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they had as yet only the power to express through the medium of a certain shibboleth, the rest would have used the same forms merely because shibboleth is easy and always safe and creditable.

But to Featherā€™s immediate circle a multiplicity of engagements, fevers of eagerness in the attainment of pleasures and ambitions, anxieties, small and large terrors, and a whirl of days left no time for the regarding of pathetic aspects. The tiny house up whose staircaseā€”tucked against a wallā€”one had seemed to have the effect of crowding even when one went alone to make a call, suddenly ceased to represent hilarious little parties which were as entertaining as they were up to date and noisy. The most daring things London gossiped about had been said and done and worn there. Novel social ventures had been triedā€”dancing and songs which seemed almost startling at firstā€”but which were gradually being generally adopted. There had always been a great deal of laughing and talking of nonsense and the bandying of jokes and catch phrases. And Feather fluttering about and saying delicious, silly things at which her hearers shouted with glee. Such a place could not suddenly become pathetic. It seemed almost indecent for Robert Gareth-Lawless to have dragged Death nakedly into their midstā€”to have died in his bed in one of the little bedrooms, to have been put in his coffin and carried down the stairs scraping the wall, and sent away in a hearse. Nobody could bear to think of it.

Feather could bear it less than anybody else. It seemed incredible that such a trick could have been played her. She shut herself up in her stuffy little bedroom with its shrimp pink frills and draperies and cried lamentably. At first she cried as a child might who was suddenly snatched away in the midst of a party. Then she began to cry because she was frightened. Numbers of cards ā€œwith sympathyā€ had been left at the front door during the first week after the funeral, they had accumulated in a pile on the salver but very few people had really come to see her and while she knew they had the excuse of her recent bereavement she felt that it made the house ghastly. It had never been silent and empty. Things had always been going on and now there was actually not a sound to be heardā€”no one going up and down stairsā€”Robā€™s room cleared of all his belongings and left orderly and emptyā€”the drawing-room like a gay little tomb without an occupant. How long WOULD it be before it would be full of people againā€”how long must she wait before she could decently invite anyone?ā€”It was really at this point that fright seized upon her. Her brain was not given to activities of reasoning and followed no thought far. She had not begun to ask herself questions as to ways and means. Rob had been winning at cards and had borrowed some money from a new acquaintance so no immediate abyss had yawned at her feet. But when the thought of future festivities rose before her a sudden check made her involuntarily clutch at her throat. She had no money at all, bills were piled everywhere, perhaps now Robert was dead none of the shops would give her credit. She remembered hearing Rob come into the house swearing only the day before he was taken ill and it had been because he had met on the doorstep a collector of the rent which was long over-due and must be paid. She had no money to pay it, none to pay the servantsā€™ wages, none to pay the household bills, none to pay for the monthly hire of the brougham! Would they turn her into the streetā€”would the servants go awayā€”would she be left without even a carriage? What could she do about clothes! She could not wear anything but mourning now and by the time she was out of mourning her old clothes would have gone out of fashion. The morning on which this aspect of things occurred to her, she was so terrified that she began to run up and down the room like a frightened little cat seeing no escape from the trap it is caught in.

ā€œItā€™s awfulā€”itā€™s awfulā€”itā€™s awful!ā€ broke out between her sobs. ā€œWhat can I do? I canā€™t do anything! Thereā€™s nothing to do! Itā€™s awfulā€”itā€™s awfulā€”itā€™s awful!ā€ She ended by throwing herself on the bed crying until she was exhausted. She had no mental resources which would suggest to her that there was anything but crying to be done. She had cried very little in her life previously because even in her days of limitation she had been able to get more or less what she wantedā€”though of course it had generally been less. And crying made oneā€™s nose and eyes red. On this occasion she actually forgot her nose and eyes and cried until she scarcely knew herself when she got up and looked in the glass.

She rang the bell for her maid and sat down to wait her coming. Tonson should bring her a cup of beef tea.

ā€œItā€™s time for lunch,ā€ she thought. ā€œIā€™m faint with crying. And she shall bathe my eyes with rose-water.ā€

It was not Tonsonā€™s custom to keep her mistress waiting but today she was not prompt. Feather rang a second time and an impatient third and then sat in her chair and waited until she began to feel as she felt always in these dreadful days the dead silence of the house. It was the thing which most struck terror to her soulā€”that horrid stillness. The servants whose place was in the basement were too much closed in their gloomy little quarters to have made themselves heard upstairs even if they had been inclined to. During the last few weeks feather had even found herself wishing that they were less well trained and would make a little noiseā€”do anything to break the silence.

The room she sat inā€”Robā€™s awful little room adjoiningā€”which was awful because of what she had seen for a moment lying stiff and hard on the bed before she was taken away in hystericsā€”were dread enclosures of utter silence. The whole house was dumbā€”the very street had no sound in it. She could not endure it. How dare Tonson? She sprang up and rang the bell again and again until its sound came back to her pealing through the place.

Then she waited again. It seemed to her that five minutes passed before she heard the smart young footman mounting the stairs slowly. She did not wait for his knock upon the door but opened it herself.

