# Sorrell and Son (Alfred A. Knopf, printing 9)/Chapter 11

THOMAS ROLAND'S enthusiasm for detail had extended to the dresses worn by the chambermaids of the Pelican Inn. Someone in Chelsea had designed for him this feminine uniform, a simple creation in blue linen, short in the sleeve and open at the neck. The white cap suggested a butterfly's wings, with a knot of black velvet for the body.
The housekeeper had admired the æsthetics of the costume,—but when it came to practical politics she regretted the provocation of such clothes. For clothes do provoke, both the wearer of them and the person who has an eye for the way they are worn. And Mary Marks felt responsible. Clare and Kate were steady girls and not too good-looking, but the very flick of Nelly Barrett's neat black ankles promised her anxieties.
Even Sorrell, who was too tired to be piqued by adventure, and who had a prejudice against all baby faces, had understood the nature of Nelly's provocation. A little, sallow thing with a bobbed head of jet-black hair, and a yellowish tinge in the skin of her forearms and her throat, she moved quickly on slim legs and with a slightly undulating movement of the hips. She had a way of swinging her thin forearms as though she were balancing herself like a dancer on a rope. She caught the eye with her liveness, and the mischievous "Come and catch me" of her pert, pale face. Sorrell had seen other men looking at her as men look at certain women. And she, alive to it all, moving with little flicks of the head, would glance back, self-consciously arch, smiling, showing her white teeth.
Sorrell was very tired. A party of motorists who had booked rooms at the Pelican had wired to say that they would not arrive till midnight, and Sorrell was sitting up for them. Everyone had gone to bed, and he had taken one ​of the big leather armchairs in the lounge, and had lit a pipe. A pile of illustrated papers lay on the copper-topped smoking table beside his chair, and he had been looking through them idly and with the inattention of a man who was weary. He wanted to go to sleep. The very silence and gloom of the big lounge invited him sleep. A clock ticked somewhere, and its ticking was the only sound to be heard as the minutes slipped away. The window of the office was closed, though the visitors' book lay open on the ledge.
Everybody was asleep, and Sorrell lay relaxed, thinking of all those comfortable sleepers up above, and of how good a thing bed was, and of how long it might be before he would be able to lock the door and go across the yard to his room in what had been a part of the old stables. Buck had a room over there, next to Ponds the garage attendant. The female members of the staff slept on the top floor in a little wing that jutted out from the main building.
Sorrell contemplated the image of George Buck. The fellow would be snoring; he could snore most aggressively, so much so that Ponds had spoken facetiously of fitting a silencer to the big man's proboscis. But Sorrell's thoughts revolted from the contemplation of the persecutor. Surely he had enough of Buck during the daytime without sitting there and brooding over him at night?
He closed his eyes; his head sank forward; he fell into a doze, but it was only for a minute. Something startled him into wakefulness; he sat up, listening; he fancied that he could hear a shuffling sound upon the stairs, but the sound was so indefinite that he could not be sure that he was not imagining it. He listened, head cocked. Then, something more definite reached him, the creaking sound made by a stair-tread under a cautious foot.
Sorrell got up. There were half a dozen possible explanations of the sound, legitimate explanations. He walked to the main door and tried the handle to make sure that it was locked. There was another door opening from the yard into the corridor leading to the kitchen and the service quarters, and Sorrell walked down the corridor. Both he and Buck had keys for this side-door, so that they could come in and out at any hour without calling on any of the rest of the staff. Sorrell paused half-way down the ​corridor; he had noticed something, a movement of cold night air. He found the door half open.
He remembered closing it less than an hour ago.
The possibilities grew more serious. He asked himself whether the open door had any connexion with that creaking stair-tread?
He turned and walked back towards the lounge, opening the swing-door cautiously, and closing it with a carefully restraining hand. He remembered that there would be a considerable amount of spare cash in the office safe. But if a prowler had entered the hotel why had he gone upstairs? To pilfer in the bedrooms?
