 Part 4 Chapter 1 of Ryciman's Steps by Arnold Bennett. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Anthony Ogus. At the Window Elsie was cleaning the upper windows of Titi Ryciman's and she had arrived at the second floor spare room which had two windows, one on King's Crossroad and the other on Ryciman's Steps. The third window on Ryciman's Steps had been bricked up like two first four windows on King's Crossroad in the prehistoric ages of the house. Two-thirds of her body was dangerously projected over King's Crossroad, above the thunder of the trams and the motor lorries and the iron trotting of cart horses. The inferior third dangled within the room. She clung with one powerful arm to woodwork or brickwork, while with the other she wiped and rubbed the panes. The window sill was the depository of a tin can, a leather and a cloth, each of which had to be manipulated with care, lest by falling any of them should baptise or injure the preoccupied passes by whose varied top knots and shoulders Elsie glimpsed when she happened to look down. The windows of the house were all sashed. To clean the upper half was fairly easy, but the lower half could only be done by lifting it bit by bit into the place of the upper half and pulling the latter down onto Elsie's legs. A difficult operation this cleaning, in addition to being risky to limb or even to life. Elsie performed it with the exactest conscientiousness in the dusty and cold north wind that swept through the canyon of Kingscross Road. She could see everything within the room. The orderly piles of books ranged on the floor, and the array of provisional shelves which she and her mistress had built upon odd volumes, still unsold, of the illustrated London news. The top or covering plank had disappeared having been secretly removed during the master's absence and sawn and chopped up for firewood in the cellar. For the master had decisively discounted the purchase of more firewood, holding that somehow or other the women could manage. They had managed. Elsie saw the door open, and her mistress entered with a plant pot in either hand. Violet, all aproned and wearing a renovated check frock, gave a start at the sight of Elsie's legs. So here you are! Elsie heard her voice coming weakly through the glass into the uproar of the street, and I've been looking for you everywhere. That Elsie had been engaged upon the windows for quite three-quarters of an hour was proof that a servant might go her own ways without attracting the attention even of an employer who flattered herself on missing nothing. Elsie wormed her body back within the room. Didn't you see me cleaning the outside of the shot windows, ma'am? She asked, sedately benevolent. She could clean the inside of the shot windows only by special arrangement with the proprietor. No, I did not. It's true I've had other matters to think about this morning. Yes it is. And why must you choose this morning for your windows? You know it's your afternoon out, and there's a lot to do. But perhaps you aren't going out, Elsie. Well, Mum, I was thinking of going out, Elsie answered, bringing in the tin can. But I thought they looked so dirty. Here Elsie was deceitful, or at best she was withholding part of the truth. Mrs. Old Forward would not have guessed in a million guesses Elsie's real reason for cleaning the windows on just that morning. The real reason was that the vanished Joe had been famous for the super excellence of his window cleaning. This day was the anniversary of his disappearance. Elsie had no genuine expectation that he would reappear. The notion of his return after precisely a year was merely silly. She admitted it, and yet he might come back. If he did, he would find her in half an hour by inquiry, and if he did find her, she could not tolerate that he should find her windows dirty. He had an eye for windows, and windows must shine for him. Thus mysteriously, mystically, poetically, passionately did Elsie's devotion express itself. Now don't shut the window, via that admonished her sharply. You know I want to put these plants out. Elsie's eyes grew moist. How touchy the girl is this morning, thought Violet, if she had to put up with what I have. And perhaps Violet was to be excused. How could she, with all her common sense and experience of mankind, divine that Stodgy Elsie's equanimity was at the mercy of any gust that windy morning? She could not. She established the plant pots on the windowsill. She had bought bulbs with the 10 shillings so startlingly given to her by her husband, and with his reluctant approval. She had scrubbed the old plant pots, stirred the soil in them, and embedded the bulbs. She put the pots out in the daytime and brought them in at night. She watered them when necessary in the bathroom. She tended them like a family of children. All unseen, they were the romance of her daily existence, her refuge from trouble, the balm of her anxieties. The sight of the clean, symmetrically arranged pots on the sills might have given the idea that a new era had set in for D.T. Reissamans, that the terror of the curse of its vice had been exorcised by the secret workings within those ruddy pots. Violet hoped that it was so, but it was not so. And Elsie, in the primeval quality of her instincts, knew that it was not so. The bulbs were not pushing upwards to happiness. They were pushing upwards to sinister consummations, the approach of which rendered them absurd. And Elsie felt this too. Were you wanting me for anything particular, ma'am? Elsie asked, rather contrite about her windows and eager to appease. Yes, I should think I was wanting you for something. How dare you give me this money you put on my dressing table? She spoke with nervous exasperation and produced from her pocket some coins wrapped in the bit of paper in which Elsie had wrapped them an hour or two earlier. The price of the ruined double-sourceman now replaced by Violet. Take it back. You ought to have known I should never let you pay for it. This, after she had most positively insisted that Elsie should repair out of her resources the consequence of her unparalleled stupidity. The fact was that Violet, unsentimental and hard as she could be, and generally was in practical matters, had been somewhat moved at the sight of the poor little coins in the dirty paper deposited in the bedroom dumbly without a word written or spoken. Also she happened that morning to be in a frame of mind favourable to emotion of certain sorts. She sniffed ominously, glancing at Elsie's face and glancing away. She could not bear to think that the lovable, loyal, silly creature had seriously intended to settle for the sourceman out of her wages. Elsie, astonished and intimidated, took the money back as dumbly as she'd paid it out. I'm that sorry mum, she murmured simply. The little episode was closed and yet Violet sniffed again and her features slowly suffered distortion and she began to cry. She was one who never cried and this was her third crying within a week. In truth it was not about the money at all that she had wanted to speak to Elsie. She said indistinctly through her tears, he's not gone out this morning Elsie and he's not going out, he's missing the sale. He says himself is not well enough. That just means not strong enough and now he's sitting in the office trying to type and customers just have to come to him. The secret that was no secret was suddenly out. There was in Elsie's ingenuous dark blue eyes such devotion, such reliability, such an offering of soft comfort as Violet could not resist. The deep-rooted suspiciousness which separates in some degree every woman from every other woman dissolved away and with it Violet's pride in her superior station and Violet's self-sufficiency. The concealed yet notorious fact that Violet lived in torment about her husband that always not well in the placid household was now openly admitted. In an instant Elsie, ardently yielding herself to another's woe, quite forgot the rasping harshness of Violet's recent onslaught, she was profoundly flattered and she was filled with an irrational gratitude because Violet had given her the shelter of a sure respectable home which knew not revolutions, altercations, penury, debauchery nor the heart-rending stridency of enervated mothers and children. He's not himself master isn't, she said gently. What do you mean he's not himself? I mean he's not well, Mum. He'd be all right if he'd eat more. You know that as well as I do. Perhaps he has got no appetite, Mum. Why shouldn't he have an appetite? He's never suffered from indigestion in all his life. He says so himself. Yes, Mum, not till lately. All this talk about saving, said Violet shrugging her shoulders and wiping her eyes. It was a curious thing to say because there had never been any talk about saving and even if there had been, clearly Elsie ought not to have heard it. Nevertheless she received the remark as of course, nodding her head. What's the use of saving if you're killing yourself to do it? Violet proceeded impatiently. Violet was referring and Elsie knew that she was referring to the master's outburst on communism with all its unspoken implications. They had both been impressed at the time. Mr. Erlford had convicted them of sin. But now they were both femininely scoffful of the silent argument of the illogical male. What indeed was the use of fatally depriving yourself now in order not to have to deprive yourself later on. There was something wrong in the master's mysterious head. If you could get somebody to talk to him, mum, somebody from outside. Elsie stressed these last three words, thereby proving that her simplicity had led her straight to the heart of the matter. The atmosphere of the sealed house was infected by the strangeness of the master who himself in turn was influenced by it. Fresh air, new breath, a great wind was needed to dispel the corruption. The house was suffocating its owners. An immense deterioration had occurred, unperceived till now. Violet was afraid. She was aghast. She realized the change, not fully, but sufficiently to frighten her. The gravity of the danger dried up her tears. Yes, she assented. The doctor, Dr. Raster. But do you think he'd let me send for the doctor for one moment? And if I did send, do you think he'd see him? It's out of the question. You might have the doctor for yourself, mum. You might send me for him, and then he could see master by accident-like. But I'm not ill, my girl, Violet protested, though she was impressed by the kind creature's resourcefulness. Oh, mum, why you've been ill for weeks? Violet blushed like a culprit. What in the name of goodness are you talking about? She demanded. Of course I'm not ill. They were all the same servants. They never understood that familiarity from an employer should not be answered by familiarity. Sorry, mum, said Elsie Meekley, but still with a very slight benevolent obstinacy as one who would withdraw and wouldn't