Chương 27: Chapter XXVII
A quarter sawn oak bookcase in a shellac finish stood against the wall opposite the doorway and was the first notable thing upon entry. On her left there was a side-door giving way to the garden, and the soft draft that played with the portiere told Mathilda that the door was closed but not locked. In the middle of the room, right by the empty fireplace, stood a sofa and several armchairs. A low, long oak and wrought iron table served as salon table, holding a week-old paper laying half beneath a sterling box, and a baccarat ashtray.
The young man sat with his back towards the door. Mathi could only see the back of his head and his elbow where it rested beside the inlaid silver figure of a crane, until the rustling of her gown caused him to rise and turn. His hands, he clenched before him, and Richard seemed as if he would have very much liked to be anywhere else. He seemed a trifle paler and thinner in the light of the Bouillotte lamp on the table abreast him and the pale light of the moon that shone through the empty windows, and separated his face in a pale hue on one side, and a warm halo on the other. It had been less than a day since they had last seen each other, but perhaps it was the grandeur with which Richard normally held himself, that had left him. And the haunted expression in his eyes.
The parlour was cold, Mathilda reckoned. And she wished to lie down again. Why had nobody cared to draw the curtains? Why had nobody—
"Mathi...." Richard was fumbling with his hat, fingers fretting about the brim, turning the headpiece round and round. His step was restive when he approached her, and the young Englishman appeared utterly anxious about himself.
Mathilda extended both her hands, making an attempt to sound composed, but she made no effort to hide her tearstained face: "It was kind of you to come," she lied. He took her hands in greeting. Richard must have known he would be interrupting. He had no business being here. Even if he had come to see her father; but Richard had not. Not really. She knew that much.
The young man nevertheless asked: "How is your father?"
"He is confined to his bed. Doctor tells us it's the first crisis of many," Mathi took a breath as she felt a rasp come into her voice, "he acts as if he has accepted it all," she released a hand and gestured weakly. Mathi felt tears gather as Richard's eyes searched hers and once more she pushed down the stabbing pain in her chest, "I know he hasn't. I know mother hasn't."
"And you? How are you feeling?"
"I don't know," she said. It was true. And although Mathi knew Richard would refuse, she asked: "would you like to go upstairs?"
"I'd be very sorry to disturb his rest." There was an edge to Richard's voice that Mathi didn't think she had heard before, but she couldn't find it in herself to try and place it.
Had he been drinking? When this thought came to her, Mathi recognised in his lack of good form the maudlin manner Richard often displayed whenever inebriated. Mathilda smelled the alcohol on him and could all but guess how much he had had before he sought her out. Richard Crawford restively walked the room till he halted by the sofas near the window. Elaine's handiwork still lay on the table.
"Please," he gestured for her to take a seat as if it was Mathi who had come to visit him. Richard then sat himself down and kept indicting to the chair opposite him. Curious but wary, she did as he asked. It seemed to Mathilda that Richard had only drunk enough to elevate his spirits, not at all to confuse his mind. He seemed perfectly able to talk.
"There have been some changes," he began. "And since I can no longer delude myself any longer, I've come to take care of matters."
James had told her all there was of the incident at the bank yesterday, and she was aware Richard was in alarm. But she also did not know what he had expected. Richard needed money. Mathilda knew what he was here for but could not bring it upon herself to say anything. She wanted Richard at least to have the courage to ask her, and out of petulance or out of irritation, Mathilda decided she would not make it Richard any easier. She stiffened, and at once the pain was pushed to the background again.
"Listen, I've—" he stopped. Richard opened his mouth, closed it again, regarded the ceiling. This time there was some reluctance behind his eyes. "Once I—" he halted on a sigh. Richard closed his eyes and dropped his head into his hands. When he looked at her again, his eyes stood wan, "James told you."
"He did."
Richard nodded. He seemed relieved. "Alright. Alright— that's something." Richard did not seem able to hold her gaze. Mathi felt nothing. It was weird, in a way, but all was so... hollow. She was calm, and somewhere in the back of her head Mathilda knew she shouldn't be, but it was futile; everything seemed so small and far-off. She felt detached. It must have shown in her expression because Richard only seemed to tense under her continuous regard. She said nothing. Her mind wonderfully vacuous.
"I need help." Richard whispered finally.
"You do."
"I haven't been to seen James yet."
"You should."
"I don't want to bother him."
"Do you now."
"Are you— would you— would you mind? It won't be much. It's just to get things going. Then it'll all be over."
Mathilda didn't believe him. Not for a moment. What assurances do I have, she wanted to ask. Do you have anything substantial?
But it didn't matter.
