Mrs. Arb found herself with an income but no home, no habit of home life, and no masculine guidance or protection. She was heart-stricken, and—what was worse—she was thoroughly disorganized. Her immense vitality had no outlet. Time helped her, but she lived in suspense, undecided what to do and not quite confident in her own unaided wisdom. An incredible letter from a solicitor announcing that she had inherited the confectioner’s business and premises and some money in Riceyman Steps shook and roused her. These pleasant and promising things had belonged to her grandmother’s much younger half-sister, whom she had once helped by prolonged personal service in a great emergency. The two had not met for many years, owing to Mrs. Arb’s nomadic existence; but they had come together at the funeral of Mr. Arb, and had quarrelled magnificently, because of Mrs. Arb’s expressed opinion that the old lady’s clothes showed insufficient respect for the angelic dead. The next event was the solicitor’s letter; the old lady had made a deathbed repentance for the funeral costume. Mrs. Arb abandoned the furnished rooms in Fulham, where she had been desiccating for two years, and flew to Clerkenwell in an eager mood of adventure. She did not like Clerkenwell, nor the look of the business, and she was beginning to be disappointed, but at worst she was far happier and more alive than she had ever been since Mr. Arb’s death.
She had, nevertheless, a cancer—not a physical one: the secret abiding terror lest despite all her outward assurance she might be incapable of managing her possessions. The more she inherited, the more she feared. She had a vision of the business going wrong, of her investments going wrong, and of herself in poverty and solitude. This dread was absurd, but not less real for that. It grew. She tried to counter it by the practice of severe economy.
The demeanour of Mr. Earlforward, and his gift, had suddenly lightened her horizon. But the moment he departed she began saying to herself that she was utterly silly to indulge in such thoughts as she had been thinking, that men were not “like that,” that men knew what they were about and what they wanted—and she looked gloomily in the fancy mirror provided by a firm of cocoa manufacturers and adorned with their name at the top and their address at the bottom.
She put pieces of gauze over the confectionery in the window and over the two bony remnants of ham, placed the chair seat downwards on the counter, and tilted the little table against the counter; then extinguished the oil-lamp, which alone lit the shop, and went into the back room, lighted by another similar oil-lamp. In this room, which was a parlour-kitchen, and whose principal table had just been scrubbed, Elsie, a helot withdrawn from the world and dedicated to secret toil, was untying her sack apron preparatory to the great freedom of the night.
“Oh, Elsie—you did say your name was Elsie, didn’t you?”
“Yes’m.”
“I should take it very kindly if you could stay a bit longer this evening.”
Elsie was dashed; she paused on the knot of the apron-string.
“It’s a quarter of an hour past my time now, ’m,” she said apologetically and humbly.
“It is? So it is. Well, not quite.”
“I had an engagement, ’m.”
“Couldn’t you put it off for this once? You see, I’m very anxious to get straight after all this mess I’ve been in. I’m one that can’t stand a mess. I’ll give you your supper—I’ll give you a slice of ham—and sixpence extra.”
“I’m sure it’s very kind of you, ’m, but—”
Mrs. Arb coaxed, and she could coax very effectively.
“Well, ’m, I always like to oblige.” Elsie yielded, not grudgingly nor with the air of conferring a favour, but rather with a mild and pure kindliness. She added, coaxing in her turn: “But I must just run out half a minute, if you’ll let me.”
“Oh, of course. But don’t be long, will you? Look, here’s your half-day and the extra sixpence. Take it now. And while you’re out I’ll be cutting the ham for you. It’s a pity I’ve turned out the shop lamp, but I dare say I can see if I leave this door open.” She gave the girl some silver.
“I’m sure it’s very kind of you, ’m.”
Mrs. Arb cut an exceedingly thin slice of ham quite happily. She had two reasons for keeping Elsie; she wanted to talk to somebody, and she felt that, whether she talked or not, she could not bear to be alone in the place till bedtime. Her good spirits returned.
VII
Under an Umbrella
The entrance-gates to the yard of Daphut, the builder and stonemason, which lay between Mrs. Arb’s shop and the steps proper, were set back a little from the general frontage of the north side of Riceyman Steps, so that there was a corner at that point sheltered from east and northeast winds. In this corner stood a young man under an old umbrella; his clothes were such as would have entitled him to the newspaper reporter’s description, “respectably dressed”—no better. His back was against the blind wall of Mrs. Arb’s. It was raining again, with a squally wind, but the wind being in the northeast the young man was only getting spotted with rain. A young woman ran out of Mrs. Arb’s and joined him. She placed herself close to him, touching him, breast to breast; it was the natural and rational thing to do, and also she had to receive as much protection as possible from the umbrella. The girl was wearing all Elsie’s clothes. Elsie’s sack-apron covered her head and shoulders like a bridal veil. But she was not Mrs. Arb’s Elsie nor Mr. Earlforward’s! She was not the drudge. She had suddenly become a celestial visitant. The attributes of such an unearthly being were in her shining face and in the solace of her little bodily movements; and her extraordinary mean