withdraw. Violet stared half a moment at her and then abruptly walked out of the room. The interview was getting to be too much for her. She could not stand any more of it, not one more word of it. She foresaw the probability of a complete humiliating breakdown if she tried herself too far. A few seconds later she popped her head in at the door again and said firmly but quite pleasantly, now, Elsie, you'd better be coming downstairs. There's nothing else up here to keep you. As a fact, Elsie was dawdling in reflection. End of chapter one. Part four, chapter two of Reiseman's Steps by Arnold Bennett. This Libravox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Antoni Ergus. Elsie's motive. There was only one exit from the TT Reiseman premises through the shop. Once a door had given direct access to King's Cross Road, but so long ago that the new bricks which had bricked it up were now scarcely distinguishable from the surrounding bricks. No one could have guessed at a glance that the main facade of the building had been shifted round, for some reason lost in antiquity, from King's Cross Road to Reiseman's Steps. Or that the little oblong, railing-in-cloth strip of grass, which was never cut nor clipped nor trodden by human foot, had once been a front garden. The back parts of TT Reiseman's provided no escape, saved through a little yard over hybrid walls into the back parts of other properties inhabited by unknown and probably pernickety persons and their children. As there was only the shop exit from the TT Reiseman premises, it could not be concealed from the powers that Elsie went forth that same afternoon, dressed in her best. Unusual array, for the girl generally began half holidays by helping her friends, to whom she was very faithful, in Reiseman's Square, either by skilled cleansing labour in the unclean dirty house, or as occasion might demand, by taking children out from excursion into the more romantic leafy regions of Clarkinwell, up towards the northeast, such as Middleton's Square, where there was room to play, an opportunity for tumbling about in pleasant outdoor dirt. Mrs. Alford nodded to Elsie as she departed, and Elsie blushed, smiling. But Mrs. Alford would ask no curious question, friendly or inquisitive. She knew her place, as Elsie knew Elsie's. She knew that it was not wise to meddle. Servants must do what they liked with their own. They were mighty independent, even the best of them these days. Not a word save on household matters had passed between the two women since the scene of the morning. Mr. Alford was still dealing with customers in the office. His voice, rather enfeebled, seemed blander than ever. I hope it will be fine for you, Violet called after Elsie at the shop door. Wonderful the implications in the tone of that briefly expressed amiability. It was as if Violet had said, I know you're up to something out of the ordinary. I don't know what it is, and I don't seek to inquire. I believe in people minding their own business. But you might have given me a hint, and anyhow I can see through you, though you may not think it. Anyhow, in spite of the cold wind and the big moving clouds, I hope you won't be inconvenienced in your very private affairs by the weather. Elsie comprehended all that Violet had not said, and her blushes flared out again. No sooner had she turned the corner into the King's Cross Road than she ceased to be the general at T. T. Reissamans and became the image of the wife of a superior artisan with a maternal expression indicating a small family left at home, a sense of grave responsibilities, an ability to initiate and execute considerable dignity. She had put her gloves on. She carried her umbrella. She had massiveness and looked more than her age. Indeed, she looked close on 30. If she had blushed Violet, it was because of her errand, which, had Violet known of it, would have set up serious friction. Elsie was going to see Dr. Raster about the state of health of T. T. Reissamans. An impossible errand, of course. Fancy a servant interfering thus in the most intimate affairs of her employers. But the welfare of her employers was as dear to Elsie as her own. Her finest virtue was benevolence, and she was quite ready to affront danger to a benevolent end. At the same time it has to be admitted that Elsie's motive in going to Middleton Square without a train of children to see Dr. Raster was not a single motive. Probably in human activity there is no such thing as a single motive. For Elsie this day was not chiefly the day on which Mrs. Earl Ford had so pitiously broken down before her as to Mr. Earl Ford's physical and mental condition. It was chiefly the anniversary of Joe's disappearance. The fact of the anniversary filled all the horizon of Elsie's thoughts, and at intervals it surged inwards upon her from every quarter of the compass and overwhelmed her, and then it would recede again. Joe had been in the service of Dr. Raster. He had lived at Dr. Raster's. Therefore it would be natural for him, if he reappeared, to reappear first at Dr. Raster's. He would not reappear. It was inconceivable that he should reappear. This anniversary notion of hers, as she had often said to herself, was ridiculous. Much more likely that Joe had married some other girl by this time, for Elsie knew that he was not a man capable of doing without women. He had probably settled down somewhere. Where? Where could he be? And yet he might reappear. The anniversary notion might not be so ridiculous after all. You never knew. And herein was part of her motive for going to Dr. Raster's. The doctor's house, or rather the house of which he occupied the lower part, was one of the larger houses in the historic Middleton Square, and stood at the corner of the square and knew River Street. The clock of St. Mark showed two minutes to the hour, but already patients had collected in the anti-room to the surgery in the side street. Elsie hesitated exactly at the corner. From detailed and absorbing talks about nothing with Joe, he knew the doctor's habits pretty well. The doctor was due to be entering his surgery for the afternoon session, and there he was. It seemed almost a miracle approaching from the eastward. A little girl, all thin legs and thin arms, was trotting by his side, and the retinue consisted of a fox terrier who was joyfully chasing a few selected leaves among the thousands blown across the square by the obstreperous wind. The doctor and his little girls stopped at their front door. Very well, Elsie heard the doctor say, you can give Jack his bath, but you must change your frock first, and if there's any mess of any sort, I shan't take your part when Mummy comes home. The dog stood still, listening, and the doctor turned to him and ejaculated loudly a mischievous sleep. Bath, bath! Jack's tail dropped, and in deep sulks he walked off towards the railings in the middle of the square. Come here, sir, commanded the doctor firmly. Come here, sir, shrieked the little girl in imitation. Jack obeyed, totally disillusioned about the interestingness of dead leaves, and slipped in a flash down the area steps the child after him. Doctor Raster moved toward the surgery and saw Elsie in his path. No, no, he said to her kindly, humanly, for he had not yet had time to lose his fatherhood. This won't do, you know. You must take your turn with the rest. He raised his hand in protest. He was acquainted with all the wiles of patients who wanted illicitly to force stall other patients. It isn't for myself, sir, said Elsie with puckered brow, very nervous. It's for Mr Earl forward, at least Mrs Earl forward. Oh, the doctor halted. You don't remember me, sir, Mrs Spricket, sir, Elsie, sir. Yes, of course. He ought to have proceeded. By the way, Elsie, Joe's come back today. It would have been too wonderful if he had said that. But he didn't. He merely said, Well, what's it all about? Somewhat impatiently, for at that moment the clock struck. Mr Earl forward's that bad, sir. Can't fancy his food. And Mrs Earl forward's bad, too. Mrs Earl forward? Is he married then? Oh, yes, sir. He married Mrs Arbors was. I'll get that confectioner's shop opposite in the steps. But she sold it. And I'm the servant, sir, now. It'll soon be a year ago, sir. Really, really. All right, I'll look in. Sometime before six. Tell them I'll look in. Well, sir, said Elsie, hesitating and blushing very red. Mrs didn't exactly send me in a manner of speaking. She says master won't have a doctor, says, but I was thinking if you could. Do you mean to say you've come up here to tell me about your master and mistress without orders? Well, sir. But, but, but, but, but, Dr Rastus spluttered with the utmost rapidity, startled for once out of his inhuman impertability by this monstrous act of Elsie's. He had no child nor dog now. He was the medico-chemically pure. Did you suppose that I can come like that without being called in and never heard of such a thing? What next, I wonder? He's very bad, sir, master, is. The slim little man stood up threateningly against Elsie's mighty figure. What do I care? If people need a doctor, they must send for him. Dr Rastus walked off down New River Street, but after a few steps turned again. Haven't they got any friends you could speak to? He arsed in a tone still hard, but with a touch of comprehending friendliness in it. This touch brought tears to Elsie's silly eyes. No, sir. No friends. No, sir. Nobody ever calls. No, sir. And they never go out. No, sir. Not even to the cinema and so on? Oh, never, sir. Well, I'm very sorry, but I can't do anything. He left her and leapt up his surgery steps. Not a word about Joe. Not a word even of inquiry. And yet he knew that Joe and she had been keeping company. And he had been so fond of Joe. He had thought the world of Joe. He might at least have said, Seen anything of poor Joe lately? But nothing. Nothing. Joe might never have existed for all the interest the doctor showed in him. It was desolating. She was a fool. She was a fool to try to get the doctor to call without a proper summons. And she was thrice a fool to have hoped or fancied Joe to turn up again on either the anniversary of his vanishing or any other day. The reaction from foolish hope to despair was terrible. She had known that it would be. The whole sky fell down on her and overwhelmed her in choking folds of night. And there was not a gleam anywhere. No glimmer for Titi Reisserman's. No glimmer for herself. And then she did detect a pinpoint of light. The day was not yet finished. Joe might still. Renewal of utter foolishness. End of chapter two. Part four, chapter three of Reisserman's Steps by Arnold Bennett. This Libravox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Antoni August. Charity. A dramatic event occurred that same afternoon at the shop. Violet and Henry were together in the office where the electricity had just been turned on. The shop itself was still depending on nature for light and lay