lilian, in dark blue office frock with an embroidered red line round the neck and detachable black wristlets that preserved the ends of the sleeves from dust and friction, sat idle at her flat desk in what was called "the small room" at felix grig's establishment in clifford street, off bond street. there were three desks, three typewriting machines and three green-shaded lamps. only lilian's lamp was lighted, and she sat alone, with darkness above her chestnut hair and about her, and a circle of radiance below. she was twenty-three. through the drawn blind of the window could just be discerned the backs of the letters of words painted on the glass: "felix grig. typewriting office. open day and night." seen from the street the legend stood out black and clear against the faintly glowing blind. it was 11 p.m.
that a beautiful young girl, created for pleasure and affection and expensive flattery, should be sitting by herself at 11 p.m. in a gloomy office in clifford street, in the centre of the luxurious, pleasure-mad, love-mad west end of london seemed shocking and contrary to nature, and lilian certainly so regarded it. she pictured the shut shops, and shops and yet again shops, filled with elegance and costliness--robes, hats, stockings, shoes, gloves, incredibly fine lingerie, furs, jewels, perfumes--designed and confected for the setting-off of just such young attractiveness as hers. she pictured herself rifling those deserted and silent shops by some magic means and emerging safe, undetected, in batiste so rare that her skin blushed through it, in a frock that was priceless and yet nothing at all, and in warm marvellous sables that no blast of wind or misfortune could ever penetrate--and diamonds in her hair. she pictured thousands of smart women, with imperious command over rich, attendant males, who at that very moment were moving quickly in automobiles from theatres towards the dancing-clubs that clustered round felix grig's typewriting office. at that very moment she herself ought to have been dancing. not in a smart club; no! only in the basement of a house where an acquaintance of hers lodged; and only with clerks and things like that; and only to a gramophone. but still a dance, a respite from the immense ennui and solitude called existence!
she had been kept late at the office because of miss grig's failure to arrive. miss grig, sister of felix, was the mainspring of the establishment, which, except financially, belonged much more to her than to felix. miss grig energized it, organized it, and disciplined it, in addition to loving it. hers had been the idea--not quite original, but none the less very valuable as an advertisement--of remaining open all night. clever men would tell simpletons in men's clubs about the typewriting office that was never closed--example of the inexhaustible wonderfulness of a great capital!--and would sometimes with a wink and a single phrase endow the office with a dubious and exciting reputation. miss grig herself was the chief night-watcher. she exulted in vigils. after attendance in the afternoon, if her health was reasonably good, she would come on duty again at 8 p.m. and go home by an early tube train on the following morning. one of the day staff would remain until 8 p.m. in order to hand over to her; as a recompense this girl would be let off at 4 p.m. instead of 6 p.m. the next day. justice reigned; and all the organization for dealing with rushes of work was inspired by miss grig's own admirable ideas of justice.
on this night lilian had been appointed to stay till 8 o'clock. eight o'clock--no miss grig. eight-thirty o'clock--no miss grig. nine, nine-thirty, ten o'clock--no miss grig. and now eleven o'clock and no miss grig. it was unprecedented and dreadfully disturbing. lilian even foresaw a lonely, horrible night in the office, with nothing but tea, bread-and-butter, and the living gas-stove to comfort her. agonizing prospect! she had spent nights in the office before, but never alone. she felt that she simply could not support the ordeal; yet--such was the moral, invisible empire of absent miss grig--she dared not shut up the office and depart. the office naturally had a telephone, but most absurdly there was no telephone at the grigs' house--felix's fault!--and so lilian could only speculate upon the explanation of miss grig's absence. she speculated melodramatically.
then her lovely little ear, quickened by apprehension, heard footsteps on the lower stairs. heavy footsteps, but rapid enough! she flew through the ante-room to the outer door and fearfully opened it, and gazed downwards to the electric light that, somehow equivocally, invited wayfarers to pass through the ever-open street door and climb the shadowy steps to the second storey and behold there strange matters.
a villainous old fellow was hurrying up the echoing stairs. he wore a pea-jacket and a red cotton muffler. a moment ago she had had no thought of personal danger. now, in an instant, she was petrified with fright. her face turned from rose to grey.... of course it was a hold-up! post offices, and box offices of theatres, and even banks had been held up of late. banks, felix grig had heard, were taking precautions. felix had suggested that he too ought to take precautions--revolvers, alarm-bells, etc.--but miss grig, not approving, had smiled her wise, condescending smile, and nothing had been done. miss grig (thought lilian) had no imagination--that was what was wrong with her!
"miss!" growled hoarsely the oncoming bandit, "give us a match, will ye?"
yes, they always began thus innocently, did robbers. lilian tried to speak and could not. she could not even dash within and bang and bolt the door. with certain crises she might possibly be able to deal, but not with this sort of crisis. she was as defenceless as a blossom. she thought passionately that destiny had no right to put her in such a terrible extremity, and that the whole world was to blame. she felt as once women used to feel in the sack of cities, faint with fear--and streaks of thrilled, eager, voluptuous anticipation running through the fear! she reflected that the matches were on the mantelpiece over the gas-stove.
the man stood on the landing. he had an odour. he was tall; he would have made four of lilian. she knew that it was ridiculous to retreat into the office and find the matches demanded; she knew that the matches were only a pretext; she knew that she ought to hit on some brilliant expedient for outwitting the bandit and winning eternal glory in the evening papers; but she retreated into the office to find the matches. he followed heavily behind her. he was within her room.... she could not have turned to face him for ropes of great pearls.
"give us a box, miss. it's a windy night. two of me lamps is blown out, and i dropped me matches into me tea-can--ha, ha!--and i ain't got no paper to carry a light from me fire, and i ain't seen a bobby for an hour. no, i hain't, though you wouldn't believe me."
lilian was suddenly blinded by the truth. the roadway of clifford street and part of bond street was in the midst of a process of deep excavation; it was acutely "up," to the detriment of traffic and trade; and this fellow was the night-watchman who sat in a sentry-box by a burning brazier. she recognized him....
"thank ye kindly, miss, and may god bless yer! i knowed ye was open all night. good night. hope i didn't frighten ye, miss." he laughed grimly, roguishly and honestly.
when he was gone lilian laughed also, but hysterically. she did not at all want to laugh, but she laughed. then she dropped into her chair and wept with painful sobbing violence. and as, regaining calm, she realized the horrors which might have happened to her, the resentment in her heart against destiny and against the whole world grew intense and filled her heart to the exclusion of every other feeling.
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