Siegmund's lying late in bed made Beatrice very angry. The later it
became, the more wrathful she grew. At half past nine she had taken up
his shaving-water. Then she proceeded to tidy the dining-room, leaving
the breakfast spread in the kitchen.
Vera and Frank were gone up to town; they would both be home for dinner
at two o'clock. Marjory was despatched on an errand, taking Gwen with
her. The children had no need to return home immediately, therefore it
was highly probable they would play in the field or in the lane for an
hour or two. Beatrice was alone downstairs. It was a hot, still morning,
when everything outdoors shone brightly, and all indoors was dusked with
coolness and colour. But Beatrice was angry. She moved rapidly and
determinedly about the dining-room, thrusting old newspapers and
magazines between the cupboard and the wall, throwing the litter in the
grate, which was clear, Friday having been charwoman's day, passing
swiftly, lightly over the front of the furniture with the duster. It was
Saturday, when she did not spend much time over the work. In the
afternoon she was going out with Vera. That was not, however, what
occupied her mind as she brushed aside her work. She had determined to
have a settlement with Siegmund, as to how matters should continue. She
was going to have no more of the past three years' life; things had come
to a crisis, and there must be an alteration. Beatrice was going to do
battle, therefore she flew at her work, thus stirring herself up to a
proper heat of blood. All the time, as she thrust things out of sight,
or straightened a cover, she listened for Siegmund to come downstairs.
He did not come, so her anger waxed.
'He can lie skulking in bed!' she said to herself. 'Here I've been up
since seven, broiling at it. I should think he's pitying himself. He
ought to have something else to do. He ought to have to go out to work
every morning, like another man, as his son has to do. He has had too
little work. He has had too much his own way. But it's come to a stop
now. I'll servant-housekeeper him no longer.' Beatrice went to clean the step of the front door. She clanged the
bucket loudly, every minute becoming more and more angry. That piece of
work finished, she went into the kitchen. It was twenty past ten. Her
wrath was at ignition point. She cleared all the things from the table
and washed them up. As she was so doing, her anger, having reached full
intensity without bursting into flame, began to dissipate in uneasiness.
She tried to imagine what Siegmund would do and say to her. As she was
wiping a cup, she dropped it, and the smash so unnerved her that her
hands trembled almost too much to finish drying the things and putting
them away. At last it was done. Her next piece of work was to make the
beds. She took her pail and went upstairs. Her heart was beating so
heavily in her throat that she had to stop on the landing to recover
breath. She dreaded the combat with him. Suddenly controlling herself,
she said loudly at Siegmund's door, her voice coldly hostile: 'Aren't you going to get up?' There was not the faintest sound in the house. Beatrice stood in the
gloom of the landing, her heart thudding in her ears.