somewhat obscure in the dusk. Husband and wife were in an affectionate mood for Violet as usual had been beaten by the man's extraordinary soft obstinacy. She had had more than one scene of desperation with him about his health and his treatment of himself, but nobody can kink upon fighting a cushion forever. Henry had worn her down into a good temper, into a condition of reassurance and even optimism. He had in fact, by patience, convinced her that his indisposition was temporary and such as none can hope to escape had undoubtedly possessed a constitution of iron. The absence of Elsie helped the intimacy of the pair. They enjoyed being alone, unobserved, free from the constraint of the eyes of a third person who was here, there and everywhere. The trouble was that as soon as the affectionate mood had been established Violet wanted to begin her tactics and her antics all over again. You know, darling, she said, playful and serious, sitting on the edge of the desk by his side in a manner most unmaternly. Either you eat tomorrow or I shall have the doctor in. Oh, I shall have the doctor in. It's for you to decide, but I've made up my mind. You must admit. And then the shop door opened and someone entered. Violet sprang off the desk to the switches, illuminated the shop and beheld Dr. Rasta. Henry also beheld Dr. Rasta. Although a perfectly innocent woman, Violet's face at once changed to that of a wicked conspirator who has been caught in the act. Tries she would, she could not get rid of that demeanour of guilt and the more she tried, the less she succeeded. She dared not look at Henry. Certainly she could not murmur to Henry, I swear to you I didn't send for him. He's coming just as much a surprise to me as it is to you. She thought, this is that girl Elsie's doing. And she was angry and resentful against Elsie and yet timorously glad that Elsie had been interfering. What Henry was thinking no one could guess. Henry's mind to him a kingdom was and a kingdom never invaded. All that could be positively stated of Henry was that the moment he recognised the doctor, he rose vigorously from his chair and limped about with vivacity to prove that he was not an invalid or in any way in need of any doctor. And strange to say, he really felt quite well. Dr. Rasta startled Violet by offering to shake hands. Ah, how'd you do, Mrs. Old Forward? Said he in his sprightly professional, high-voiced style. Not seen you for a long time. Violet recalled the Sunday morning in Reissmann Square when he had spoken to Henry on the pavement. She was happy then, an expectant of happiness. She was girlish then, exuberant, dominating, self-willed, free. None could withstand her a year ago. The change in twelve months suddenly presented itself to her with a sinister significance. But she imagined that the change was confined to her circumstances and that an unchained Violet had survived. The doctor with his fresh eyes saw a shrunken woman subject to some kind of neurosis which he could not diagnose. He greeted the oncoming Mr. Old Forward and shook a hand of parchment. Mr. Old Forward's appearance indeed astonished him and he said to himself that perhaps he had done well to call and that anyhow else he had not exaggerated her report. Mr. Old Forward was worse than shrunken. He was emaciated. His jaws were hollowed. His eyes had receded. His complexion was grayish. His lips were pale and dry. The lower lip had lost its heavy fullness. His ears were nearly white. And there he was moving nervously about in the determination to be in excellent health in the presence of the doctor. Amazing thought Dr. Raster that Mrs. Old Forward had not summoned medical assistants weeks earlier. But then Mrs. Old Forward saw her husband every day and nearly all day. Amazing that no customer had dropped a word of alarm. But then Mr. Old Forward's amiable and bland relations with customers were not such as to permit any kind of intimacy. You've got a certain distance with Mr. Old Forward but you never got any further. You remember I bought a Shakespeare here last year. Dr. Raster began cheerily and somewhat loudly. He often spoke more loudly than he need result of imposing himself on the resistant stupidity of the plural terriot. Relief spread through the shop like a sweet odour. The professional man's visit was a pure coincidence after all. Violet ceased to look guilty. Henry ceased to wait the person of vigorous health. Yes, yes, said Mr. Old Forward and to his wife. Just reach down that Shakespeare with illustrations with you. Shakespeare with illustrations was the shop's title for the work. Valpy's edition of Shakespeare's plays and poems because these three words were the only words on the binding. You don't even say you're not sold it yet. A year isn't it? cried Dr. Raster. And Mr. Old Forward recalled from their previous interview in the shop an impression that the doctor was apt to be impudent. What right had the man to express surprise at the work not having been sold? Mr. Old Forward had in stock books bought ten years ago, fifteen years ago. I could have sold it, said he, but the truth is I've been keeping it for you. I felt sure you'd be looking in one of these days. I meant to drop your postcard to say I'd found it. But somehow all this was true. For at least ten months Mr. Old Forward had intended to drop the postcard and had never dropped it. Yet his conviction that one day he would drop it would remain fresh and strong throughout the period. Here it's up in that corner, my dear, said Mr. Old Forward. Yes, I know, I'm just going to get the steps. Where are they? They ought to be here. I don't know, else he must have had them for her windows and forgotten to bring them back. Tuck, tuck, Mr. Old Forward blandly expostulated. Shakespeare's been having considerable success in my house. Dr. Raster went on, when the two men were alone, with an arch-smile at his own phrasing. You'd scarcely believe it, but my little daughter simply devours him. And as it's her birthday next week, I thought I'd give her my globe addition for herself and get another one with a wee bit larger type for myself. My eyes aren't what they were. Simply devours him. Scarcely believe it, would you? The doctor was growing human. His eyes sparkled with ingenuous paternal pride. Then he checked himself. I notice your old clock isn't going, said he, in a more conventional, a conversation-making tone, and glanced at his wrist. No, Mr. Old Forward quietly admitted, thinking, what's it got to do with you, my old clock not going? The clock had not gone for months. Violet, who had further illuminated the shop as she passed out, was rather long in returning, partly because she had to hunt for the steps and partly because she had popped into the bedroom to see that it was in order. Dr. Raster gallantly took the volumes from her as she stood halfway up the steps. Fifteen volumes, that's right, said Mr. Old Forward. I told you there were eight, didn't I? Did you? said Dr. Raster, wondering at the bookseller's memory. Yes, I was mixing it up with another edition. Easy to make a mistake of that kind. Well, just look at it. Biography, notes, beautiful clear type. Nice, modest binding in a very good taste. Light and handy to hold. Clean as a pin. Nearly 200 illustrations from the Boydell edition. I told you Flaxman's illustrations didn't die. Yes, I did. That was wrong. I somehow got the idea they were Flaxman's because they're in outline. But I see there's quite a selection of artists. He peered at the names engraved in microscopic characters under the illustrations and passed on volume after volume to the prospective customer. Pretty edition. A silence. Violet stood attendant. An acolyte, submissive watchful while Henry did business. I'm afraid it'll be too dear for my purse, said the doctor, affrighted by the thought of nearly 200 illustrations from Boydell. 25 shillings. I better take it, said the doctor, looking up from the books into Mr. Earl Forward's little eyes. He was startled at the lowness of the price and immediately counted out the money. Two notes and two new half-crowns which Mr. Earl Forward gazed at passionately and in a brevure of self-control left lying on the desk. Make them up into two parcels, will you? said the doctor. I'll carry them home myself. I suppose you wouldn't be able to deliver tonight? Too late? Yes, too late tonight, I'm afraid. Answered Mr. Earl Forward calmly, well aware that he'd long since ceased to deliver any goods and there any circumstances. My dear, some nice brown paper and string. Oh, the string's here, isn't it? He bent down to a drawer of the desk and drew out a tangle of all manner of pieces of string. Violet now became important in the episode and took charge of the wrapping. Her mean showed a conviction that she could make up a parcel as well as her husband. Hospitals are getting in a bad way, said Dr. Aster. Mr. Earl Forward thought to himself that the doctor was one of those distressing persons who from nervousness could not endure a silence. Yes? Yes, haven't you read about it in the papers? Well, I may have seen something about it, said Mr. Earl Forward, but he had not seen anything about it, nor did he care anything about it. He held the common view that hospitals will maintain by magic, or if not by magic, then by the checks of millionaires in great houses in the West End who paid subscriptions as they paid their rates and taxes. Yes, the London Hospital, our largest hospital, unparalleled work in the East End, you know, the London's thinking of closing a hundred beds, a calamity, but there seems to be no alternative. My wife's interesting herself in Lord Knutsford's special effort to save the beds. She used to be on the staff. I was just wondering whether you'd care to give me something for her list. I thought I might mention it, as I'm not here professionally. Here is a customer, you see. He gave one of his little nervous laughs. Mr. Earl Forward perceived that the doctor had not been merely breaking a silence. He perceived also that Violet, mysteriously excited by the name of the legendary subscription collecting peer who directed the London Hospital, was willing him to practice charity on this occasion. He keenly regretted, as the doctor developed his subject, that he had left the price of the Shakespeare on the desk. There it lay, waiting to be given, asking to be given. There it lay, and could not be ignored. The doctor was, of course, being impudent again, but there the money lay. Half a crown? Too little. Two half-crowns, those bright and lovely objects? Too little. Or at any rate, too little, so long as the notes lay beside them. A note? Impossible. Fantastic. The situation was desperate, and Mr. Earl Forward in agony. He could not indecently refuse he a Londoner, fond of Londoner's institutions. He an established tradesman. Neither could he part with his money. He was about to martyrise himself. His hand, each finger separately suffering, hovered over