ā€œHow dare Tonson!ā€ she began. ā€œI have rung four or five times! How dare she!ā€

The smart young footmanā€™s manner had been formed in a good school. It was attentive, impersonal.

ā€œI donā€™t know, maā€™am,ā€ he answered.

ā€œWhat do you mean? What does SHE mean? Where is she?ā€ Feather felt almost breathless before his unperturbed good style.

ā€œI donā€™t know, maā€™am,ā€ he answered as before. Then with the same unbiassed bearing added, ā€œNone of us know. She has gone away.ā€

Feather clutched the door handle because she felt herself swaying.

ā€œAway! Away!ā€ the words were a faint gasp.

ā€œShe packed her trunk yesterday and carried it away with her on a four-wheeler. About an hour ago, maā€™am.ā€ Feather dropped her hand from the knob of the door and trailed back to the chair she had left, sinking into it helplessly.

ā€œWhoā€”who will dress me?ā€ she half wailed.

ā€œI donā€™t know, maā€™am,ā€ replied the young footman, his excellent manner presuming no suggestion or opinion whatever. He added however, ā€œCook, maā€™am, wishes to speak to you.ā€

ā€œTell her to come to me here,ā€ Feather said. ā€œAnd Iā€”I want a cup of beef tea.ā€

ā€œYes, maā€™am,ā€ with entire respect. And the door closed quietly behind him.

It was not long before it was opened again. ā€œCookā€ had knocked and Feather had told her to come in. Most cooks are stout, but this one was not. She was a thin, tall woman with square shoulders and a square face somewhat reddened by constant proximity to fires. She had been trained at a cooking school. She carried a pile of small account books but she brought nothing else.

ā€œI wanted some beef tea, Cook,ā€ said Feather protestingly.

ā€œThere is no beef tea, maā€™am,ā€ said Cook. ā€œThere is neither beef, nor stock, nor Liebig in the house.ā€

ā€œWhyā€”why not?ā€ stammered Feather and she stammered because even her lack of perception saw something in the womanā€™s face which was new to her. It was a sort of finality.

She held out the pile of small books.

ā€œHere are the books, maā€™am,ā€ was her explanation. ā€œPerhaps as you donā€™t like to be troubled with such things, you donā€™t know how far behind they are. Nothing has been paid for months. Itā€™s been an everyday fight to get the things that was wanted. Itā€™s not an agreeable thing for a cook to have to struggle and plead. Iā€™ve had to do it because I had my reputation to think of and I couldnā€™t send up rubbish when there was company.ā€

Feather felt herself growing pale as she sat and stared at her. Cook drew near and laid one little book after another on the small table near her.

ā€œThatā€™s the butcherā€™s book,ā€ she said. ā€œHeā€™s sent nothing in for three days. Weā€™ve been living on leavings. Heā€™s sent his last, he says and he means it. This is the bakerā€™s. Heā€™s not been for a week. I made up rolls because I had some flour left. Itā€™s done nowā€”and HEā€™S done. This is groceries and Mercom & Fees wrote to Mr. Gareth-Lawless when the last monthā€™s supply came, that it would BE the last until payment was made. This is winesā€”and coal and woodā€”and laundryā€”and milk. And here is wages, maā€™am, which CANā€™T go on any longer.ā€

Feather threw up her hands and quite wildly.

ā€œOh, go away!ā€”go away!ā€ she cried. ā€œIf Mr. Lawless were hereā€”ā€

ā€œHe isnā€™t, maā€™am,ā€ Cook interposed, not fiercely but in a way more terrifying than any ferocity could have beenā€”a way which pointed steadily to the end of things. ā€œAs long as thereā€™s a gentleman in a house thereā€™s generally a sort of a prospect that things MAY be settled some way. At any rate thereā€™s someone to go and speak your mind to even if you have to give up your place. But when thereā€™s no gentleman and nothingā€”and nobodyā€”respectable people with their livings to make have got to protect themselves.ā€

The woman had no intention of being insolent. Her simple statement that her employerā€™s death had left ā€œNothingā€ and ā€œNobodyā€ was prompted by no consciously ironic realization of the diaphanousness of Feather. As for the rest she had been professionally trained to take care of her interests as well as to cook and the ethics of the days of her grandmother when there had been servants with actual affections had not reached her.

ā€œOh! go away! Go AWA-AY!ā€ Feather almost shrieked.

ā€œI am going, maā€™am. So are Edward and Emma and Louisa. Itā€™s no use waiting and giving the monthā€™s notice. We shouldnā€™t save the monthā€™s wages and the trades-people wouldnā€™t feed us. We canā€™t stay here and starve. And itā€™s a time of the year when places has to be looked for. You canā€™t hold it against us, maā€™am. Itā€™s better for you to have us out of the house tonightā€”which is when our boxes will be taken away.ā€

Then was Feather seized with a panic. For the first time in her life she found herself facing mere common facts which rose before her like a solid wall of stoneā€”not to be leapt, or crept under, or bored through, or slipped round. She was so overthrown and bewildered that she could not even think of any clever and rapidly constructed lie

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