usual remedies; but her husband, rooted in the middle of the room,
shook his lowered head sadly.
“You’ll catch cold standing there,” she observed.
Mr Verloc made an effort, finished undressing, and got into bed.
Down below in the quiet, narrow street measured footsteps
approached the house, then died away unhurried and firm, as if the
passer-by had started to pace out all eternity, from gas-lamp to
gas-lamp in a night without end; and the drowsy ticking of the old
clock on the landing became distinctly audible in the bedroom.
Mrs Verloc, on her back, and staring at the ceiling, made a remark.
“Takings very small to-day.”
Mr Verloc, in the same position, cleared his throat as if for an
important statement, but merely inquired:
“Did you turn off the gas downstairs?”
“Yes; I did,” answered Mrs Verloc conscientiously. “That poor boy
is in a very excited state to-night,” she murmured, after a pause
which lasted for three ticks of the clock.
Mr Verloc cared nothing for Stevie’s excitement, but he felt
horribly wakeful, and dreaded facing the darkness and silence that
would follow the extinguishing of the lamp. This dread led him to
make the remark that Stevie had disregarded his suggestion to go to
bed. Mrs Verloc, falling into the trap, started to demonstrate at
length to her husband that this was not “impudence” of any sort,
but simply “excitement.” There was no young man of his age in
London more willing and docile than Stephen, she affirmed; none
more affectionate and ready to please, and even useful, as long as
people did not upset his poor head. Mrs Verloc, turning towards
her recumbent husband, raised herself on her elbow, and hung over
him in her anxiety that he should believe Stevie to be a useful
member of the family. That ardour of protecting compassion exalted
morbidly in her childhood by the misery of another child tinged her
sallow cheeks with a faint dusky blush, made her big eyes gleam
under the dark lids. Mrs Verloc then looked younger; she looked as
young as Winnie used to look, and much more animated than the
Winnie of the Belgravian mansion days had ever allowed herself to
appear to gentlemen lodgers. Mr Verloc’s anxieties had prevented
him from attaching any sense to what his wife was saying. It was
as if her voice were talking on the other side of a very thick
wall. It was her aspect that recalled him to himself.
He appreciated this woman, and the sentiment of this appreciation,
stirred by a display of something resembling emotion, only added
another pang to his mental anguish. When her voice ceased he moved
uneasily, and said:
“I haven’t been feeling well for the last few days.”
He might have meant this as an opening to a complete confidence;
but Mrs Verloc laid her head on the pillow again, and staring
upward, went on:
“That boy hears too much of what is talked about here. If I had
known they were coming to-night I would have seen to it that he
went to bed at the same time I did. He was out of his mind with
something he overheard about eating people’s flesh and drinking
blood. What’s the good of talking like that?”
There was a note of indignant scorn in her voice. Mr Verloc was
fully responsive now.
“Ask Karl Yundt,” he growled savagely.
Mrs Verloc, with great decision, pronounced Karl Yundt “a
disgusting old man.” She declared openly her affection for
Michaelis. Of the robust Ossipon, in whose presence she always
felt uneasy behind an attitude of stony reserve, she said nothing
whatever. And continuing to talk of that brother, who had been for
so many years an object of care and fears:
“He isn’t fit to hear what’s said here. He believes it’s all true.
He knows no better. He gets into his passions over it.”
Mr Verloc made no comment.
“He glared at me, as if he didn’t know who I was, when I went
downstairs. His heart was going like a hammer. He can’t help
being excitable. I woke mother up, and asked her to sit with him
till he went to sleep. It isn’t his fault. He’s no trouble when