one of the notes, when deliverance occurred to him. I'll tell you what I'll do, said he, and picked up a thin, tattered, corto-volume that was lying on the desk. I'll make you a sporting offer. Here's one of the earliest collected editions of Gray's poems. Gray, Gray, reflected the doctor, and allowed. Elegy in a country churchyard, sort of thing. Yes, this is the Glasgow edition. And I can't remember now whether it or the London edition was the first, the first collected edition, I mean. They're both dated 1768. I'll give you this for your hospital. You take it to Sutherland's or Bain, and see what it'll fetch. The doctor opened the book. Fullmenia flower is born to blush unseen, and wasted sweetness on the desert air. He read. Funny way of spelling desert. A-R-T. But this is very interesting. Fullmenia flower. So that's Gray, is it? Very interesting. He was quite uplifted by the sight of familiar words in an old book. It's very clean inside. Suppose it's worth a lot of money. I'm sure you're very generous. Very generous indeed. Violet paused in making up the second parcel. Well, said Mr Earl forward, uplifted in his turn by reason of the epithet generous applied to him. I don't know without inquiring just what it is worth. That's a sporting offer. I wouldn't mind giving a couple of pouts for it myself. I should like it. Far from the maddened crowd. Well, well. In one of the earlier editions, you say. Not earliest of the elegy, earliest of the collected poems. Just so, just so. Two pounds of fair price? I'm afraid it's worth more than that. The worst, said Mr Earl forward, suddenly grieved. He saw to what an extent he was making a fool of himself. Losing pounds in order to save a ten-shilling note. Ridiculous. Idiotic. Mad. True, he had bought the book for ten shillings and he strove to regard the transaction from the angle of his own disbursement. But he could not deny that he was losing pounds. Yes, pounds and pounds. Still, he could not have let the ten-shilling note go. A ten-shilling note was a treasure, whereas a book was only a book. Illogical, but instinct was more powerful than logic. Ah, said the doctor, if it's worth more than two pounds, I must sell it. You're generous. Mr Earl forward, you're generous. Thank you. Violet rearranged the second parcel, including the grey in it, while Dr Raster expanded further in gratitude. That type won't strain anybody's eyes. Mr Earl forward commented on the grey as it disappeared within brown paper. No, I'm thankful to say my eyesight doesn't give me any trouble now. Ah, said the doctor, gazing at the bookseller and taking the chance to fill his way towards the matter which had brought him into the shop. I shouldn't say you were looking quite the man you were when I saw you last. No, he is not, Violet put in eagerly. Oh, I'm all right, Mr Earl forward, defending himself against yet another example of the doctor's impudence. All I want is more exercise, and I can't get that because of my knee, you know. Yes, said the doctor. I've always noticed you, limp. You ought to go to Barker. I shouldn't be surprised if he could put you right in ten minutes. Not a qualified man, of course, but wonderful cures. You might never limp again. But he charges very heavy, doesn't he? I've heard of fifty pounds. I don't know, supposing he does. Well worth it, isn't it, to be cured? What's money? Mr Earl forward made no reply to this silly question. Fifty pounds or anything like it for just pulling your knee about. What was money, indeed? He seized the money on the table. The doctor understood himself to have been definitely repulsed. Being a philosopher, he felt resigned. He had done what he could at an expense of twenty-five shillings. He lodged one of the parcels under his left arm and took the other in his left hand and assumed a demeanour, compulsory in a gentleman, to indicate to the world that the parcels were entirely without weight and that he was carrying them out of caprice and not from necessity. Here, doctor, vile at most unexpectedly exclaimed, as you are here, I think I'll consult you. Not about me, not about me, Mr Earl forward protested plaintively, imploringly and yet implacably. Violet leaned over him with an endearment. No, darling, not about you, she cooed, about myself. I didn't know there was anything particular wrong with you. Didn't you? said Violet in a strange tone, at once dry and affectionate. Elsie did. Will you come upstairs, doctor? She was no longer the packer of books. She had initiative, authority, dominion. Horribly suspecting her duplicity, Henry watched her leave the office in front of the doctor who had set down his parcels. Never, never would he have a doctor. End of Chapter 3 Part 4, Chapter 4 of Reisemann's Steps by Arnold Bennett This rebrew of Ock's recording is in the public domain. Recording by Antoni August. No verdict. What do you think of Mr Earl forward's health? Violet demanded, peremptorily, in the bedroom. Her features were alive with urgent emotion. She almost intimidated the doctor. Ha! he retorted defensively with an explosive jerk. I haven't examined him. I have not examined him. He strikes me as undernourished. And he is. He refuses food. But why does he refuse food? There must be some cause. It's because he's set on being economical. He's got draws full of money, and so have I. At least I've got a good income of my own. But there you are. He won't eat. He won't eat. He won't eat enough. Do what I will. Is that the only reason? Of course it is. He's never had indigestion in his life. Hmm, you're made. What's her name? Seems to be pretty well nourished at all events. Have you been seeing her? Violet inquired sharply, her suspicion leaping up. The doctor appreciated his own great careless indiscretion, and answered with admirable deceitful nonchalance. I noticed her one day last week in passing. At least I took it to be her. Violet left the point there. The electric light blazed down upon them. It had no shade. Not a single light in the house had a shade. It showed harshly, realistically, Violet half leaning against the foot of the bed, and Dr. Raster upright as when in uniform he used to give orders in Palestine on the rag half rug. Violet's baffled energy raged within her. She had at hand all the materials for tranquil happiness, affection, money, temperament, sagacity, and agreeable occupation, and they were stultified by the mysterious, morbid, absurd, inexcusable, and triumphant volition of her loving husband. Instead of happiness she felt doom, doom closing in on her, on him, on the sentient house. My husband is a miser. I've encouraged him for the sake of peace. And so now you know, doctor, an astounding confession to a stranger, a man to whom she had scarcely spoken before, but it relieved her. She made it with gusto, with passion. She'd begun candor with Elsie in the morning. She was growing used to it. The domestic atmosphere itself had changed within six hours. That which had been tacitly denied for months was now admitted openly. Truth had burst out. A few minutes earlier, vain chatter about hospitals, trifling and vain commercial transactions make-believe incredible futilities, ghastly nothings. And now the dreadful reality exposed. And at that very moment Henry in his office to maintain to himself the frightful pretence was squandering the remains of his vitality in the intolerable petty details of business. Well, said Dr. Rasta primly, the first law of his actions was self-preservation. There isn't a great deal to be done until you can persuade him to have professional advice. And you? What is it with you? You don't look much better than your husband. Oh, doctor! Violet cried, suddenly plaintive. I don't know. You must examine me. Perhaps I ought to have come to you before. At this point the light went out and they were in darkness. Oh, dear! A sort of despairing Violet's voice now. I knew that lamp would be going soon. The fact was that the lamps in the house generally had begun to go. All of them had passed their allotted span of a thousand burning hours. Two in the shop had failed. Henry possessed no reserve of lamps and he would not buy. And Violet had not yet wound herself up to the resolve of buying in defiance of him. Once a fuse had melted. For two days they had managed mainly with candles. Violet irritated went forth secretly to buy fuse wire. She returned, and with a half playful, half resentful gesture, threw the wire almost in his face. But it had happened that during her absence he had inserted a new fuse made from a double thickness of soda-water bottle wire which he had picked up from somewhere. His reproaches, though unspoken, were hard for her to bear. The doctor promptly struck a match and Violet lit the candle on the night table. I'm afraid I can't examine you by that light, said the doctor. Oh dear, she nearly wept. Then masterfully took hold of herself. I know, she rushed to the bathroom, stood on the orange box and detached the bathroom lamp and returned with it to the bedroom. Here, this will do. The doctor climbed onto a chair. As soon as he had fixed the new lamp Violet economically blew out the candle. And then quaking, she yielded her up her body in the glacial chill of the room for the trial in verdict which would reassure or agonise her. However, she was neither reassured nor agonised. There was no verdict. When Dr. Rasta redescended the dark stairs the shop lay in darkness and the bookseller was wheeling in the bookstand. The doctor entered the still-lighted office to get his two parcels which he arranged on his left side exactly as before. Oh! said Mr. O'Ford approaching him. It was an interrogation. I should prefer not to say anything of present, the doctor announced, in loud, prim, clearly articulated syllables. There may be nothing abnormal, nothing at all. At any rate, it is quite impossible to judge under existing conditions. I shall call again in a week or ten days, perhaps earlier. No immediate cause for anxiety. He had been but little more communicative than this to Violet herself. He was inhuman again for his patience. Within him, however, glowed the longing to see his child's eyes kindle when he presented her with the globe Shakespeare for her very own. That night, contrary to custom, Henry went to bed earlier than Violet. He stated that he felt decidedly better but that he had finished all his bookkeeping and oddments of work and that it would be a pity to keep the office fire alive for nothing. Violet in her mantle had to darn a curtain in the front room. When she went into the bedroom and switched on the light, she saw him, with the counterpane well up to his chin, lying flat on his back, eyes shut but not asleep. He had the pallor of a corpse and the corpse-like effect was enhanced by the indications of his straight, thin body under the clothes. She stood bent by the side of the bed and looked at him as it were passionately but vainly trying by the intensity of her gaze to wrench out and