Obviously he ought to investigate, and perhaps rouse Mr. Roland. Mr. Roland slept on the ground floor in a room that opened from his sitting-room, and Sorrell was moving towards the broad passage leading past the public rooms when he heard something more decisive. Screams, a womanis screams, faint and far away,—and coming from above!
His first thought was that he was weaponless. He ran back into the lounge, grabbed a poker from the fireplace, and made a dash for the stairs. He had reached the first landing and was switching on the lights when he heard a whole choir of voices coming from above. There was a man's voice, and an hysterical voice that belonged to the screamer, and the voices of other women. Obviously, something dramatic was happening up there. A burglar perhaps, caught and cornered by three or four frightened but eager women?
Sorrell dashed up, switching on lights. The voices seemed to come from the staffs' quarters, and he turned up the flight of stairs leading to the outjutting wing. He fancied that he recognized the voices. Lights were on up above. And then he came suddenly upon the scene, staged for him above the tread of the top step.
He paused, astonished.
He saw one of the chambermaids in her nightdress, with hair streaming, and he guessed that it was she who had been screaming. Her mouth was still voluble, but none of the others were paying any attention to what she said. He saw Mrs. Marks fully dressed; Mr. Roland in his blue and orange dressing-gown. George Buck in shirt and trousers. ​Two other doors were open, and girls' heads were protruding.
Then—Sorrell understood.
The fool lover had blundered into the wrong bedroom.
Also, he had been ambuscaded. Mrs. Marks' black dress had been keeping vigil, and Roland's dressing-gown was a mere piece of camouflage.
Sorrell remained where he was, watching his enemy standing there, a mass of foolishness, and of cringing plausibility.
"I've apologized to her, sir. I can't do more than that, can I? Besides——"
Buck kept glancing at a closed door, the door of Nelly Barrett's room. He knew the right door now, because it had remained discreetly shut.
Sorrell could see nothing of Mr. Roland save his back. It seemed to him to be an uncompromising and disgusted back.
"Come downstairs."
He wanted Buck away from the women where his presence was an offence and a confusion. He turned to the stairs, and saw Sorrell and his poker, and a smile came into his eyes.
"We've startled you, Stephen."
"I wondered what it was, sir."
"Come with us. I shall want you."
Sorrell stood aside to let Roland and the egregious lover pass, and Buck, evil-eyed, went by him with a stiffening of the neck. Sorrell followed them down, and when they were away from the paralysing presence of the women Buck began to blurt more boldly.
"Between men, sir——"
"Well?"
"She asked me to——"
Roland's voice was abrupt and contemptuous. What a scene! The sex adventure at its worst, caught in a corner, meanly ashamed.
"Shut up, man. I don't want such explanations."
​"I've been spied upon. Jealousy, sir——"
Roland paused for a moment on the stairs.
"Look here, Buck, you can wait till we are in my room. There has been quite enough noise. People want to sleep."
The lights were on in Mr. Roland's sitting-room, and on seeing the glass bulbs all aglow Buck's blue eyes became illuminated from within. Behind him Sorrell had closed the door, and was leaning against it, still holding his poker. Roland was rummaging for a cigarette.
"So it was you—you—who gave me away."
Roland turned sharply.
"Buck, I don't want a scene. Don't be a fool."
"I was just telling a rat, sir——"
"Sorrell had nothing to do with it. You have no one to thank but yourself. You will go to-morrow, after breakfast."
The big man seemed to hang there like a red sun, hesitating between a glare of rage and a fog of servility. He could not bring himself to look at Sorrell. His neck, with its roll of fat, had a purplish tinge. He glowed. Like most common men he took refuge in sentimentality. "Do the gentleman behind his back,—but slobber him up in the public."
"And I saved your life, sir."
Roland was looking at him through a little cloud of cigarette smoke.
"You did. That's why I offered you this place. I never expect gratitude. Sportsmanship's better is——"
"Gratitoode!"
He extended a fat hand.
"Chucking me out—because I'm made like a man, not like that parsnip there. I'm no angel; don't pretend to it."
