Kindling (4 page)

Warren glanced up at the man, standing deferentially before him. “I see. As a matter of fact, Evans, I was going to speak to all of you to-morrow. Mrs. Warren will not be coming back to live here. I’m closing down this house, and going to live in chambers.”

“I am very sorry to hear that, sir.”

Warren nodded. “I was going to give you all a month’s notice, with three months’ wages. So you needn’t feel you’re inconveniencing me.”

“That is very generous treatment, sir. I am sure the staff will appreciate your kindness, in the circumstances.”
He hesitated. “With things the way they are, sir, I am sorry that I gave you notice. But I wasn’t to know.”

“That’s all right. As a matter of interest, why did you want to leave?”

The butler hesitated again. “I don’t know that I can quite answer that, sir. But it hasn’t been the sort of house that one would care to spend one’s life in, if you understand what I mean.”

Warren said, “I understand.” He nodded to the man. “All right Evans—that’ll do. I’ll see you all in the morning.”

The man left him, and he sat for a long time before the fire, quiet and motionless, full of reflection. So that was it. His house, his mode of life, had become so notorious that decent servants wouldn’t stay with him; they had their own lives to consider. He did not blame them. But if that was what his servants thought about it all, what would London and the City think?

Prince Ali Said … Already he could frame the limericks and the conundrums in his mind. He knew the Stock Exchange.

He sat on in the library, quiet, without reading; as the fire died the shadows closed in upon him. He had worked hard all his life. He had been in the Gunners in the War and had risen to command a battery; he could still remember the sequence of his firing orders, the colours of the different grades of shell, and that you concentrated when the aiming point was in the rear. He had gone into his father’s bank at the Armistice and had worked hard in the City for the last fifteen years.

His life, he thought, was more than half over. He
had worked hard since he was a boy; what had he got to show for it?

His wife had left him, had preferred a coloured man. His house was one that decent people would not stay in, even if they were servants. He had few friends; he worked too hard for that. His health was still good, but he had grown nervous and irritable; that was the work again, the difficulty that he had in sleeping due to lack of exercise, perhaps, due also to the drugs he took to make him sleep. In the morning he would take the necessary steps to close the house and put it up for sale. Then, he supposed, he would go and live in a service flat, and try to build up a new life—for what? For more work? He had worked hard for fifteen years and had got nothing, it seemed to him, that was worth having.

Presently he left the library and went up to his room. He stood for a time looking at his face in the mirror; he saw it to be lined and haggard, the face of a man older than his years. He turned away, and went mechanically to the drawer of his dressing-table; he would not sleep that night without the assistance of his allonal.

He took the little vial in his hand. He saw an old face twitching at him from the mirror; the battery major straightened up, a gust of passion swept over him. “My God,” he said aloud. “I’m looking like a corpse.” Impulsively he threw the vial in the fire and turned towards his bed.

He hardly slept at all that night.

He set about his business early next morning, the keen mind dulled and impeded with fatigue. He saw the servants after breakfast and gave them, in hard, business-like
fashion, the gist of what he had already told the butler; a month’s notice with three month’s pay. Then he sat down and wrote a letter to Elise, hard and efficient, to ask her to remove her things from the house within the month, before he put the furniture in store. He paid a visit to a house agent. And then he went to his solicitor, and sat in conference with him for an hour.

He lunched at a solitary table in his club, reserved and aloof. In the smoking-room, over his coffee, he fell into an uneasy sleep and woke after twenty minutes of twitching insensibility, dazed and unwell.

He went down to his office.

In the house that he had left the servants gathered round to talk about their notice, dispersed to make pretence of work, and gathered round again. “I won’t say but what three months’ pay will be a comfort and a nest egg to put by,” said the cook. “But what a thing to happen in the house!”

“I never did like black gentlemen,” said Elsie. “That Prince Ali, he gave me the shudders the first time I saw him. What she could see in him …”

Donaghue, the chauffeur, winked at Evans. “The blacker the berry, the sweeter the juice, as you might say.”

“Not in my kitchen,
if
you please, Mr. Donaghue,” said the cook with dignity.

“Sorry,” said the chauffeur.

