I began desultorily to descend to the smoking-room. In the Cimmerian gloom of the stairway the voice of a pursuer hailed me.
“I say, Granger! I say, Granger!”
I looked back. The man was one of the rats of the lower journalism, large-boned, rubicund, asthmatic; a mass of flesh that might, to the advantage of his country and himself, have served as a cavalry trooper. He puffed stertorously down towards me.
“I say, I say,” his breath came rattling and wheezing. “What’s up at the Hour?”
“I’m sure I don’t know,” I answered curtly.
“They said you took it yesterday. You’ve been playing the very devil, haven’t you? But I suppose it was not off your own bat?”
“Oh, I never play off my own bat,” I answered.
“Of course I don’t want to intrude,” he said again. In the gloom I was beginning to discern the workings of the tortured apoplectic face. “But, I say, what’s de Mersch’s little game?”
“You’d better ask him,” I answered. It was incredibly hateful, this satyr’s mask in the dim light.
“He’s not in London,” it answered, with a wink of the creased eyelids, “but, I suppose, now, Fox and de Mersch haven’t had a row, now, have they?”
I did not answer. The thing was wearily hateful, and this was only the beginning. Hundreds more would be asking the same question in a few minutes.
The head wagged on the mountainous shoulders.
“Looks fishy,” he said. I recognised that, to force words from me, he was threatening a kind of blackmail. Another voice began to call from the top of the stairs—
“I say, Granger! I say, Granger. …”
I pushed the folding-doors apart and went slowly down the gloomy room. I heard the doors swing again, and footsteps patter on the matting behind me. I did not turn; the man came round me and looked at my face. It was Polehampton. There were tears in his eyes.
“I say,” he said, “I say, what does it mean; what does it mean?” It was very difficult for me to look at him. “I tell you. …” he began again. He had the dictatorial air of a very small, quite hopeless man, a man mystified by a blow of unknown provenance. “I tell you. …” he began again.
“But what has it to do with me?” I said roughly.
“Oh, but you … you advised me to buy.” He had become supplicatory. “Didn’t you, now? … Didn’t you. … You said, you remember … that. …” I didn’t answer the man. What had I got to say? He remained looking intently at me, as if it were of the greatest moment to him that I should make the acknowledgment and share the blame—as if it would take an immense load from his shoulders. I couldn’t do it; I hated him.
“Didn’t you,” he began categorically; “didn’t you advise me to buy those debentures of de Mersch’s?” I did not answer.
“What does it all mean?” he said again. “If this bill doesn’t get through, I tell you I shall be ruined. And they say that Mr. Gurnard is going to smash it. They are all saying it, up there; and that you—you on the Hour … are … are responsible.” He took out a handkerchief and began to blow his nose. I didn’t say a single word.
“But what’s to be done?” he started again; “what’s to be done. … I tell you. … My daughter, you know, she’s very brave, she said to me this morning she could work; but she couldn’t, you know; she’s not been brought up to that sort of thing … not even typewriting … and so … we’re all ruined … everyone of us. And I’ve more than fifty hands, counting Mr. Lea, and they’ll all have to go. It’s horrible. … I trusted you, Granger, you know; I trusted you, and they say up there that you. …” I turned away from him. I couldn’t bear to see the bewildered fear in his eyes. “So many of us,” he began again, “everyone I know. … I told them to buy and … But you might have let us know, Granger, you might have. Think of my poor daughter.”
I wanted to say something to the man, wanted to horribly; but there wasn’t anything to say—not a word. I was sorry. I took up a paper that sprawled on one of the purple ottomans. I stood with my back to this haggard man and pretended to read.
I noticed incredulously that I was swaying on my legs. I looked round me. Two old men were asleep in armchairs under the gloomy windows. One had his head thrown back, the other was crumpled forward into himself; his frail, white hand just touched the floor. A little further off two young men were talking; they had the air of conspirators over their empty coffee cups.
I was conscious that Polehampton had left me, that he had gone from behind me; but I don’t think I was conscious of the passage of time. God knows how long I stood there. Now and then I saw Polehampton’s face before my eyes, with the panic-stricken eyes, the ruffled hair, the lines of tears seaming the cheeks, seeming to look out at me from the crumple of the paper that I held. I knew too, that there were faces like that everywhere; everywhere, faces of panic-stricken little people of no more account than the dead in graveyards, just the material to make graveyards, nothing more; little people of absolutely no use but just to suffer horribly from this blow coming upon them from nowhere. It had never occurred to me at the time that their inheritance had passed to me … to us. And yet, I began to wonder stupidly, what was the difference between me today and me yesterday. There wasn’t any, not any at all. Only today I had nothing more to do.
The doors at the end of
