The Only Poet by Rebecca West Page B

‘don’t let’s have a scene in the streets.’
    Adela felt as if she had suddenly become ten years old again. That delicate voice with its perpetual undernote of offended taste had terrorized her childhood into unnatural quietness. From the moment of her birth she had been warned that any rough word or gesture might bring upon her plebeian mother and herself the appalling spectacle of an aristocrat repelled to tears and shame. She gazed at him hypnotized: and the hypnotism was not strong enough. For she was conscious she did not care whether he was repelled or not.
    â€˜Bring her in, child,’ said Digby Furnival: and walked back to the house.
    â€˜Here, open the door!’ called Adela, holding out the latch-key. He opened the door and stood impressively against the darkness, the gaslight shining on his magnificent head.
    â€˜Is the poor thing better?’ he asked finely.
    â€˜Light the gas,’ said Adela. She waited till she saw the gas wake in the lobby and the dining-room. Then she shook her mother gently. ‘You are looking so funny,’ she whispered. ‘Father will be vexed.’
    That did it. Mrs Furnival clutched at the tattered rags of her self-control and trotted up the steps to the house. Digby drew her in with much tender manliness and led her into the dining-room. Very gently and courteously he made her sit down in the big armchair by the fireplace. She sat there very uncomfortably, for it was too high for her and her short legs dangled in the air; she twisted her bonnet-strings and tried hard to master her sobs and the inconvenient heavings of her bosom. Digby, ignoring her distress in the most gentlemanly way, sat down on the other side of the table and undid his overcoat. Adela hovered uneasily at the end of the table, looking down on them, as one who helplessly witnesses a game of skill between a fool and a knave.
    Without fear she watched her father’s cold eyes rove round the room. She was quite conscious that a few odd bits of furniture bought in a lump at an auction-sale for twelve pounds, a worn-out carpet presented by Mrs Tom when charity was the only alternative to the dustbin, and a few prints cut out of The Nation’s Pictures and gummed into rush frames, do not make a dainty home. She saw his gaze waver on the fluted legs of the deal sideboard, but was unshaken. This was his doing. He had gambled away his patrimony in the pursuit of copper-mines, and had left poor silly Amy and her child to face the world and the bailiffs.
    She faced his eyes without a tremor: though she was glad she was wearing her best dress. But her mother was pitiable. Even if his return did mean some new burden and degradation, she should face it more pluckily than this.
    After a long silence Digby spoke: calmly, pathetically, proudly.
    â€˜Amy, I’ve come home to die.’
    â€˜O Digby, don’t!’ squealed Mrs Furnival and evaporated in a series of sobs and weak, stifled screams. Through which Adela asked bluntly and loudly: ‘Is there anything the matter with you?’
    â€˜What, my dear?’ asked Digby deafishly.
    â€˜Have you any particular illness?’
    He faced her hardness with a sweet resignation and forgiveness: ‘My dear, I am an old man now.’
    â€˜Fifty-seven,’ said Adela. She said it simply. It might have been an assertion. But there was a fine edge on her voice that made it seem a comment. And his eyes shot stealthily at her, reminding her that he had always hated her as a child.
    Quite suddenly Mrs Furnival stopped sobbing, and fixed him with big, stupid, terrified eyes.
    â€˜Well, Amy, how have you been getting on?’ he asked kindly.
    â€˜It is awful this happening on top of all our troubles,’ thought Adela, watching her mother for another breakdown. ‘How shall we get him out of the house!’
    But Amy did not answer, so stuffed with tears was she.
    â€˜Haven’t you anything to say to me,