"Nor am I,—Buck. But then is——"
"Because a girl—a hot little bit——. Why, it's human nature——. To hell with——"
"Buck," said Roland, interrupting him with that deliberate voice of his, "I'm not quarrelling with your morals. Sex is nature. It's no more immoral to go with a woman than to eat your dinner—provided——"
Buck tried to speak, but Roland had not finished.
"Provided—you don't hurt anybody. There's the woman ​to be considered. And—me, the job, the hotel. You are not a sportsman. That's my point."
"I beg to differ, sir."
"Oh, of course. But you are not a sportsman. I've known that for some time now. You're a greedy animal. That's that."
He nodded at Sorrell, and Sorrell opened the door.
"You shall have your money in the morning, before you go. Now, clear out to your room."
"Well, sir, I never thought you would treat me like this."
"Buck, I'm not a fool."
The big man went out with a kind of pitying swagger, and Roland, smiling faintly, made a sign to Sorrell that he was to remain.
"I want to speak to you, Stephen. By the way, have those people arrived yet?"
"No, sir."
"Wait, isn't that a car?"
"I think it is——"
"Well, go and get them fixed up, and then come back here, unless you are too tired."
"I'm not too tired, sir."
"Good. I have a few things to say."
Sorrell dealt with the late arrivals and their luggage, and never had luggage seemed so light. He was beyond tiredness; he felt that he had climbed above things physical, and that he was on the peak of months of moiling and of effort, looking down and back and upwards in an air that was clear and stimulating. The bull had gone the way of the lioness, and he was left in happy relationship with a man.
Roland's door was ajar, and Sorrell knocked.
"Come in, Stephen."
He saw a decanter of whisky, a siphon, and two glasses on the table; also a box of cigarettes. Sorrell closed the door, for he felt that Mr. Roland wished him to close-it upon the sealing of a new and more intimate comradeship.
​"How do you like yours, Stephen?"
"Not too strong, sir."
"Well, help yourself. That's a good thing over. My one mistake, and yet—it had to be."
His voice expressed relief. The dirty business was over, the make-believe done with.
"I suppose you thought I didn't know——?"
He was filling his glass, and he looked up and across the table at Sorrell.
"But I did know. You will have to forgive me my one blind eye. That blackguard was giving you hell. But—I wanted him to hang himself; I wanted to be sure."
He raised his glass.
"There's forgiveness in good drink. Your health, Stephen."
"The same to you, sir."
"Then you do forgive me?"
"I had began to wonder——"
"Yes,—I felt that. Besides—I didn't quite know how bad it was. Well,—that's all over."
He pushed the cigarettes towards Sorrell.
"Sit down, man. You don't know what a relief this is. How I loathe that class—in the mass. We are outside the pale to them. Their sense of honour—such as it is—does not include us. It wasn't always so."
He went and sat on his music-stool, while Sorrell took one of the chairs.
"We are fair game to most of them, we who have anything, or can do anything a little better than the crowd. We are to be robbed, lied to, blackmailed, slandered. Isn't that so?"
"I suppose it is. But—not all——."
"Oh,—I know. Some of us have the remnants of souls. I have good people here; I know it. They don't look on me as their natural enemy. To me it is the individual that matters. Breed. O, well, what is it? A fastidiousness, a sense of humour and a sense of proportion, the knowledge that hitting a better man than yourself with a pick-handle doesn't make for progress. Beauty. Wisdom. Disdain and pity instead of scorn. You know."
Suddenly, he laughed, and his laughter was quiet and self-amused.
​"Declamation! But, hang it, character does count. You and I understand each other; or—at least—I think we do. You are out for your boy."
Sorrell nodded.
"That—kept me going. That—and the hope——."
"That someone realized——?"
"Yes."
"Oh,—I realized——. So it comes to this—I offer you Buck's place,—and I shall think myself lucky to get you. Well,—what about it?"
"There is only one answer to that. But I ought to tell you,—I'm not much good with heavy luggage——."
"My dear chap——."
He raised his glass.