drag up from hidden depths the inaccessible secrets of his mind. Though saying little to her about her trouble he had behaved to her through the evening with the most considerate kindliness. He had caressed her with his voice and about her trouble she had not expected him to say much. He had a very inadequate conception of the physical risks which women by nature had to run and she had never talked much in such directions for not only was he a strangely modest man but she deliberately practised the reserve which he himself practised. She argued somewhat vindictively he tells me nothing, I will tell him nothing. Moreover the doctor's calm non-committal attitude had given Henry an exceptional occasion to exercise his great genius for postponement. Never would Henry go half way to meet an ordeal of any sort. Lastly his reactions were generally slow fear, anxiety seemed to come late to him. He opened his eyes. She gave him one of the long kisses which he loved. Could he guess she wondered that her kiss was absent minded that night a kiss that emerged inattentive to him from the dark virginal fastnesses of her being which neither he nor any other would or could invade. With intention she pressed her lips on his. Come to bed he murmured gently and get that light out. Half undressed she looked carefully at herself in the mirror of the perfectly made solid everlasting Victorian wardrobe. Yes her face showed evidence of illness. It frightened her. No she was merely indisposed. She was frightening herself. She had no pain or extremely little. She thought as she regarded herself in the glass how inscrutable, how enigmatic, how feminine she was and how impossible it was for him to comprehend her. She felt superior to him as a complex mind to a simple one. She thought that she far better than he could appreciate the significance of the terrible day. She was overwhelmed by it. Situations revolving one out of another. Nothing had happened and yet all was changed. The night was twenty years away from the morning. Do you know about that girl? He asked with a soft weariness when she had slipped into bed and the light was out. No, Elsie, what? She's eaten two thirds of the cheese in the cage. At least two thirds. Must have eaten it before she went out. The cage was the wire netted larder hung outside the kitchen window. Henry had taken to buying cheese because it was as nourishing as meat and cheaper. He had discovered cheese as a food, especially a food for servants. Violet said no word, but she sighed. She was staggered, deeply discouraged by this revelation of Elsie's incredible greed and guile. It was a blow that somehow finished her off. Yes, Henry went on and his mild voice passed through the darkness into Violet's ear with an uncanny effect. I happened to go up into the kitchen just before I came to bed and he had not rushed back to tell her of the calamity. He had characteristically kept it to ripen in his brain and how characteristic of him to wander ferreting into the kitchen. Nort could escape his vigilance. Did you see her when she came home? Yes, she went straight to bed. A silence. Something will have to be done about that girl, he said at length. What does he mean? thought Violet alarmed anew. Does he mean we must get rid of her? No, that would be too much. But she was not afraid of the extra work for herself which getting rid of Elsie would entail. She was afraid of being left to live all alone with Henry. She trembled at such a prospect. End of Chapter 4 Part 5, Chapter 5 of Rysam and Steps by Arnold Bennett This Librevox recording is in the public domain, recording by Antoniogus. Midnight Elsie, straight from the street, sat down on the edge of her creaking bed on the second floor and looked at her best boots which had lost their polish during the course of the afternoon and were covered with dust. She had paid various brief calls and in her former home in Rysam and Square she had taken off her jacket and put on a pin of four apron and vigorously helped with housework in a rear. But most of the time she had spent in walking certain streets. Though she ought to have been tired what with the morning's labour, the calls, the episode in the pin of four, the long walking she had almost no sensation of bodily fatigue. Her mind, however, was exhausted by the monotony of thinking one important thought which refused to be dismissed from which, indeed, she did not sincerely want to dismiss. When on her way upstairs she had spoken to Mrs. Earl Forward at the door of the dining room she had hoped that her employer would say there's someone been inquiring for you or, Elsie, that man has come pestering again. But no, nothing but a colourless, preoccupied good-night, an absurd hope, naturally. She knew it was an absurd hope and yet would not let it go. She had had the same silly hope upon entering each of the houses which she had visited. She had had it constantly as she walked the streets examining every distant male figure. The silence of Dr. Raster had nearly killed it but it could not be killed. It had more lives than a cat. She had been sitting on the bed for a century when a church clock struck, eleven, still another hour. Why exactly an hour? Well, midnight was midnight. She must give him till twelve, an hour was an enormous period, full of chances. Suddenly she bent to take off her boots. They were not comfortable, never had been, but she took them off for another reason so that she might move about noiselessly. She extinguished the candle and passed into the empty front room and after some struggles with the front window posted herself at the side window. It was unfortunate that the window giving on to Reisserman's steps simply would not open on just this night for if Joe came he would probably come by way of the steps having first called at the house in the square to get news of her. Nevertheless he might come along King's Cross Road en route for the square. King's Cross Road was preparing to go to sleep for the night. No lorries, not a taxi, even in the daytime taxes were few in King's Cross Road. A tram car, two tram cars crammed with passengers. A few footfarers, mostly couples. The Nell Gwynn Tavern was dark, save for a window in the top story where the barmaids slept. Down to the left a cold vague glare showed the locality of the loading-yard of the big post office. She could not see the pavement beneath the window, thus she might miss him. Cautiously and silently she opened the window wider. The bulb-pops were on the sill. Mrs. Earl Forward had forgotten to bring them in. Elsie brought them in. A transient sympathetic thought for Mrs. Earl Forward in her trouble. She leaned her body out of the window and felt the modest feather of her hat brush against the window frame. She could see everything perfectly now, north and south. No wanderer could escape her vision. That intervals not a sign of either vehicle or footfarers. The road would be utterly deserted and the street lamps seemed to be wasted. Then a policeman. He never looked up, never suspected that Elsie had her eye on him. Then a tram-car. Empty save for a few woeful figures. A vast waste of tram-car. She fancied she saw him approaching from the direction of the police station. No, not a bit like him. She fancied she heard a sound in the room behind her. Incredible that her first notion should be though had somehow entered the house and meant to surprise her with a long hug and that the far more obvious explanation of surveillance by Mr. or Mrs. Earl Forward should come to her only second. But so it was. Neither was correct. In the excited tension of her nerves she had merely imagined the sound. This delusion made her ashamed of her infatuated vigil. She had withdrawn into the room and after a moment, despite shame, she resumed her post. The night was calm and not very cold but no frost would have driven her inside. The sky was thickly clouded. She did not raise her eyes to it. Weather did not exist for her. Another tram-car thundered past. She did not hear it, only saw it. And as a fact nobody in the house ever heard the car's nor felt save rarely the vibrations which they caused. Elsie was far gone now in her madness and yet more sane every minute. She felt herself in Joe's arms, heard herself murmuring to him and he mutant, passionate and at the same time she well realized that she was merely indulging herself in foolishness. She was happy in the expectation of bliss and the assurance of its impossibility. The church clock began to strike. Could a whole hour have gone by? It seemed more like a quarter of an hour. She had her great sorrow and superimposed on it a childish regret that the expectant watching was over. She had enjoyed the vigil and it appeared now that no balm whatever remained to her. Reluctantly she drew in her body and shut the window softly shutting out the last vestige of hope and carrying with her as she padded back to her bedroom the full sense of her unbelievable silliness. Her mind swerved round to Mrs. Elford's ordeal. Her heart overflowed with benevolence towards Mrs. Elford and with a sublime determination to stand by Mrs. Elford any crisis that might arise. She forgot herself for a space and became tranquil and cheerful and uplifted. Then she felt hungry. Since mid-day she had eaten little having refused offers of meals on her visits and accepted only snacks lest she might deplete lard as already very inadequate. She took the candle into the kitchen cautiously but also with a certain domination for at night the entire second floor was her realm. She opened the kitchen window and the cage and procured for herself more of the diminished cheese and one or two cold potatoes and a piece of bread crust. Then she arranged the side flap of sacking on the cage to protect it against possible rain. She ate slowly enjoying with deliberation each morsel. After all, she had one positive pleasure in life. She knew she was wicked. She knew she was a thief. She did not defend herself by subtle arguments. Of late she had been stealing more and more and had received no reproach. She thought they had given up taking stock of the larder. She was becoming a hardened criminal. End of chapter 5 Part 4, chapter 6 of Reissmann's Steps by Arnold Bennett this Librivox recording is in the public domain recording by Antoniogus. Henry's Plot When Violeta woke the next morning at the appointed time for waking and heard the familiar muffled sounds of Elsa's activity she was tempted to stay in bed. She had not had a good night and she felt quite disturbingly unwell. Indeed her physical sensations although not those of acute pain alarmed her by certain fundamental quality involving the very basis of her vitality. But she resisted the temptation apprehensive of the results on herself and on the household organism of any change of habit. The upset will be terrible if she failed in her daily role. Henry would maintain his calm but beneath the calm what a state he would be in. She