Fraternity. Galsworthy John

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      The seamstress, who had advanced into the middle of the room, stood with her worn hands against her sides, and no sign of life but the liquid patience in her large brown eyes. She was an enigmatic figure. Her presence always roused a sort of irritation in Cecilia, as if she had been suddenly confronted with what might possibly have been herself if certain little accidents had omitted to occur. She was so conscious that she ought to sympathise, so anxious to show that there was no barrier between them, so eager to be all she ought to be, that her voice almost purred.

      “Are you Getting on with the curtains, Mrs. Hughs?”

      “Yes, m’m, thank you, m’m.”

      “I shall have another job for you to-morrow – altering a dress. Can you come?”

      “Yes, m’m, thank you, m’m.”

      “Is the baby well?”

      “Yes, m’m, thank you, m’m.”

      There was a silence.

      ‘It’s no good talking of her domestic matters,’ thought Cecilia; ‘not that I don’t care!’ But the silence getting on her nerves, she said quickly: “Is your husband behaving himself better?”

      There was no answer; Cecilia saw a tear trickle slowly down the woman’s cheek.

      ‘Oh dear, oh dear,’ she thought; ‘poor thing! I’m in for it!’

      Mrs. Hughs’ whispering voice began: “He’s behaving himself dreadful, m’m. I was going to speak to you. It’s ever since that young girl” – her face hardened – “come to live down in my room there; he seem to – he seem to – just do nothing but neglect me.”

      Cecilia’s heart gave the little pleasurable flutter which the heart must feel at the love dramas of other people, however painful.

      “You mean the little model?” she said.

      The seamstress answered in an agitated voice: “I don’t want to speak against her, but she’s put a spell on him, that’s what she has; he don’t seem able to do nothing but talk of her, and hang about her room. It was that troubling me when I saw you the other day. And ever since yesterday midday, when Mr. Hilary came – he’s been talking that wild – and he pushed me – and – and – ” Her lips ceased to form articulate words, but, since it was not etiquette to cry before her superiors, she used them to swallow down her tears, and something in her lean throat moved up and down.

      At the mention of Hilary’s name the pleasurable sensation in Cecilia had undergone a change. She felt curiosity, fear, offence.

      “I don’t quite understand you,” she said.

      The seamstress plaited at her frock. “Of course, I can’t help the way he talks, m’m. I’m sure I don’t like to repeat the wicked things he says about Mr. Hilary. It seems as if he were out of his mind when he gets talkin’ about that young girl.”

      The tone of those last three words was almost fierce.

      Cecilia was on the point of saying: ‘That will do, please; I want to hear no more.’ But her curiosity and queer subtle fear forced her instead to repeat: “I don’t understand. Do you mean he insinuates that Mr. Hilary has anything to do with – with this girl, or what?” And she thought: ‘I’ll stop that, at any rate.’

      The seamstress’s face was distorted by her efforts to control her voice.

      “I tell him he’s wicked to say such things, m’m, and Mr. Hilary such a kind gentleman. And what business is it of his, I say, that’s got a wife and children of his own? I’ve seen him in the street, I’ve watched him hanging about Mrs. Hilary’s house when I’ve been working there waiting for that girl, and following her – home – ” Again her lips refused to do service, except in the swallowing of her tears.

      Cecilia thought: ‘I must tell Stephen at once. That man is dangerous.’ A spasm gripped her heart, usually so warm and snug; vague feelings she had already entertained presented themselves now with startling force; she seemed to see the face of sordid life staring at the family of Dallison. Mrs. Hughs’ voice, which did not dare to break, resumed:

      “I’ve said to him: ‘Whatever are you thinking of? And after Mrs. Hilary’s been so kind to me! But he’s like a madman when he’s in liquor, and he says he’ll go to Mrs. Hilary – ”

      “Go to my sister? What about? The ruffian!”

      At hearing her husband called a ruffian by another woman the shadow of resentment passed across Mrs. Hughs’ face, leaving it quivering and red. The conversation had already made a strange difference in the manner of these two women to each other. It was as though each now knew exactly how much sympathy and confidence could be expected of the other, as though life had suddenly sucked up the mist, and shown them standing one on either side of a deep trench. In Mrs. Hughs’ eyes there was the look of those who have long discovered that they must not answer back for fear of losing what little ground they have to stand on; and Cecilia’s eyes were cold and watchful. ‘I sympathise,’ they seemed to say, ‘I sympathise; but you must please understand that you cannot expect sympathy if your affairs compromise the members of my family.’ Her, chief thought now was to be relieved of the company of this woman, who had been betrayed into showing what lay beneath her dumb, stubborn patience. It was not callousness, but the natural result of being fluttered. Her heart was like a bird agitated in its gilt-wire cage by the contemplation of a distant cat. She did not, however, lose her sense of what was practical, but said calmly: “Your husband was wounded in South Africa, you told me? It looks as if he wasn’t quite… I think you should have a doctor!”

      The seamstress’s answer, slow and matter-of-fact, was worse than her emotion.

      “No, m’m, he isn’t mad.”

      Crossing to the hearth-whose Persian-blue tiling had taken her so long to find – Cecilia stood beneath a reproduction of Botticelli’s “Primavera,” and looked doubtfully at Mrs. Hughs. The Persian kitten, sleepy and disturbed on the bosom of her blouse, gazed up into her face. ‘Consider me,’ it seemed to say; ‘I am worth consideration; I am of a piece with you, and everything round you. We are both elegant and rather slender; we both love warmth and kittens; we both dislike interference with our fur. You took a long time to buy me, so as to get me perfect. You see that woman over there! I sat on her lap this morning while she was sewing your curtains. She has no right in here; she’s not what she seems; she can bite and scratch, I know; her lap is skinny; she drops water from her eyes. She made me wet all down my back. Be careful what you’re doing, or she’ll make you wet down yours!’

      All that was like the little Persian kitten within Cecilia – cosiness and love of pretty things, attachment to her own abode with its high-art lining, love for her mate and her own kitten, Thyme, dread of disturbance – all made her long to push this woman from the room; this woman with the skimpy figure, and eyes that, for all their patience, had in them something virago-like; this woman who carried about with her an atmosphere of sordid grief, of squalid menaces, and scandal. She longed all the more because it could well be seen from the seamstress’s helpless attitude that she too would have liked an easy life. To dwell on things like this was to feel more than thirty-eight!

      Cecilia had no pocket, Providence having removed it now for some time past, but from her little bag she drew forth the two essentials of gentility. Taking her nose, which she feared was shining, gently within one, she fumbled in the other. And again she looked doubtfully at Mrs. Hughs. Her heart said: ‘Give the СКАЧАТЬ