“It’s a pity that it had to happen now,” said Evans. “I’d hoped to get away before the bubble bust. It doesn’t do one any good in getting a new place, this sort of thing.”

“That’s what I say, Mr. Evans,” said the cook. “It
makes things very difficult, I’m sure. Mistresses don’t like it, say what you will.”

“Well,” said the chauffeur. “She’s got a nice new place, and no mistake.”

“I wouldn’t be too sure she’ll keep it,” said Evans.

“Ah,” said the cook darkly. “The evil stoop and pick up luck.”

They moved away about their work again. Donaghue followed Elsie out into the hall. “It’s a rotten break-up, this,” he said. “Just as we were beginning to get to know each other, too.” He had only been there for about two months. He was cursing himself, boyishly and miserably, that he had not made more headway with the girl in that two months. He hadn’t wanted to rush things. And now this bust-up had come.

“I’m sorry, too,” she said. “But that’s life all over, that is. Just as you think you’ve got nicely settled down, something happens.”

“That’s right,” he said enthusiastically. “I’ve often thought it was like that.”

They stood in silent, intimate communion for a moment.

He mustered his courage. “Were you doing anything to-morrow afternoon? Your half day, isn’t it?”

She said, “I always go and see my Aunt Millie, at Streatham. She’s been ever so good to me since I came to London.”

“I was wondering if you’d like to see a picture,” he said awkwardly. “There’s some good ones on …”

She smiled radiantly on him. “That’s ever so nice of you, Mr. Donaghue,” she said. “I could see Aunt Millie on Sunday. I could get ready by half-past two.”

“That’s a date,” he said, and went to polish a clean car in an exultant dream.

Warren worked steadily for some hours in his office. He cleared up the arrears of his work with some half-formed idea that he might go away. He was tired and stale. He had no particular desire to take a holiday, but he could not go on in Grosvenor Square alone. He felt that he must have a break in his routine.

“Looking like death again this afternoon,” remarked his typist to her friend. “I bet there’s something wrong.”

He knocked a pencil from his desk in the late afternoon, and stooped to pick it up. A sudden cramp shot through his abdomen and for a minute he was wrung with pain; then it relaxed, and he was sitting motionless in his chair, a little white and breathing very carefully for fear it would come on again. Presently he began to move, cautiously at first, then with increasing confidence. “Exercise,” he thought. “I ought to get more exercise. I’ll die at fifty if I don’t look out.”

He left the office at about seven o’clock and walked part of the way home through the wet, lamp-lit streets in pursuit of his new resolution. He went down Cheap-side, over Holborn Viaduct, past Gamage’s and Kingsway nearly to Tottenham Court Road. There he was tired and a little faint, and took a taxi to his house in Grosvenor Square. “I can’t go letting myself get run down like this,” he thought. “I’d better get away and get some exercise.”

He had a whisky and a bath when he got home, and felt refreshed; he put on a dinner jacket and went down to dine alone. With the first mouthful his appetite left him; he ate very little, and went through into the
library for coffee. He drank two cups of coffee and a little brandy, and felt better. He sat in his deep chair before the fire, and faced the problem of his sleep.

He knew he would not sleep. He had hardly slept at all the previous night; he knew that it would be the same again. He would not sleep without his allonal, and he had done with that. You need to be physically tired to sleep; it was imperative to him that he should get more exercise, at once, and quickly. He must get away somewhere, and walk. If he walked twenty miles a day for the next week sleep would return to him, he knew; walking was what his body clamoured for. It would rid him of this sick feeling, would clean his mind and body as they needed to be cleaned. Twenty miles a day, and for a week on end.

That was what he would do, to-morrow. But for this night ahead of him, in some way he must get through that. Queer, this matter of his sleep. If he were travelling, in car or train or aeroplane, he would be able to compose his mind, to rest and doze, and fall into a sleep of sorts; in bed he could not sleep without his allonal. But he could sleep in a motor-car.

And that would get him right away, and he could walk. Twenty miles a day; till he was well.

He rose and pressed the bell. He glanced at his watch; it was ten o’clock. When Evans came, he said:

“Is Donaghue about?”