knew him, she said to herself I shall be better on my feet and I shall worry less. So she arose to the cold room and to the cold water. Henry was quite bland and cheerful and said that he had slept well. To get up as soon as Violeta had washed he did not get up. Aren't you going to get up? I've finished here. She was folding the towel. I think I shall stay where I am for a bit. He announced with tranquility. It was just as if he had given her a dizzying blow. This then was the beginning of the end. She crossed the room to the bed and gazed at him aghast. Now why? he admonished her, pulling at his short beard. Now why? There was so much affection, so much loving banter in his queer tone that her glance fell before his as it had not fallen for months. She covered her exposed throat with her cold, damp hands. I shall send for the doctor at once. She announced with vivacity all her body tingling in sudden energy. You'll do nothing of the sort, he said. I've told you I'm all right, but I'll promise you one thing. Next time the medicine man comes to see you he shall see me as well if you like. Now, he changed his tone to the practical. You can attend to everything in the shop. Surely it can manage without me for a day or two? A day or two? She thought, is he taking to his bed permanently? Is that it? And I shall save a clean shirt, he said reflectively. But darling, if you're all right, why must you stay in bed? Please, please do be open with me. You never are, if you know what I mean. She spoke with a plaintive and eager appeal as it were girlishly. Her face with an almost forgotten mobility showed from moment to moment the varying moods of her emotion. Tears hung in her eyes and she was less than half dressed. She looked as if she might sob, shriek and drop in a hysterical paroxysm to the floor. Something has to be done about that thief of an Elsie. Henry very calmly explained. Of course I could put a lock on the cage, but that might seem stingy, miserly. And I shall be sorry if anybody thought we were that. Besides, she's a good sort in some ways. She's got to be frightened. She's got to be impressed. You send her in to me. You can talk to her yourself as much as you like afterwards, but send her in to me first. I'll teach her a lesson. How? What are you going to say to her? I shall tell her we've had the doctor and make out I'm very ill indeed. And we'll see if that won't shake her up. We'll see if she'll keep on picking and stealing after that. That ought to sober her down. And it will too. Something must be done. Violet was amazed at this revelation of his mentality. She had a new source of alarm now. No doubt the plan would work. But what a plan. How funny she meant morbid. Could she cross him? Could she deride the plan? She dared not. She dared not trifle with a man in his condition. And the worst was that he might after all be only pretending to pretend he was very ill. He might really be very ill. Elsie, she said shortly in the kitchen, go to your master. He wants to speak to you. Is he in the office already, ma'am? No, he isn't in the office already. He's in bed. Now run along, do. As soon as Elsie was gone, Violet examined the hanging larder. The ravage was appalling. Where in heaven's name did the girl stow the food? Well, might the doctor say that she was well nourished? A good thing if she was to be frightened. She deserved it. Ah, Violet did not know which way to turn in the moll of Henry's illness, Henry's morbidity, her own unnamed malady, and Elsie's shocking and incredible vice. Elsie entered the bedroom with extreme apprehension, as for an afflicting solemnity. She thanked God she had had the whip to remove her working apron. Mr. Earlford was staring at the ceiling. Nothing of him moved except his eyelids, and he appeared not to notice her presence. She waited, twitching her great red hands. Violet had seemed like a girl before him, but here was the genuine girl. Elsie's hard experience of life and disaster fell away from her. She was simple and intimidated. Youthfulness was her chief characteristic as she stood humbly waiting. Her candid youthfulness accused the room of age, decay, and distemper. Elsie, has Mrs. Earlford told you anything? No, sir. Listen. He still did not shift his eyes from the ceiling. We had the doctor in yesterday afternoon. Elsie's heart thumped. Had the doctor betrayed her meddling, he came to buy a book and we kept him. Elsie thought the worst was over. I'm very ill, Elsie, and I shall probably never get up again. Do you think it's right of you to go on stealing food as you do with the dying man in the house? He spoke very gently. Elsie gave a sob. She was utterly overwhelmed. Now you must go. I can't do with any fuss, Elsie. He stopped her at the door. Do I give you enough to eat? Tell me at once if we don't. Yes, yes, quite enough! Elsie cried almost in a shriek, hiding her face in her hands. Her condition was so desperate that she omitted the ceremonial, sir. The rushing tears ran between her fingers as she escaped. She sat a long time in the kitchen, sobbing, sobbing for guilt and sobbing for sorrow at her master's fate. End of chapter 6. Chapter 7 of Riseman's Steps by Arnold Bennett This Librivox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Antoniogus. The Night Call Here, said Mrs. Earl Fourward, frigidly to Elsie, handing her two coins. Slip out now and buy a half pound of bacon and the same quantity as before of that cheese. And please hurry back so as you can take your turn in the shop. If you're in a state to be in charge of any shop, you're a perfect sight and a fright. However, they do say it's an ill wind that blows nobody any good. Mrs. Earl Fourward called Elsie a perfect sight and a fright because of her countenance, swollen and blotched with violent weeping. She had not dained to share with Elsie her fearful anxieties. Elsie was unworthy to share them. She had indeed said not a single word to Elsie about the condition of the sick man. She rarely confided in a servant. Servants could not appreciate a confidence, could not or would not understand that it amounted to an honour. Do Elsie good to believe for a bit that her master was dying? Serve her right. And supposing Henry really was dying. Nevertheless, Mrs. Earl Fourward could not be, did not desire to be too harsh with the girl of Elsie's admirable character. Elsie, even when convicted of theft, inspired respect, willing or unwilling. She had never read the sermon on the mount, but without knowing what she was doing she practised its precepts. No credit to her, of course. She had not reasoned her conduct out. It was instinctive. She had little consciousness of being righteous and much consciousness of sin. And the notion of behaving in such and such a way in order to get to heaven simply had not occurred to her. It was humiliating for her to go shopping with such a woe-puffed face as she had. But she went, and the mission was part of her penance. The shopkeeping community of the neighbourhood, though they held Mr. and Mrs. Earl Fourward in scorn and referred to them with contremely and even detestation, were friendly to Elsie and privately sympathised with her because she had to do Mr. and Mrs. Earl Fourward's dirty little errands. Not that Elsie was ever in the slightest agreed disloyal to her master and mistress. On the contrary, her loyalty touched the excessive. Anything wrong? The cheese munger's assistant murmured to her in a compassionate tone as he was cussing the bacon. Elsie did not take the inquiry amiss but, unfortunately, in her blushing answer she lapsed from entire honesty. She ought to have said, I've been crying partly because I'm a thief and partly because Mr. Earl Fourward is very seriously ill but with shameful suppression of truth she replied in these words, Master's that ill! and her tears fell anew. Within an hour the district had heard that the notorious old skinflint Earl Fourward of Rysam and Steps was dying at last. Elsie had no dinner. She tried to eat but could not. Then it was that she devised an expiatory scheme for fasting until the total amount of her theft should be covered. She had admitted to Mr. Earl Fourward that she had got enough to eat. She could not possibly deny that her employers allowed her more food or at any rate more regular food than many of her acquaintances managed to exist on from day to day. With an empty stomach and a tight throat she toiled upon her routine conscientiously and more than conscientiously because she felt herself in the presence of final calamity. For her the house and shop had become the pale court of kingly death. Though she was as ignorant of the mighty phrase as of the sermon on the mount and even less capable of understanding it the bedroom was sealed against her. Mrs. Earl Fourward herself went out to purchase special light food. Afterward she cooked some of the light food and carried it into the bedroom and carried it out again untouched. Only towards evening did Mrs. Earl Fourward leave the mysterious and terrible bedroom with an empty basin. Elsie could not comprehend why the doctor had not come or why not having come he had not been fetched. And she dared not ask. No. And she dared not ask how Mr. Earl Fourward was going on. And Mrs. Earl Fourward vouchsafed nothing. This withholding of news was Violet's punishment for Elsie. She wore a mask which announced to Elsie all the time that Elsie was for the present outside the pale of humanity. Elsie had an intense desire to share fully Violet's ordeal to suffer openly with her. She admitted that the frustration of this desire was no more than her deserts. At five o'clock in a clean apron she was put into the shop. The stove was black out. The shop was full of the presence and intimidation of death. Customers seemed to have avoided it that day as if they had been magically warned to keep away. Business had been negligible. Elsie hoped much that none would come in the last hour. She had lost the habit of serving in the shop and was uncertain of her capability to handle the humblest customer without making a fool of herself. Then an old gentleman entered and stood silent, critically surveying her in the shop. Yes, sir, what can I...? The old gentleman saw a fat, fairly sensible face, a young, timid-kind eyes and was rather crafted and mollified by the eyes. But he did not allow Elsie's gaze to soften more than a very little. His just resentment at the spectacle of an apron charwoman or at best a general servant in charge of a bookshop. Who can't, he said sharply, moving his ancient head slowly from side to side in a firm negative. I must see Mr Earl forward. The master isn't very well, sir. Oh, then Mrs Earl forward. Mrs is looking after master, sir. You told me to say his ill? Yes, sir. Ill in bed? Yes, sir. Good God! I've known him for over twenty years and never knew him ill yet. What's the matter? What's the matter with him? I couldn't exactly say, sir. What do you mean you couldn't exactly