THE WITCH NEXT DOOR

EPISODE 67

Previously:-

" The girl answered softly: "Poor old man, let um have his pleasure." And, in the hall, with the soup tureen against her bosom, she hummed above the steam, and thought of the ribbons on her new chemises, bought out of the sovereign he had given her. And old Heythorp, digesting his osyters, snuffed the scent of the hyacinths, and thought of the St. Germain, his favourite soup. It would n't be first-rate, at this time of year--should be made with little young homegrown peas. Paris was the place for it. Ah! The French were the fellows for eating, and--looking things in the face! Not hypocrites--not ashamed of their reason or their senses! The soup came in. He sipped it, bending forward as far as he could, his napkin tucked in over his shirt-front like a bib. He got the bouquet of that sherry to a T--his sense of smell was very keen to-night; rare old stuff it was--more than a year since he had tasted it--but no one drank sherry nowadays, hadn't the constitution for it! The fish came up, and went down; and with the sweetbread he took his second glass of champagne. Always the best, that second glass--the stomach well warmed, and the palate not yet dulled. Umm! So that fellow thought he had him beaten, did he? And he said suddenly: "The fur coat in the wardrobe, I've no use for it. You can take it away tonight." With tempered gratitude the valet answered: "Thank you, sir

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I'm sure." So the old buffer had found out there was moth in it! "Have I worried you much?" "No, sir; not at all, sir--that is, no more than reason." "Afraid I have. Very sorry--can't help it. You'll find that, when you get like me." "Yes, sir; I've always admired your pluck, sir. "Um! Very good of you to say so." "Always think of you keepin' the flag flying', sir." Old Heythorp bent his body from the waist. "Much obliged to you." "Not at all, sir. Cook's done a little spinach in cream with the soubees." "Ah! Tell her from me it's a capital dinner, so far." "Thank you, sir." Alone again, old Heythorp sat unmoving, his brain just narcotically touched. "The flag flyin'--the flag flyin'!" He raised his glass and sucked. He had an appetite now, and finished the three cutlets, and all the sauce and spinach. Pity! he could have managed a snipe fresh shot! A desire to delay, to lengthen dinner, was strong upon him; there were but the souffle' and the savoury to come. He would have enjoyed, too, someone to talk to. He had always been fond of good company--been good company himself, or so they said--not that he had had a chance of late. Even at the Boards they avoided talking to him, he had noticed for a long time. Well! that wouldn't trouble him again--he had sat through his last Board, no doubt. They shouldn't kick him off, though; he wouldn't give them that pleasure--had seen the beggars hankering after his chairman's shoes too long. The souffle was before him now, and lifting his glass, he said: "Fill up." "These are the special glasses, sir; only four to the bottle.

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" "Fill up." The servant filled, screwing up his mouth. Old Heythorp drank, and put the glass down empty with a sigh. He had been faithful to his principles, finished the bottle before touching the sweet--a good bottle--of a good brand! And now for the souffle! Delicious, flipped down with the old sherry! So that holy woman was going to a ball, was she! How deuced funny! Who would dance with a dry stick like that, all eaten up with a piety which was just s****l disappointment? Ah! yes, lots of women like that--had often noticed 'em--pitied 'em too, until you had to do with them and they made you as unhappy as themselves, and were tyrants into the bargain. And he asked: "What's the savoury?" "Cheese remmykin, sir." His favourite. "I'll have my port with it--the 'sixty-eight." The man stood gazing with evident stupefaction. He had not expected this. The old man's face was very flushed, but that might be the bath. He said feebly: "Are you sure you ought, sir?" "No, but I'm going to." "Would you mind if I spoke to Miss Heythorp, Sir?" "If you do, you can leave my service." "Well, Sir, I don't accept the responsibility." "Who asked you to?

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" "No, Sir...." "Well, get it, then; and don't be an ass." "Yes, Sir." If the old man were not humoured he would have a fit, perhaps! And the old man sat quietly staring at the hyacinths. He felt happy, his whole being lined and warmed and drowsed--and there was more to come! What had the holy folk to give you compared with the comfort of a good dinner? Could they make you dream, and see life rosy for a little? No, they could only give you promissory notes which never would be cashed. A man had nothing but his pluck--they only tried to undermine it, and make him squeal for help. He could see his precious doctor throwing up his hands: "Port after a bottle of champagne--you'll die of it!" And a very good death too--none better. A sound broke the silence of the closed-up room. Music? His daughter playing the piano overhead. Singing too! What a trickle of a voice! Jenny Lind! The Swedish nightingale--he had never missed the nights when she was singing--Jenny Lind! "It's very hot, sir. Shall I take it out of the case?" Ah! The ramequin!

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"Touch of butter, and the cayenne!" "Yes, sir." He ate it slowly, savouring each mouthful; had never tasted a better. With cheese--port! He drank one glass, and said: "Help me to my chair." And settled there before the fire with decanter and glass and hand-bell on the little low table by his side, he murmured: "Bring coffee, and my cigar, in twenty minutes." To-night he would do justice to his wine, not smoking till he had finished. As old Horace said: "Aequam memento rebus in arduis Servare mentem." And, raising his glass, he sipped slowly, spilling a drop or two, shutting his eyes. The faint silvery squealing of the holy woman in the room above, the scent of hyacinths, the drowse of the fire, on which a cedar log had just been laid, the feeling of the port soaking down into the crannies of his being, made up a momentary Paradise. Then the music stopped; and no sound rose but the tiny groans of the log trying to resist the fire. Dreamily he thought: 'Life wears you out--wears you out. Logs on a fire!' And he filled his glass again. That fellow had been careless; there were dregs at the bottom of the decanter and he had got down to them! Then, as the last drop from his tilted glass trickled into the white hairs on his chin, he heard the coffee tray put down, and taking his cigar he put it to his ear, rolling it in his thick fingers. In prime condition! And drawing a first whiff, he said: "Open that bottle of the old brandy in the sideboard." "Brandy, sir? I really daren't, sir." "Are you my servant or not?

