Archibald Cronin - The Stars Look Down

Barras rang the bell and almost at once the door opened. Todd himself let them in — that was typical of him, he never stood on ceremony — wearing an old dun dressing-gown and down-at-heel slippers.

“Well,” Barras said, glancing sideways at Todd. “You’re not in bed.”

“No, no, I’m all right.” Todd pushed up the gold-rimmed glasses that always lay at the end of his veinous nose; the glasses immediately slipped down again. “It’s just a chill. I’ll be right as rain in a couple of days.”

“Quite,” Barras agreed suavely. That Todd should always attribute his bilious attacks to chill really amused Barras, though he did not show it. He had the bland air of condescending to his old friend, even of humouring him. He had, too, an air of immense prosperity and success standing above the seedy little man in the stained dressing-gown within that narrow and rather dingy hall, where the maroon wall-paper, the heavy umbrella stand and presentation fumed oak barometer gave out a resigned, a patient sadness.

“I wanted to talk to you, you know, Richard.” Todd addressed the remark to his slippers and he did so with a certain hesitation.

“So I gathered.”

“You didn’t mind my ringing this morning?”

“My dear Todd, why should I?” Richard’s condescension grew more expansive; and Todd’s hesitation correspondingly increased.

“I felt I had to speak to you.” It was almost an apology.

“Quite so.”

“Well,” Todd paused, “we’d better go in the back room. I’ve a spot of fire there. I find it chilly, my blood’s thin I suppose.” He paused again, preoccupied, worried, and let his eyes drift round to Arthur; he smiled his indefinite smile. “Perhaps you’d like to go up to Hetty, Arthur. Laura looked over from Yarrow this afternoon. They’re upstairs in the drawing-room now.”

Arthur coloured instantly. The conversation had excited him. Todd had something unusual to discuss with his father, he had hoped to be included, maturely, in their conversation. But now he saw himself discarded, sent ignominiously to join the women-folk. He felt utterly humiliated; he attempted to cover it by pretending not to care.

“Yes, I’ll go up,” he said glibly, forcing a smile.

Todd nodded:

“You know your way, my boy.”

Barras turned his glance of critical indulgence upon Arthur.

“I shan’t be long,” he said off-handedly, “we must catch the five-ten home.” Then he followed Todd into the back room.

Arthur remained standing in the hall, his cheek still twitching from that attempted smile. He felt horribly slighted. It was always the same: one word, the mere inflection of a voice, would do it, he was so easily offended, so quickly abashed. A kind of torment at his own wretched temperament took hold of him, mixed up with a provoked, indignant curiosity as to what Todd’s business might be with his father. Was it money Todd wished to borrow, or what? Why was Todd so anxious, his father so contemptuous and masterful? A smarting wave of exasperation surged over Arthur when suddenly he raised his head and saw Hetty coming down the stairs.

“Arthur!” cried Hetty, hurrying down. “I thought I heard you. Why on earth didn’t you sing out?”

She came to him and held out her hand. Immediately, with an almost magical abruptness, his mood altered. He looked down at her in welcome, forgetting his father and Todd in an overmastering desire to impress her. All at once he wanted to shine before Hetty, and more, he felt himself capable of doing so. Not that it was his nature to be like this; the whole thing was the reaction of that preceding rebuff.

“Hello, Hetty,” he said briskly. Then, observing that she was dressed for the street, “I say, are you going out?”

She smiled without a trace of shyness — Hetty was never shy.

“I said I’d walk down with Laura. She’s just going.” Pausing, she made a pert little face. “I’ve been doing the heavy with the rich married sister all the afternoon. But I’ll dash back and give you tea the minute I get rid of her.”

“Come and have tea with me at Dilley’s,” he suggested on an impulse.

She clapped her hands at the unexpected invitation.

“Lovely, Arthur, lovely!”

He studied her, thinking how pretty she looked since she had put her hair up. Now, at eighteen, Hetty was more than ever a pretty little thing. Though Hetty’s features were not pretty, though Hetty ought not to have been pretty, she was pretty. She was small-boned with thin wrists and small hands. She had large greenish eyes and an insignificant nose and a palish skin. But her hair was soft and blonde and she wore it attractively fluffed out from her smooth white narrow forehead. Her eyes always had a moist lustre and occasionally her pupils were wide and black, and those big black pupils against the soft blonde hair were extremely attractive. That was Hetty’s secret. She was not beautiful. But she was attractive, composed and vivacious, and provocative and appealing, rather like a nice sleek little cat. Now she smiled most appealingly at Arthur and said in a kind of artless baby talk she sometimes used:

“Nice Arthur to take Hetty to Dilley’s. Hetty likes to go to Dilley’s.”

“You mean you like going with me?” he inquired with that same factitious confidence.

“Mmm!” she agreed. “Arthur and Hetty have nice time at Dilley’s. Much nicer than here.” Unconsciously she stressed the last word. Hetty did not care much for the background of her home. It was an old house, 15 College Row, with an out-of-date atmosphere which particularly annoyed her and made her keep on trying to force her father into moving to a smarter residence.

“It’s those old coffee éclairs you’re keen on,” he persisted, striving for more balm to ease his wounded pride. “And not me?”

She screwed up her nose at him — very artless and sweet.

“Will Arthur really buy Hetty nice coffee éclair? Hetty adores coffee éclairs.”

A warning cough made them both swing round. Laura stood in the hall beside them, pulling on her gloves with too obvious preoccupation. Immediately the kittenish expression faded from Hetty’s face. Quite sharply she declared:

“What a start to give anyone, Laura! You ought to let people hear you coming.”

“I did cough,” Laura said dryly. “And I was just going to sneeze.”

“Clever!” said Hetty, darting a sharp glance at her sister.

Laura continued to pull on her gloves, gazing from one to the other quizzically. She was beautifully but quietly dressed in a dark navy costume. Arthur had not seen much of Laura since her marriage to Stanley Millington. For some obscure reason he was never quite comfortable with Laura. Hetty he understood, she was sweet, oh, transparently guileless! But Laura left him always at a loss. Her restraint in particular, that curious emotional flatness, the sense of some carefully hidden quality, a watchfulness almost, behind her pale, humorous face, disturbed him strangely.

“Come along, then,” Hetty exclaimed pettishly; Laura’s placidity, her well-turned-out air seemed to annoy her further. “Don’t let’s stand here all day. Arthur’s taking me to Dilley’s.”

A slight smile came to Laura’s lips; she did not speak. As they went through the door into the street Arthur turned the conversation hastily.

“How is Stanley?” he asked.

“He’s very well,” Laura answered pleasantly. “I think he’s golfing this afternoon.”

They continued to talk of trivialities until they reached the corner of Grainger Street, where Laura said good-bye good-naturedly and left them to keep an appointment with Bonar, her tailor.

“She’s mad about clothes,” Hetty explained with a sharp laugh the minute Laura had gone. She let her fingers come to rest lightly on Arthur’s arm as they walked towards Dilley’s. “If she wasn’t so extravagant she might be a little more decent to me.”