say? He's very ill indeed, sir. Not seriously ill. Elsie drooped her head and showed signs of crying. Not in danger. Elsie replied with a sob. He'll never get up again, sir. Good God! Good God! What next? What next? I'm sorry to hear this. Tell him, tell Mrs Earl forward, I and murmuring to himself he walked rapidly out of the dim shop. He was at an age when the distant shuffling of death could positively frighten. In an instant he'd seen the folly, the futility of collecting books. You could not take first editions with you when you went. Death loomed enormous over him like a whole firmament threatening to fall. Elsie heard a footfall on the stairs and Mrs Earl forward came with deliberation down to such light as there was. Her fixed eyes glinting and blazing on the sinner submissive in disgrace. Elsie stood tremulous before those formidable eyes. She could scarcely believe that they were the same eyes which had melted in confidences to her on the previous morning. And they were not the same eyes. They were the eyes of an old woman with harsh implacable features, petrified and incapable of mobility. What were you saying to that gentleman? I was only telling him he couldn't see you or Master because Master was ill, man. But didn't I hear you say your Master would never get up again? Elsie quivered and made no response, no defence. What do you mean by saying such a thing? How dare you say such a thing? It isn't true. It isn't true. And even if it was true, do you suppose I want everybody to know about our private affairs? You must have gone out of your mind. She waited for an answer from Elsie. None came. Elsie could not articulate. Then Mrs Earl forward finished, abrupt and tyrannical. Shut the shop. Elsie found speech. It's only a quarter to six, man. There's a court of an hour yet. She said weakly but bravely. Shut the shop, I tell you. Elsie went outside and began to wheel in the book stand. A vision of Joe leaped up in her mind and she gazed east and west to see if by chance he might be arriving a day late at that moment. The vision of Joe vanished from her mind. She thought, this will be the last time I shall ever wheel in the book stand. Then from habit she raked down the ashes from the stove. What's the good of raking the stove when you know it's out? Mrs Earl forward exclaimed, nothing can burn away if it's out. Where are your brains? Wasting time. Mrs Earl forward marched across the shop, banged the door too, and fastened it violently, definitely. And Elsie thought, that door will never open for master's customers again. Get upstairs, ordained Mrs Earl forward. Within ten seconds the shop and the office were in darkness. That evening Elsie had none but strictly official communications with Mrs Earl forward, who never once removed her mask, nor by any sign invited Elsie to come back within the warm pale of humanity. The girl did not even know whether she was at liberty to retire to bed, or whether in the exceptional circumstances she ought to stay up on the chance of being needed. At last, in the soundless house, her common sense told her to go to her room. If she was required, she could dress in a minute, and it would be just as easy for Mrs Earl forward to call her in the bedroom as in the kitchen. She had certainly no clear intention as she closed the bedroom door of disturbing the ashes of her passion for Joe, and it was almost mechanically or subconsciously that she got his letter from its safety in a drawer. Of late she had not been reading it so often. The envelope was no longer an envelope, but two separate pieces of paper held together only by the habit of association. The letter itself was very dirty and worn out at all the creases, some of which were no longer creases but wrenches. As she held it gingerly in her hands, one of the squares into which the creases divided it fell off from the main body and sank with flutters to the floor. For weeks she had feared that this would happen. Necessarily she took it for an omen. Something had to be done at once if destiny was to be countered. Her thoughts ran down to the office for aid, but the office was two floors away, and in the night off duty she had no right to leave the top floor. Still less had she the right to leave the top floor in order to commit a theft. And she might be heard by the sharp, exasperated ears of her mistress and court. But the letter was so pathetic that she could not resist its appeal. She seized the candle, and in stocking feet, slowly and with every precaution against noise, descended the stairs like the thief she was. On the desk in the office was a small cardboard box in which somebody at some time in history had once received false teeth from a dentist. This box was the receptacle for stamp paper. In the shadowy and reproachful and menacing office, Elsie slid open the box and stole from it quite six good inches of stamp paper. Contrition for sin had perished in her. She was the hardened sinner. She could not learn from experience. It seemed to her that she sin nightly now. Here her master was dying, her mistress ill and in misery, and she was thieving stamp paper. She arrived upstairs again without discovery. Her nerves were shaken as if she had crossed Niagara on a tightrope. Mr. Elford could do marvels of repair with stamp paper, but Elsie had not his skill. Working on the emptied toilet table, she did little but make the letter adhere to the surface of the table. Then, through two brusque movement, she seriously tore the letter and not in the line of a crease either. The paper was worn out by use and had no virtue left. This was too much for Elsie's self-control. She had stood everything, but she could not stand the trifling accident. She scrunched the pieces of the letter in her powerful hand. Why should she keep the letter? She was a perfect fool to keep the letter, reminding her and reminding her. She held the ball of paper to the candle. It lit slowly, but it lit. The paper spread a little with the heat. She could read, I know I shall get better. She dropped the burning letter and it smoked and blackened and writhed on the floor, and nothing survived of it saved some charred corners, a lot of smoke, and a strong smell of fire. Elsie now had the sensation of being alone in the world. The reaction was hunger. Hunger swept over her like a visitation. For twenty-four hours she'd not eat enough to satisfy a cat, to say nothing of a robust and active young woman. Her fancy could taste the lovely taste of bacon. She thought of all other lovely tastes, and there were many. She thought obscurely, perhaps not in actual words, eating is my only joy now, all else is vain, but eating is real. She thought of the cage and its contents. But Mr. Earl Forward was dying and Mrs. Earl Forward in misery, and death was waiting to spring out from some dark corner of the house. The house was peopled with the mysterious harbinger of death. Still the idea of the bacon bewitched her. She raised the candle-stick again. She passed out of the bedroom and crept, guilty and afraid, towards the kitchen. She knew the full enormity of her offence, could never afterwards offer the excuse that she did not realise it. On the other hand she was helpless in the grip of the tyrannical appetite which drove her on. At the open door of the narrow kitchen she listened intently, with a guilty and fearful eye on the shadowy staircase, trying to see what was not there. Not a sound, not a vibration. The last tram-car and the last underground train had gone. She entered the kitchen, closed the door softly and shut herself up with her sin. I will not do it, I cannot do it, she thought. But she knew that she would do it and that she was appointed to do it. Her mouth watered, her stomach ravened within her like a tiger. Ten minutes later the door opened suddenly. Mrs. Old Forward, a man clover her nightdress, stood in the doorway. In the flickering light of the candle Mrs. Old Forward caught the gluttonous ecstatic expression on Elsa's face and the curve of her pretty lips before the corners of the lips felt a dismay and the rapt expression changed to despairing delinquency. Mr. Old Forward's grand bluff had failed after all. Apparently not the atmosphere of death could cure Elsa of her vice. Mrs. Old Forward on the top of her other thrilling woes was horrified to see Elsa not merely eating bacon but eating bacon raw. But in this particular Mrs. Old Forward was unreasonable. The girl could not cook the bacon. To do so would have caused throughout the house a smell to wake even the dead. She had no alternative but to eat the bacon raw. Moreover it was very nice raw. Mrs. Old Forward tried to speak about the bacon but failed. Elsa with her mouth full and no chance of emptying it could not speak either. The tap dripping much faster now than a four-time talked alone. At last Mrs. Old Forward gasped your dress run for the doctor. End of Chapter 7 Part 4 Chapter 8 of Ryseman's Steps by Arnold Bennett this LibriVox recording is in the public domain recording by Antoniogus on the landing. During the day Henry had asked several times for bulletins as to Elsa's consumption of food and he received them with satisfaction but also with a certain sardonic air new in Violet's experience of him. This demeanour was one of the things that disquieted Violet. Another was that contrary to his habit of solicitude for her he made absolutely no enquiry as to her own health though he surely ought to have been so little disturbed about it. And another was that he no longer showed his customary quiet pleasure in being worried over her. After taking some soft food he demanded a toothpick and had employed himself with it in the most absurd way for quite an hour. In answer to her question he said blandly again and again that he was all right. Soon after nightfall he insisted that the electricity should be switched off. Violet refused as she was determined to watch him carefully. He said that the light hurt his eyes. She took the paper lining from a tray in her wardrobe and fashioned a shade for the lamp the first shade ever known in that house. At ten o'clock feeling cold and ill she undressed and got into bed but kept the light burning. Henry was perfectly tranquil. The tram seemed to make a tremendous uproar. She could not sleep but Henry apparently dozed at intervals. Then she had a severe shock. He was violently sick. Watch this, watch this. He murmured feebly and sadly. He did not know what it was but Violet who had witnessed a deal of physical life during her peregrinations with the clerk of the works knew what it was. It was what Violet's varied acquaintances had commonly called in tones of all on account of its seriousness the coffee grounds vomit. It was indeed a sinister phenomenon. Henry had dropped back exhausted. His forehead was wet and his hair damp with perspiration. Also he seemed to be terrorised he who was never afraid until hours or days after the event. At this point it was that Violet went out of the bedroom to send Elsie for the doctor. As soon as Elsie was gone Violet dressed. She still felt very cold and ill. The minutes dragged. Henry lay inert. His aspect had considerably worsened. The facial emaciation was accentuated and the power of the ears and the lips and even his beard and hair were limp as if from their own fatigue. Elsie's greed was now an infinitesimal thing in Violet's mind and the importance attached to it struck her as wildly absurd. Yet she had a strange cruel desire which she repressed to say to Henry your bluff has failed your bluff has failed and look at you. She thought of the approach in Christmas for which she had secretly been making plans for merriment. She had meant to get Elsie's aid because she knew that Elsie had in her the instincts of fancy and romance. Pathetic. She thought of her anger at Elsie's indiscretion in telling her customer that the master would never get up again. Ridiculous anger. He never would get up again. And what did it matter if all Clarke and Well knew in advance? The notion of Henry spending money on the cure of his damaged knee seemed painfully laughable. His dread, genuine or affected of communism seemed merely grotesque. She saw a funeral procession consisting of a hearse and one coach leave ricemen steps. The coffin would have to be carried across the space from the shop door to the main road as no vehicle could come right to the door. Crowds. Crowds of gapers. Then she heard a noise below. Elsie, who had run all the way to Middleton Square and all the way back tapped with tremulous eagerness He's coming mum! She was panting. Dr. Raster arrived but only after an interval of nearly half an hour which seemed to Violet like half a night. The fact was that despite much practice he could not dress in less than about twenty minutes nor was it his habit to run to his patients whatever their condition. He came with a collar of his thick overcoat turned up. Violet met him on the landing. She had shut the bedroom door behind her. He was calm. He yawned and his demeanour hovered between the politely indifferent and the politely inimical. He spoke vaguely but in his loud tone in reply to Violet's murmur I was afraid you weren't coming doctor. Violet had by this time lost her sense of proportion. She was incapable of bearing in mind that the doctor lived daily and nightly among disease and death and that he was more accustomed to sick people than to healthy. She did not suspect that in the realism of his heart he regarded sick people in their relations in the mass as persons excessive in their fears ruthless in their egotism and cruel in their demands upon himself. She had no conception that to him a night call was primarily a grievance and secondarily an occasion to save life or pacify pain. She might have credited that 50% of his night calls were unnecessary but she could never have guessed that he had already set down this visit to Reisman's steps as probably the consequence of a false foolish feminine alarm. She began to explain to him at length the unique psychology of the sufferer as though the doctor had never before encountered an unwilling and obstinate patient. The doctor grew restless. Yes, just so, just so. I'd better have a look at him. I haven't dared to tell him I've sent for you said Violet piteously reproachful of the doctor's inhumanity tart tart observe the doctor and open the bedroom door. He sniffed on entering glanced placidly at Henry then at the fireplace and then went to the window and drew the curtains and blind aside. I should advise you to have a fire lighted at once and will open the window a bit. He put his hat carefully on the chest of drawers but did not even unbutton his overcoat or turn down his collar. Then he removed his gloves and rubbed his hands. At last to Henry well, Mr. Earl, forward, what's this I hear? No diplomacy with the patient. No ingenious excusing of his presence. The patient just had to accept his presence and the patient, having no alternative did accept it. Shall I light the fire now, ma'am? Asked Elsie timidly at the door. Yes, said the doctor shortly including both the women in his glance. But won't she be disturbing you while your Violet suggested anxiously? She was afraid that this unprecedented proceeding would terribly upset Henry and so make him worse. Not at all. I don't think we've ever had this fire lighted, said Violet, to which the doctor deigned no reply. Run along, Elsie. Take your things off and be quick. The doctor wants a fire immediately. Before the doctor, changed now from an aggrieved human being into a scrupulously conscientious professional advisor had finished his examination the room was half full of smoke. Violet could not help looking at Elsie reproachfully as if to say, really, Elsie, you should be able to control the chimney better than this and your mast is so ill. The patient coughed excessively but everyone knew that the coughing was merely his protest against the madness of lighting a fire. I'm too hot, he muttered. I'm too hot. And such was the power of auto-suggestion that he did in fact feel too hot though the fire had not begun to give out any appreciable heat. He privately determined to have the fire out as soon as the doctor had departed. A limit must be set to folly after all. However, Henry was at once faced with the great new crisis which diminished the question of the fire to a detail. I can't come to any conclusion without washing out the stomach, said Dr. Raster, turning to Violet and then turning back quickly to Henry. You say you've no pain there? You're sure? And he touched a particular point on the chest. None, replied Henry. The fellow is lying, thought the doctor. It's amazing how they will lie. I bet anything is lying. Why do they lie? Nevertheless, the doctor could not be quite sure and he had a general preference for not being quite sure. He liked to postpone judgment. I don't mind having my stomach washed out. Henry murmured blandly. No, of course not. I'll telephone to the hospital early tomorrow and Mrs. Old Four will take you round there in a cab. And to Violet? You'll see he's well covered, won't you? I will, Violet weakly agreed. But I don't want to go to any hospital with Henry's second protest. Why can't you do the business here? Impossible in a house, the doctor announced. You can only do that sort of thing where you've got all the apparatus and conveniences. But I'll make it all smooth for you. Oh no, oh no, not to a hospital. The doctor said callously, I doubt whether you realise how ill you are, my friend. I'm not that ill. When should I come out again? The moment you're better. Oh no, no hospital for me. There's two of them here to nurse me. Your wife is not in a condition to nurse you. You must remember that, please. Better get him there by eleven o'clock. I shall probably be there first. I'll give you the order to let you in. Henry ceased to cough. He ceased to feel hot. His condition suddenly improved in a marvellous way. He had been ill. He admitted now that he had been chronically ill. He had first begun to feel ill, either just before or soon after the eating of the wedding cake on his bridal night. But he was now better, much better. He was aware of a wonderful amelioration which surprised even himself. At any rate he would not go into a hospital. The enterprise was too enormous and too perilous. Once in, when would he get out again? And nurses were frightful bullies. He would be helpless in a hospital. And his business, it would fall to ruin. Everything would get a skew. And the household? Astounding foolishness would be committed in the house if he lost his grip on it. He could manage his business and he could manage his household and nobody else could. Besides, there was no sound reason for going into a hospital. As for washing out his stomach, if that was all, give him some mustard and some warm water and he would undertake to do the trick in two minutes. The doctor evidently desired to make something out of nothing. They were all the same and women were all the same too. He had imagined that Violet was not like other women. But he had been mistaken. She had lost her head. Otherwise she would never have sent for the doctor in the middle of the night. The doctor would undoubtedly charge double for a night visit and the fire choking and roasting him. He saw himself in the midst of a vast general lunacy and conspiracy and he alone maintaining ordinary common sense and honesty. He felt the whole world against him but he could fight the whole world. He had perfect confidence in the fundamental hard strength of his nature. Then he observed that the other two had left the room. Yet he did not remember seeing them go. Elsie came back. Her face smudged to watch the progress of the fire which was no longer smoking. Where's your mistress, my girl? She tore into the doctor on the landing, sir. You see, the doctor was saying in a low voice to Violet, it may be cancer at the cardiac end of the stomach. I don't say it is, but it may be. That would account for the absence of appetite and for other symptoms. In the moonlight he saw Violet wiping her eyes. Come, come, Mrs. Old Forward, you mustn't give way. It's not that, Violet spluttered, who was crying at the thought that she had consistently misjudged Henry for many months past. Not from miscellaneous, but from illness he had been refusing to eat. But not eat normally. He was a stricken man and to herself she had been accusing him of the meanest avarice and the lowest stupidity. She now in a flash acquitted him on every charge and made him perfect. His astounding secretiveness as to his condition she tried to attribute to a regard for her feelings. What are we to do? What am I to do? No, said Dr. Raster. Don't let that worry you. We'll get him away all right tomorrow morning. I'll come myself and fetch him. At the same moment they both saw the bedroom door open and the lank figure of the patient in his blue-gray night shirt emerged. The light was behind him and threw his shadow across them. Else he stood scared in the background. It's not the slightest use you two standing, chattering there. Henry murmured bitterly. I'm not going into a hospital so you may as well know it. Oh, Henry! Better get back to bed, Mr. Alford. Said the doctor rather grimly and coldly. I'm going back to bed. I don't need you or anybody else to tell me I oughtn't to be out here. I'm going back to bed. And he limped back to bed triumphant. Dr. Raster, who thought he had nothing to learn about the strange possibilities of human behaviour, discovered that he had been mistaken. He could not hide that he was somewhat impressed. He again assured Violet that it would be all right in the morning, but he was not very convincing. As for Violet, since Dr. Raster was a little man, she did not consider that he had much chance morally against her husband, who was unlike all other men, and indeed the most formidable man on earth. End of chapter 8