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" "Yes, sir, but---" A minute of silence, then the man went hastily to the sideboard, took out the bottle, and drew the cork. The tide of crimson in the old man's face had frightened him. "Leave it there." The unfortunate valet placed the bottle on the little table. 'I'll have to tell her,' he thought; 'but if I take away the port decanter and the glass, it won't look so bad.' And, carrying them, he left the room. Slowly the old man drank his coffee, and the liqueur of brandy. The whole gamut! And watching his cigar-smoke wreathing blue in the orange glow, he smiled.

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The last night to call his soul his own, the last night of his independence. Send in his resignations to-morrow--not wait to be kicked off! Not give that fellow a chance! A voice which seemed to come from far off, said: "Father! You're drinking brandy! How can you--you know it's simple poison to you!" A figure in white, scarcely actual, loomed up close. He took the bottle to fill up his liqueur glass, in defiance; but a hand in a long white glove, with another dangling from its wrist, pulled it away, shook it at him, and replaced it in the sideboard. And, just as when Mr. Ventnor stood there accusing him, a swelling and churning in his throat prevented him from speech; his lips moved, but only a little froth came forth. His daughter had approached again.

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She stood quite close, in white satin, thin-faced, sallow, with eyebrows raised, and her dark hair frizzed--yes! frizzed--the holy woman! With all his might he tried to say: 'So you bully me, do you--you bully me to-night!' but only the word "so" and a sort of whispering came forth. He heard her speaking. "It's no good your getting angry, Father. After champagne--it's wicked!" Then her form receded in a sort of rustling white mist; she was gone; and he heard the sputtering and growling of her taxi, bearing her to the ball. So! She tyrannised and bullied, even before she had him at her mercy, did she? She should see! Anger had brightened his eyes; the room came clear again. And slowly raising himself he sounded the bell twice, for the girl, not for that fellow Meller, who was in the plot. As soon as her pretty black and whiteaproned figure stood before him, he said:

"Help me up." Twice her soft pulling was not enough, and he sank back. The third time he struggled to his feet. "Thank you; that'll do." Then, waiting till she was gone, he crossed the room, fumbled open the sideboard door, and took out the bottle. Reaching over the polished oak, he grasped a sherry glass; and holding the bottle with both hands, tipped the liquor into it, put it to his lips and sucked. Drop by drop it passed over his palate mild, very old, old as himself, coloured like sunlight, fragrant.

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To the last drop he drank it, then hugging the bottle to his shirt-front, he moved snail-like to his chair, and fell back into its depths. For some minutes he remained there motionless, the bottle clasped to his chest, thinking: 'This is not the attitude of a gentleman. I must put it down on the table-on the table;' but a thick cloud was between him and everything. It was with his hands he would have to put the bottle on the table! But he could not find his hands, could not feel them. His mind see-sawed in strophe and antistrophe: "You can't move!"--"I will move!" "You're beaten"--"I'm not beat." "Give up"--"I won't." That struggle to find his hands seemed to last for ever--he must find them! After that--go down--all standing--after that! Everything round him was red. Then the red cloud cleared just a little, and he could hear the clock--"tick-tick-tick"; a faint sensation spread from his shoulders down to his wrists, down his palms; and yes--he could feel the bottle! He redoubled his struggle to get forward in his chair; to get forward and put the bottle down. It was not dignified like this! One arm he could move now; but he could not grip the bottle nearly tight enough to put it down. Working his whole body forward, inch by inch, he shifted himself up in the chair till he could lean sideways, and the bottle, slipping down his chest, dropped slanting to the edge of the low stool-table.

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Then with all his might he screwed his trunk and arms an inch further, and the bottle stood. He had done it--done it! His lips twitched into a smile; his body sagged back to its old position. He had done it! And he closed his eyes .... At half-past eleven the girl Molly, opening the door, looked at him and said softly: "Sirr! there's some ladies, and a gentleman!" But he did not answer. And, still holding the door, she whispered out into the hall: "He's asleep, miss." A voice whispered back: "Oh! Just let me go in, I won't wake him unless he does. But I do want to show him my dress." The girl moved aside; and on tiptoe Phyllis passed in. She walked to where, between the lamp-glow and the fire-glow, she was lighted up. White satin--her first low-cut dress--the flush of her first supper party--a gardenia at her breast, another in her fingers! Oh! what a pity he was asleep! How red he looked! How funnily old men breathed! And mysteriously, as a child might, she whispered: "Guardy!" No answer! And pouting, she stood twiddling the gardenia. Then suddenly she thought: 'I'll put it in his buttonhole! When he wakes up and sees it, how he'll jump!' And stealing close, she bent and slipped it in. Two faces looked at her from round the door; she heard Bob Pillin's smothered chuckle; her mother's rich and feathery laugh. Oh! How red his forehead was! She touched it with her lips; skipped back, twirled

round, danced silently a second, blew a kiss, and like quicksilver was gone. And the whispering, the chuckling, and one little out-pealing laugh rose in the hall. But the old man slept. Nor until Meller came at his usual hour of half-past twelve, was it known that he would never wake.

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