"You have more in you than a cart-horse. I have my eye on a big good-natured cart-horse. It's your head I want, Stephen, and your heart,—and your grit—my dear chap."
Sorrell woke to see white clouds moving in a blue sky, for he slept with blind up and his window wide open, but on this particular morning he lay for five minutes looking at the sky.
"I'm first porter at the Pelican."
He smiled. What a very humble pride was this, and how modest a triumph, and yet he had had to work and struggle for it and to suffer.
Fragments of Thomas Roland's philosophy drifted through his head.
"It is not so much the job, but the way you do the job, that matters."
Yes, wasn't that true. That much misused and obscured phrase—"The dignity of labour!" But the dignity was in the soul of the labourer, not in the matter he worked upon, and a man who cleaned boots with love and care was worthy of the respect of kings. To be respected for the way you did your job, to be respected by a man like Thomas Roland.
This little room of his had a new atmosphere, a suggestion of homeliness and of security. He foresaw it be​coming more intimately part of himself and his schemes, a little corner where he would collect his books and his trifles, and sit at a table and enter his takings in his ledger.
He got up, and washed with a sense of exhilaration. No more—"Saul,—luggage number So and So," no one to mess him about, no more bovine interference. He was lord of his own job.
"News for the boy," he thought, as he sluiced water over his head. "I ought to be able to make five pounds a week,—two hundred and fifty a year. The odd fifty will do for me. Why,—there's his education. He will be thirteen next November. Say—twelve years, and at twenty-five he ought to be armed and ready."
While he was shaving he heard voices below. Mr. Roland was up early. He had come to hasten the departure of the adventurous lover.
"Here's a month's money, Buck. Is your luggage ready? I have told Ponds to drive you to the station."
"You seem in a hell of a hurry, sir, to get rid of me."
"Buck,—if I had made such a fool of myself before a lot of women——"
Sorrell saw the ex-sergeant-major off with his leather trunk and his suit-case, his blue overcoat over his arm, a sulky animal, trying to look aggrieved. "Damned lot of humbugs!" The car whirled him out and away under the glittering symbol of the Pelican, and Sorrell, going to his work, felt the blessedness of the day's labour.
"My job. I'm responsible."
Mr. Roland, soiling into the lounge, found him with his coat off, whistling softly, and polishing everything that it was possible to polish.
"You sound very cheerful, Stephen."
"I am, sir."
They exchanged a look of liking and respect.
"I am going over to Bath to see the fellow I have in mind. His name is Hulks. A good lad—I think. He will take all his orders from you. The understanding is that he will be luggage-porter."
Sorrell gave him a smile of gratitude.
"I can manage some of the luggage, sir. There is one point——. I should like your advice——"
"Well?"
​"About tips——. They pool theirs in the dining-room, between the three. Fanny Garland takes two-fifths, and the other two girls halve the rest."
"They agreed to that?"
"Yes, and between Hulks and myself,—what sort of proportion would you think fair?"
"Three-fifths to you, and two-fifths to him."
"Will you put it to him, sir, or shall I?"
"I'll do it. It will be more official, Stephen."
"Thank you, sir."
At eight o'clock that evening Sorrell met his son on the road where Winstonbury's old water-mill still took the river upon the paddles of its great black, dripping wheel. A stone wall separated the mill-pool from the road, and Sorrell and Kit stood by the wall, looking at the still water and the green willows.
"Buck's gone, Kit. I'm head porter now."
He had his arm across the boy's shoulders.
"It will make a difference. I shall be able to give you something better than that school,—that's to say—if the old Pelican pays."
Kit looked up at his father. More and more was he coming to realize what manner of man his father was, and the knowledge was giving that radiant smile of his'a sacred seriousness.
"You don't seem to think of yourself, pater."
"Oh,—I'm a means to an end, my lad. I've got an object in life. I'm to be envied."
Kit pondered a moment.
"And I'm the object.—I mean—my——"
"That's it."
"I'll try and not waste your money, pater. I know how hard you have to work."