"It's— I don't know, Mathilda. It's all been— I don't think I'm getting out of this one on my own."
Without scruple—without apology— without much apparent diffidence, Richard kept on talking. And as she listened, he kept on trying to flatter her. Which only angered Mathi further, and it dawned on her that Richard was very much convinced of Mathilda's willingness to help him. It wasn't questioned. It was presumed. And suddenly Mathi didn't want to hear him anymore. She wanted him to leave. She wanted this unapologetic child to leave the house in which her father was dying. The nerve on him. To come here tonight and ask this off her: what had he been thinking? That the emotion of seeing her father wither away would have her yield easier? She raised her voice, interrupting him mid-sentence:
"I'm not giving you anything, Richard."
Richard at once looked up from the floor and regarded her with a mixture of confusion and unbelief, and underneath it all, Mathi thought him to have the audacity to look hurt at her words. He let out an offbeat, misplaced chuckle then:
"Mathi, look, I know that you might not understand how it is to be without means, but I'm in a serious predicament. Surely you understand that much. You can't—"
"I can't? I cannot what?"
"You can't— just— stand by and do nothing." Richard said. He was frowning, sat on the very edge of the sofa as if he might rise at any moment. His expression darkened. "I'm afraid I must insist."
It would be impossible to say what Mathilda felt, on hearing this— perhaps the sheer astonishment at his audacious assertion was the most profound emotion rushing through her chest. Richard seemed to have lost the ability to understand her saying 'no'. Mathilda was too dumbfounded to be able to reply at first: and her silence being enough encouragement for Richard's sanguine state of mind, he continued,—"you can help me. And I'm asking you. As your friend."
She made an attempt to remain calm. Mathilda was assured that half his folly must be drunkenness. The other half was backed by something even she did not know where it originated from.
"I am very sorry that you think I am in the position to help you. Nothing could be farther from the truth," she said, grinding her teeth. "Even if I wanted to, Richard, you must realise—"
"Don't say that. I know you are very proud,— but there is no need to put up such a facade when you are with me. I know you can help me—" he now rose to meet her, and Mathilda recoiled:
"Richard, sit down— no, sit down— I told you already, I'm not giving you anything."
He was frozen in place and frowning, and with all the amazement he could summon he stated:
"But— you're my friend."
He began repeating those three last words with such confidence, such boastful pretence, that she said as fast as she could:
"Richard! You are not yourself. Don't speak to me like that. Get a hold of yourself and be quiet," she rose and went to stand before him. The look in his eyes at once frightened her, and she said, twitching her hands, "and I will try and forget this ever happened."
"Oh!— will you now?" He spread his arms and tipped his head back. And in a mocking tone he said: "oh heavens above! Is there no one on earth good enough for Mathilda Catherine Aldouin!"
"I do not have the patience for your constant egocentrism, Richard!" Aggravated, and utterly dismayed of the constant attention he required of her, made all the more rotten as he himself made seldom the courtesy to share in her misfortunes and strife of mind, Mathilda pulled out of the young man's reach and engaged herself by the mantle, cursing her hands as they refused to cooperate. Then the light flared finally. Mathilda took deep breaths, smoking furiously — so she might lessen her temper and consult reason before continuing.
"Do you have no regard for the people around you?" She asked at last. "Do you have no desire but to live in your own little fantasy world?"
"Mathilda! don't start! — it will do neither of us any good!"
"How can you act so utterly conceited? Get out! This is outrageous even from you!"
The thought that this man, this vain, insular man, had thought it a good idea to come and demand her help and money when her father lay dying above their heads, broke off all reason. And in her rose such an utter disappointment, such an utter distaste for Richard Crawford, that she, in her anger, took up the gilded cigarette box by her right shoulder and threw it upon the ground. "Leave me be! I gave you my answer!"
She had perhaps once felt great affinity for the young fellow, but the recent developments had her repudiate the idea that such camaraderie had ever even been possible. Mathi felt wretched. Betrayed even, not so much by the character of the man she deemed her friend, as by her own judgment, which she held in such high regard — on which she had prided herself with such assurance that she had, in her own conceitedness, deemed it impossible for her to miss the disposition of a person.
And it enraged her.
The object on which she now led out all her frustration, was standing in the very middle of the room, where they had spent so many fortunate moments together in gayety. Crawford, as he supported his temples with one hand, while fretfully clenching his other, had paled with such extremity that Mathi seemed him to resemble a sick man. As of then, she straightened her back, lifted her chin, and said:
"I am not giving you anything..."
Crawford was watching her and Mathi could see his jaw muscles slide. He was standing, breathing hard, as angry, as despairing, as Mathi had ever seen him. And she held his eyes.
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