_Chapter 28_
Siegmund's lying late in bed made Beatrice very angry. The later it
became, the more wrathful she grew. At half past nine she had taken up
his shaving-water. Then she proceeded to tidy the dining-room, leaving
the breakfast spread in the kitchen.
Vera and Frank were gone up to town; they would both be home for dinner
at two o'clock. Marjory was despatched on an errand, taking Gwen with
her. The children had no need to return home immediately, therefore it
was highly probable they would play in the field or in the lane for an
hour or two. Beatrice was alone downstairs. It was a hot, still morning,
when everything outdoors shone brightly, and all indoors was dusked with
coolness and colour. But Beatrice was angry. She moved rapidly and
determinedly about the dining-room, thrusting old newspapers and
magazines between the cupboard and the wall, throwing the litter in the
grate, which was clear, Friday having been charwoman's day, passing
swiftly, lightly over the front of the furniture with the duster. It was
Saturday, when she did not spend much time over the work. In the
afternoon she was going out with Vera. That was not, however, what
occupied her mind as she brushed aside her work. She had determined to
have a settlement with Siegmund, as to how matters should continue. She
was going to have no more of the past three years' life; things had come
to a crisis, and there must be an alteration. Beatrice was going to do
battle, therefore she flew at her work, thus stirring herself up to a
proper heat of blood. All the time, as she thrust things out of sight,
or straightened a cover, she listened for Siegmund to come downstairs.
He did not come, so her anger waxed.
'He can lie skulking in bed!' she said to herself. 'Here I've been up
since seven, broiling at it. I should think he's pitying himself. He
ought to have something else to do. He ought to have to go out to work
every morning, like another man, as his son has to do. He has had too
little work. He has had too much his own way. But it's come to a stop
now. I'll servant-housekeeper him no longer.'
Beatrice went to clean the step of the front door. She clanged the
bucket loudly, every minute becoming more and more angry. That piece of
work finished, she went into the kitchen. It was twenty past ten. Her
wrath was at ignition point. She cleared all the things from the table
and washed them up. As she was so doing, her anger, having reached full
intensity without bursting into flame, began to dissipate in uneasiness.
She tried to imagine what Siegmund would do and say to her. As she was
wiping a cup, she dropped it, and the smash so unnerved her that her
hands trembled almost too much to finish drying the things and putting
them away. At last it was done. Her next piece of work was to make the
beds. She took her pail and went upstairs. Her heart was beating so
heavily in her throat that she had to stop on the landing to recover
breath. She dreaded the combat with him. Suddenly controlling herself,
she said loudly at Siegmund's door, her voice coldly hostile:
'Aren't you going to get up?'
There was not the faintest sound in the house. Beatrice stood in the
gloom of the landing, her heart thudding in her ears.
'It's after half past ten--aren't you going to get up?' she called.
She waited again. Two letters lay unopened on a small table. Suddenly
she put down her pail and went into the bathroom. The pot of
shaving-water stood untouched on the shelf, just as she had left it. She
returned and knocked swiftly at her husband's door, not speaking. She
waited, then she knocked again, loudly, a long time. Something in the
sound of her knocking made her afraid to try again. The noise was dull
and thudding: it did not resound through the house with a natural ring,
so she thought. She ran downstairs in terror, fled out into the front
garden, and there looked up at his room. The window-door was
open--everything seemed quiet.
Beatrice stood vacillating. She picked up a few tiny pebbles and flung
them in a handful at his door. Some spattered on the panes sharply; some
dropped dully in the room. One clinked on the wash-hand bowl. There was
no response. Beatrice was terribly excited. She ran, with her black eyes
blazing, and wisps of her black hair flying about her thin temples, out
on to the road. By a mercy she saw the window-cleaner just pushing his
ladder out of the passage of a house a little farther down the road. She
hurried to him.
'Will you come and see if there's anything wrong with my husband?' she
asked wildly.
'Why, mum?' answered the window-cleaner, who knew her, and was humbly
familiar. 'Is he taken bad or something? Yes, I'll come.'
He was a tall thin man with a brown beard. His clothes were all so
loose, his trousers so baggy, that he gave one the impression his limbs
must be bone, and his body a skeleton. He pushed at his ladders with
a will.
'Where is he, Mum?' he asked officiously, as they slowed down at the
side passage.
'He's in his bedroom, and I can't get an answer from him.'
'Then I s'll want a ladder,' said the window-cleaner, proceeding to lift
one off his trolley. He was in a very great bustle. He knew which was
Siegmund's room: he had often seen Siegmund rise from some music he was
studying and leave the drawing-room when the window-cleaning began, and
afterwards he had found him in the small front bedroom. He also knew
there were matrimonial troubles: Beatrice was not reserved.
'Is it the least of the front rooms he's in?' asked the window-cleaner.
'Yes, over the porch,' replied Beatrice.
The man bustled with his ladder.
'It's easy enough,' he said. 'The door's open, and we're soon on the
balcony.'
He set the ladder securely. Beatrice cursed him for a slow, officious
fool. He tested the ladder, to see it was safe, then he cautiously
clambered up. At the top he stood leaning sideways, bending over the
ladder to peer into the room. He could see all sorts of things, for he
was frightened.
'I say there!' he called loudly.
Beatrice stood below in horrible suspense.
'Go in!' she cried. 'Go in! Is he there?'
The man stepped very cautiously with one foot on to the balcony, and
peered forward. But the glass door reflected into his eyes. He followed
slowly with the other foot, and crept forward, ready at any moment to
take flight.
'Hie, hie!' he suddenly cried in terror, and he drew back.
Beatrice was opening her mouth to scream, when the window-cleaner
exclaimed weakly, as if dubious:
'I believe 'e's 'anged 'imself from the door-'ooks!'
'No!' cried Beatrice. 'No, no, no!'
'I believe 'e 'as!' repeated the man.
'Go in and see if he's dead!' cried Beatrice.
The man remained in the doorway, peering fixedly.
'I believe he is,' he said doubtfully.
'No--go and see!' screamed Beatrice.
The man went into the room, trembling, hesitating. He approached the
body as if fascinated. Shivering, he took it round the loins and tried
to lift it down. It was too heavy.
'I know!' he said to himself, once more bustling now he had something to
do. He took his clasp-knife from his pocket, jammed the body between
himself and the door so that it should not drop, and began to saw his
way through the leathern strap. It gave. He started, and clutched the
body, dropping his knife. Beatrice, below in the garden, hearing the
scuffle and the clatter, began to scream in hysteria. The man hauled the
body of Siegmund, with much difficulty, on to the bed, and with
trembling fingers tried to unloose the buckle in which the strap ran. It
was bedded in Siegmund's neck. The window-cleaner tugged at it
frantically, till he got it loose. Then he looked at Siegmund. The dead
man lay on the bed with swollen, discoloured face, with his
sleeping-jacket pushed up in a bunch under his armpits, leaving his side
naked. Beatrice was screaming below. The window-cleaner, quite unnerved,
ran from the room and scrambled down the ladder. Siegmund lay heaped on
the bed, his sleeping-suit twisted and bunched up about him, his face
hardly recognizable.