“In the housekeeper’s room, sir.”

“Tell him I want the car. In half an hour.”

“Very good, sir.”

“Tell him to get the tank filled up, and put some warm clothes on. I may be going a long way.”

He went up to his room and changed into an old business suit that he had bought in the United States. He put on a heavy ulster and a scarf, and gave Evans a flask to fill with brandy. These completed his preparations for the road; he looked at the contents of his note-case. He had about eighteen pounds. That, he thought, would see him through.

In the housekeeper’s room Donaghue was making similar preparations, swearing a little to himself. He had no fancy for a drive of unknown length on a cold night in February.

Elsie came to him with a little packet in her hands.

“I cut you some sandwiches, Mr. Donaghue,” she said, a little shyly, “and there’s a bit of seed cake. I do hope he won’t keep you out too late.”

He took them gratefully, and mumbled his thanks. “See you half-past two to-morrow, anyway,” he said. “Even if it makes me miss my breakfast.”

She smiled at him. “You wouldn’t rather we put it off?”

“Not much. I’ll be back.”

He had already brought the car to the door; he went out to it now, and Evans went into the library.

“The car is quite ready, sir.”

Warren rose slowly from his chair, in ulster and scarf. He was feeling unwell, and the prospect of a long night drive seemed less attractive to him now, but he might as well go. He would probably sleep a little, anyway.

“All right, Evans,” he said. “I may be away for a few days.”

The butler hesitated in surprise. “Shall I pack a bag, sir?”

“No, thanks. I shan’t want that.”

He went out to the car; although the night outside was cold he was glad to be leaving that house. Donaghue, smart in chauffeur’s cap and long blue coat with silver buttons, held the door open for him; Warren got in and Evans handed in a couple of rugs. They stood for moment then, holding open the door of the limousine.

“Where to, sir?” asked Donaghue.

“Get on the Great North Road,” said Warren absently. “Go on till I tell you to stop.”

Evans and Donaghue exchanged glances of incomprehension. Then the chauffeur said, “Very good, sir,” and got in to his seat; in turn he wrapped a rug around him and the car moved off. Warren leaned forward and switched off the interior light, and settled down in the back seat.

The car moved forward through Mayfair, up Orchard Street and Baker Street, past Lord’s and the Swiss Cottage on to Finchley. A light rain was falling and the streets were wet and empty; Donaghue settled to his wheel and wondered what the night would bring for him. He liked Warren, and was sorry for him; he thought that he had suffered a raw deal. Apart from that, he trusted him implicitly. At the same time, there was no denying that his master was looking mighty queer; Cook had been worried that he ate so little dinner. Maybe he would like a cup of coffee later on.

He drove out on the by-pass, shifted and relaxed into the driving seat, and set himself to the night’s work.

In the rear seat of the limousine Warren lay cross-ways in one corner, quiet and at rest. He was in darkness; for a time he watched the lights and street signs
as they passed the windows opposite him. Presently rain blurred the windows and the lights grew more infrequent; soon they were driving through the darkness on a broad, wet ribbon of road lit by the headlights for five hundred yards. The purring of the engine, the wet swish of the tyres, the gentle, easy motion lulled him to a doze, the doze merged into something deeper, and he slept.

Through the wet night the limousine swept on, running at quarter-power at a steady forty-five, untired and effortless. Donaghue had produced a bottle of boiled sweets and sucked them as he drove; occasionally he smoked a cigarette. The rain stopped and began again; it went on intermittently all through the night.

At Welwyn they came out on the old road and drove on north, through Baldock and Biggleswade, past St. Neots and Huntingdon, by Norman Cross, over the bridge at Wansford and to Stamford. There Donaghue slowed down and peered into the rear seat. Warren appeared to be asleep. He shrugged his shoulders, and drove on.

Forty minutes later he ran down the hill into Grantham, slowed down, and finally stopped at a garage to fill up. The all-night hand came sleepily to the pump; Donaghue got down from his seat and busied himself about the car.

Through the rain-spotted window-glass he looked at Warren, saw he was awake. He opened the door.

“Stopped here for some petrol, sir,” he said. “Just about ready to go on.”