with astonishing force.
“Good-night, Sir.”
“I hope we shall meet again,” said Eustace.
Out in the open it was a starry night, and he paused for a minute in the hooded street with his eyes fixed on those specks of far-off silver, so remarkably unlike the golden asterisks which decorated the firmament of his Turkish bath. And there came to him, so standing, a singular sensation almost as if he had enjoyed his evening, as a man will enjoy that which he has never seen before and wonders if he will ever see again.
SOAMES AND THE FLAG, 1914–1918
On that day of 1914 when the assassinations at Serajevo startled the world, Soames Forsyte passed in a taxi-cab up the Haymarket, supporting on his knee a picture by James Maris, which he had just bought from Dumetrius. He was pleased at the outcome of a very considerable duel. The fellow had come down to his price at the last minute, and Soames had wondered why.
The reason dawned on him that night in Green Street, while reading his evening paper: “This tragic occurrence may yet shake Europe to its foundations. Sinister possibilities implicit in such an assassination stagger the imagination.” They must have staggered Dumetrius. The fellow had suddenly seen “blue.” The market in objects whose “virtue” varied with the quietude of men’s minds and the tourist traffic with America, was—Soames well knew—extremely sensitive. Sinister possibilities! He put the paper down and sat reflecting. No! The chap was an alarmist. What, after all, was an Archduke more or less—they were always getting into the papers, one way or another. He would see what The Times said about it tomorrow, but probably it would turn out a storm in a tea-cup. Soames was not in fact of a European turn of mind. ‘Trouble in the Balkans’ had become a proverb; and when a thing became a proverb there was nothing in it.
He read The Times journeying back with the James Maris to Mapledurham the following day. Editorial hands were lifted in the usual horror at assassination, but there was nothing to prevent him going out fishing.
Indeed, in the month that followed, even after the Austrian ultimatum had appeared, Soames, like ninety-nine per cent. of his fellow-countrymen, didn’t know what there was “to make such a fuss about.” To suppose that England could be involved was weak-minded. The idea, indeed, never seriously occurred to one born just after the Crimean war, and accustomed to look on Europe as fit to be advised, perhaps, but nothing more. Fleur’s holidays, too, were just beginning, and he was thinking of buying her a pony: at twelve years old it was time she learned even that rather futile accomplishment—riding. Besides, was there not plenty of fuss in Ireland, if they must have something to fuss about? It was Annette who raised the first bubbles of an immense disquiet. Beautiful creature as she was at that period—“rising thirty-five,” as George Forsyte put it—she did not read the English papers, but she often had letters from France. On the 28th of July she said to Soames: