But to give if to him would be like tampering with his position of complete dependence.It was a sort of claim which she feared to weaken.Moreover, the susceptibilities of Mr Verloc would perhaps not brook being beholden to his brother-in-law for the chairs he sat on.In a long experience of gentlemen lodgers, Mrs Verloc's mother had acquired a dismal but resigned notion of the fantastic side of human nature.What if Mr Verloc suddenly took it into his head to tell Stevie to take his blessed sticks somewhere out of that? A division, on the other hand, however carefully made, might give some cause of offence to Winnie.No.Stevie must remain destitute and dependent.And at the moment of leaving Brett Street she had said to her daughter: `No use waiting till I am dead, is there? Everything I leave here is altogether your own now, my dear.'
Winnie, with her hat on, silent behind her mother's back, went on arranging the collar of the old woman's cloak.She got her handbag, an umbrella, with an impassive face.The time had come for the expenditure of the sum of three and sixpence on what might well be supposed the last cab-drive of Mrs Verloc's mother's life.They went out at the shop door.
The conveyance awaiting them would have illustrated the proverb that `truth can be more cruel than caricature', if such a proverb existed.Crawling behind an infirm horse, a metropolitan hackney drew up on wobbly wheels and with a maimed driver on the box.This last peculiarity caused some embarrassment.Catching sight of a hooked iron contrivance protruding from the left sleeve of the man's coat, Mrs Verloc's mother lost suddenly the heroic courage of these days.She really couldn't trust herself.`What do you think, Winnie?' She hung back.The passionate expostulations of the big-faced cabman seemed to be squeezed out of a blocked throat.Leaning over from his box, he whispered with mysterious indignation.What was the matter now? Was it possible to treat a man so? His enormous and unwashed countenance flamed red in the muddy stretch of the street.Was it likely they would have given him a licence, he inquired desperately, if--The police constable of the locality quieted him by a friendly glance;then addressing himself to the two women without marked consideration, said: `He's been driving a cab for twenty years.I never knew him to have an accident.'
`Accident!' shouted the driver in a scornful whisper.
The policeman's testimony settled it.The modest assemblage of seven people, mostly under age, dispersed.Winnie followed her mother into the cab.Stevie climbed on the box.His vacant mouth and distressed eyes depicted the state of his mind in regard to the transactions which were taking place.
In the narrow streets the progress of the journey was made sensible to those within by the near fronts of the houses gliding past slowly and shakily, with a great rattle and jingling of glass, as if about to collapse behind the cab; and the infirm horse, with the harness hung over his sharp backbone flapping very loose about his thighs, appearing to be dancing mincingly on his toes with infinite patience.Later on, in the wider space of Whitehall, all visual evidences of motion became imperceptible.The rattle and jingle of glass went on indefinitely in front of the long Treasury building -and time itself seemed to stand still.
At last Winnie observed: `This isn't a very good horse.'
Her eyes gleamed in the shadow of the cab straight ahead, immovable.
On the box, Stevie shut his vacant mouth first, in order to ejaculate earnestly:
`Don't.'
The driver, holding high the reins twisted around the hook, took no notice.Perhaps he had not heard.Stevie's breast heaved.
`Don't whip.'
The man turned slowly his bloated and sodden face of many colours bristling with white hairs.His little red eyes glistened with moisture.His big lips had a violet tint.They remained closed.With the dirty back of his whip-hand he rubbed the stubble sprouting on his enormous chin.
`You mustn't,' stammered out Stevie, violently, `it hurts.'
`Mustn't whip,' queried the other in a thoughtful whisper, and immediately whipped.He did this, not because his soul was cruel and his heart evil, but because he had to earn his fare.And for a time the walls of St Stephen's, with its towers and pinnacles, contemplated in immobility and silence a cab that jingled.It rolled, too, however.But on the bridge there was a commotion.Stevie suddenly proceeded to get down from the box.There were shouts on the pavement, people ran forward, the driver pulled up, whispering curses of indignation and astonishment.Winnie lowered the window, and put her head out, white as a ghost.In the depths of the cab, her mother was exclaiming, in tones of anguish: `Is that boy hurt? Is that boy hurt?'
Stevie was not hurt, he had not even fallen, but excitement as usual had robbed him of the power of connected speech.He could do no more than stammer at the window: `Too heavy.Too heavy.' Winnie put out her hand on to his shoulder.
`Stevie! Get up on the box directly, and don't try to get down again.'
`No.No.Walk.Must walk.'
In trying to state the nature of that necessity he stammered himself into utter incoherence.No physical impossibility stood in the way of his whim.Stevie could have managed easily to keep pace with the infirm, dancing horse without getting out of breath.But his sister withheld her consent decisively.`The idea! Whoever heard of such a thing! Run after a cab!'
Her mother, frightened and helpless in the depth of the conveyance, entreated:
`Oh, don't let him, Winnie.He'll get lost.Don't let him.'
`Certainly not.What next! Mr Verloc will be sorry to hear of this nonsense, Stevie - I can tell you.He won't be happy at all.'
The idea of Mr Verloc's grief and unhappiness acting as usual powerfully upon Stevie's fundamentally docile disposition, he abandoned all resistance and climbed up again on the box, with a face of despair.
