Home > Authors Index > Arnold Bennett > Helen with the High Hand (2nd ed.) > This page
Helen with the High Hand (2nd ed.), a novel by Arnold Bennett |
||
Chapter 12. Breakfast |
||
| < Previous |
Table of content |
Next > |
|
________________________________________________
_ CHAPTER XII. BREAKFAST He had an unsatisfactory night--that is to say, in the matter of sleep. In respect of sagacity he rose richer than he had lain down. He had clearly perceived, about three a.m., that he was moving too much in circles which were foreign to him, and which called him "Jimmy." And at five a.m., when the first workmen's car woke bumpily the echoes of the morn, he had perceived that Mrs. Prockter's plan for separating Emanuel and Helen by bringing them together was not a wise plan. Of course, Helen must not marry Emanuel Prockter. The notion of such a union was ludicrous. (In spite of all the worry she was heaping upon him, he did not see any urgent reason why she should marry anybody.) But the proper method of nipping the orange-blossom in the bud was certainly to have a plain chat with Helen, one of those plain chats which can only occur, successfully, between plain, common-sense persons. He was convinced that, notwithstanding Mrs. Prockter's fears, Helen had not for an instant thought of Emanuel as a husband. It was inconceivable that she, a girl so utterly sensible, should have done so. And yet--girls! And Mrs. Prockter was no fool, come to think of it. A sterling creature. Not of his world, but nevertheless--At this point he uneasily dozed. However, he determined to talk with Helen that morning at breakfast. He descended at half-past seven, as usual, full of a diplomatic intention to talk to Helen. She was wholly sensible; she was a person to whom you _could_ talk. Still, tact would be needed. Lack of sleep had rendered his nervous system such that he would have preferred to receive tact rather than to give it. But, happily, he was a self-controlled man. His post, which lay scattered on the tiles at the foot of the front door, did not interest him. He put it aside, in its basket. Nor could he work, according to his custom, at his accounts. Even the sight of the unfilled-in credit-slips for the bank did not spur him to industry. There can be no doubt that he was upset. He walked across the room to the piles of Helen's books against the wall, and in sheer absence of mind picked one up, and sat on a chair, on which he had never before sat, and began to read the volume. Then the hurried, pretentious striking of the kitchen clock startled him. Half-an-hour had passed in a moment. He peeped into the kitchen. Not a sign of breakfast! Not a sign of the new servant, with her starched frills! And for thirty years he had breakfasted at eight o'clock precisely. And no Helen! Was Helen laughing at him? Was Helen treating him as an individual of no importance? It was unimaginable that his breakfast should be late. If anybody thought that he was going to--No! he must not give way to righteous resentment. Diplomacy! Tact! Forbearance! But he would just go up to Helen's room and rap, and tell her of the amazing and awful state of things on the ground-floor. As a fact, she herself was late. At that moment she appeared. "Good-morning, uncle." She was cold, prim, cut off like China from human intercourse by a wall. "Th' servant has na' come," said he, straining to be tolerant and amicable. He did his best to keep a grieved astonishment out of his voice; but he could not. "Oh!" she murmured, calmly. It was nothing to her, then, that James's life should be turned upside down! And she added, with icy detachment: "I'm not surprised. You'll never get servants to be prompt in the morning when they don't sleep in the house. And there's no room for Georgiana to sleep in the house." Georgiana! Preposterous name! "Mrs. Butt was always prompt. I'll say that for her," he replied. This, as he immediately recognised, was a failure in tact on his part. So when she said quickly: "I'm sure Mrs. Butt would be delighted to come back if you asked her," he said nothing. What staggered his intellect and his knowledge of human nature was that she remained absolutely unmoved by this appalling, unprecedented, and complete absence of any sign of breakfast at after eight o'clock. Just then Georgiana came. She had a key to the back door, and entered the house by way of the scullery. "Good-morning, Georgiana," Helen greeted her, going into the scullery--much more kindly than she had greeted her uncle. Instead of falling on Georgiana and slaying her, she practically embraced her. A gas cooking-stove is a wondrous gift of Heaven. You do not have to light it with yesterday's paper, damp wood, and the remains of last night's fire. In twelve minutes not merely was the breakfast ready, but the kitchen was dusted, and there was a rose in a glass next to the bacon. James had calmed himself by reading the book, and the period of waiting had really been very short. As he fronted the bacon and the flower, Helen carefully shut the scullery door. The _Manchester Guardian_ lay to the left of his plate. Thoughtful! Altogether it was not so bad. Further, she smiled in handing him his tea. She, too, he observed, must have slept ill. Her agreeable face was drawn. But her blue-and-white-striped dress was impeccably put on. It was severe, and yet very smooth. It suited her mood. It also suited his. They faced each other, as self-controlled people do face each other at breakfast after white nights, disillusioned, tremendously sensible, wise, gently cynical, seeing the world with steady and just orbs. "I've been reading one o' your books, lass," he began, with superb amiability. "It's pretty near as good as a newspaper. There's summat about a law case as goes on for ever. It isna' true, I suppose, but it might be. The man as wrote that knew what he was talking about for once in a way. It's rare and good." "You mean Jarndyce _v_. Jarndyce?" she said, with a smile--not one of her condescending smiles. "Ay," he said, "I believe that _is_ the name. How didst know, lass?" "I just guessed," she answered. "I suppose you don't have much time for reading, uncle?" "Not me!" said he. "I'm one o' th' busiest men in Bosley. And if ye don't know it now, you will afore long." "Oh!" she cried, "I've noticed that. But what can you expect? With all those rents to collect yourself! Of course, I think you're quite right to collect them yourself. Rent-collectors can soon ruin a property." Her tone was exceedingly sympathetic and comprehending. He was both surprised and pleased by it. He had misjudged her mood. It was certainly comfortable to have a young woman in the house who understood things as she did. "Ye're right, lass," he said. "It's small houses as mean trouble. You're never done--wi' cottage property. Always summat!" "It's all small, isn't it?" she went on. "About how much do the rents average? Three-and-six a week?" "About that," he said. She was a shrewd guesser. "I can't imagine how you carry the money about," she exclaimed. "It must be very heavy for you." "I'll tell you," he explained. "I've got my own system o' collecting. If I hadn't, I couldna' get through. In each street I've one tenant as I trust. And the other tenants can leave their rent and their rent books there. When they do that regular for a month, I give 'em twopence apiece for their children. If they do it regular for a year, I mak' 'em a present of a wik's rent at Christmas. It's cheaper nor rent-collectors." "What a good idea!" she said, impressed. "But how _do_ you carry the money about?" "I bank i' Bosley, and I bank i' Turnhill, too. And I bank once i' Bosley and twice i' Turnhill o' Mondays, and twice i' Bosley o' Tuesdays. Only yesterday I was behind. I reckon as I can do all my collecting between nine o'clock Monday and noon Tuesday. I go to th' worst tenants first--be sure o' that. There's some o' 'em, if you don't catch 'em early o' Monday, you don't catch 'em at all." "It's incredible to me how you can do it all in a day and a half," she pursued. "Why, how many houses are there?" "Near two hundred and forty i' Bosley," he responded. "Hast forgotten th' sugar this time, lass?" "And in Turnhill?" she said, passing the sugar. "I think I'll have that piece of bacon if you don't want it." "Over a hundred," said he. "A hundred and twenty." "So that, first and last, you have to handle about sixty pounds each week, and all in silver and copper. Fancy! What a weight it must be!" "Ay!" he said, but with less enthusiasm. "That's three thousand a-year," she continued. Her tone was still innocuously sympathetic. She seemed to be talking of money as she might have talked of counters. Nevertheless, he felt that he had been entrapped. "I expect you must have saved at the very least thirty thousand pounds by this time," she reflected, judicially, disinterestedly--speaking as a lawyer might have spoken. He offered no remark. "That means another thirty pounds a week," she resumed. Decidedly she was marvellous at sums of interest. He persisted in offering no remark. "By the way," she said, "I must look into my household accounts. How much did you tell me you allowed Mrs. Butt a week for expenses?" "A pound," he replied, shortly. She made no comment. "You don't own the house, do you?" she inquired. "No," he said. "What's the rent?" "Eighteen pounds," he said. Reluctant is a word that inadequately describes his attitude. "The worst of this house is that it has no bathroom," she remarked. "Still, eighteen pounds a year is eighteen pounds a year." Her tone was faultless, in its innocent, sympathetic common sense. The truth was, it was too faultless; it rendered James furious with a fury that was dangerous, because it had to be suppressed. Then suddenly she left the table. "The Kiel butter at a shilling a pound is quite good enough, Georgiana," he heard her exhorting the servant in the scullery. Ten minutes later, she put ten sovereigns in front of him. "There's that ten-pound note," she said, politely (but not quite accurately). "I've got enough of my own to get on with." She fled ere he could reply. And not a word had he contrived to say to her concerning Emanuel. _ |
||